The deep russet hue of the crimson sun shone from behind the buildings, casting long, dark shadows upon the gravel of the streets. Even though Darkwell was a small city, people usually never stuck around after dusk; people lazily drifted home, their hair disheveled or their eyes weary from a tiresome day of work. When night fell, Darkwell's roads would be empty, and the only ones wandering about after dusk were usually the drunks or the loners. That, or they were college students rushing home after their night classes, or night owls scampering across roads in order to get to their shifts on time.
It was after sundown that MacCready’s Irish Pub became Garrett's second home. While there were a few people there other than him, it was delightfully quiet that evening. There weren't any rowdy customers that laughed or bellowed their stories at their friends. Instead, the hum of conversation hovered about the pub like a light cloud. It was a good thing, to say the least. Headaches still plagued him every so often after he got sick, and he wasn't in the mood to deal with people who yelled when they talked. He was more interested in the yellow-amber color of the drink he had placed atop the oaken bar table that he occupied. The cup of rum was the second that he drank so far, and already, the nagging headache at the back of his skull was beginning to get drowned out. A few more servings of drink, and the whole issue should be solved within the next hour.
"Thomas. Get me another one," Garrett muttered after draining the glass, pushing forward the container with a lazy finger. Even the glint of the light shining off of the rounded edge of the glass bothered his eyesight slightly. Maybe he should stop playing so many video games until he felt better? He didn't know. He took too many days off of work already, and when he was bedridden with fever, he couldn't even so much as open his eyes. Laying about and doing absolutely nothing was boring; if he had to spend another few days resting, he would rather throw himself out a window.
The left ceiling light was flickering again. It buzzed shortly every time it went off, its annoying tune drilling into her skull with each passing moment. She watched her cup of tea in front of her, the steam rising and brushing against her already flushed face.
Wren Faulkner had thought she was going to die. The past few days had been a living hell, and every single waking moment, she begged for the illness to take her. She had been immobilized by fever, and every time she did move, she would have to drag herself to the toilet to vomit all of the fluids that remained in her stomach. A certain type of paleness had tainted her body, save for her face-- even now, a feverish hue covered her cheeks, even as it was dying away. It was only today that she could bring herself to drag her body out of the bed and actually go somewhere. Hibiscus tea was one of her favorite items on Darkwell City Diner's menu, and hell, she was going to have it.
... Well, there it was. Looking down at it, she could see the tea leaves drifting at the bottom of the cup. Yet, she couldn't even bring herself to so much as take a sip of it. Her body craved something different, something that wasn't watery and thin. Sniffling, she instead nibbled on the biscuits that came along with the warm drink. The flakiness and butteriness of the pastry melted in her mouth, making her sore and empty stomach rumble slightly. At least I can keep something down.
It was something she was really appreciative for. For the past week, everything that entered her stomach would be tossed back up. Her body feeling sore from retching, it was no wonder that her appetite was currently nonexistant. Wren put another piece of biscuit into her mouth, chewing slowly as she wrapped her gray cardigan tighter around her shoulders. It kept her warm from the autumn chill that was creeping into Darkwell, though there was something about the air that seemed different than other years.
