video; un: deathweaver

[respired]

[ So, that relatively cheerful guy dancing with everybody on the beach--he's gone. He's out of here. Koltira leans forward, his expression pained, jaw clenched. There's a flat piece of wood on the ground beside him with the start of an intricate filigree carved into it, but he's set it aside. He's focused entirely on the jewelry. ]

I feel unwell.

[ His guttural, echoing voice is rougher than usual; he sounds like jagged rocks scraping against each other, and the strange ethereal reverberation does nothing to better the effect.

He's experiencing, for the first time in years, something like fatigue. It's discomfiting, impossible. His kind does not tire. And yet here he is, feeling--not exhausted, but legitimately weary. ]

The ocean is not rife with magic, but it provides some sustenance.

[ He shakes his head, as though trying to clear his vision. Some sustenance. Not enough. ]

If anyone has found other sources, I would know of them.

[ His voice drops to an almost feral growl. ]

Or a solution.

Comments

[respired]

[ He shakes his head. ]

There is no rest for someone like me.

[weirdologist]

Still, you're not the first who has had illness-like symptoms since our arrival.

[He hums.]

It's likely that whatever zapped the natives of their Gifts is affecting our crew too.

[respired]

[ He growls low in his throat, because he's a jerk and doesn't care about that right now. ]

Yes, I presume so. Such information does little for me presently, however.