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The first sensation Laios feels is pain; excruciating, pulsing pain that swirls in his guts like a whirlpool threatening to pull him under. It forces a groan from somewhere deep within his chest, the only thing that may warn others that he was, in fact, still alive – if they were awake to listen. Soft sounds of breathing fill the echo chamber that was the dungeon only broken by smacking lips or shifting bodies, the trio that had accompanied him deep in their respective slumbers.
Well, at least they would get their rest, Marcille especially. She’d already spent a hefty amount of mana on periodic healing spells to keep Laios from completely drowning in his agony, and he’s sure to only feel worse if she were to run on empty due to his… eating habits.
Habits that were currently chewing their way through his stomach.
Laios’ body prickles with moisture, a mixture of sweat and tears sticking to near every inch that makes him feel as if he’d been dipped in the crystal-clear pools. It makes him feel disgusting, wishing that he could soak his aching bones in a soothing, hot bath and forget for a while, to pray that the water’s natural healing would somehow combat the parasite that lingered within.
If only he could be so lucky. Sleep would not come, the pangs of his sickened body too much to rest, leaving him trapped within a cage of iron that echoed with the burbling noises of his struggling insides. Teeth gnash, pain flares into his chest, and the sudden taste of sour bile lingers in the recesses of his throat that he’s forced to swallow ‘lest he choke while trapped on his back. Though it ached, he had to sit up, to peel himself off the sleeping-mat with slow, agonized movements that made it feel as if knives were jammed through every organ.
“Eugh…”
Each breath spills forth in an exhausted moan, golden eyes blinking against the dark as he searches for the bodies around him – taking a headcount to be sure all were in their proper place. They were. Good. He didn’t need to worry about their wellbeing while his own was deteriorating.
Never has he been known for stealth, his large body coupled with hardy armor a detriment to such, but a party exhausted would narrowly wake to anything. Thus, he’s able to move, to use both hands to steady himself before attempting to stand upon two, stumbling feet, the stone walls surrounding him spinning in circles that roil nausea to the surface. Laios swallows thickly, sticky saliva mixing with the lingering, sweet sauce that coated the properly prepared meal he’d dug into – and while usually perhaps he’d reminisce on the delicious flavors of Senshi’s cooking, it was doing him no favors in keeping it all down.
Meekly one hand rests upon the abdomen of his armor in a phantom clutch for his aching middle, as if that would somehow comfort him; and strangely, it did. Once finding steady enough purchase the knight retreats away from the sleeping circle, feet dragging against the floor, too exhausted to even lift them. Half-lidded eyes stare to the ground as he moves, exiting the circular passage they’d called camp and returning to where his horrors had begun: the water.
It was strangely brighter there, forcing Laios to squint against the light that reflected off the pool’s surface, showing to him the remnants of the kraken that floated lifelessly atop. The kraken – that damned, bitter thing, and the damned parasites that it carried. Even if they were delicious, never again would he indulge in such a primal need to feast on the unknown. Not until it was cooked, at least.
The mere sight of the carcass ignites a second round of nausea, and each swallow Laios struggles to take worsens it. Mouth begins to flood with spit that somehow tastes both bitter and sweet, but that tickle in his throat is most certainly sour. Throat bobs as palm claps to his lips, panic shudders through his spine in cold sweat, and he rushes to move further away from the entrance to sleeping allies, swaying until his body collides with a wayward pillar. Freed hand grapples for the structure to hold himself upright just as vomit rises into his mouth, Laios barely able to throw his head forward before retching on his wasted meal.
Tears spring to exhaustion-rimmed eyes, stomach twisting and churning as it struggles to expel the poison that had been swallowed. Laios cannot even find a moment to breathe before he’s choking up another mouthful of sick, his body teetering dangerously forward before he’s able to again ground himself, clutching to the stone pillar as his only lifeline. It feels like a lifetime until he’s able to gasp for breath, throat burning with each cold inhale, but his moment of reprieve is short lived before his stomach lurches again, an ominous pocket of air pushing up his esophagus.
He tries to muffle it, to bring fist to lips, but the burp it brings up is sickly, splashing vomit down the frontal jut of his armor. Laios wants to recoil, to wrinkle nose up in vile disgust, but his body knows what it is doing, knows that it needs to evacuate what made it so ill, and he had to admit it did make him feel a little bit better.
Brief relief washes over as he’s allowed to take in a full breath and hold it, for his stomach to settle just enough that he doesn't need to choke on it. A soft, whimpered groan fills the silence as he leans his body fully against the stone-built pillar, every muscle screaming for relief, to be soaked again in magic that kept it all from unraveling. Sweat slicked hair is brushed back, and with reluctance Laios tests his balance, turning away from the puddle of sick to trundle back to the darkness yearned for.
Laios keeps close to the walls, one hand pressing against to sturdy his slow, shaking steps, as the other hovers near his mouth as damp burps are muffled behind. Though he feels no need to vomit his spine prickles with anxiety to each squeeze of his throat, fearful he would only make it back to sleep to retch again; ruining the slumber of his party due to his own faults. Eyes squeeze shut as his stomach aches, each pang another pause in his return, but as he clambers back to where sleep awaited he hears a tired voice question his absence, and at once Laios bites back his shame with a murmured moan.
“S – sorry, Marcille…”
Glossy, golden eyes squeeze themselves shut when knight returns to laying on his back, trapped within the cage that was his sweltering armor, but having no strength within to remove it. He feels hot sweat coat every inch of his body, leaving him with a sickly, sticky sensation that makes his skin crawl atop the sour taste left in his mouth. He groans, shifts, but cracks an eye open as a soft illumination suddenly spurs; as behind it the blurry visage of Marcille raises her staff, a few, murmured chants fading into the night as another douse of healing magic sweeps over him.
Within moments, elf returns to her rest, and Laios breathes just a little easier – the odd, chilling sensation of magic thrumming within dry veins, stitching back together holes bitten into his insides, striking back the parasite soon to die within a pool of hot acid. Though he knows it aids it does little to dull the pain, as if now his guts itched, forcing him again to roll and shift, fighting to find any position of comfort only to be trapped where he lay.
Exhaustion is like a weight on his chest, but the nausea had lifted, leaving him with an empty feeling deep in the pit of his belly. Another sigh, whimper, and groan and though it is fitful sleep is eventually found – if only for an hour or two before he finds himself waking with a jolt, coughing up a mouthful of nothing more than foamy bile, followed then by a strangely strong hand on the back of his neck, helping Laios to turn his head to the side as he spits out the mouthful.
Laios’ ears ring and his eyes blur, but he’s certain he hears Senshi speaking – that deep, rumbling voice harboring words of comfort though he can’t quite catch just what was spoken. His body heaves and tenses, but nothing more is vomited up, and those same hands then help ease him back down onto his sleeping mat.
Another rush of healing cold. A hand through his hair. Then a rag damp with water pressed against his forehead held by small fingers, the tone that accompanies them scolding, hiding deep behind them a concern only Chilchuck could spew. Could he be dreaming? At least he would be sleeping if he were, but how strange it was that everything felt so real.
Laios cannot find his words, cannot murmur out the gratitude on the back of his tongue, he can only cringe and groan against the pain fluttering through his body. Dry lips part but he’s hushed, encouraged to rest, and with one, final, needy inhale Laios relents, arms slung over his armored middle as he returns to the struggle of slumber until his companions awoke him with prods and gripes.