Sick Day

In a dark alleyway of an unnamed city, a boy quietly limps. Pain courses his every nerve like the blood in his veins. He hasn't the strength to think, let alone cry out. It is taking all he has to keep himself propped against the damp alley wall. In his grip, his left shoulder. The hand it rules rests in the crook of his other elbow. It is here that the ailment lies, but how to treat it he knows not.

A flash of pain, greater than usual, shoots out. Enough that he recoils from the source. The delicate balance he held against the stone fails, and he slips. The ailing arm flies out instinctively, and the boy curses its dominance. It is covered in markings, esoteric in shape and unintelligible to the common man. As it lands on the cobbled road, the writing breathes life. It creeps and stretches from the boy's accursed limb to the ground surrounding, taking new shape and purpose.

The boy is quick to right his stance, regaining that balance before it can progress. Damage is already done, however. Where the taint landed, a circle laden with inscriptions in an unearthly text writhes for seconds before settling in the stone.

The occult work settled upon his skin is less calm, as some of the markings split and bleed, having lost their power.

"What is this?" The boy strains his dwindling faculties to ponder, "why is this happening?" As sudden as he asks it, a flash of inspiration reaches him in the most literal sense. The nature of his sickness, made clear. As the amaranth glow withers from his eyes, he writes his insight upon the inside of his cloak, his bleeding marks providing the only available ink. But even with the solution revealed, it will be useless without the necessary tools. He needs a physician, preferably one that won't ask questions.

Alas, his reserves expended, the boy no longer can continue his pedestrian ways. Rest, please God rest, he feels his body ache these prayers to him. He is careful, his left arm placed across his lap and under his shade. Bottom chilled against rock, he leans against the alley wall. Pondering the name of the ailment he learned, an outer god's equivalent to an autoimmune disease, he shuts his star spangled eyes.

In the morning, he'll find someone to treat his Arkham Syndrome.