New town, new tavern. Allan may have lost all of his money in that fight two days earlier, but he still had the cups for his little game, and after a long day of good, honest money-making, he sat at a table enjoying a well-earned meal; the first in a while.

After eagerly devouring the food, Allan leaned back in his chair and waited for the serving girl to come around. He needed something to help calm his aching head.

He reached down to make sure the rag that he had tied around his leg was still there and ignored the shivers that ran up his back at the still-tender wounds. That had been happening all day anyway.

He wondered if they should still be so sensitive, but his musings were cut short when a girl burst in through the tavern's entrance wearing a plain, gray dress and a fierce scowl.

Allan shrank back instinctively, but she was not here for him. She stomped right up to the bar, blonde hair whipping behind her, and started yelling at the tavern-keeper about "delaying payment," and how it was the same as stealing or something like that.

The tavern-keeper tried to get her to sit down and talk more quietly with him, but she seemed to prefer making a scene. "Now give me the money for those mugs or I will take them back!"

Allan couldn't really tell whether the man gave in or not, because suddenly the two of them seemed very far away. On account of the weather, Allan hadn't thought much of his inability to get warm all day, but now, he felt as though his clothes had caught fire, the chills from before replaced with a crawling heat boiling across his skin.

He looked down to make sure he hadn't actually burst into flames, and his eyes took a moment to adjust. I don't think this is supposed to be happening.

He brought his eyes back up and saw the tavern-keeper handing money over to the girl. She gave the man a satisfied smirk and turned to leave, but Allan must have been staring, because she stopped when she saw him, "What are you lookin' at then?"

Just then, a violent shiver jolted through his body, and he curled in on himself. He looked up and around for the serving girl, this time to ask her for a drink of water, but nothing would come into focus. He tried to stand, but his leg protested viciously, and for all of his effort, he ended up on the ground, looking up at the tavern's roof and groaning.

Allan put his hands to his face and tried to rub away some of the confusion in his senses. His skin was cold to the touch, but covered in a layer of sweat, and as panic grew inside of him, he began to shake uncontrollably. A trembling that had nothing to do with his fear.

He felt a hand touch his back, but he didn't care. His mind had gone beyond the realm of physical concerns. Strong arms may or may not have lifted him from the floor and carried him to a room, but he soon felt a bed beneath him, so it must have actually happened.

Various words floated their way into the atmosphere of his understanding, "physician's," "brother," "go." None of it made any sense. Allan wondered why everyone around him had gone crazy. He tried to ask what was going on, but his mouth ignored his command to speak. He heard strange mutterings coming from somewhere, and he realized that his eyes were closed. A disconnect had formed between the physical and mental.

The heat of flames consumed him again, and he knew for sure that he would die. No! Not today! His body convulsed, and he shook. Hands clamped down on his wrists, and someone dripped some kind of liquid into his mouth.

Allan floated, time out of mind. He could feel his body shivering, but his thoughts had become a jumbled mess, and he felt himself slipping. He clung to consciousness by a thread, but own his tenacity was not enough. Blackness enveloped him, and he wondered if he was going to meet God or the Devil.