hh_mirror | Susan Sto Helit and the Hangover of Doom

((RP open to members of Ravenclaw House))

Getting magnificently drunk had seemed like a good plan at the time. But even the granddaughter of an anthropormorphic personification can only drink so much before simply dozing right off, and somewhere after glass number six, Susan had fallen soundly asleep, curled up in the armchair in front of the fireplace.

She woke in the grey dawn, stiff and sore and with a head that felt indescribably awful. "'lo, Bilious," she muttered, trying to crack a joke, but the attempt only made the throbbing worse.

Adding insult to injury was the realisation that her memories of Tuesday's events were thoroughly undimmed. Clearly, to achieve an appropriate state of anaesthesia, a state of constant intoxication would be required ... and that truly wasn't Susan's style, so she was going to have to learn to live with it.

Enough of that; thinking about it drove the headache to blinding levels -- in the meantime, she was still wearing yesterday's grass-stained skirt and torn stockings, and she need to wash, and maybe see if they had any interesting hangover cures. She tidied up the bottles, picked up the Nimbus (at least she had that to be grateful for) and headed off to the dorms.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Stephen Maturin had been up all night, poring over a growing stack of obscure mediwizard texts, none of which offered any explanation for what had or had not happened to him. He had found the remains of the cocaine which Sara'd given him some while back -- thinking sourly of the occasion upon which it was given -- and this helped to distance him from natural fatigue and unnatural emotional strain.

Hearing Susan enter the dorm, he looked up to make sure it wasn't anyone he didn't want to see. It was, instead, a woman he really hadn't met yet, and she looked to be in quite a state herself. He cleared his throat.

"Madam? May I assist you in any way? You look to be ... not quite well."

"...not so loud, please," she said in a very tiny voice. She blinked at him cautiously. "Sorry. My gods, alcohol makes me rude. I don't believe we've met. I'm Susan Sto Helit. Supposedly my things are somewhere up here, and I need a wash and something for a hangover."

"Stephen Maturin, at your service, and my apologies for ... being loud, I suppose. I have not been quite myself, lately. At any rate, I am a physician, for all the good it seems to be doing me now; and I can offer something small by way of relieving the crapula."* From one of the pockets of his exceedingly odd and shabby-looking robes (what godforsaken corner of Diagon Alley yielded up that garment?) he carefully extracts a vial of what appears to be some sort of powdered bark.

(( Yes, apparently "crapula" is either the 1800s word for hangover (http://www.alia.org.au/%7Ekwebb/Maturin/MMAD.html) or something Patrick O'Brian thought it amusing to claim was the 1800s word for hangover. *turns into a third-grader and giggles* ))

The contents of the vial reminded Susan of some of the medicines she'd occasionally been called upon to use for her young charges when they inevitably caught some sort of awfulness from their playmates. "That looks familiar," she said. "It's a pain reliever of some kind, isn't it? Dr Maturin, you're a lifesaver." She noted the stack of medical texts. "Were you a victim of the ... mischief the other day yourself?"

((Actually, that would explain where the word "crapulent" comes from, wouldn't it? Heh. Learn something every day, one does. It's still funny. *snickers*))

((Aha! Dictionary.com (http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=crapulent) for the verification.))

If Stephen were a dog, his ears would have perked up. Instead, he appeared to become even more on edge than before, which was quite a feat.

"The mischief?"

(( And .. finally someone is about to tell him what's going on! ))

"Well, I don't fully understand it myself, being new and still getting used to things. But the best I can make of it from what Dr Winchester and Mr. Tea -- others told me is that apparently --" She pinched the bridge of her nose and looked very pained. "I can't believe I'm saying this. The god of love running around here? Eros? Was apparently responsible for, well, all that. People ... falling suddenly and inappropriately in love." Granddad and Death of Rats will never let me hear the end of this if they find out. "That's why I was trying to ... anaesthetize myself, really. Unfortunately the relief was merely temporary, and you can see the consequences."

((Heheh. Poor Stephen. I just read the subthread on Crowley's herbology post. And yes, Maturin/MacNair is a fabulously cracktastic couple. Also, much Stephen love. I'm reading Master and Commander and am getting thoroughly sucked into the goodness of those books.))

As Stephen listened to Miss Sto Helit's account of recent events, his wan face flushed with choler. He allowed himself one brief spate of creative polylingual cursing of the thoroughly unmagical variety. Then, with an air of grim satisfaction, he removed a silver ring from his left hand. He would have liked very much to hurl it somewhere far away from him, but tucked it away in the same pocket where he'd been keeping the willow bark he gave to his heavensent informant. Its owner would likely want it back, and was no more to blame than Stephen himself.

"Where is he? Eros, I mean."

The ring that Stephen removed reminded Susan of ... something. She'd been pretty far gone with the wine when the Hat hade made its announcement about annullments, and so she didn't remember the specifics, but she guessed that this was something her new friend would want to know about right away.

"Eros? Hell if I know, but a very long line is forming of all the people who want to get him for this. Although first you might want to ask -- there was some announcement about what to do about marriages performed under the, er, unusual circumstances."

"May the good Lord bless you and keep you, my dear. You have done me more good than you know." Stephen rose, perhaps too quickly; intending to right his situation immediately, he had misjudged his physical stamina, stretched beyond its limits by overexertion and the subsequent cocaine-fueled research marathon. He wobbled dangerously.

"It looks like you need this as much as I do," Susan said, indicating the willow-bark vial. "For which, incidentally, thank you very much. Will you be all right?" Ha, pot, meet kettle.

"Please keep it. It will do no harm; if you meet -- others in our plight -- " he grimaced -- "you may share it with them as well, without fear. For myself, the only panacea now will be sleep." And justice, as soon as I can obtain it.

((Oh, I do love Pratchett's sensible women! ))

"Oh, thank you. Good luck, Dr Maturin. I hope you can resolve matters to your satisfaction. I'll see you about, I'm sure." ((I wish I was half as levelheaded and cool as Susan IRL.))

"I do not think I can convey the depths of my gratitude, Miss Sto Helit. I hope I do see you when I am more fit for civil conversation. Indeed I shall do my best to ensure it."

With an awkward nod, the Doctor tottered off. To his own bed, thankyouverymuch.

Susan Sto Helit and the Hangover of Doom

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject