faderift | OPEN: Cloudreach Event

OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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.

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[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.

Edited 2016-04-18 00:41 (UTC)

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.

Edited 2016-04-18 16:43 (UTC)

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."

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.

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.

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?"

Cyril is surprised by Ellana being there. He blinks a couple times and then shakes his head.

"No," he says softly. "I'm fine."

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.

Waving off further medication because it doesn't seem to do anything or there's a delusional need to 'tough it out', Korrin sighs and tries to gather the strength to leave on her own. That her body isn't cooperating for the time being has no effect; she hates just laying here isn't accomplishing anything. 'Rest' doesn't count when her energy is sapped no matter what she does. And the voices of those spirits, ever-curious, is starting to genuinely grate on her.

"Ugh, just leave me alone to die. Shut up.

...not you." She darts an apologetic glance to Cyril when her gaze can focus again.

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.

"Are you?" she asks, doubt in her tone. She moves the back of her hand up to his forehead, hoping to get a sense of his temperature if he doesn't end up ducking or batting her hand away.

"It's not like you to not put your makeup on."

"No, no," Cyril responds waving off his apology. He's too exhausted to do more than sit up right now, though he desperately wants to try to run. "I know you're not talking to me, but honestly if you telling them off gets them to go away you should tell mine off too."

The only reason he can acknowledge that he's hearing stuff too is because his family is, blissfully, nowhere to be found right now. For instance, he'd never admit to hearing things that weren't there around Merrick.

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.

"Hm?" Cyril tilts his head back as she tries to touch him, but if she presses forward he doesn't try to fight her off.

"I ran out. I have to make some more." That's an obvious lie to anyone who knows him. He always makes enough to last.

"Come on," she says, voice still gentle as her hand follows him back to press against his skin. She clicks her tongue lightly, but doesn't bother to argue with him about his makeup. It's a sign that not all is well, but she won't keep pressing about it.

"It feels like you have the fever that's been going around. You need to lie down. Is your room here?"

Korrin sighs and shakes her head, then immediately regrets it and winces. "It doesn't do a damn thing except make me feel better for a second. If I'm not paying attention to them, they're loud but shift my focus and they clam up.

What the hell kind of sickness is this, that turns people into damn mediums? The Veil's not thinning, is isn't the Fallow Mire...yet." Though the puddles outside give her uncomfortable flashbacks.

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.

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.

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."

He nods and gestures towards his door. "I really am fine, Ellana, but I'm also terribly lazy so I wouldn't mind a nap."

He takes a deep breath and then shrugs. "Maybe it has something to do with all the shards here?" he suggests. "Though not everyone affected has one, and I wouldn't say that too loudly. I don't want to give anyone any other reason to be wary of the Rifters."

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.]

"But you're burning up. What if you take a turn for the worst?" she asks, leading him to his room. "It's best to take things easy now and not push yourself to go out and do things. Otherwise your body will be too weak to fight this off, whatever it is."

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.

"My dress is blue, yes." Adelaide murmurs, stopping to frown at Maria. Arms full of books and notes and a mug of coffee balanced precariously on top of the stack she is...worn. Weary. Working her way through a low grade fever and staying on her feet only by the grace of casting a spell of rejuvenation upon herself and her fellow healers as often as she can possibly manage without irreparably damaging any of them.

Which is still more often than might be recommended.

"Are you unwell?"

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OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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Healing Tents

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Healing Tents

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Library

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Losing Control

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