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

[dragoon_pride]

[Herald’s Rest]

"Just water."

“Show us your tits!” This is said from the blue parrot perched on Kain’s shoulder, naturally. Kain rolls his eyes. It's bad enough that Bastard had kept him up all night with some weird jabbering... weirder than normal, in fact... there'd been lots of eerie statements that were unlike him. At least, Kain is assuming right now that the odd voices he'd been hearing were the parrot's fault. He has no other explanation.

"No need. Thank you."

Kain is trying to stay hydrated since he’s feeling under the weather. So water it is, and plenty of it… He drinks up a couple large glasses where he’s seated at the bar… Then proceeds to yaaaaawn, laying his head on the counter and falling asleep for a moment. Not even Bastard’s next barrage of swearing can get him to wake up. Figures this would happen after a sleepless night.

There's even an added bonus: Anyone likewise affected who might happen to approach may witness snippets of Kain's dreams: they involve a beautiful blonde woman, and they're heavily romantic.

[Training Grounds]

This is the absolute worst weather ever to practice in, but Kain is out there anyway, feet squelching in the mud. He really is reminded all too much of that accursed Mire, the one place he’s decided he hates most in all of Thedas. But he’s out there anyway, attempting to jump, stab and otherwise train his skills. He’s not about to back down now!

Unfortunately, the fever is really taking its toll by this point and he’s still hearing… sometimes even seeing things. It becomes clear soon enough that Kain isn’t striking at any visible enemies at all, instead, he looks rather crazed, slashing his spear in the air toward things that seemingly aren’t there to someone just observing (unless, of course, they’re affected or attuned to spirits). He looks to be on the verge of dropping, but he won’t stop going. It’s aggravating, but whenever he focuses on something and tries to strike, that target disappears...

[Healing Tents]

"I told you already, I'm fine. Now I have things to do. I'll be going."

Kain is quite obviously feverish and sickly, but he's gotten up and is attempting to leave anyway... because that's him. Try to stop him and talk him out of it?

Otherwise, he'll be stuck here a while, so feel free to come check up or commiserate with a fellow patient. The healers in particular may notice he's an especially difficult patient when it comes to staying put and resting... so they've got a lot on their hands with him.

Healing Tents

[gatheringstorm]

Just as Kain is on his feet, the tent flap opens and Korrin enters, supported by two Inquisition soldiers, one below each arm. She sags and scowls, clearly not happy with having to rely on their support. But that's what happens when attempting to sneak out on one's one and getting lightheaded in the process.

"What's the point, just laying here isn't going to make me any better. Lemme alone." No one's listening, though, and she's dumped back onto the nearest cot, to the relief of the smaller soldiers.

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin most decidedly does not need those unpleasant flashbacks to the Fallow Mire, and resents their intrusion now. Everywhere she's been afterward was met with the sentiment that at least it's not that wretched place. So she'll put her mage talents to use and energize walkways wherever it's feasible, in an attempt to avoid being soaked any more than she already is. They're left for others to use, of course.

[Healing Tents]

Before long, that irritation subsides but only because something else takes its place. The number of times Korrin's been truly, bone-deep ill, she can count on one hand and none of those times were anywhere recent. Until now. Ignoring it until she can't bear to do so any longer, a decidedly feverish Korrin will make her way toward the healing tents in search of friends that can help. Listless as she is, the Vashtoh woman simply makes a beeline there, no deviating to chat since she's taking notice of very little else, even familiar faces. The observant can catch her cycles of unfocused gazes and then snapping out of it with an irritated, unnerved glance around.

[Herald's Rest]

No, she's not supposed to be here. It's habit to visit the tavern, even when she's in no shape whatsover for drinks or games. Feel free to find Korrin practically draped over a corner table, unable or unwilling to move. The music seems to help her mood slightly, though, so that's something. Drag her back to the healing tents, if you have the strength for it.

[Training Area]

Or she can be found here, either deep in denial or trying to fight off her illness, because enough whacking dummies with a staff will do that, right? Korrin can't last long, though, no matter her determination, and it's highly possible she'll be caught dozing by them before long. In that case, those likewise afflicted can catch glimpses of her dreams; those involving Araceli are either sweet or racy, especially one involving Araceli in pearls and a corset and nothing else.

There is another, much less pleasant, dream that frequents her mind, that of the Temple of Sacred Ashes after the explosion that destroyed the conclave. Its focus is on the charred, twisted forms of several Vashoth, frozen mid-scream. Whether or not they were recognizable as such in the physical world is another issue, but in her dream they very clearly are.

Herald's Rest

[wontforgetyou]

For not the first time, Jamie regrets the lack of anything like proper whisky in his life. It's not that he doesn't enjoy quite a lot of what Thedas has to offer - he does, and quite a bit at that, although it's rare to see him drinking to excess. But while he's found one or two things that are close to what he's used to back on Earth, it's not exactly the same.

Usually his regrets stem simply from the fact he misses having that around, but when he starts feeling ill, those regrets sharpen into something much more specific. Despite having learned about germs and the like from the Doctor, old habits die hard. A bit of whisky would help with the sickness, he's sure. Since he's out of luck there, however, he heads to the tavern to see about finding something else to see if that would help any, only to have that thought go clear out of his head when he sees Korrin using a corner table like it's a not-particularly comfy pillow. He can't recall her doing that in quite that way before, and it raises faint alarm bells somewhere in the back of his mind. Enough so that he doesn't even bother trying to get a drink first, instead crossing the room so he can get close enough to get a better look at her.

"Korrin? Hey, you alright?"

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell appreciated the rain, at first; it matched his mood, dour and grey, but the longer it lingered, and the more trouble it became, the less he liked it. The chill of the rain got into everything - his clothes, his boots, down to his very bones.

He sought refuge in the hot springs, trying to soak it from his flesh. Clothes stretched out in a futile attempt to dry them, he drifted on side of the pool, eyes half-lidded and distant in the steam. He stayed until he was nearly more prune than man, but he was at least blessedly warm again.

But that too, lingered well past its point of appreciation.

Untangling himself from his sweat-dampened bedroll, he staggered into the garden and back into the rain. He stumbled and caught himself against the well, leaning... leaning... tipping, thumping down to the sodden, muddied ground.

"I'm fine," he told the shadowy figure he could just see, approaching in the corner of his eye. Could just hear, whispering beside him.

He waved a hand weakly at nothing.

"...I'm fine."

[wontforgetyou]

"You're not fine."

Jamie's skin may be flushed and his own eyes bright with the first stirrings of his own fever, but he's in better shape than the man who's just practically fallen over into the mud and started talking to the air.

Although it's odd, if he thinks about it. It's almost like there's something there just out of the corner of his eye, lurking in the shadows like some unknown beastie, but- he shakes his head, dismissing the thought, and finishes making his way over to where Maxwell is sitting, reaching a hand out as an offer of help.

"Unless you'd meant to wind up sitting in the mud like that, but I'm guessing that's not where you want to be right now. Here, let me give you a hand up."

[ancarrow]

Healing Tents
The tents are managing to hold up in the weather, but only just. The ground has turned into a slippery layer of mud, and the rain hits the canvas like an endless, deafening drum roll. Eirlys checks patients over as quickly as she can while still being thorough, not wanting anyone to have to stay out here in the cold and the damp for longer than necessary, knowing they'll be at risk of contracting further illnesses in an already weakened state. She can't offer much more than bed rest and a bitter tonic of roots to try to break the fever, something she administers with a grimace before helping the sick find somewhere warm and quiet to rest. She asks a series of thorough questions to those well enough to hold conversation, asking all about their whereabouts and habits over the last few days, trying to find a cause to this sudden bout of fever.

Around Skyhold
In her rare moments of downtime, Eirlys can be found all over the castle, seeking out those not affected by the sickness. She approaches anyone she doesn't know a little hesitantly, still feeling rather intimidated by many of the august persons the Inquisition has attracted to its ranks, clearing her throat and looking apologetic that she's taking up their time, but she needs to ask the same questions of the well as the sick, and work out why they haven't been affected by what's going on.

Healing Tents

[gatheringstorm]

It takes two Inquisition scouts to semi-drag Korrin to the healing tents, as the larger woman isn't quite up to doing so on her own. She stumbled about halfway before lightheadedness made her stop, hence the company. There's a feverish cast to her cheeks and her eyes have that glazed look of someone who isn't quite all there. That the spirits linger and chat whenever she zones out doesn't help either, a fact which makes her irritable as well as ill.

Overall, she's not a great patient. The Vashoth woman, so unused to feeling ill, has no idea how to handle it that isn't denial -and thus attempting to leave despite clear signs that she's not meant to- or vocal misery. Probably the most peace anyone will get is when she's given something to knock her out and even then, it's not likely to last as long as it would for someone of a non-Vashoth origin.

[samahl]

When they hear about people who need rescuing after the caravan is hit, Cyril is out in the mud and rain trying to do his part. After, he relies heavily on the hot spring to make his body feel clean and rested. That's probably his undoing.

[Around his room, first stages of the illness]

Cyril doesn't like people to see him sick, so he's trying very hard to pretend that he doesn't have a fever. Eventually, though, there's little he can do to ignore it, so he ends up spending his time in his room or around it.

Either he's in bed, trying desperately to beat what he thinks is a bug, or he's right outside trying to cool down his body. Either way, he looks pale and shaky. Someone who knows him will notice his eye make up is missing, which is the biggest sign that something is wrong.

He keeps glancing sharply to the side, but ignoring any questions about what is wrong. "I'm fine," he repeats, whenever asked.

[Healing Tents]

However, even he has to admit something is terribly wrong the more he tries to ignore it. With the collective concerns of his loved ones and friends weighing on him, he eventually makes his way to the healing tents and counts himself among those who are afflicted with the mystery illness.

At least he's in good company, even if he's in no state to flirt, some of his favorite people are here.

around his room

[serannas]

Ellana has no idea what's causing this fever people seem to have, but she's taken precautions to bundle up warm in case it's just a side effect of the terrible weather. She wears a hooded leather coat and has her arms crossed to keep her heat close to her body as she heads through the halls, finally out of the rain.

Vaguely, she recalls the plague that cut down the size of their clan. But there are plenty of healers here, and such diverse people that surely someone has seen this before and knows what to do, right?

Her head lifts as she spots a figure out of the corner of her eye, and she does a double take because here Cyril is out in public with no eye makeup. He must really be out of it.

"Lethallin," she says gently as she approaches. "You've taken ill, haven't you?"

[arlathvhen]

In her tent

Beleth has taken the illness...better than expected. Better than you probably should take being ill, to be honest. She doesn't seek the healers, but she seems to be getting plenty of rest? Except she isn't actually resting, she spends a lot of time sitting up, eyes closed, focused on...not focusing. Letting her mind drift, so she can hear the whispers, see the spirits that gather at the corners of her eyes.

She's been told about spirits, she's fought demons, she's met Cole--but this is different. This, she's sure, is something similar to how mages must feel, able to access the Fade like they do. Maybe if she concentrates hard enough, she can...do something. Access something. Go further. She listens to the whispers, and wonders.

Garden

She does roam outside of her tent, occasionally. Even all the way to Skyhold. She's not exactly the picture of health, face flushed and nose stuffed up. But she tries to help make furrows in the garden to try to stop the water from drowning the plants, tries to pull out the weeds that are shooting up everywhere. But she gets tired easily, and has to stop and take breaks.

When she does, she sits, and looks around. Letting her eyes unfocus, she gazes at the garden, and occasionally at people--and sometimes, seems to be intently staring at what appears to be nothing.

Dreams

Anyone getting glimpses of Beleth's dreams can find some good ones: Her with another Dalish who looks startling similar to her, racing each other in the woods, laughing, shoving each other. Dreams often include other friends, and they seem to feature a lot of Beleth heroically rescuing them from dragons and demons. There's one of her being crowned Empress of Orlais, even. Some dreams appear to be lifted out of particularly cheesy romance novels, though the object of her supposed affection tends to change, or have unrecognizable features.

Other dreams aren't so pleasant. The most reoccurring one stars a dark figure (anyone who knows Cade might recognize a resemblance) pulling a sword out of a sheath. While the figure itself is distorted, the sound is unmistakable, ringing crystal clear. More distorted is the sound of the sword slicing through the air, the solid thump of a hit. Then everything goes dark. Another, more violent one features a much younger Beleth, with wild and frizzy hair. In her hand is an arrow, and underneath her is a shadowy, large figure, who is currently being stabbed, repeatedly, by that arrow. Her face is a mask of rage, wild and uncompromising.

Garden

[colecomfort]

She feels it, but it hasn't felled her. Maybe that's why Cole finds her easy to approach — or it could be that she's simply there on her own, away from most of the people in need of healing.

He sits on a bench nearby, watching her watch for a while, not speaking. He doesn't say a word until he's worked it out — at least, some part of it.

"If you try to see it, it won't be seen. It doesn't want to hide — it just doesn't want to know you're looking."

[judgemewhole]

Around Healing Tents

James was surprisingly unaffected by whatever was coming down all over Skyhold so he devoted himself to helping everyone else, including his own men and women, who were all varying degrees of sick. He also made sure to get those who were truly delirious to fever to the nearest healing tent he could find and the first healer he could find.

Around The Herald's Rest

Later in the evening, when he had a few hours of rest, he would slump into a table and take a few glasses of wine. Rubbing his face, tired and stubbled, before he tried to eat a few mouthfuls of bread and meat.

Healing Tents

[demonicbeauty]

Ariadne knew that she was next-to-useless when it came to healing and medicine. But the way she saw it, she had two strong arms and an almost-strong back. She could fetch and carry just as well as the next man. And seeing as the next man was sick, it was only right for her to pitch in.

She carried everything. Water. Linens. Food. Occasionally a small child.

More than anything else, though, she carried a burden of uncertainty and guilt. First that she hadn't succumbed to the disease. Second that it might somehow be her fault. Or all the Rifters' faults.

It was hard to tell.

But she never stopped, not once. And exhaustion became her, in a way. Because at least she was in her element. Caring for others.

She paused when she saw Norrington, offering him a small curtsy, as she shifted the weight of the basket of herbs she was carrying. "I'm glad to see you well, Lord Norrington."

[fleurdesel]

In The Healing Tents

Adelaide has seen shades of this before- not this particular sweep of illness, but something contagious, something strange. She has not yet gone so far as to consider this a plague as she might what was killing people in the Mire- but the consistency of the symptoms, the strangeness in the air, the faded green everyone seemed to express seeing? Has her convinced there is a root cause.

Finding an answer and finding treatment, as well as seeing to everyone that comes through the tents quickly in the midst of all this weather and illness takes a bit of organizing- the Orlesian Healing tents are restructured- propped up on platforms against the mud, shifted into one large tent by way of repinning walls and rigging of rope so patients could move through and be seen to quickly- and off to one side? The lone curtains separating the treatment area from the research area, where a large percolator waits ever full of brewed coffee, chairs, books for research, and a large board tacked with notes has been set up. Adelaide forever flits between the two, tending to as many patients as possible one hour, burying herself in potential causes the next- a hot cup of coffee ever at her elbow.


Around Skyhold

Either to the library for reference materials, the kitchens for more tea, a cup of sugar for the coffee, stew for her patients that cannot be moved or whatever dried foods that might be spared the healers? Adelaide stalks from point to point, pausing only long enough to check in with those she has passed. In the Library she lingers to ensure the Tranquil want for nothing- attention, rest, food- in the Gardens she checks the store of elfroot. Never resting, never wavering is Adelaide- save when she simply cannot go on for another hour without a moment's meditation or drifting off in a chair somewhere. By a friend's bedside, in the library, or waiting in the kitchens for a pot of stew to be prepared. Those that can see the spirits flitting about Skyhold might note the hazy blue presence of Compassion draped around her like a cloak, formless but kind, whispering soft encouragement or pointing out hurts in her patients or those she passes.


Dreams

The kinder ones involve the Spire's library, a warm laugh, a handsome face both marked and not by a tranquil's brand- before full of smirking mirth and after blank and impassive. The harsher cracks and shards are also the Spire, marble stained red, men in Templar armor cutting down mages- fire, lightening and ice shattering metal and bone, a canopy of violence by blade or by magic in the white halls. A grotesque figure casting flame, an Abomination in the garden laying waste to apprentice and mage alike-

Worst still are ones that seem perfectly calm. A courtyard with a fountain and sibilant, cultured voices making offers. Endless offers. Of easy answers, of knowledge, of power- shadows wearing faces of friends and family making promises that are impossible to keep if only she would agree.

Library

[nofury]

Perhaps she should be in the sick tents with the rest. But Maria is too aware of public perception. Merchants and mercenaries seeing otherworldly things were one matter. A Templar that could not control sudden feelings of the Fade...not thinning. But shifting in ways it should not? That was concerning. Templars were the line between the people and the dangers of the Fade, and maybe it was pride alone speaking but she would not show a sign of public weakness.

Instead she goes to corner the one healer whose discretion she has faith in. Maria sits in a chair, waiting for her to appear in the normal corner of the library. It may be reminiscent of the Circle, the templar knowing where specific mages haunt. But she has no patience for such thoughts. She simply looks up, tired and worn herself, as Adele approaches.

"...You're blue."

[justice_is_blond]

Healing Tents

It doesn't start out too poorly. He's dealt with the spread of illness before, especially after first freeze hit Kirkwall when the poor in Darktown suffered the most. That doesn't make this easier as it spreads, though. He's up at all hours, driven by himself and Justice both, and meals are all too easily forgotten as he works.

By day three he's exhausted. Anders hasn't slept much at all and Justice is on edge because they can see so many demons and not take a single one of them on. The running commentary Justice has about everything - frailty of flesh, wastes of time, the utter waste of taking a few moments to feed a cat when people are suffering - is not helping Anders at all. At least he can still heal, and doing that seems to quiet the spirit for a few short moments. It's a welcome break.

Dreams

Short naps are all he's grabbing, but most are not pleasant. Some are simple - heavy metal on wrists and ankles, one small cot in a small cell with a small mostly-blocked window, a Chant of Light the only accompaniment until a cat starts threading between legs and the dreamer sobs. Others are complex, rushing sensations with swimming, running, always underlain with fear and pain, flashes of faces half-seen, always moving forward because throughout the dream is the knowledge that if you stop, you die.

Some have a song running through them, impossibly beautiful and beckoning. The nicest are flashes of sensations, stolen kisses and intimate touches, filled with the need for haste because it will all be taken away, all gone, all too soon, and they end with a sunburst flare on a pale forehead.

Dragons, death, destruction, darkness, they're everywhere, but once, just once, it's pushed back by a quiet lullaby in a woman's voice that's clearly singing in Anders.

Losing Control - Closed to Adelaide

When the exhaustion goes too far, Anders slips. One moment he's semi-awake, and the next he's no longer in control and it's Justice striding through the tent and, perhaps surprisingly, assisting. There is no direct adversary to fight. The patients are the battleground. The cause, every cause, will be furthered by assisting.

This does not mean he is friendly. He has never been friendly. There is progress to make, and that is all that is important. Trying to be diplomatic rather than cold is a waste of time and effort.

Wildcard?

[Poke me on plurk, toss something up, Anders is generally in the vicinity of the healing tents for 95% of this.]

Losing Control

[fleurdesel]

Between one moment and the next- Anders changes. They are all tired, they are all working themselves to the bone but this? This is no mere irritation. With the way the world is faintly green about the edges the bright flare and weight of Justice brimming under Anders' skin slams into Adelaide like an ice pick to the base of her skull. Compassion is present and soft and soothing but Justice has managed to keep to himself in Anders' skin.

When he goes from wry and dry and helpful to curt and unyielding, when blue simmers in his eyes and under his skin- Adelaide glowers. If Anders cannot keep to the front, he must rest. She squares her shoulders and stalks over, hooking an arm around Justice's and beings tugging him to the research area. "Come with me."

Her tone offers no room for argument.

[sunshinethroughgrey]

Camp Shady Fucker

The fever came on fast, for Bethany. She felt fine one moment, and then the next her headache was raging and her entire body was racked in heat and sweat in equal measure. She managed to lie down for a little while, but her dreams were disjointed, nightmares and dreamy dreams all together.

She finally sat up, and began walking towards Skyhold, perhaps to get something from the healing tents, when the world began to ... shift, when she closed her eyes for a moment. She stood in the middle of camp, staring out at wonder at Fade all around her, hearing the whisper of spirits as they clung to the trees, and the passerbys.

Standing at the edge of the camp, she was tilting her head, brown eyes glazed over in wonder.

Rampart - Closed to Fenris

At some point, she had managed to pull herself into Skyhold before the fever grabbed her again and the Fade melted in around her. She found that while she could see the Fade, the spirits and the demons, they could not see her. Like she was a ghost in their world, as they were mere whispers in her.

Above all that, the Black City loomed. In her more lucid moments, she knew she had to get to the healing tents. Now though ... now it was close enough to touch. If she could just get high enough, she could do what Corypheus could not. So up the stairs she stumbled, until she was standing on the edge, reaching out with her fingertips.

So close, so close ... " ... to the Maker's seat..."

Bridge - Closed to Anders

She had managed to make it to a Healer's tent, who gave her more water, which was fine until the fever spiked again as she headed back towards the camp, wavering back and forth as she moved. Around her, her vision swam again, and the bridge faded back into the vision of the Fade.

Around her, wisps curled around her, tangling in her hair, and she reached towards them, trying to follow them, and right off the bridge itself.

The Courtyard

Anytime over the next few days, when Bethany has managed to get herself to Skyhold for treatment, you might find her in the courtyard itself. Staring at something in front of her, or just to the right of someone. Sometimes she will coil away, other times she seems to be trying to hear something only she can hear.

Once or twice, you might even find her curled up in a rain-swept corner, hands over her ears, saying quietly, "Too many voices, too many songs, you just all need to shut up ... just shut please ..."

COURTYARD

[arachnophobe]

He'd been trying vainly to avoid coming out from the Undercroft; demons and Fade bullshit is absolutely something he's trying to dodge as best as he can, because fuck that nonsense and everything that comes with it.

But unfortunately, nobody is going to deliver lunch to the Undercroft, so not much he can do about it.

With his teeth gritted, Alejandro is making his way through the puddle-filled, muddy courtyard, stopping only when he hears Bethany's soft voice. He glances over his shoulder, spotting her.

"Shit," he mutters before approaching her. Hesitantly, he crouches down in front of the Warden. "Bethany, hey."

[mythalenaste]

Courtyard/Healing Tents

Pel's primary contribution to this crisis has not been magic or research, but straight-up logistics and a little non-magical nursing. She helped her Keeper deal with a plague at the age of nine, and was given refresher courses after. She has been giving advice to middle management and doing math and bookkeeping, as well as keeping the sick hydrated and comfortable. The crisis has made her oddly calm and focused.

At least, on the surface. The sick she tends to might become aware of a sinister presence hovering near, across the Veil. A leech, a demon of fear content to quietly follow and take up the slack.

[samahl]

"Pel..." Cyril is one of the sick and he can't help but notice how much stronger that presence near her is when she's working with him. Right now he's sweaty and delirious enough to actually talk about what he's seeing. He usually tries to pretend he's okay around her. "Pel, tell that guy to go away. He can't touch you. Shoo."

[arachnophobe]

UNDERCROFT

Alejandro's general reaction to this whole thing?

Fuck this.

Too many memories of the O'Bannon remind him of this kind of shit, spirits and demons whispering. It's just on border of becoming a hot fucking mess, and he's not going to deal with this bullshit. Keeping himself down below in the Undercroft seems like the best choice.

Working. Working seemed good, but all he can do is slam his hammer over the shield, over and over, trying to let it ring in his head and not think of the O'Bannon. Of the demons, the red lyrium, Noah--

"FUCK!" Alejandro snarls, throwing his hammer down on the ground.

Anxiously, he starts pacing, running his fingers through his hair. This is not a good fucking time.


DREAMS

But regardless of what one tries to do, there is still what happens. When Alejandro dreams, a young man can occasionally be seen, either laughing quietly or seen collapsed in a heap, reaching for something or someone.

There are images of demons, red lyrium crawling out from the floor, and abominations tearing through. An armored warrior with a two-handed blade swings his sword down before his image dissipates.

Dreams

[sistertohermen]

The images and snippets and flashes of--hallucination, that must be all it is, have been distressing Rachette. To hear and see, but to not...hear and see, when she makes a point to. She can't see any weird fade shit. She isn't capable of it.

When she walks by, she sees red slamming through out of the floor, sudden but also--also not real, real enough to startle but not real enough to do damage to the floor, unreal, an imagining, but it's all over, and it's lyrium, she can tell, but it's not right. It's all wrong. She's heard tell of it, the corrupting red lyrium, but to see it, a blight upon the Stone's gifts, there's a horror deep down that's welling up, to her bones. The abominations that rip forward are almost not as bad. At least...at least those she could fight, if they were real, and she doesn't know what magic this is, but a warrior runs by and swings down his sword--

She rushes into the room the images seem to be gathered around, and she reaches to the sleeping figure, shoving at him. "Tell me you can see this! Wake up and look!"

[el_tybs]

[Healers' Tents]

The last time he remembers being this busy and pushed to their limits was when they were back in the Fallow Mire, looking for a way to cure the plague that was claiming the people there. The increase in traffic of sick and injured from the weather and flooding was understandable. The patients that were coming to them with fevers that had nothing to do with colds though were what was causing them alarm and having them running all over the place, barely getting time for themselves.

Complaints of aches and issues with their vision on top of the high fevers were concerning. Not just that but for some it was just mentioning coloring along the edges, or some ranting about seeing things that were not there. Sometimes it was hearing things.

When he isn't seeing a patient, Sam is running to the tent set up for research, sharing his finds and ideas, and then quickly running back out when he's being called. It's a lot of back and forth work, and it's been going on for a while.

Anyone coming in to see him will notice him taking a seat whenever he can, rubbing his eyes tiredly from time to time. When nothing is being said it is clear that once in a while he'll be watching and listening to something. Those who are hearing and seeing things will more than likely notice the figure standing somewhere close behind Sam, the form of it leaning in once in a while to mutter something to the mage.

[Around Skyhold]

When he isn't at the healers' tents, Sam is often sitting down in some corner or on a bench not too far away. He's trying to get as much rest as he can without returning back to his bed - he doesn't sleep, but he is certainly trying to get in some cat naps. Those not affected by the weird illness will notice that he seems to be talking to something or somethings every once in a while. Those who are seeing things - and should probably be in bed - will notice a form standing around Sam and following him around, or other figures gathering around where he's trying to rest.

[Dreams]

Anyone able to catch Sam asleep and see into his dreams will find that for the most part they are pleasant. Remembering a time before the Circle. A small house near the shore with a couple of people who's faces are blurred slightly. At times it shifts to being on a boat, enjoying the waves while they fished, and spending time on the beach, soaking up the sun in the sand or running away from the cold water. Sometimes there is a forge, very different from the one in Skyhold, full of tools

The unkind ones vary. A woman cowering as he fights a man, a flash of fire, and then figures in armor taking him away. There are times where it is endless walls of stone and rows of shelves. No matter where he goes there is no exit and eyes watching all the time. The most frequent are the whispers, different voices calling to him; making promises, begging for help, goading him.

[Wildcard]

[Choose your own adventure]

Around Skyhold

[colecomfort]

Far from the places where the sick are gathered, Cole feels the effects of their illness less. So he can't precisely see the spirits, not in the way one of the ill would, as gently glowing, semi-corporeal clouds of smoke. But he senses it all the same, in a familiar way, feeling their whispers against the Veil.

He waits until Sam's conversation has concluded, or at least reached a pause, before he speaks up. Their duties might have taken them along different paths in the last few months, but he still remembers Sam.

He's sitting on a nearby windowsill, his feet swinging.

"You found a friend."

[eolasemah]

[At First]

The still-recovering Sina went down quickly, and without much fanfare: one minute she was on her way through the garden with a basket of fresh herbs, preparing to deliver them, and the next she was on the ground, the basket and its contents splayed around her. She was able to wake up long enough to feebly get herself to the tent she shares with Nari, then proceeded to fall asleep on the muddy floor, curled in a shivering ball and blazing with fever.

[Korrin & Araceli's Tent]

Rescued by Araceli, Sina is settled into her tent with Korrin, bundled up and still sleeping most of the time. It's probably better this way.

[Dreams]

There she is, back at that seashore. She thought she knew it before, but now her senses are so much keener in perceiving the odd ozone smell of the green waves, the dearth of breeze, the rough and prickly black sand beneath her bare feet.
She is used to this place, but despairs that this is where she always ends up now, when she dreams. No variety, no conversation, just a yawning and endless ocean spanning a neverending rocky beach.

[gatheringstorm]

Having Sina for company means that Korrin's less inclined to make escape attempts in the name of...something something freedom something. She's still feverish and not especially clear-headed as a result, and the chatter of spirits she never wanted to hear anyway doesn't help. Whatever relief Araceli can give isn't shunned, but if Sina's even slightly awake, she'll gesture to the frail elf.

"Her first. I can wait. And ugh, shut the fuck up.

...not you." Either of them. But she frowns sharply in the direction of spirits that are now silent that she's focused on them. She sinks back, grumbling about spirits and not wanting to be a medium.

Her own dreams are a mixed bag; those with Araceli are either sweet or racy, especially one involving Araceli in pearls and a corset and nothing else. And then there's the other, much less pleasant frequent dream of the horrorscape that is the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Araceli dreams are a little more dominant, but her entire motivation for joining the Inquisition often surfaces, those charred husks never far from her mind.

[doneisdone]

[Camp Shady Fucker]

Teren always boils any water she consumes, and would think this common sense, but 'sense' is not something she generally associates with the majority of the Wardens in their camp, so... well, here they are. She has dropped most of her other duties to ensure that everyone is warm and well-fed, and each day she makes the rounds of all the tents she knows to contain a sick person, then glares at them until they eat what she considers to be enough.
The good thing about so much snow around is that it's easy to make cold compresses, and even better because she isn't using the tainted water to do so.

[The Healing Tents]

Periodically Teren traipses up to the Keep and its healing tents to acquire more potions and herbal teas to treat the suffering below. She is not an entirely cheerful presence, but she's doing what she can.

Healing Tents

[justice_is_blond]

He's burning up, but there's little he can do about it. There's work to do. He's finishing another batch of potions when Teren comes in, and gives her a wan smile.

"How are you holding up?" She looks better than most people around here, actually.

Closed - Multiple

[colecomfort]

It was different than it had been before: it came on slowly, distant through a fog, a song that would hum in his ear every so often like a passing insect. It was as if spirits were gathering, pressing close to a Veil that had worn thin...

Only it wasn't. The song drifted by, then departed, shifting in and out like a tide. Meanwhile, people kept getting sick. Cole did what he could, drifting through the healing tents and offering a cold cloth here, a sip of water there, filling in the gaps of care to make sure the ill were as comfortable as they could be.

Until there were too many of them. Until he couldn't set foot near the tents without feeling the fever flare across his skin, or a sympathetic lurch in his stomach. Even if he could allow himself to be pulled forward despite that (it was only their pain he was feeling; he couldn't fall ill himself... at least, he didn't think so), the experience became particularly disturbing when he moved too close to someone whose eyes were closed, skittering behind the lids.

That was when he could hear their dreams.

[Ariadne]

Ariadne would come across him in one of the tents, kneeling at the side of one of the sleeping ill, holding a cold cloth to their forehead. He was rocking slightly, gently, back and forth, a tree swaying in the breeze, and muttering urgently under his breath:

"Climb the cliff, carry the water, don't spill a drop. Must be careful, must keep moving. See the sun breaking over the edge, oh — not much further, now..."

[River]

The swirl of spirits around River was louder than the rest. It always had been: only now, they were more like a chattering whirlwind, spinning around her and cooing and trying to press against her mind. They were so loud, Cole didn't see how she could keep from getting lost in the Fade — even if it was mostly his own fear that made him raise his voice when he approached.

"Leave her alone!" he tried to command them, even drawing his dagger — but they paid him no mind.

[Solas]

There was only so long he could stand it before he had to peel himself away from all of them: still in a trance, his feet carrying him (it seemed) separate from any conscious thought. Nothing but the instinct to move away, to be somewhere else.

The fog and the fever draw back, leaving a cold realization: he couldn't do anything more for them.

He couldn't simply go off and be by himself. He needed someone to help him make sense of this. So he followed the sense of still, quiet waters, until he found Solas, appearing crouched at his side.

"Drifting through dreams, asleep and awake. Glittering glimmer in the silence, in the heat, hush, listen but don't try to touch. They won't hear you... I heard the spirits speaking, like they do. I couldn't make it stop."

[demonicbeauty]

Ariadne knew precious little about medicine. But she had strong arms and an almost-strong back and she knew how to fetch and carry just as well as anyone else. Outbreaks weren't uncommon in the refugee camps back home, so she knew what to do. Even if this wasn't exactly like other outbreaks she'd seen before.

Throughout the days, she darted back and forth from the medical tents, doing whatever she could.

She had to admit though, it didn't feel like she was doing nearly enough. Or much of anything at all.

Cole was a surprising sight. And then not at all surprising. She was on her way with an armload of fresh linens when she saw him. And heard him too. Uncertainly, she took a few steps in his direction. She didn't want to disturb him, if he was reciting some kind of healing spell. But she listened carefully.

[nadasharillen]

[Wreckage of the Caravan]

Despite the slightly ashen pallor to her normally swarthy skin, Nahariel is out with the group who'd volunteered to salvage the caravan. Normally the mindless work of digging, prying, pulling, would have the elf whistling tunelessly to keep rhythm and energy, but today her teeth are grit against the rising ache in her joints.

After a few hours of silent work, the bad footing and febrile weakness finally sends her slipping to her knees with an outpouring of mixed-language cursing, the sack she'd been pulling slipping back down the incline.


[Healing Tents]

Cuts, scrapes, a nasty case of sniffles from wading around in the ice and mudslide at the caravan, and the idiot--and repetitive--notion that she was almost certainly able bodied enough to go back and continue the salvage-work if someone would just give her some elfroot. Her emerald eyes are dark and shiny with fever, and ever so often they dart around sharply as if trying to catch a glimpse of something just on the edge of her vision.


[Dreams]

During the illness, when she sleeps long enough to dream, it's of hunting something through a dark and endless forest. Her clan needs it for something, it's absolutely vital, but it's never clear what it is, and it's always just out of her sights.

[sistertohermen]

Rachette's doesn't set in immediately, out and about as she gets, drinking plenty from the river or the rainwater. But when all the bodies of water start flooding and making everything too dangerous, and all the game has gone into hiding anyway, then she spends much more time within the hold of Skyhold. And drinks there instead.

While she's around, she's a little worn, but still in okay spirits (so to speak). Trying to watch out for the mud. Helping heft tents up out of it. But it's when she starts seeing things that obviously aren't there when she starts to get concerned. Green structures in the corner of her vision. Or, hearing odd whispers passing by someone but no one is there upon turning to see. Or...more ghostly apparitions flitting by, just for a scarce half-second before she tries to see.

Concerned about her state, she eventually heads to the healing tents, and when she shudders through a flap, it seems extra crowded and confining. But no. They're not all...really there. Rachette does not frighten easily, but this is getting out of hand. She overhears 'spirits' and 'fade' and has to dismiss it, has to--she's a dwarf. She can't. But she has to back out for the crowded, crawling feeling on her skin.

There are always a few straggling spirits around her, finding a dwarf to be a new and curious thing. Thankfully for her, even when she's more alone and thinking, when she hears voices around her, she tends to ignore them on default. When she's huddled in the tavern with a drink, she pays it little mind. She's used to being talked about behind her back. But she's also afraid to look and find, yet again, nobody there.

Maybe it's the illness. Making her antsy and anxious and jumpy. Surely that's it.

Tavern

[gatheringstorm]

So very tired of the healing tents, despite the healers' good intentions, Korrin just wants to slip away to somewhere warm and with music. She does't order anything, just claims a table and seems to wilt atop it, using her arms as a pillow. At this point, she can't be comfortable anywhere, so this is as good as anything else.

Except those damned voices won't knock it off. Ugh. So tired of spirits and their antics, Korrin scowls and lifts her head. "Ugh, shut the hell up or I'll...do something. Fucking spirits...." Snappier comebacks can wait until her brain-fog has lifted.

[tactical_alert]

When one spies Malcolm, or is around and not paying attention, one might catch glimpse of and hear a spirit of Hope, lingering at one shoulder, chatting with the demon at his other shoulder, the flip of the coin, Despair. They talk as though old friends instead of mortal enemies.

Around

A mild fever isn't going to keep Seeker Reed from pulling his weight, directing refugees where to move if need be and how to better set their tents against mud and flood, as well as actively assisting in doing so. He is directing the gravely more ill inside where he can, to the nearest fires, to where the most healers are busy. He is carrying them himself if he must. He's Fereldan, even if at times that feels so long ago; the weather barely bothers him.

The animals, too, he makes sure are staying fed and as warm and dry as they can be when not being used to help otherwise. (With a little extra attention to Charles, his horse, and Milady, his poodle.) He even takes a whirl in the kitchens to help relieve any overworked staff trying to pump out hearty and warm meals more than usual, to keep the tea flowing.

The focus helps to ignore the oddities in the background of his fever. The flits of light and smoke and green. The quiet noise of altered whispering. If he stays busy, then perhaps it will not matter as much. Clearly it's only when he rests for a moment, or when his mind wanders too far away from his task. Which happens more often through the days, more than he would like.

Caravan

Illness be damned, he will not allow supplies to simply cease or people to be out in the cold and the muck and snow and die just because so many are down and out. If he can move and still be of use, he will do it and suffer the consequences later. Here he gives commands to his animals despite the weather and terrain, Milady to help track down those buried in the snow and dig them out, and Charles to rope wagons and even other horses to to pull out and back onto the pass.

Occasionally, he pauses to press the remnants of the collapsed snow to his forehead or against him elsewhere. Occasionally, he pauses and stays paused, watching or listening to something or another, at least until his dog nudges him eagerly and wetly with some new item fetched from the hillside.

Dreams

There's so much light and noise, the distinct flashes of magic thrown around and the glint of swords. Yelling. Battlecries. Someone screams for their fallen mother. Another voice distantly pleads why, cries stop. Indistinct bodies on the indistinct ground.

Dreams

[unharrowed]

Vasran doesn't know whose dreams she's seeing. She's only fairly certain they aren't her own. Feverish sleep brings few comforts — the haze of being half-awake and plagued by visions brings even less.

Magic and steel and broken, bleeding bodies. Is this the Hinterlands? As soon as she asks the question, the dream wavers and fades, only to return when her mind begins to drift. For the moment, Vasran relents to allow the dream to play out before her. This too shall pass... she hopes.

[rebelenchanter]

[Healing Tents]

By this time Skyhold could certainly use the gifts of every healer and especially those of the few Spirit Healers that they had. Fiona typically kept herself to a position of consultative and administrative. This was the first time upon her arrive that she actually took to the healing tents, the first time that she was actually needed there--as there were plenty of skilled healers to be had. Unfortunately even those healers seemed to be coming down with illness, and those who were not were becoming swiftly overwhelmed.

So there Fiona could be found pouring every last bit of herself into aiding those who needed it, and more than she could spare. She would not be daunted by fatigue, there was a reason she'd been the Grand Enchanter at one time and she had no intention of living down to this.

[Dreams]

She might be feeling a bit fatigued and a bit weary, but that was not due to illness. Absolutely not! Out of sure, stubborn will power Fiona refused to be sick. Not having confessed to so much as a sniffle since she was a child she refused to succumb to the thought that she might be catching up to the ones under her care. No, what she needed was something to eat and a bit of rest, even her Warden Commander used to chide her for pushing her limits so she might as well take some of that old advice and put it to use.

Loathe as she was to do it, she was of no help to anyone if she could not take care of herself.

Anyone caught within Fiona's vicinity (a cozy corner of the tavern) while she's resting...will also be privy to her dreams. A dream? An old memory? Of an elven woman cloaked in red, she resembled Fiona greatly, though younger and more haunted, she was standing on the steps of what looked like a throne room. Anyone who'd ever been inside of the royal palace of Ferelden might know these stairs.

In front of Fiona stood a man, a man with a striking resemblance to another man, one familiar to most. Alistair. This man, however, had long, blonde hair, hair that Fiona smoothed out of his eyes while smiling warmly at him. There were no words, but gestures spoke in volumes as well and after this warm moment passed between them, Fiona summed another person to their side. A strikingly handsome man, dark features, dark hair, a roguish air about him.

This dark man carried a small package in his arms, well, not a package, so much as an infant, and infant with light wispy hair, rosy cheeks and sound asleep. The man who greatly resembled Alistair took the infant, stunned, shocked, moving his hands over the child's face, his ears. He spoke briefly with Fiona before she eased the infant out of the blonde man's arms. The child scowled in his sleep, put out at being disturbed, and Fiona bundled him tighter as he wiped his hands across his face. Fiona kissed his small cheeks before handing the infant back to the roguish man.

The dark, roguish man who held the infant with all affection, rocking and cooing at him, soothing him back to sleep. As he did Fiona had a long, intense conversation with the man who had Alistair's visage. It was a conversation that looked desperate and sad on the outside, and while they talked the dark man wandered to the other side of the room, tactfully, with the infant.

The conversation ended with Fiona and her blonde companion embracing one another, kissing, it was a moment that was sad and sweet and somehow right.

DREAMS

[ombranera]

Zevran truly had assumed that being feverish and aching was the worst of his issues. Peering about and seeing things that are not there? Apparently was worse still. Trying to find somewhere no one would squint at him too hard for downing brandy like water (the only cure for a body that burned), hiding in the Tavern seemed safest.

Seeing people that weren't there would never be comfortable; but seen flickers of a place he has been, of men he knew by reputation if nothing else?

Zevran stared for a long moment into the middle distance at- Maric.

At Fiona.

At Duncan.

The first words out of his mouth when he was able to claw the little snippets into something coherent probably shouldn't have been "Thank the Maker that bitch is not actually his sister."

[ungovernable]

It is entirely possible that there is no one in Skyhold - with the exception of perhaps Vivienne - who bathes as frequently or as luxuriously (when resources permit) as do Benevenuta Thevenet and Dorian Pavus, so that they both succumb to illness will in retrospect come as little surprise. Benevenuta finds him in the library when she drags herself from her desk, the straightness of back and bloodymindedness of getting gracefully from one place to another while fighting a fever slightly undone by the fact she is anxiously followed by her spaniel, unsuited to herding a wobbly human but determined not to let her mistress go astray up the stairs.

Working alongside lasts a while, in Dorian's nook of the library, but Benevenuta's store of determination and clear-headedness fails to carry her much further than actually getting there without incident and the time between opening the book and dozing off into the side of Dorian's shoulder is blurry and indistinct, her forehead a damp imprint against his shirt.

If she'd remembered, she would have sent Nerva a polite note that she is indisposed, and will be unable to attend their usual chess match. Husband goes, instead, trotting off in search of someone to drag back toward these useless humans who are sleeping in a funny place.

[keeperofmagi]

Things were getting worse, and quickly, and as one of the unaffected Nerva was finding herself busier and busier as time went on. So when Husband first came to butt her head against Nerva's leg, Nerva completely ignored the dog. When she butted her four more times, however, and began to get Gaston so excited that he rolled around like the stupid idiot he was and got mud everywhere, she finally turned her attention to it.

"Where's Benevenuta, when you are being such a menace?" She asked, but the voice wasn't unkind, because animals were always better than people. When she did so, however, Husband turned and walked toward the library, and then looked back at her, plaintively.

Nerva sighed and followed, Gaston doing so immediately afterwards, the mud at least helping to hide his ugly mug.

When she found them in the library, her first reaction was a flicker of a hidden smile, and then sudden and intense worry as she strode up to take both their temperatures.

[ombranera]

Around Skyhold

No one hates being ill more than Zevran Arainai. He is trained to withstand torture and poison, venom and acid; but sickness that lays him low with a fever that he cannot soak or sweat out with blankets and coals? Needs to be drowned. Whether on his way to the Tavern for more brandy, the kitchens for more broth, the hotsprings for another attempt to soak the grossness out or an ill advised trip down to the valley to be miserable upon Alistair- Zevran is bundled up in as many layers as he can manage and likely either half awake or mostly asleep, slumped against a table, a bookshelf, tucked in an alcove, draped across the back of a chair, leaning against the nearest solid person. Just for a moment.

Just until he can rouse himself to take another step. Being hounded by a warm, sultry voice, a shadowed demon of full curves and rich promise bobbing along behind him sadly does nothing in truth- he does not look at it or think of it.


Dreams

Sleep comes with cruel swift certainty, dragging Zevran down to warmer lands and kinder voices. Be it on a rooftop or on a beach, in a cramped apartment or in a loud tavern there is sun and wine and tangled limbs- an elven lass with red hair draped upon him, both of them entwined with a man of darker skin and flashing eyes, idly drawling tones and possessive grips upon them both. Kind or cruel, warm or bitingly brutal- the dreams are stuttered and strange. Zevran is glad to wake from them.

His room

[arsebiscuit]

She wasn't in the sharpest shape she'd ever been in. Headaches and blah, blah, and heading out with Fate at the end of the week. So Sera had retreated to the hammock she'd weaseled (been nicely given, but she'll claim all the credit she can) into occasionally slinging up in Zevran's room since that same Twisted Fate had stolen her room. Sleep off the headache, then make the bottles and vials she'd need for 'chatting' with a bunch of Dalish.

When Zevran made it back to the room that day, only a mop of blond hair and the very tips of pointed ears can be seen under her bundle of (ill gotten) blankets on the hammock.

[[ooc: Fine with him going to sleep/sera being nappeing and starting in dream land or going straight to Sera being awake and them chatting. Take your pick.]]

dreaming. cw: torture, death, weird sex shit, religious iconography.

[apostasia]

Dignity in illness is not something that comes naturally to most men. Martel is not an exception to this rule, recalcitrant and unamused by his own body's betrayal - how he ends up at Merrill's side is a small mystery to him, when rising to his full height gives him vertigo and the headache of the fever makes the jagged green light at the edge of his vision all the more alien and unwelcome. Still - it is curious, the way the voices rise when his mind blanks, and with his head in Merrill's lap and his hair under her hand (sweat lifts the colour, running in beads down the side of his forehead) he thinks about nothing in particular and listens without listening to everything around him.

When he slips into sleep, he doesn't notice. Others, though--

--blood running in rivers from the archprelate's holy throne, he is kneeling in it, his hands are covered in it, it is cold in the absence of god and he has no one to blame but himself--

--strips of flesh torn in methodical patterns from a screaming, shackled maidservant; a woman's laughter, high-pitched, mad, a feminine hand sliding up the inside of a torn-open thigh; the awful silence--

--you did this, she says, pale and getting paler, bleeding out around the sword that had plunged into his chest, dark hair bloody and eyes huge, you did this, you did this, you did this, you did this--

--he is on his knees and god does not forgive--

--petrana in the grass, a fistful of white hair in her small fist, the manor house burning behind her

you did this

the weight of his armor; the wounds around his ankles, the bruises from the cobblestones he was dragged across; he is bleeding to death and she puts her hands in the wound and pulls and pulls and--

might.

[chainlightning]

Color runs down Martel's forehead and stains her fingertips, the same black as the ink she edits the lies about her people with. She doesn't notice for some time, right up until Martel begins to slip into sleep (until it is not black but red, blood so familiar she can taste it, and maybe she's been lulled into dozing off herself because she swears she sees her Keeper beneath hands that she can no longer recognize as Martel's or her own). Then she jerks, startling them both out of it, green eyes glassy but voice still clear when she exclaims.

"Oh! Your hair- you're turning colors!"

Her voice is clear, but perhaps her mind isn't entirely.

"A halla in wolf's clothing!"

Her perception of Martel certainly doesn't seem bothered by either dreams of blood or hair dye. Just beyond her start to converge spirits of learning, of curiosity, just barely able to be glimpsed as they try to do their own investigations through the Veil.

[failedfirst]

Velanna's tent

Though Velanna is persistent about boiling any water she drinks, she isn't always so diligent about filtering out additional impurities. The sickness creeps up on her, the aching and fever the first things she really detects. She ignores it, of course, sitting instead at her tent with the blanket Bethany gave her wrapped around her shoulders, scribbling madly in her books, or rifling through her notes from things she's taken from the library.

Sometimes she takes a break and brews a variety of different teas over her fire, trying each one in an attempt to find something that'll help her think more clearly. She's pointedly ignoring the spirits whispering around her, some speaking in the voice of her sister.

Library

While sitting and dying is a semi-acceptable way to deal with things, it's not exactly Velanna's way. And she won't go to the healer's unless she feels dead on her feet, so while she can function, she's in the library, still wrapped in the blue and grey blanket Bethany made her, muttering under her breath as she runs her fingers clumsily over the spines of the books, looking for anything that will give her a clue as to what could cause this kind of a reaction in such a large populous.

Dreams

Velanna's dreams run a gamut of emotions. Some are happier, filled with gold and green lighting, featuring a pair of small blonde girls smiling and holding hands as they're rocked to sleep by the motion of their parents' aravel. The faces of the parents are never quite clear, faded from time and pain, though the feeling associated with them is one of warmth, security, love.

Then as quickly as it comes, it's all gone. The girls are alone, after tragedy. The following is a rapid sequence, flashes of elven faces and jeering children feelings of insecurity and unhappiness, while Seranni smiles sadly among the faces, until she's abruptly enveloped in darkness and ripped completely away.

The following emotions are hollow, bitter anger, vengeance. Fire burns the faces of a hundred men, but the ache of loss is persistent, though eventually it melts into a song, dark, haunting, but beautiful.

Flames envelop blue and grey, and the overwhelming sadness returns.

Velanna's tent

[sunshinethroughgrey]

Bethany's own dreams are so disjointed that is hard to tell what they are, who they are, even to herself. She finds herself awake, a blanket wrapped around her as she stares outside of her own tent, at the whisper of the Fade, just out of the corner of her eye again.

Spirits are swelling around Velanna's tent, and she makes a noise and waves her hand, calling out, "Shoo! Shoo! She's working! Leave her alone, you silly things."

cw: violence

[dressmaking]

Around Skyhold

It takes a while, for Lacey to really start to feel ill. Out of all her family, she'd always been the one who rarely got sick, maybe twice a year at best. Even then, after her brother had died in the 50th Games, she'd had to be the strong one, the one who stood up straight and didn't let it get to her. She'd been to the reaping sick before, of all the inopportune times. A cough, a cold or a little fever didn't bother her.

By the time the fever rises high enough to make her begin to feel it — the chills, the dizziness, the pain sensitivity, the exhaustion — she has already decided she's going to put on a brave face. No one needs to see her lose her composure.

Except that she is plainly, obviously ill, flushed and bright-eyed — and there's something wrong with her vision, because she keeps seeing things from the corner of her eye, flashes of light that are gone when she manages to turn her head. And there are voices, like being in one room and overhearing snatches of indistinct conversation from the next room over, but... surely it's just the fever. She's tired. That's all.


Dreams

Lacey is, in fact, so exhausted that she can't keep her head up, no matter how hard she tries. Wherever she is — in the garden, on the upper floor of the tavern, the library, somewhere else in the hold — she can't help but occasionally simply drift off to sleep, a fitful, fevered sleep.

There are flickers, fragments of people, places. Glittering glass towers in a city far more strange, advanced, than anyone from Thedas could ever imagine. Short brown grasses, tiny wildflowers, snow-capped mountains: an unforgiving landscape full of echoes of death, terror, children shouting and screaming. A sword, long and thin with a single wicked glinting edge. That sword used to cut off a girl's arm, to slit a boy's throat. A chaos of falling rocks, crushing to death those not fast enough to escape.

A man (tall, dark, gruff) and a woman (light, slim, red-blond) being shoved to their knees by people in strange white armor, people holding strange objects made of black metal that they point at the pair kneeling on the ground. There's a loud noise — bang — louder than a thunderclap, and then the man and the woman aren't kneeling, but fallen onto their sides, each with a perfectly round hole in the forehead red with blood, crimson starting to pool beneath them.

[wontforgetyou]

Thedas is not Jamie's home. Or, at least, it wasn't until recently. Most of the people here know some of the truth, the strange young man who wears a kilt and sounds like he comes from Starkhaven but claims that he's from a place called Scotland instead. Far fewer know of the part of his life after he left that land, traveling through time and space to alien worlds and futuristic cities and places that defy description, or the monsters that seem to turn up everywhere they go.

When he winds up drifting off in the corner of the garden, his own dreams are of those places, making the first glimpse of those glittering glass towers seem new and different and strangely familiar all at the same time. It may not be a place he's been before, but he could've easily wound up somewhere like there, and he's turning in place, looking for a glimpse of that familiar blue box that he's surely just stepped out of, or the funny little man with the kindly eyes whose ship that "box" really is.

But then there's the familiar sound of what must be gunshots, and he's running towards them heedless of the danger, and then... he snaps out of it, sitting bolt upright in his spot and looking around in confusion. The glass city and the brown grasses are gone, along with the all-too-still forms he'd gotten no more than a glimpse of, leaving him alone with the benches and the plants and the figure of a fitfully sleeping woman nearby. Groggily, he pushes himself to his feet, wobbling slightly as he reaches out to try and shake her awake. If she's anywhere near as sick as she is, she shouldn't be sleeping in the garden any more than he should. Maybe if he can get her awake he can get them both to the healing tents.

"Hey, miss? Miss, can you hear me?"