[sic]

Davrin cocked his eyebrow at the sight before him.

Shortly after their return from the Hosberg Wetlands, Akela had collapsed unceremoniously on the sofa in the kitchen. Sweat beaded on his brow. He tried to swallow several times and it looked like hard work. Then his body seized up and he retched out a series of violent coughs, before he coiled in on himself in pain.

Davrin averted his gaze.

“You should have been more careful, Rook. There’s nothing we can do for you now…”

Akela moaned.

Davrin sighed.

“Davrin, I think…” Akela pressed out weakly, then hesitated, looking up at the elf with feverish eyes. Davrin scooted carefully closer, exasperation and worry warring for control within him.

“Davrin, I think I might be... Blighted.”

A snort broke out of Davrin. This was getting ridiculous.

“You’re not Blighted, Rook. You caught a cold.” The elf shook his head as finally amusement won over.

Akela stared at him. Processing Davrin’s words seemed like hard work too, judging by the bemusement shining out of the man’s eyes where quick wit usually dwelt.

“But Davrin… I feel like… shit... I’ve never felt like that before… I swea–” Another cough split the man’s lungs, followed by a heart and ear wrenching sneeze.

Shielding his ear, Davrin brought some space between himself and the sofa again.

“Yeah but that’s not because of the Blight, trust me. I’ve seen my share of folks dying from the Blight...” He trailed off.

Akela threw a watery, pleading gaze at Davrin.

“This here”, the elf continued, folding his arms and nodding curtly toward the limp form on the sofa, “got nothing to do with the Blight. This is because you’re a wimp who can’t handle some cool weather and wet boots for a day and a half.”

Hopeful eyes turned hostile, and Akela felt around for a hand-sized item to haul at the sneering elf. The tin mug he found missed its mark by more than two feet and clanked noisily to the ground.

“That was pathetic!” Davrin laughed. “You really are out of it, huh? Who’d have thought that all it takes to stop a Crow is a whiff of bad weather. Seems like folks in the Anderfels will have nothing to fear on that front any more.”

Out of throwables and strength to argue, Akela opted for a rude hand gesture toward Davrin before he buried his throbbing head under an arm with a groan.

“Alright, alright, let me see if Harding and Lucanis have returned with those herbs from the market yet. That should put you back on your feet. Try not to die in the meantime, yeah?”

A resonating sneeze was all he got for an answer.

I hope you enjoyed @im-on-fire-today ✌️😂 He did get better, I promise!

Seriously though, the Wetlands look deadly with all the water you run through and the cold and the snow... and the Blight. It's not something my guy's cut out for. He was taught to endure cut wounds and light torture... Not wading through icy water for days on end 🤒

Visibility tags for some people who might enjoy this too ❤️

The office was small but sufficiently equipped with simple, comfortable furniture. A place where patients from low-income families could feel at ease, not out of place. Couch, two armchairs, coffee table, plants. Warm colours on the walls, soft drapes on the windows. Anders wanted it to feel less like a shrink's office, more like a cosy cafe or the living room of your favourite relative.

Her last patient just left. Lydia wondered if Mercar was going to show up today or not. She doubted her change of plans went unnoticed - both she and Anders started to recognise his people following her around. It seemed that today, a whole group stuck to her; it was hard for them to blend in. She even suppressed the urge to wave to one of them who was evidently photographing her.

A knock pulled her out of her thoughts.

"Doctor Ingellvar?" the clinic's receptionist opened the door. "I know we're closing, but there's a last-minute patient. What should I tell them?"

"Let them in," Lydia shrugged. One more wouldn't make a difference to her. Besides, it was better to see another patient than ruminate about the qunari crime boss. She smoothed out her dress, and approached the filing cabinet to retrieve a fresh questionnaire along with spare pieces of paper. She heard the doors closing.

"Hello, how can I…" she turned around and stopped mid sentence. It was him.

Riley Mercar was standing there in his expensive suit, in the middle of a little shrink’s office, in a small pro bono clinic in the shadiest part of Docktown. She hasn't realised how tall and broad he was - he was bleeding out lying in a dingy alley last time she saw him.

Now he didn't say a word. Just stood there and looked at her. She felt like prey being assessed by a hungry predator. Or a prize, she thought, and a shiver went down her spine.

"Mister Mercar, I presume?" Lydia snapped out of the stupor first. She smiled amicably and put away the questionnaire - she tried really hard not to show her excitement. And fear. "Please, sit down. How can I help you today?"