The roughly biannual plague cycle in the Pride Ring is just one of Hell's many absolute crap features. Husk might be used to it, but that doesn't mean he likes it. Nobody likes it. What sort of sick freak would like it? (...Okay now he wonders if Alastor likes it.) But it is what it is, and they all gotta deal with it. It won't kill anybody, what small blessing that is, so Husk's always kind of looked at it as a 'suck it up and tough it out' kind of situation.

That's proving a bit harder this go, though. Oh, not because he's sick. Heck, it seems to have missed him entirely so far this year. Yay. No, problem is, it didn't miss you. And that... well, it's bugging him more than he'd quite been ready for.

He just doesn't like seeing you miserable. All sick and weak and looking half-dead, because you probably are. 'Course he wouldn't have to see it if you'd just stay in your damn room, but you keep insisting on trying to haul your butt down to the lobby to try and sneak a drink. He's pretty sure you're just bored. Or maybe even lonely. Because you're certainly in no state to be getting sloshed, and he's not so sure a drink is the best option to take the edge off.

"Back again?" Husk grumbles, barely casting a glance at where you're trying to look like you're not at risk of just sliding right off the barstool you've perched on. "I told you. No. You don't need a drink, you need to stay in bed." He rifles about in a cabinet, coming up with a glass. "I know it sucks, okay? You feel like crap and there's no way out. But you need to be resting," he scolds you as he turns to fill the glass with orange juice from the mixer cooler, then turns back to plunk it down in front of you. "Drink that, then go lay down, before you end up passed out on my bar for all the wrong reasons."