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

[laurenande]

In the rain.

There was some calm to be found in rain.

It fell less gently in Thedas than in Lorien, but she could not fault the weather for such things. This fortress held the sky much more dearly than Lorien ever had, and the sky seemed to embrace it in kind. It bore down and rose away with such magnitude that she was enthralled by it; she was all too happy to stand amid the downpour and simply watch as the weather moved. The clouds trailed along the slopes of the mountains, whorls of wispy white gave way to deep, towering masses of grey, and there was a distant, intangible sort of silence as the clouds poured out a torrent of snow and rain.

At times the sky broke through, carded itself between the thunderheads and shone against the white and shadow. It appeared in patches of deep fathomless blue and the edges of the clouds were crisp and white against it. As the day drew on they became orange and, finally, settled into deep, star-studded black.

The rain was constant as the hours passed and, when it was finally too dark to enjoy the procession above, Galadriel relented and moved back indoors.

There was activity, even into the long stretches of the night, as humans scrambled to deal with the water that had gathered. The ground was all but submerged--it would be half-frozen before they could bail it away--and she paused as she considered the agents moving to and fro.

She could assist them, she supposed, but it was a passing thought; she had done enough to assist this Inquisition before she was cast in covered cells, locked far from dawnlight on a soldier's whim. No, she had no desire to assist them further, not yet. So, quietly, Galadriel returned to the shelter of the hall. Her cloak and gown were drenched, but the hearth by the doors was lit and, as she seated herself by the fire, she had little care for the rain or the bobbing lanterns that dashed about in the dark.

(Join Galadriel in the freezing rain, it'll be fun! Or dripping wet at Varric's table. Whichever you prefer!)


The Library.

Stone was a poor insulator and Galadriel spared the energy to glower at the walls around her as she drew her cloak more closely about her shoulders. The Library had seemed a sufficient haven, with rows upon rows of books to shield the drafts that plagued Skyhold. It seemed every room had a cutting breeze that wound through it, cold threads that crept into the halls beneath windows and over thresholds, through the places where the mortar had fallen away, and each new instance grated on her.

The library, unfortunately, was not the bastion she had hoped it would be. It was, by turns, both too hot and too cold to tolerate. One or the other would have been frustrating enough, but the constant shift between the two extremes had begun to drive her to distraction. She had gone to the effort to seclude herself, to settle in an alcove with no window, all but obscured by the shelves, but it was no use. The chill was persistent and the air, no matter how still and muggy, could not combat it.

The book she had in hand spoke of history. It had been recently edited, though to what end she could not tell; while she had learned the letters of these lands, (at the moment) she found could not parse them. Her weariness was not without explanation, she supposed, but her injuries were largely healed. She had sustained a wound across her palm, but it was a trifle and bandaged well.

She should not have felt so...utterly exhausted. She had done nothing to merit this state.

As Galadriel peered at unfamiliar letters, her expression went flat. The shapes were hazy in the low candlelight and the handwritten portions bled together as she tried to read them. She leaned over the book and, as she shifted, a shiver crept up her spine. The sensation was inexplicable, alarming, and frustrating. Without warning, she snapped the book closed and shoved it aside.

She would get no reading done today and, if not that, then what remained to occupy her attention? She settled her head in her hand and the cool of her fingers pushed away some of the fog that seemed to linger behind her eyes.

Perhaps, then, she would just a moment to think.

Yes.

That seemed best.

(Feel free to interrupt her reading, or wake her up after she drifts off seated at the table with her head in her hand, or to just leave her be and experience some ridiculous Fade shenanigans. If you would like the last of those, please let me know if you want positive shenanigans, horrible nightmare fuel, or both! :D)

Wildcard?

(I am down for anything. Come at me, friends. :D)

The Library

[arlathvhen]

Here was a conundrum. While the library was certainly no place for a nap, Beleth couldn't move Galadriel--And she couldn't think of anyone she would trust to ask. A lady like her, dignified and graceful, deserved better than to be slung about by some random person. Ugh. There was only one thing to do. Beleth darted away, and came back with a blanket, which she gently threw over the other woman. If she was so tired that she fell asleep there, she probably needed the sleep, anyway.

But it would be rude to just abandon her. Someone else without as much respect might try to wake her, or Seeker Cassandra could come by, see a dream of nugs, and decide that Galadriel was planning to take over Thedas with a nug army and had to be thrown back in the dungeon. And, truth be told, Beleth was curious what kind of dreams were dreamt by a queen.

So she pulled up a chair and silently watched, a sniffly sentinel in the night.

In the rain

[ancarrow]

Eirlys has been out in the tents, trying to ignore the rain beating down as best as she can while tending to those afflicted by the outbreak. When she looks out through the break in the canvas and sees Galadriel standing in the downpour she pays her no mind at first, turning her attention back to her patients. But when she happens to glance out again later and finds her still standing there she becomes alarmed, thinking that perhaps she's sick too, that she's entranced by the spirits or hallucinations or whatever it actually is that the sick are seeing. She throws a thick oilskin cloak over her head and runs out into the rain.

"My lady? You should go inside, or you may catch cold."

libraryish?

[chainlightning]

She probably should not actually be even near the library. There are stairs. Stairs are rather difficult to navigate in her current fever-weakened state, and there's a big hole in the center that would let her fall right down to a Very Bad Day.

She is, therefore, taking the stairs very slowly. Her staff is in one hand and the other hand is on the railing, and Merrill is making sure both feet are all the way on one step before she tries the next. Despite these precautions, she is entirely unprepared for taking a step and suddenly being engulfed in a forest. Like a scared rabbit, she freezes.

wildcard

[serannas]

Ellana kept coming across dazed people who were clearly ill, and she did her best to assist them. Finding Galadriel alone, Ellana hurried over, a look of concern on her face.

"Lethallan," she greeted, "Please, let me help you to your room. You look tired."

[noleechesneeded]

[Healing Tents]

The healers were, in fact, stretched thin. Thin enough that by the time Simon realized it wasn't the humidity that was causing his skin to feel clammy, not when it was followed up by stark chills and a growing fatigue that had nothing to do with how many patients he was tending to. Normally Simon tried to be so careful about cleaning up between them, it usually helped keep him from contracting whatever illness he was treating. Not so much this time...but at least it confirmed his suspicions about the hallucinations some of his patients would describe. The flashes of green light, the wavering figures, the hushed voices...

It didn't feel like the Fade, though that was small comfort. Was this what River went through day in and day out? If it was even a little bit similar, Simon could not let that hinder him. It wasn't as if he was ignoring the problem, he reasoned. The spirits he glimpsed hadn't started bothering him yet, at least no more than the usual hovering all mages dealt with in their dreams. Until they did there was no reason he couldn't put his head down and continue to help those in worse shape than him. A simple draught ought keep his fever under control in the meanwhile.

So it was a damned stubborn mage, paler than usual and forcing the tremor from his hands, who simply lifted an arm to wave the next person to pause at the entrance to his tent to invite them in.

"Come in," he said, "and let's have a look..." Hopefully he hadn't just invited a spirit inside by mistake. Simon blinked as he looked up a second time, taking a proper look at his guest to make sure.

[Herald's Rest]

All right. So maybe his fever was worse than he'd thought. That would explain how in one minute he was sitting at a table on the upper floor of the tavern, listening to the rain patter constantly against the roof and press his brow to the cool mug of ale he'd ordered for some relief, and the next he was face down on the table, breathing slow and deep and closing his eyes for just a moment.

The sound of rain mixed with the now constant whispering, they'd been almost indistinguishable for well over a day. But now as Simon slept those voices became clear again, familiar in fact, though Simon hadn't actually spoken to the men in years. Broad smiles, almost amused, and robes so fine with jewels and gold thread they put any southern noble to shame. They spoke to Simon with gentle voices, warm and understanding and only wanting to help.

Simon had had this dream before. It mimicked his memory all too well, when he accepted the magisters help to find River and rescue her. The mages offered to show him new magic, a trick that no one would expect from a southern mage. In his memory he had reluctantly accepted the offer, in the dream they would offer to show him more. So far Simon had always refused. Surely this time would be no different.

In the tavern the mage's brow furrowed, his hand curling tighter around the mug.

(OOC: For the second prompt there's a chance to get a hint at the fact that Simon's a blood mage. The magisters in his dream are demons, trying to trick him into letting them in. It won't work, there'll be no possessions, but if you'd like your character to figure out what's going on and thus learn Simon's secret let me know and we can hash things out. Otherwise it'll just be a somewhat disturbing dream about Simon sitting down at a very fancy dining table with a few semi-faceless magisters up in Tevinter.)

[arlathvhen]

The Dalish are not particularly fond of blood magic, but they are not driven to distraction by fear of them, as some are. So blood magic isn't on her mind when she drifts over to the sleeping man, sitting down across from him and gently shaking his arm. He probably needed the sleep, but not here, and certainly not when he's having dreams like that. He's going to get Templars having conniptions.

"Hey, hey there." She says, the prodding becoming more and more insistent. "Wake up. They're just dreams. Or maybe they aren't...?" She's been watching spirits carefully since she got ill, but with the ability to see them so limited, and not being a mage herself...she has no idea. "Either way, ser, you need to wake up, or you'll have sick and paranoid Templars breathing down your neck."

Healing Tents

[ombranera]

Demon, actually, bobbling ahead of Zevran while commenting in Antivan (for that is the language of desire and what is most familiar to Zevran and therefore more tempting) about Simon, gesturing to his shoulders, his hands, violet skin luminous in the flicker of the fade. The only bit of common that might be heard is 'bend him over the cot and-" before Zevran walks through said vision to slump against Simon's shoulder.

The demon is perturbed by this.

Zevran has run out of fucks to give.

"Please say you see it and I am not losing what is left of my mind."

Healing tent

[justice_is_blond]

"I'm trying to check on everyone," Anders says as he enters, Justice entwined with him, blue and armored and glaring at everything and nothing in particular.

'--filled with fear simply because they now see us when all along we have seen them.,' the spirit is saying as they walk in.

"You don't look that well." Simon doesn't. Anders reaches out to hold the back of his hand to Simon's forehead, get some opinion of how sick he is. They can't really stop or slow down for being ill. He knows that well. But they can at least try to see to each other a little.

[girlinthebox]

The tents are the last place she wants to be, really, but she hasn't managed to pry herself upward long enough to wonder in any given direction. Her bones feel like jelly, her skin fever-flushed and burning, and while the rain sounds like a good idea she can't quite bring herself to move.

Yet.

She has thrown up today, though luckily not into Simon's cot. She still looks miserable, eying the mug of water in front of her with a baleful look, curled up in a corner of the tent with her gaze occasionally drifting this way and that. At once point she starts murmuring something under her breath.

Hard to say if it's to herself or someone nearby...

Wherever you'd like Cole to find him

[colecomfort]

(OOC: occurs directly after this.)

Skyhold was terribly noisy. It had never really been quiet, but just now the pain was up close, fresh and raw, soaking into everything, through everyone. It took effort, focusing hard enough to find Simon, to follow the thread of worry that connected him with River, but Cole made it.

He would be there, suddenly, after Simon had turned his face away for a moment. Something not quite right about the cant of his head, the way he held his arms.

"Simon — River's sick. Lying on the stones. I found her." He gestured with his head, taking one step away in the proper direction. "This way."

[stabsbooks]

Just when she'd thought she was finally getting a bit of breathing room.

Galadriel and Gavin are free. Things with Leliana are...improving, if slowly. There have been no reports of new rifts opening, no new rifters or refugees making their way to Skyhold.

And then the storm comes.

Courtyard

At least it is not snow, Cassandra thinks as she crosses the courtyard yet again, her boots squelching in the mud. At least it is not cold.

At least, Cassandra isn't cold. She's uncomfortably warm, in fact, under her clothing, pausing to wipe sweat off her brow as she takes another plank and fits it into place. She has to kneel in the mud to hammer the wood into place, but mud will wash off. All of this will wash off, and it will pass. She thinks, longingly, of sinking into a hot bath at the end of the day, clinging to the fantasy to keep her going as the rain falls and the ground becomes muddier and she sweats under her clothes.

There are voices, whispering on the edge of hearing, but every time she attempts to hear what they are saying they slip away, and Cassandra shakes her head, dismissing them. She has too much to do to listen to idle gossip.

Caravan

Things get worse, because of course they do. Cassandra drops everything and runs for the eastern passage as soon as she hears word of the avalanche, and the caravan. Someone has to take charge, and she does so without thinking, ordering runners to fetch healers and coordinating the digging out of horses and people and the collection and inventory of what supplies can be saved. The voices are louder now. Sometimes they seem to be talking about her, or on the people around her. Some of the voices are cheerful or positive, commenting on the hope and fortitude of Skyhold's people as they work to weather the storm, praising their faith and compassion as they tend to the injured. Others express doubts, whispering fears that creep up her spine.

When she turns, she can almost see them.

Great Hall/War Room

Happily, not all of her work must be done outside. There is much too coordinate among Skyhold's leadership. Messages to be sent, warning further supply caravans and refugees not to attempt the mountain pass. Urgent meetings with the advisors to address emergencies. Less urgent, yet still strained meetings with the quartermaster to ensure supplies of food and medicine. If the storm continues, they will have to start rationing. And with so many sick...

Cassandra coughs, and blinks away the dizziness that follows. It is easier to sit than to stand. But it is still so warm.

You will never save them all, someone whispers in her ear. They will perish.

Dreams

When she can be convinced to slip away for a few hours of sleep, she does not sleep well. Nightmares plague her, and she tosses fitfully.

Anthony is running, panic and fear like she has never seen in his face. She tries to call to him, to beg him to move faster, to watch out, but the words will not come. The horse gallops up behind him, the mage leans down, he raises his scythe -

Cassandra screams, unable to look away as Anthony's headless body crumples to the ground.

Anthony.

Galyan.

Justinia.

Evelyn.

Dead, dead, all of them dead, she cannot save them, she can do nothing -

The rest will die too, the Spirit of Despair whispers. He shows her Leliana's sightless eyes, staring at nothing; Malcolm's bloody mouth as he coughs his last breath; Varric's broken body, lying too still on the ground. Elves and dwarves, humans and qunari alike, dead and dying, turning accusing eyes on Cassandra as the life departs their body. She reaches for them, helpless.

Despair laughs.

Wildcard

:)

Great Hall

[tactical_alert]

Naturally the few Seekers have to run themselves ragged. Just as it must be obvious to people that Malcolm has taken ill, it is also clear that Cassandra is under the weather as well. But they both soldier on. So long as they can still help, so long as they do not collapse, bedridden.

Malcolm finds her seated in the middle of he honestly doesn't care what she's doing right this very moment and sets down a plate with a hot slice of meat pie. After a few encouraging voiced opinions in the kitchen that may or may not have been there. When he is not looking, when he is not focused, when he is not paying attention, he's seen it, the comforting presence steadfast by her side--familiar and powerful and beautiful and righteous. (Hope whispers something else encouraging, but it's lost in the shuffle.) He looks now, and it is not there. It's a relief, honestly, that the odd visions haven't afflicted him while he remains aware of his surroundings and himself, present, at the job, whatever it may be.

"A peace offering," he allows. Though they've worked alongside one another in the past few days, they haven't spoken much since his intrusion, his demanding that she address the issue of Galadriel.

[kallian_endris]

Kallian is very busy in the healing tents, the work never-ending, every pair of hands needed. And it is because every pair of healing hands is needed that she does her best to push aside her own sickness. The little elf has taken to wearing a rag over the lower part of her face, a makeshift mask to try and keep from making her patients sicker, to hide her own flushed cheeks and drawn features. Only the glassy brightness of her eyes betrays her condition.

She does what she can to help herself: washing her hands frequently, trying to keep hydrated, and rest... Well. There is no time for rest. How odd, though, that she so often feels even worse after doing the very things that should be making her better.

And magic, well. She's been exposed in the Hinterlands, and now, she can see Hope, bright and beautiful, strangely seductive, seemingly standing beside her as plain as day. From the looks some of her patients are giving her, they can see the spirit, too, and she is ever there, murmuring her platitudes with a cheerfully grim determination. There is no point in hiding it now, there is no time to grieve the loss of secrecy, and Kallian is wreathed in blue light as often as not.

When she can get away, she slips down to the hot springs, hoping it will soothe her aching body, clear her passages and pores of the sickness. But then again, within hours, her fever runs higher than before.

She does her best to help, but sometimes, she is so tired... Seeing things, even. Fever dreams, perhaps. If she is not careful, the small healer is bound to drive herself to collapse.

[wontforgetyou]

Jamie has been trying his best to ignore his own illness, pushing himself to keep busy with the same sort stubborn determination that once upon a time made him think he could walk just fine after being shot. He's had worse fevers, he thinks. He's not mistaken any Cybermen for the Phantom Piper just yet, so as far as he's concerned he's just fine.

With all the illness, though, the healers are stretched quite thin, and it's not long before he decides to help pitch in where he can. Sure, it might still mostly be fetching and carrying things, but it's better than nothing, and it lets the healers focus on their job and try to help people. Not to mention it gives him an excuse to check up on Kallian, something that probably isn't a surprise to anyone who knows him. He's more than a little worried about her, for a lot of reasons. They haven't exactly had a chance to talk about what happened in the Hinterlands, and now there's this sickness that seems to be affecting everyone and the thought that it might be affecting her too means that more often than not he's coming up with some way that he can be relatively close by, in case she needs him.

In the meantime, he's drinking tea to stay away - a lot of tea. And when someone presses a bundle of elfroot into his hands and tells him to take it to her, he winds up stopping completely still in the middle of the tent flap, his fever-bright eyes looking at her...and at the figure that's standing next to her, the glow emanating from it spreading out enough that it seems to envelop Kallian too, wrapping her in a cloak of light that makes her even more beautiful to him. For a moment, he very nearly says so, but what winds up coming out instead is something ever so slightly different.

"You're so bright."

[lettersfromhome]

Healing Tents

Of course, when the trouble starts she's in the thick of things. If there's something that needs to be delivered or sorted or simply another pair of hands to bring the healers what they need, she's there. A few blankets and bowls of soup don't go amiss either, tending to the healers as well when they seem overwhelmed by the newest bit of trouble.

The noise is becoming a little troublesome, oddly. The longer she stays at it the louder it seems to grow, though she seems determined not to pay it much mind. She's not as young as she used to be, however, and eventually she'll pull herself off to the side to have a sit-down, looking a little peaky.

No, she's fine. She has to be. There's simply too much to do to start feeling ill now.


Herald's Rest

Oh. She's good and ill now.

Not that she's letting that keep her down and out. No, she's just...sitting very quietly in a corner of the tavern where she's not likely to be troubled, sipping gingerly at some broth and trying to remain semi-upright. What's come over her? What's come over all of them? Is it poison? A plague? Surely there's some reason they're all...

Her thoughts slip away in fragments as something drifts into her head. Voices, nearby. She can't quite make them out, but it seems as though they might be coming from the other table. If only she can rouse herself enough to turn and look.

Or make it back to her room. That might be asking too much, at this point.

herald's rest

[serannas]

While there is a concern that being around these ill people might make her sick too, Ellana isn't about to abandon people in need. There are those who need looking after and Ellana has strength enough to see to it. When she sees Mia holed up in the corner of the tavern sipping broth, she knows very well that she's one of those suffering. And since Mia has forged a place in Ellana's life as something of a big sister, Ellana will now be the doting little sister.

"Mia, you shouldn't be here. You should be under the blankets."

[metaari]

Whiny Man Child (for Merrick)

[ Metaari doesn't get sick. This isn't a thing that happens to him. The last time he was sick he was fourteen and had the worst hangover of his life, so that doesn't even really count. But here they are, just freshly returned from their journey out, and bam: fever.

This is fucking stupid.

He whines and rolls over onto his back with a groan, his eyes closed. ]

'm tellin' you, 'm fine.

[ Says the slurred words. ]

[dalishious]

Shut up.

[ The most gentle nursemaid, right here.

He's been working on making a poultice, taking it upon himself since the healers are so backed up right now. Every Dalish knows the healing basics, and he can at least try to bring down the fever this way.

He rolls it up tight and wets it with a kettle full of hot water. He unbuttons Metaari's shirt and places it over his chest. ]

[girlinthebox]

All Over

It's difficult to pin River to any one place on the best of days. Even with the sickness weighing her down, keeping her longer than it might otherwise, she still tries to stay on the move.

One reason would be the spirits that seem intent on following her, raptly attentive and eager, vying for her attention. Anything at all to ignore them is welcome, which might mean rearranging the books in the library. It might mean climbing up into the rookery, hiding one of the abandoned rooms in the battlements, finding a spot in the garden to curl up and hum quiet, disjointed songs to herself until the noises fade enough to become bearable.

Everyone's acting oddly today, and River's odd more often than not. But there's something more desperate about her just now, even when she's just lying limp in some cool, dry, comfortable spot and making distressed noises into the stone.

It won't stop. Why won't it ever stop?

[onlyhymns]

Something is clearly wrong around Skyhold, and it has Cade more on-edge than usual, though he's glad he hasn't caught whatever it is that makes people collapse and stare and speak to nothing. He's among the people who are working tirelessly to keep Skyhold running, picking up the slack for the sick and doing what they can to help.

It's just happenstance that he finds River in one of the empty, but he knows her small form and her voice, and he drops what he's doing to hurry over to her. He doesn't touch her, but crouches nearby to whisper, "River?"

He brought a hefty entourage of demons in himself, not that he's aware of them.

closed to solas.

[chainlightning]

It is fever delirium and Merrill's normal nature that brings her wandering, unsteady on her feet as she currently is. She's near the library, stumbling into Solas' claimed chamber mostly be accident. Staying, however, is the fault of the colors on the wall.

The art is- familiar. It's in the style of old, the ruins that are across Thedas and the few pieces of painted works that the Dalish are able to create and keep. Merrill reaches for the closest, dragging her fingertips lightly over the fresco. Behind her flit spirits of Learning, of Curiosity -- Pride is there but distant, only just visible in the right light. For now, the others are far more interested in Merrill and what it is she's just found.

wow this is so late i am so sorry feel free to ignore if you want

[singularwill]

"Careful. Some of the work is fresh - you would not want to stain your fingers."

Solas steps from seemingly nowhere, from the shadow under the scaffolding, brushing his hands on a cloth, and offering a smile. The smile faded, though, as he took a look over the Dalish. It was easy to see the fever in the sweat upon her brow.

"You should be resting, da'len."

[qunari]

Bull appears to be one of the lucky few not struck down by this odd illness sweeping the keep. Turns out keeping his own supply of water and keeping to the weak-ass booze they serve at the tavern has been a safe bet. Just as well. No one wants to see Bull when he's got an eyeful of demons he can't do anything about. And no one wants to try and move him somewhere if he collapses.

Luckily, he's still up and mobile. More than willing to throw in a hand where it's needed. The healer seem to have things as well in hand as anyone is going to, but if there's trouble, or even just some sickly someone or another that needs moving around like a sack of potatoes? Bull's at the ready.

He's easy to find, at his usual spot in the tavern. No sense going out and training in the middle of this rain. The training yard's pretty much garbage at this point, and he's not necessarily a fan of just standing out there in the rain for no good reason. His knee gets to acting up.

What. It does. Stop looking at him like that.

[ombranera]

Zevran was, under the coat and cloak and oversized shirt (another of Alistair's he'd stolen) a shivering mess. No amount of heated ale would help, no matter how close to the fire he sat he never seemed to get warm. There is only the bone deep chill that reminds him of that room, that hook, and for a moment he's a miserable lump in a chair until his bleary eyes sweep across to Bull.

Qunari are warm- Bull does not mind closeness, Zevran is freezing. Therefore- walk to Bull, be close, be warm.

A foolproof plan. He heaves himself out of his chair to shuffle over, weaving through the crowd to slump against Bull's side.

Finally. Heat.

[shieldwalls]

caravan

It's long hours of grueling work in the cold, wet rain -- mud and water feel like a second skin and heavy footsteps sink into the slippery ground, to help those who were stranded by the avalanche of mud. The caravan itself is a wreck of wood and splinters, animals are frightened, people are hurt.

There's a lot of work to be done, and Aveline can be found here, helping to get people to medical attention or working to save the animals.

On top of that, her head pounds and she feels overly warm. There are whispers at the edge of her hearing, but she ignores it in favor of pushing herself to complete the job at hand. Maker, it's going to be a long day.

library

After a long dip in the hot springs to wash the mud off of her, she feels no better than she did earler. The heat has spread, and it's effects last long after the brief dip. With that comes the telltale body ache of a fever. Aveline doesn't get sick. She wants to keep busy, but her body is not having it.

And yet...

Wandering leads to the library, somewhere that offers peace and solitude from everyone -- why is it still so loud? Who are they, and why wont they leave her be?

"Shut up and leave me be, or I will make you..."

Her voice wavers, but she still has conviction enough to swing a fist at one of them. Too bad you can't punch a spirit back to the Fade, right? It goes wide, lacks her usual strength. May want to ... look out.

dreams

They can be somewhat more pleasant, when she finally does allow herself to lie down and sleep. Dreams are sometimes of flowers and a man with the warmest brown eyes, smiling, laughing, dancing.

Other times... other times, the dreams take a less happy turn. Running, a feeling of failure and defeat. There are blades at her back and she knows that if she turns around or stops, it means death.

The dagger being pressed into her hand while eyes grey and clouded with the delirium and blight plead for an end -- he gasps when the blade breaches his body.

A woman with dark hair and bright blue eyes, who walks far ahead of her. The Champion. Aveline calls out to her, but she keeps on walking into the darkness, and she can't keep up. Then she hears the woman's scream, but suddenly, Hawke is gone.

leliana | ota.

[fightingale]

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

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


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

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

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

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

“Did you need something?"


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

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

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


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

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

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

rookery, early days

[ancarrow]

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

[unbrokenoath]

Camp Shady Fuckers

Kaisa is not, generally, one to fuss over her water. Despite that, she seems to suffer little from the sickness going around--A case of the sniffles and whisps at the edge of her vision are the extent she suffers. Perhaps her stubbornness was able to fend off both the Fade and her own traitor body. Ether way, she takes advantage of her relative health to try to help others. She isn't any form of healer, but fever and colds are things that are within her realm of ability.

She spends a lot of the time reporting to Teren and following her directions. When left to her own devices, she'll bustle around the camp, drawing water from the river and cooking food for the sick, dipping rags in snow for feverish foreheads, and generally doing what she can to help out. Feel free to bother her at any of these tasks, or call for her help.

Skyhold / Tavern

She's far more concerned with helping her fellow Wardens than the rest of Skyhold, but she can be spotted around Skyhold, mostly to fetch more supplies. Luckily, with the sickness raging, people are accommodating enough she hasn't had to try pushing her luck by using her Warden status to demand anything. How long that'll last is up to debate, but she'll let the higher ups decide what to do about that.

When she's not grabbing various supplies, she can be found taking a much deserved break in the Herald's Rest, sniffling into her beer. She doesn't complain, though. She knows that a runny nose is pretty damn lucky, all things considered. As for the spirits--She ignores them, rubbing her eyes and pretending they're just glossy distortions from sick eyes.

Dreams

HAHAHA THERE ARE NO DREAMS JUST THE CALLING, ENJOY CORYPHEUS' DULCET YODELING.

[universal_charm]

Healing Tents
Kirk is no healer. Far from it, in fact. But that is hardly enough to keep him away from the tents, from poking his head in to task if there is anything the healers need - an errand run, some cloth washed, a patient's brow pat with water. He could admit there was a little bit of selfishness in coming to ask, hating to be useless in what he thought could be considered a time of crisis. But more than that he just wanted to help. No task was beneath him, and he was more than willing to be taught how to do something as needed.

Of course, there might be an equal chance he gets chased off if he proves to be to under foot.

Around Skyhold
He would have thought rain would slow life down at Skyhold, but that just wasn't so. Work still needed to be done, and even when it wasn't raining it was gloomy which did nothing for the mood. He took his cue from the people and kept at his work and his own routines. When he wasn't at risk of getting soaked he would do his runs around Skyhold and go to the training grounds. He didn't precisely use a weapon, but he found ways to practice his hand-to-hand. He didn't want those skills going rusty any time soon, especially here. Hard rain always seemed a good time to go work around Sam's forge and clean as he had bargained with him. And of course the tavern - always the tavern.

Never mind that he didn't feel at one hundred percent, that there were times he thought he heard or saw things and just chalked it up to being in a strange place and the weather bringing down his mood. He told himself that was why he had the fits of being so sleepy, of the draining tiredness that made it so easy to lay down and rest where usually he struggled...

Dreams
When he sleeps, he dreams. They are different than usual, and even when he wakes he can only cling to fragments of them - even those he would simply rather let go.

There are moments of happiness - looking out across a silver room with flickering lights and people in various colors of shirt, a scenery of stars displayed on a screen. Laughter, the clink of glasses, a man with a rich southern drawl, another with pointed ears and short brows with an impassive face. Bodies - handsome men and beautiful ladies (or sometimes it was hard to tell), tangles of limbs and mouths and - tails? Tails.

And then there were the darker ones - the face of a man, cheekbones dangerously sharp and eyes hard and cruel, a killing intent rolling off him, a wicked smile across his lips. Another man, older, silver hair, blood on chest and lips, Kirk's hand grasping his shirt and the sound of sobbing. A sphere against a sea of stars, crumbling, disappearing into itself. A hand pressed to glass, another hand meeting it....

Needless to say, he tries to avoid sleep, because the bad comes more often than the good.

[bookish_lioness]

Healing Tents

Hermione isn't a healer, and if not for the fact that she happens to be friendly with a few of the people that are, she likely wouldn't have emerged from the library during all this nasty weather. As it is, though, she can see how overworked they are, and so she's taken it upon herself to do what she can to help, whether it's conjuring up clean water or starting one of her waterproof blue fires to keep people warm. It isn't much, not nearly what she'd like to do when she sees so many people feeling so miserable, but it's a start.

Garden

When she isn't doing that, she's trying her hand at making healing and restorative potions, searching around in the dankness for salvageable elfroot and other such herbs. They're more effective if they're fresh, she reasons, which explains why she's rummaging through plants in a makeshift shawl, hiding small sneezes in the crook of her elbow. It wouldn't do to spread germs, even if she isn't sick, regardless of the headache brewing or the ache in her bones or the other classic signs of fever. Being out in the rain should keep her body temperature down, right? That makes sense, doesn't it?

Even if it doesn't, what matters right now is getting these herbs somewhere where she can make something useful out of them. Which requires getting up. Which is hard to do when your head feels like treacle pudding. A slip here and a stumble there, and she'll be lucky to get the plants inside without crashing into someone and scattering her findings all about the garden.

Library

Normally, the pattering of rain against the windows is a comforting sound, but after having slogged through the mess that had been reminiscent of an unpleasant yearlong camping trip she'd undertaken, Hermione will be ecstatic to see the sun streaming through the windows again. She's staggered into the small alcove she's claimed for herself, though for some reason she decides to forego a chair and huddles up on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest keep back the shivering. Maybe curling up on the floor hadn't been a decision at all, really. Despite her strong assertions that she's fine, really, she can be heard babbling lowly to herself, words that can be either spells or proper names, for all the sense they're making.

"Shut it, Malfoy."

"Poor Winky's at the butterbeer again."

"How many Horcruxes do you suppose Voldemort made before his nose fell off?"

Sleeping it off isn't really much of an option, since her dreams are riddled with flashes of green light that she'd come to think of as the Fade but some deep, instinctual part of her will always associate with the Killing Curse, with the Battle of Hogwarts, with friends dying and families being torn apart. But even all those horrific images eventually give way to that of a woman with wild hair and even wilder eyes, snarling in her face, demanding answers, doling out pain too excruciating to be anything less than a traumatizing memory rather than an outright fabrication.

During her occasional bouts of clarity in between dozing off and babbling incoherently, Hermione wishes she had the ingredients for a Dreamless Sleep potion. But even as she tries recalling what goes into it, her head would throb and she would simply shift a little against the unforgiving stone of her small nook, falling into another round of fitful sleep.

Garden

[el_tybs]

The day has been long and he's tired, but he isn't looking for sleep just yet, putting it off just a bit longer. Normally getting off he would go to the tavern and get something to drink, but there so many being found outside of a room or tent even at this hour that Sam makes a point in doing a quick sweep in some of the areas.

It had occurred to him that someone might be trying to take refuge in the small altar for Andraste near the garden, which brings him to the area this particular night. He doesn't even get to the room when he hears noises out among the flowers and herbs.

"Hello? Who's out there?" he calls out, hopefully loud enough to be heard, but not to disturb anyone in the rooms. Raising a hand, Sam sets to bringing a small fire to life in his palm to help him see, thankful that the rain isn't pouring too heavily at the moment.

DOWN THE WELL

[arachnophobe]

[In all of his grumbling, Alejandro has made his way to the water supply, starting to arrange some kind of pulley system.]

Fuckin' Sherlock, I'll go do that for sure, I'll fucking look for myself and see what that shit is. So let's fuckin' look and this stupid Veil shit fuck.

Re: DOWN THE WELL

[judgemewhole]

[Which is where he will be found by Norrington, and a few people he has corralled into helping him go down into the well. He stops, at the bottom, arching both eyebrows at the man.]

... I suppose it would be idiotic to ask if you are the one who is sabotaging the water? [Is his dry question, before he nods towards the pulley system.] Is that set to get a man down into the water?