faderift | A FOOL'S ERRAND

The home on the outskirts of the village shows signs of recent improvements; even as its garden wilts and chickens grow scrawny, the walls have been fortified, and there are some signs of excavation. The young man who drags water back lives alone with an elderly woman. His skin is rubbed raw in places — most about the hands and eyes —

Their neighbours: A cooper, his pregnant wife, and their several children. A small boy is warned back sharply when he runs up to chatter about monsters.

The dissonance of lyrium buzzes at the edge of perception, like the beginnings of rot in a tooth.

Edited 2017-05-08 19:09 (UTC)

[[ Anyone is welcome to jump in, there is no thread order and we're conveniently handwaving anyone being left at camp unless they want to be. ]]

The cooper supplies their names: Magaidh and Kester Hayes.

They're suspicious, evasive — the young man angry, his mother nervous. They do their best to put themselves between the party and the door. It's a laughable obstacle, but they've all agreed: The Inquisition will talk its way in. For the moment, these are still civilians.

"You're frightening Ma,"

Kester growls, in the throaty tones of someone trying too hard to sound tough. He's puffed himself up to his full height, leaning unsubtly on an old, woodsman's axe.

Edited 2017-05-10 03:56 (UTC)

Ever since they found the well, Inessa has taken to observing Garahel for his reaction before taking action herself. She does so now, narrowing her eyes as her mabari growls quietly, firmly placing himself between his mistress and the pair. No playfulness, no happy tail-wagging; he doesn't like what he senses, and it shows. His low growling becomes less subtle the closer they are to the house, and Inessa shoots a significant look at Wren. Garahel is onto something, and she's fairly certain as to what it is.

Milady hasn't been a presence among the group so far--her task had been more as watch, as guard, skirting along the the outside of the village in case of some kind of sneak attack, in case of being followed. Garahel is better at sensing (and communicating it) what they're looking for, after all. But with no alarm raised, she is by Malcolm's side now, as alert as ever while on the job.

The job now being convincing these civilians to let them in without threat or busting down doors.

"Serah," he says calmly, with a vague air of concern and using the Marcher form of address, "we aren't here to frighten. Quite the opposite, in fact." His eyes narrow, not in suspicion but as if focusing on Kester more. "Are you quite well? You look as if you've taken ill. Here, we've a healer if that would help."

Sorry, Anders, but if they get put at ease, they might be able to get past without any violence.

Malcolm had saved his life, once. Sure, every seeker had failed the mages, but right now Anders can allow this one to offer him up and consider them even.

"Still willing to help," he pipes up. "You or your mother, or both, even. Two for the price of free, how does that sound?" Behind and slightly off to the side, Anders is more than willing to let other people take point. He's a mage. They have pointy things just in case. And dogs. His attack cat can't take down much larger than a snake yet.

Wren inclines her head to Inessa, a small acknowledgment. Her expression wears a peculiar sort of distance, intent, as though she's listening for something. It's clearly not the words before them.

"Told you already I ain't sick. We don't need a —" Kester censors himself at the last moment, jaw grits with the strain. Anders will get a little more respect, here and now, with so many armed men at his back. It ends in a mutter: "— Don't need a damn healer."

His fingers shift uneasily on the haft of the axe. Behind him, Magaidh pipes up in a quavering voice,

"Maybe — maybe it wouldn't. Wouldn't hurt to see." Her eyes flicker briefly between the dogs, worry evident. "Outside."

Inessa can guess what Wren is listening for, and she's slightly distracted with doing the same. Though her attention snaps back as Magaidh looks to the dogs. It goes against her instincts to agree to such a request, as Garahel rarely leaves her side during missions, but a show of compromise might be what's needed. So reluctantly, she nods.

"Garahel, remain here. I'll call if we need you." Garahel grumbles, tense and worried, but he doesn't disobey.

Malcolm doesn't even look away, a short motion of his hand, and Milady is sitting primly. Verbal instructions are for long distance, or when he's not afraid of giving orders away for anyone to hear.

"We hardly want to give you trouble. Serah Magaidh, yes?" with a polite bow, just at the shoulders. "We're here to help, however we can. It's what the Inquisition does, despite whatever stories some might try to spread about us."

With all these people at their doorstep and whatever, whoever they're hiding, he doesn't think turning up the charm will hurt. He's the one that wanted to go about this a quieter, sneakier way, though, in case this doesn't go well.

It's not quite what Magaidh meant, evidenced by the way Kester steps out to meet them —

— An opening Wren uses to step into the space he's left behind. She plants herself in the doorway, arm thrust out to hold it back: a gesture which might be termed politely implacable.

Magaidh suppresses a squeak, Kester is less circumspect about his own muffled curse.

"A kind invitation," Distraction's still evident in her voice. "After you, Warden Serra?"

The inside of the home is spare as might be expected, though there are small signs of neglect. No fire's been lit in the hearth, despite the strange warmth of the room. The sense of something off is stronger here; most clearly near the straw mattress in the corner. The frame it's been roped to is low, enough to just shadow the floor beneath from view.

Wren won't move until everyone (dogs excluded) are inside. Presumably she's been considering an alternate career as a doorstop, and needs the experience.

"Garrett," A curt nod to Anders. "Perhaps he might sit,"

"Fine standing." Kester cuts in, voice hard. Wren shoots Malcolm a glance, jerks her chin briefly towards the bed. The closer anyone gets, the stronger the call will be.

Inessa steels herself, then enters without a further word, her large eyes taking in the state of the home. She can feel the hairs on the back of her neck behind to rise, and darts an uneasy glance at the others. They must feel it, too. She paces over to where it seems worse, pausing by the mattress and winces. Though it's instinct to step away, she won't do so without subtly gesturing to the others.

Simon feels unusually intrusive in this tiny space as he shuffles into the empty space nearest the bed, taking up almost room enough for two and having to bend his head to avoid the low ceiling beams. The vague self-consciousness is at odds with the irrational offense he takes at the fact that these people would dare defy the Inquisition at all. Don't they know they're speaking to a Seeker? Have they no respect for what remains of the templar order? Who thinks they have the right to refuse a Grey Warden?

He feels as though he's being stretched by the contradicting feelings, pulled in diametrically opposite directions, as his nerves begin to itch with that incessant, atonal humming--

Too late, he catches Inessa's sidelong glance and realizes what she must mean by it. There's too little room to edge away from the mattress, though he does what he can, head turning to examine the low bed with all the focus he can muster. His hands clench into fists.

There's a buzz in the room. Anders can feel it when he ducks into the small building, and while he doesn't place it right away, Inessa's gesture draws his eyes to where... yes, sure enough, that's the area it's coming from. Maker. Bad enough that this guy probably will be thankful to the Seeker when he was an ass to the mages earlier, but that's pressing in too. He takes a slow breath and reaches out to Mercy, feeling a little of the pressure ease.

"May I cast and see what's going on? No offense, but neither of you looks to be in good health, something I expressed to the gentleman here earlier."

Someone else can look at the bed. He's a healer of living beings, not inanimate objects.

There's a small, raised section of floor beneath the bedframe, the gloomy shape of a square door, a thick iron ring —

It's trapped by the closeness of the bed. You'd have to move the bed to drag anything open. The bed, and anyone upon it. For the inelegance of its craft, the lightness of the straw, it's still a heavy thing. The door is too, and guarded by discomfort beside; for mage or templar alike, to pull it up is like pressing one's hand to a wasp.

"Of, of course, Serah," Magaidh grips her son's arm, bony fingers clenching tight. His shoulder twitches in irritation, but it's clear he's not about to shove his mother off. "It's rough weather this time of year, I'm sure you know,"

She trails on in vague excuse. Magical investigation of the pair will confirm the suspicions that a glance has already given: Early-stage infection, and Kester with the brunt of it. Magaidh may yet be saved. Her son?

The prospects are more uncertain.

Wren holds her distance, blocks the exit. Willpower's fine, but it won't alter the facts: the others are better-equipped for diplomacy at present.

He could move the bed, he thinks, but not quickly, certainly not unobtrusively. There's nothing to be done about that. He's already calculating the effort it would take, the best direction to shove it so as to expose what he can dimly see under it and ensure everyone else can reach it--

The impulsiveness isn't typical for him. He wouldn't ordinarily be thinking of barging ahead and aggressively rearranging strangers' furniture without orders, their tenuous goodwill be damned. But at the moment, it seems like the only logical course of action. They want to stop that bone-jangling noise, don't they? Doesn't everyone? Who the hell cares what the Hayeses want? They shouldn't have been allowed to obstruct the investigation to begin with. Let the mage wrangle them, if they make trouble.

His rational instinct, thankfully, isn't quite so easily squashed. He tears his gaze away from the trapdoor's handle, echoes of it swimming in his vision, and attempts to catch a superior's eye. Come on. End this charade and let me expose them.

Of course, he's got a diplomatic side to him. He's helped try to soothe the disgruntlement, though nothing will ease the fully correct suspicions. But this is ridiculous now. They know about the red lyrium; it's clear looking at them, and now moreso with Anders looking them over himself. It's clear from standing in the room, although in truth the Seeker can feel it less strongly than the mages and Templars. A blessing(?) of not having lyrium pounding through his blood. He wants to tell them to stop being daft, to rip the bed up and go. Were these people rogue Templars or blood mages, he'd never give them such kind treatment.

But these are just people. Scared people. Probably helping family. He must respect that as far as he can, lest he make the Inquisition look like bullies. And he cannot abide by that.

Still, his expression is more stern. His voice still holds the kindness of before, but he less looks like he's here to pay a friendly visit. "Ser, Serah. You must understand how dangerous this is." No playing games. They know why the Inquisition is here, in their home. "And I know that this is painful. I'm honest about us being here to help. But you have to let us help you."

They don't have to let them do anything when they'll do as they please, but he wants to appeal to them. "For your sakes. For the sake of the town. And for the sake of whoever it is you're trying to protect."

Resisting the urge to rub her temple, Inessa steps back a couple of paces while the Seeker does his best to convince the woman and her son. Given the reaction Anders and herself were met with earlier, she's suspects her efforts might hinder more than help. Though silent for the moment, the Warden mage uncharacteristically fidgets. The presence of that unholy substance is impossible to ignore, and placing her more on edge with each passing moment. Maker, let's get this over with and soon, before it drives us mad.

His expression becomes still as he examines them, which is likely a giveaway that what he's finding isn't good. Finally he lowers his hand and the glow goes out.

"Madam. Both of you have been dangerously exposed to a substance known as red lyrium." They have to know it, and know what it is, but he's going to act as if they're innocent despite the son's behavior thus far. It might help. "I know I can cure you, though it will take some time and will need to be done outside of town."

Outside of this house, more like, but where there's already at least a couple of red lyrium contaminations there are likely to be more.

"I don't know if I can cure you, Ser. But I can try, if you'll let me, and if you'll come outside. Your exposure is greater, and the more either of you are exposed, the worse it will get." His eyes focus on the young man. "For your mother's sake at the very least, so that I can certainly cure her, you both need to leave. You know you're ill. You know she's ill. Please work with me, and we can find a place just outside of town where I can do my job."

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limier - 2017-05-16 22:43 (UTC) - Expand

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paladingus - 2017-05-17 01:21 (UTC) - Expand

[[ Anyone is welcome to jump in, there is no thread order. Hayes may be recognizable to ex-Gallows residents, she's roughly of an age with Cade. Feel free to ping me and/or invent details as you'd like, there. ]]

The cellar door bangs open, and the creature opens its eyes.

Adamina Hayes might have been handsome, once. These days it’s difficult to tell. Gorged veins pulse across her features, those further obscured by small spines of crystal, like the points of a crown. There’s no armor, nothing down here that might be improvised as a weapon, but her limbs are heavy with crimson bulk — and the claws of her hands match marks torn deep into the earthen floor.

(The floor, scorched black and ruddy. Even at this distance, she radiates heat.)

"Please," When she speaks, the words waver, muddled and uncertain of their own shape. There's a second drone behind them, harsher: "Please don't."

Edited 2017-05-11 08:27 (UTC)

Inessa doesn't get very far inside before pausing abruptly as she takes in Hayes' appearance. Her eyes widen in horror, unable to look away as she takes in every detail. There's a part of her that wants to turn away and run, just keep running, but she can't manage even that. That distorted voice makes her flesh crawl, and everything she senses is putting her natural stoicism to the test.

"Maker's breath...."

Edited 2017-05-13 02:14 (UTC)

Having Templars around is a bit of a danger. Especially Cade. He objected to him going, and he objects mentally now, but there's nothing to be done for it. Now that he knows that Seekers are also impacted by the damned stuff, he wants to exercise a good bit more caution.

Raze it. Burn it to the ground. Place down some runes.

But no. He can't do that. He doesn't even be as cautious as he cares to be given the circumstances, because he trusts that Wren hasn't told the entire Inquisition. So long as they both know--that is enough. Aleron, perhaps, and Cassandra, as his fellows. But no more. They would know to keep their mouths shut.

He marches down in, face a mask of stone (wonder truly if it's a mask at all), and he might show mercy when it's called for, but she is...less a civilian, now. "They are safely away," he tells the creature who is still Adamina Hayes, somewhere, but not quite. "We'll do what we can for them. It was foolish of them to hide you as they did." They owe her at least that much of an explanation, even if his words are smooth, clipped, professional.

Her head lifts between the pair. She shrinks back from the narrow entrance and its little ladder down. The motion’s made peculiar, awkward by its bearer; a crablike shuffle. Under other circumstances, the contrast might be funny.

"Stay back," Wren grits, from behind Inessa — her own hand reaching down to clamp on the girl’s shoulder. (Harder than she intends.) None of them are well-equipped to handle this, but Reed’s in the least danger at present.

"Stay back," Hayes croaks in echo. "Stay back, stay back. It’s worse. For mages, it’s,"

The thought grinds out into blank noise, and she lunges up. The motion's sudden, and halts itself as quickly. Still pressed to the corner, Hayes' neck twists unnaturally to regard Malcolm.

"They wouldn’t listen," She pleads. "She wouldn't let me stay. She lied to them, and they wouldn't listen to me. Please don’t. Don’t hurt them. You said they're safe, you have to keep them safe,”

That he has to pretend he's in no danger is much easier said than done, now that he knows. But even if he can contract the sickness, he's still the best equipped to resist it. And so he steps closer. Enough to be out of immediate reach, he wagers, should she take a swing, but it puts him at the center of attention and the closest to deal with her should she lose control.

And what control it is, fighting so hard against it. She's half caged wild animal, literally backed into a corner, her movements uncertain, unpredictable, unnatural. But he has to talk to her.

"Who wouldn't listen to you?" Who wouldn't let her stay? "Please, we need you to tell us where the others are. We know about them, know about you. That's how we came to be here. Whatever you can tell us. And we'll keep the family safe. You have my word."

"Stormy," Her breath hitches, the words come out in a dreamy whine. Claws trace the dirt and her eyes cast away, drawn into some new, distant distraction. "Do you know her? So pretty. Always was. I came home, you know, for her? It was time to come home. Said I was, was,"

Repetition again.

"I’m unworthy?" A harsh laugh, or something that used to sound more like one. "I came back for her, I brought them. And now I’m,"

"I’m unworthy. What’s that word worth? Pretty as glass." Quiet again, "Kester never liked her."

Stormy. That's a new name. He doesn't know who that is. "Unworthy," he draws out, brows knitting together. A harsh word if there ever was one. "In what way? For what? What is she doing with the others?" Whatever coherency he can squeeze out of her, he's willing to wade through the prattle.

"Leading them," A snarl. "Lying."

"She's mad," Hisses the woman who can't maintain a train of thought for the length of any more than a sentence. "As if she can control this. As if they hear her prophecy, they won't hear His,"

She punches the wall, hard. Boards splinter, earth sifts loose from the ceiling.

"She's, she's not. Not a. Never should've hid her. Never." Hayes lurches, "Please. Please don't leave. Not without killing that bitch —"

A lunge for the group.

A FOOL'S ERRAND | Closed.

confrontation; ser hayes

group thread; talking to the family

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group thread; talking to hayes

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