CIRCUS | DAWN
I should make breakfast.
The thought popped into her head suddenly, a slow smile gracing her lips as she carefully sat up and looked around for her clothes, a gentle flush on her cheeks as she recalled exactly how they ended up off her person. Her mind danced between thoughts of ferverant hands and lips in the dark, and crispy fried bacon with a side of eggs and wild mushrooms, contemplating what she’d start with as a stray hand absently stroked the tattoo so elegantly inked on her hip. It was then she felt it, as she moved to sit on the end of the bed, a creeping wave of cold sweat sweeping across her skin, stomach rolling wildly.
Well, that’s not good.
Swallowing the sensation, the witch held a hand to her stomach, a frown creasing her brow as she tried to determine if it was just a passing sensation or—
“Oh clocks.” She groaned quietly, shooting from the bed and dragging the sheet with her like a makeshift wrap, tugging it off the passive as she ran for the door and burst through it. Intending to run for the tree line, the brunette made it as far as the fire where they ate, before falling to her knees over a thankfully empty small barrel they used for general refuse, wrenching violently as her previous nights meal tried to come back like an unwanted house guest.
Alioe, she didn’t need this.
Gasping, eyes closed and face clammy, Sarinah shakily rested an arm on the edge of the barrel, afraid to lift her head lest she actually expel everything in her stomach. What the tocks has brought that on? She skimmed her meals the day before, thinking back on everything she’d consumed. Garmen roast, hingle onna-stick....the brunette let out a miserable groan, her other hand keeping the sheet tightly wrapped around her person.
“I think that hingle was bad.” She mumbled into the barrel, aware she was either talking to herself, or possibly Tristaan if he’d followed her at all. Lifting her head, the witch took a few deep slow breaths, placing her cooler palm against her forehead. She didn’t feel hot like a fever, and aside from the need to hurl, she otherwise felt fine.
Fine-ish.
“Vrunta...I think I’m sick.” Sarinah whined, before leaning back over the barrel, her stomach churning.
Do not throw up.
Her body fought her, regardless of how much the brunette didn’t want to loose her stomach. Taking a few more deep breaths, the wick thought she’d conquered it, until quite suddenly the nausea overwhelmed her.
Damn it!
“Gods, if that ent the worst wake up.” She stammered shakily once the episode subsided, feeling strangely better after practically expelling her insides. Sitting back in the dirt, the witch searched for something to rinse her mouth with, thick black and red tresses a wild wavey halo around her still unusually pale face, sheet curled around naked curves with little care about who saw her in the dawn light.