"You want her to swallow what?"

Sær and the doctor sit in the den while Priscilla coughs and sniffles in the other room. The den is something of a pet project for Priscilla; it is covered with coats of paint, fallen knick-knacks and folded paper with scribbles on them. Strong as she may be, Priscilla still has trouble with fine motor control due to her size, and she uses the den to practice drawing, painting, and organizing.

Because of this, Sær tends to end up with most indoor chores such as cleaning, dishes, and laundry. Priscilla is no layabout, however, and pulls her own weight by cleaning the exterior, fetching and chopping firewood, and carrying whatever Saer hunts to the market.

"Alcohol," the doctor replies impatiently, irked by Sær's question.

"You do know she's sick, yes?"

"It will help with her cough, as well as her headache. Besides, I'm not asking you to get her drunk!"

"How much should I give her?"

The doctor strokes his chin thoughtfully. "She is roughly thirteen and a half feet tall, and factoring in her overall body mass index, a bottle should do the trick. About four liters, to be exact."

Sær stares at him blankly. The doctor rolls his eyes at his cluelessness. "A gallon, you imperial fool."

"Did you just call me a stupid king?"

"No, I-M-P-E-"

"Don't do that here, go to the bathroom!"

Doctor Logan looks for traces of mirth in Sær's face. He finds none. "Just get her to drink," he says crossly, striding to the door. "If she can eat a hollowed salmon raw, then she should have no problem eating or drinking anything." He slams the door shut, and the vines on the treehouse wall rustle.

"You're not the one who's had to force feed her pills all week," Sær mutters. He grabs a satchel, ready to travel to the market in Anor Londo for the whiskey, only to come face-to-face with Doctor Logan once more.

"I forgot to mention," he says apologetically. "The alcohol will melt the ice crystals in the bloodstream, but only close to the skin. It won't cure her right away, but it will allow you two to cudd-"

Before he can even finish, Sær bolts to the door. Doctor Logan is prepared however, and grabs Sær by the collar.

"Hurrrkgh!"

Logan rolls his eyes as Sær makes a choking sound. "I'm not done talking," he says, as if talking to a child. "Only the surface of the skin. If you come into contact with mucus membranes, then it will drive the ice crystals into her body and make her even more sick."

"So…"

"So, no kissing, and no intercourse. Whatsoever."

Sær's face falls. While the cuddling ban had been the worst part of this sickness, the abstinence had been no picnic either. It's rare for the couple to go more than two days without coupling, and sometimes, if all the chores were done, they would spend all day 'in bed.'

"Now go," Logan says, interrupting the macrophile's reverie. "The sooner she has that alcohol, the sooner this sickness will be over and done with. Make sure to add ginger and honey; it will go down easier and soothe her stomach."

Sær nods appreciatively, back-springing to his feet and sprinting to the nearest bonfire.

Anor Londo had been growing slowly more active after Gwyndolin returned. Under his rule, his Darkmoon knights had begin the arduous task of taking back the city. Bloody battles had been fought against hollows and drakes, and the cleared sections would be walled off and occupied by travelers, old citizens, and families from Darkroot Forest. After months of fighting, a third of the entire city has been taken back, and the first square to be taken over bustles with activity.

It's here that Sær appears, materializing at a bonfire hidden in a maze of alleys. His skin prickles as his body solidifies, and he squirms at the passing nausea. The side effects of bonfire travel tend to me more severe the farther you go, and if one dies far away from one, they can expect to be sick as a dog for an hour at the least. After the side effects pass, Sær bolts down the alleyway, kicking off the walls to clear piles of abandoned furniture. He hops on the trashcans that line the alley, not wanting to come in contact with any rats on the cobblestone. Giant rats are easy to deal with -indeed, they are most adventurer's first kill- but something about the way normal sized rats move unnerve Sær.

Sær hates rats. Giant spiders? Fine. Giant shield-eating slugs? No problem. Skeletons that stay together despite having no ligaments? Piece of cake. But rats? No way in hell.

Sær slides under a clothesline, then rolls up and across a desk, kicking off of it and running along the wall and grabbing a lantern on the wall. He swings his legs up and over the bar, rotating around it and then hopping onto it before leaping to a trellis two meters away. He runs along it, only for one of the wires suspending it to snap. He twists in the air, grabbing the broken cable. Just as he starts to fall, he kicks off the trellis, making the second wire snap and sending it plummeting to the ground some thirty feet below. Sær is launched through the air towards a descending clothesline, and he swings his broken cable up and over it, grabbing the other end and sliding down at a dizzying speed. The ground rushes towards him at a fatal pace.

Digging in his belt, Sær whips out his Cossbreed Talisman. Suitable for casting both miracles and sorceries, the talisman consisted of small sacred chime, the flapper of which is formed from one of Priscilla's scales, and tail fur surrounding the bell, fastened to the fine leather handle.

With a flick of the wrist, he casts Sneak, dropping to the ground and tumbling along the cobblestones painfully. Unbeknowst to Saer, sneak only prevents fall damage, not pain. His speed sends him far, and his reduced weight from the spell makes him bounce like a handsome (in his opinion) ball.

"OW-OW-OW-OOF-AGHCK-AH!"

The unkempt missile flies out from the alleyway, hurtling into the square and narrowly missing passers by. He bowls into a cabbage cart, launching the produce every which way, sending people running for cover. With one final tumble he crashes into a booth, knocking the shelving loose and sending bottles crashing to the ground. One lands on Sær's chest, and he picks it up.

"Ornstien's Whiskeys," he says, reading the label. "Perfect! Just what I was looking for."

A shadow falls across him, and he looks up to see a woman standing over him. Middle aged and broad of face and body, she wears a stretched shopkeeper apron that looks older than she is. Bits of cabbage litter her hair, and anger exudes off of her in waves. She unfolds her muscled arms, slowly cracking her knuckles. Sær pales, gulping before beginning to speak.

"Lettuce just forget this happened. Hitting people is against the slaw. Besides, for a woman your age, getting in a fight is whiskey."