OPEN: Cloudreach Event

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone at Skyhold
WHAT: Cloudreach showers bring weird shit.
WHEN: Cloudreach 15 onward
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: For information about the illness, its effects, and its cure, please make sure to also read the OOC Post.

This high in the mountains, snowstorms are to be expected. But this one is large and lingering, hanging over the valley and the fortress for days. In Skyhold, with its eternal spring, the snow becomes rain before it hits the ground, leaving inhabitants and visitors to wade through puddles and mud in the courtyards. In the valley, snow and ice accumulate under cloud cover—and worse, when the clouds finally thin, a whole winter's accumulation of snow begins to melt in the sunlight.

Within a day, the ground is sodden and mucky enough to give the survivors of the Fallow Mire (or Ferelden in general) unpleasant flashbacks, and those who live in tents are issued additional hastily-constructed wooden pallets to raise their floors above the mud. It is worse outside the fortress: streams and rivers have overflowed their banks, rapids run twice as fast as normal, and flash flooding has made even road travel treacherous.

On Cloudreach 17 a mudslide buries the pass into Skyhold from the west, and on the 19th a sheet of snow loosened from a mountainside collapses into the shadowed passage from the east. An Inquisition supply caravan is caught in the latter, scattering wagons and goods across the hillside and leaving a dozen people and horses in need of rescue and medical care.

Healers may find themselves stretched thin, as in addition to the usual rash of blisters and sniffles that come from days of rain and flooding, an illness begins to sweep through Skyhold's ranks from around the 16th onward. It's marked first by climbing fever, then by flashes at the edges of vision—green light and jagged formations that aren't there, beings of light and shadow gathering around people or clustering in corners—and distant voices, coherent for brief moments if you're quiet and still and not trying too hard to listen.

Comments

leliana | ota.

[fightingale]

A drifting mind is not always an indulgence, not always irresponsible. As sharp as she keeps her focus, Leliana has more than once had moments of great realisations in the time when she allows herself to simply be lost in her own head, or in the drowsy moments of being neither truly awake nor sleeping. In the aftermath of Haven she had gone days without properly sleeping, snatching scant moments of rest in the Rookery so that she could be on her feet and working the moment something demanded her attention. Even now she sleeps less than she imagines is truly ideal, and certainly not enough to satisfy the concerns of Josie, and if her chambers were not hers simply by virtue of being so close to the Rookery she imagines someone would complain about a wasted bed. She has, at least, always allowed herself sleep when she needed it most, because she knows better than to compromise her work through sheer stubbornness.

Now she cannot sleep for the sake of her health, because she cannot risk harming the Inquisition.


( rookery - early days. )
She has not slept since the first night, when she heard of dreams wandering hallways. The mind of the Spymaster could not be lain bare.

The last time she was forcibly kept from sleep for so long a time was in the dungeons of the Arl of Denerim’s estate, under the care of Harwen Raleigh. That experience alone is another reason why she cannot risk her dreams being seen. Now she is older, though, and she does this of her own choice and not at the hands of a man whose cruelty she would never wish on another living being.

The Rookery is short of hands, because a number of her scouts have been sent to assist those working to solve problems, and others of them are ill or impacted as well, and she will not compromise them.

So Leliana is largely in the Rookery, although that is no great change from usual. What is different is that spirits of Love and Compassion and Purpose circle about her, and she is aware of them even as she tries to focus so as to keep herself free of their whispers, writing letters and murmuring words to the few scouts that remain to her before they disappear with a note and dodge around the person coming up the stairs.

“Did you need something?"


( outside the war room - early days. )
Leliana operates deceptively well, despite the nausea that writhes in her gut and the worry of what the lack of sleep will do to her judgment nag her. She will have to sleep soon, even if only in short stints, and the dilemma is the loss of her own functionality for these days when some adversary may have struck against them to cause this, versus the spilling of secrets.

As she walks from the War Room, Leliana stops when she sees someone looking…. well. Unfit, shall we say.

“Stop,” she tells them, stepping into their path and without laying a hand on them. “Come, you need to see the healers.”


( rookery/gardens/pick another location and make it a wildcard 8Db - later days. )
With the proposal that it was the water causing the problem, Leliana was able to revise her methods, bathing only with rainwater collected from the Rookery roof, which previously she had only used for drinking (water supplies could be so easily tampered with, after all.) It was limited, it was freezing, but it meant that now her mind was unaffected and she could sleep. As such she remains sharp. The same spirits linger around her as before, but she cannot hear their whispers, cannot get that twist of guilt in her gut when she wonders at the presence of Love and Compassion and Purpose, at the lingering of Pride and Despair.

With the storm it at least means that there is plentiful supply, and she does not hesitate to send word and supplies to those in the medical tents and to her fellow advisors.

In the Rookery she works, near constantly. In rare circumstances she sends herself down to the Gardens, drawing her cowl down for a brief moment so she can look up into the storm and the rain.

rookery, early days

[ancarrow]

"I beg pardon, my lady." Eirlys is aware she's interrupting Leliana from something important, but in the few moments of downtime she has while her patients are finally at rest, she needs to speak to as many who have been unaffected, or at least less severely affected and able to continue with their work, to try to work out what they'd done differently from the others to establish a pattern in how this illness was spread. "I just wanted to ask a couple of questions. I can come back later, if it'll disturb you."

[fightingale]

It is almost a relief to have someone new to turn her mind to, perhaps even a new matter, and Leliana trains her focus on the woman before her, sharpening it to brush away the murmurs of spirits.

"Now is as good a time as any," she replies, and it might be a slight lie-- but it need not matter. She considers her for a moment. "Is this related to the sickness?"

[ancarrow]

"Aye, it is." She steps forward a little, out of the direct sunlight, having become self-conscious of showing how tired and pale she is herself since she doesn't want to cause alarm with people thinking she's sick too. "I've been trying to establish people's habits around Skyhold, to see if there's a pattern with those of the people who've fallen sick."

[fightingale]

"I see." There have been a few theories she had considered, but this is something new, separate from her scouts or her other information, and she fixes the healer with a critical, analytical gaze.

"You have observations as well as questions?" Leliana asks, finally, turning to face her more. She waits a moment, watching her, expectant. "Go on."

[ancarrow]

"In my experience, the most common causes for a sickness like this are bad food, bad water, and bad air." Eirlys clears her throat a little before continuing, more as a way to give her a second's pause than anything else, as she's feeling distinctly nervous being in the presence of someone so high up in the Inquisition's ranks. "I can't seem to trace it to a specific food shipment, and if it started with bad practice in the kitchen there'd be even more sick. If it were the air there'd be hardly any spared, and we'd be able to smell it, not to mention that it's the same air you've been breathing in the entire time the Inquisition's been here and it hasn't caused any problems like this before. That leaves the water, and of those I've spoken to, they seem to have avoided having much of it recently - they've been drinking in the tavern, or out on assignments with their own water supplies rather than ours. It's just a theory, of course, but it seems plausible. Have you been drinking much of the water lately, my lady?"

[fightingale]

"Unless an contaminant was introduced, but... I agree, it seems unlikely that such a thing could be in the air and the effects only be what they are." For a given value of only, when so many are sick and suffering.

The Nightingale nods towards a nearby desk, taking a seat at it before gesturing a free seat on the opposite side for the woman to take, should she wish. It seems a necessary discussion, at least, if not one she would sooner not be required to have. Too many of her conversations fall into that category, really. That is, unfortunately, the necessity of being the Nightingale.

"I have access to other water from the main supply for drinking," Leliana replies, brow furrowed. "Although bathing is another matter." A moment of consideration, and she eyes the healer curiously. On another day they might have been faint amusement, but she is too tired and worn down for that, now. "I don't believe I caught your name." It was not offered.

[ancarrow]

Eirlys turns a deep red on realising she hadn't even given her name - she'd been too caught up in her work and her own theories. She squeezes her hands together in her lap, hoping the sensation will alleviate some of her embarrassment and general unease. "Eirlys Ancarrow, of Gwaren." She didn't bother to add that she was from the alienage there; her ears would make that clear. "I joined at Haven initially, but I only came back to the Inquisition a month or so ago."

[fightingale]

"Well met." Gwaren - not a place she has visited in a long while, but one she is passingly familiar with from the Fifth Blight bringing her passing close to it, and its ties to Loghain Mac Tir. She nods, thoughtful as she leans back in her chair.

"Why did you leave?" Not necessarily directly related to this, but a matter of interest all the same.

Outside the war room, early days

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin hadn't actually meant to wander in this direction. Tired and distoriented, the Vashoth mage had intended to head downstairs to the kitchen...or perhaps, the wine cellar. Whichever would knock her out and into a dreamless sleep would be preferable. And yet the spirit chatter around her caused her to miss the turn, going straight instead.

As the spymaster emerges from the War Room, Korrin pauses, confused and a little irritated at herself. "Where...?" The fog lifts for a moment, and she sighs, embarrassed. "I was going to take care of it, I just need to sleep this off...." Yes, sleep off a fever with a side effect of perceived Veil-thinness. It makes sense in her ind.

[fightingale]

"Sleep it off," Leliana repeats, with a flatness that may well give away her incredulity, as well it should. "Councilor Ataash, you will attend the healing tents, and promptly. You are not in a fit state to stand."

Suffice to say, Leliana's opinions on Korrin's navigational skills are a little compromised.

[gatheringstorm]

Normally, those navigational skills are excellent, honed from years of traveling all over Thedas. The only other time that direction sense was compromised was in the Fallow Mire, which already has disturbing parallels to the situation. Holding out a hand against the wall to steady herself, the Vashoth woman sighs deeply.

"...if I can find them. But if the spirits are crowding those tends even more than they are in the rest of Skyhold, there isn't going to be any relief. I try to block them out, they won't shut up. How do the mediums stand it?" Not that she really wants to know. All this spirit/Fade stuff is beyond her, and she prefers it being in their hands, not hers.

[fightingale]

"Trying to focus on them, instead. I imagine it would be tiring, but concentrating on them makes hearing them all the more challenging." Calmly, as if she herself is not suffering the effects - she certainly doesn't look unwell, nothing aside from a little more pallor, slight shadows under her eyes, both of which she has covered very capably with make up.

Still, she quirks a brow. "I can escort you there, if you do not trust yourself to find the way."

[gatheringstorm]

Not trusting herself at all right now but not used to relying on others to find her way around, Korrin heaves a sigh and nods to both the advice and the offer. It's probably a better idea than insisting on finding her own way and inevitably losing it, collapsing somewhere and likely panicking Araceli in the process. If anything can get her to behave, it's that prospect.

"...not at all. Thank you, and sorry for the inconvenience. I didn't mean for this to happen, but I should've known I couldn't handle this."

[fightingale]

"Councilor," Leliana replies, with an air of reproach that is not... unkind, even though Leliana herself is a stretched. "There is no need for such dramatic self-condemnation. We very few of us could be prepared for such events as these."

Which is why she holds some concern it was a deliberate, planned move against the Inquisition, but she will spare Korrin that for now.

"Come, this way." She is not one to take someone's arm without permission or prompting (or violence, in some cases) but she holds out her arm should Korrin be in need of some support.

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin only reluctantly accepts it, but only because wobbling and then falling due to lightheadedness is even more undignified than what she's going through now. Even so, she makes certain to keep her hold light, determined to hold her own and not be more of a burden than she is already by virtue of her height.

A weak smile forms as she's guided away from the war room. "Please, just Korrin. It's not like the Council's in session right now." Formality isn't on her list of priorities pretty much ever, but especially like this. "Irritation tends to make me dramatic, as you saw before. I've seen a lot of weird shit all over Thedas, but nothing quite like this. I don't suppose anything you saw during your Blight travels has parallels to this at all?"

early or late, take your pick

[nofury]

The spirits were the worst part. Fever, aches, pains, frowns exchanged with healing mages. Those she was accustomed to. But the glimpses here and there, no matter how apparently benign, of spirits and demons was too much. Maria could not stay in peaceful seclusion, nor pretend that this was natural. So she made her way to the Rookery, mild fever and all, to sit besides the Nightingale.

"An attack?"

let's goooo wiiitthhh early

[fightingale]

"I will not rule it out," Leliana replies. She is tired, but even with Maria she cannot afford to let that slip through. Her make-up covers her scars, and it covers her exhaustion. Her back is straight, but her hands rest against the table, and she looks towards Maria with a concerned gaze.

"We would be naive to rule it out prematurely." A pause, measuring the state of her right hand. "How are you faring?"

later days.

[byblow]

At some point Alistair realizes—or decides, anyway, without narrative truth implied—that Leliana may never speak to him again, of her own accord. In the scheme of things it hasn't been very long since they spoke, compared to the preceding decade of near silence, but the intentionality makes it feel longer. And the fact that she's right there, tower in view from the camp at all hours of the day. And the fact that even Morrigan is tolerating him. Obviously something is wrong with the world, given the rifts and demons and glimpses through the Veil, but this is a wrong he can do something about. Or a wrong he can repeatedly and futilely attempt to do something about until he dies. One or the other.

Anyway: he goes to the rookery. He's fevered but not fainting, nothing he hasn't walked across countries with before, save the spirity bits. The walk to the fortress soaked through his clothes, but he's been here for hours now, including several by a fire with a book, and he's reasonably presentable when he crests the stairs and finds

birds.

Birds and an altar, a few hovering scouts, and no Leliana. But perhaps the sag of his shoulders (all that courage, built up for nothing) is pitiful, or perhaps the scouts know who he is well enough to know it's a very personal sag, not the sag of a stranger with a question for the spymaster, because one of them says, "Garden," helpfully, and Alistair ducks out through a door and weaves around walkways in the rain until he spots her from upstairs. He sees the spirits first, bright light and colors hovering near her darker form, but they dissipate when they have his attention. It's creepy, but it's becoming tolerable. He leans over the low wall to watch for a moment.

"Leliana," he calls, after that moment, "if you don't talk to me I'm going to go back inside and drip on something important."

Like medium-important. He wouldn't drip on anything vital to the war effort.

[fightingale]

Some voices you could never forget, even if you wanted to. Alistair's is one of those - the way he stretches out words not least amongst that, the way he uses words and particularly the concerning emphasis he puts on words. And the concerning emphasis he puts on words when he is threatening to do something annoying is particularly memorable.

Leliana turns, cowl still down and water rolling through her hair, and she just looks at Alistair for a moment before fully turning and walking towards him, hands clasped behind her back and shoulders back.

"All that motivates me to do is ensure I don't leave out any sensitive material where simply anyone can access them," she replies, rather dry. She'd like to think that there is nothing of value out where Alistair could drip on it, but he is rather persistent, and she is not in a mood for anything else to go awry. For now she watches him, breaking down each move and shift of muscle, his expressions which have always been far, far too easy to read. "Do you need something?"

[byblow]

"I need you to talk to me."

None of this is giving due weight to the severity of their argument or their lingering differences. Alistair is still not entirely sure what he did wrong, and he is fairly sure that he isn't sorry for at least half of it. But he's a blunt instrument in all things, not only in a fight, and he's here to try to shield-bash his way back into Leliana's good graces. He leans his elbows on the wall, squintier than normal for the rain. Otherwise earnest, though, in the stubborn, sulking set of his mouth and contrastingly good-natured slump over the wall.

"I've been waiting to wiggle my eyebrows at you over Morrigan for a very long time. A month. Longer. I can't do it anymore."

[fightingale]

I am busy, she could say. What do we have to talk about? is another option that she considers, cool and calm rather than withering. That latter comment of his makes her eyebrows raise a little, looking at him with a quite sort of bemusement.

"The dance," Leliana finally replies, a little flatly, shaking her head a little before looking back to him. "Nothing more than a performance to intrigue the Orlesians and prevent Morrigan murdering an over-eager noble seeking her attention. I find it hard to believe you would be taken in by the likes of it."

And she finds it hard to believe that she is humouring him with the conversation, but he looks less-than-his-best and she is trying to make sense of spirits that she had to focus on just to make them disappear. "There is nothing to wiggle your eyebrows at."

[byblow]

"I'm taken in by everything and I can wiggle my eyebrows at anything I want," Alistair says. Only one of those things is true, and it's the one he helpfully proves by wiggling his eyebrows at her, valiantly, despite the fever and—everything. "Come up here and explain to me how dancing with Morrigan serves the Inquisition and was the only pooossible way to protect Morrigan from the nobility. I want to know."

[fightingale]

If Leliana were being difficult, she might make a comment on his kingly inclinations, which such entitlement. It neither seems particularly funny nor particularly likely to do anything but make the situation worse, and so she brushes it aside without much consideration.

"Why don't you come down here? The garden is lovely." With a look to the sky - the amazing wildness of the storm breaking overhead, even in the calm and refuge of the garden. "You are the one talking about protecting Morrigan. I was more concerned with the reverse-- is it you who has gone soft on her, Alistair? Are you jealous?"

This is absurd, and she suspects they both know it.

[byblow]

Alistair has gone a bit soft on her, honestly. She's not so frightening a thing to a thirty-one-year-old seasoned Warden as she was to a nineteen-year-old recruit fresh from the Chantry's propagandist clutches, not so sharp in the barbs she aims at him, selfless and worried for Kieran's sake in a way he wouldn't have thought she was capable of if he hadn't seen it himself. Kieran will never be his son the way he's Morrigan's, but it's enough for Alistair to appreciate how loved he's been.

So he only says, "Eugh," rather than launching into gagging sounds or a lengthy protest. And he does as he's told. Slowly. He walks toward the stairs in no particular rush, keeping Leliana in sight. Lovely, she says. He can't mind the rain too much—what sort of Fereldan would that make him?—but if the damp means he dies of fever he's going to make sure his last words are tell Leliana... the garden... was lovely.

Then she'll be sorry.

"The only way to protect the nobility then," he amends, persistent. "You couldn't have said you needed to introduce her to someone else. That would have been ridiculous. Claiming to need her to step away as discuss Inqusition business—no one would have believed it."