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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"That is a fair point. I shall keep my trousers on." He stated with a completely straight face, because if he laughs now he might also choke.

He sighed with relief, before he explained, "I am removing all magic from the area, thus banishing the spirit from having any hold on you. What will happen is that, hopefully, the pride demon will lose it's grip on this part of the Fade and disappear. However, it will strip you of all of your powers for at least an hour. It is a through cleansing."

And he's doing it by himself - so - yeah.

"I need you to stay awake." He turns her towards him, his expression serious. "You must not enter the Fade any time during this, no matter how drained you feel. Do you understand?"

Which is fine, because this is all Bethany has as well. She frowns at that statement.

"I'm not sure I want to know that people can break out of prison ... we've got Erimond down there. He'd better be staying put, too."

A pause.

"Oh, well, as long as he and the goat are platonic, that's fine."

Bethany frowned once more.

"... I think we need to get to the library."

The chill that had crept through Galadriel shifted, fickle and inconsistent as fevers are wont to be, and with it a sense of oppressive warmth crept into the air around them. The temperature didn't shift, not in earnest, but there was a disconcerting clarity to the sensation of rising heat, one that was hard to distinguish as separate from reality.

The darkness gave way but, perhaps, it would have been better if it hadn't.

She had only glanced this memory, bright and inconsistent in the heart of Samwise Gamgee, and it fell unevenly across the library around them. Patches of stone were lit by absent conjured light, the walls glimmered with veins of silver white as the stars, but the world refused to resolve itself. She lacked the details of Moria.

Unfortunately, her mind had no shortage of memory to draw from. The gaps in her knowledge were easily filled by her unconscious mind.

A distant, ruddy light crept into the library from below, from much farther down than bounds of the fortress allowed. There was a chattering of indistinct noise and arrows, invisible and silent cut through the air and clattered against the walls. There was a ripple of drumbeats, of falling rock somewhere far below, and the distant clamoring shrieks of orcs as they scrambled into their dark hollows.

For a time, it was still once more.

The whole fortress seemed to tremble as the first dreadful footstep fell and silence chased after it. From the great hall, another tremor crawled through the stone, and another, as the demon approached. Red light spilled in from all sides, it threw long shadows across all the surfaces of the library, and around them it grew ever hotter. The flavor of ash and death was heavy on the air.

The spirits that had lingered were, by turns, attracted and repulsed by the encroaching nightmare.

Merrill's explanation makes as much sense as anything and, mercifully, the logic of dreams bends to accommodate it quite easily. Galadriel nods silently and, as she sits, offers her an apple. It looks delicious but, in all likelihood, Merrill probably can't take from her. Fortunately, unlike her elder self, this phantom is much more hurried, more eager, and she doesn't wait for Merrill to take it before she answers her.

The pride in her voice is unabashed; she shines brighter as she speaks.

"Welcome," she announces and motions with her glaive, using the glimmering, wicked blade to gesture at the whole of the valley. That it draws a line across the trees, as though she were aligning an axe, is surely coincidence. "To Aman, to Valimar, city of bells, and heart of the Undying Lands!"

After her gesture is complete, she uses the end of her weapon and levers herself to standing. The motion is elegant and energetic, spry in a way that one would hardly expect an ancient elf to be. As she stands, the world seems to shift with her--all at once, they are at the base of the trees, seated and standing in the delicate light they exude. The city stretches around them, beautiful and alight. The buildings are not entirely there, perhaps because she cannot quite recall them, but what remains is crafted in such impossible ways that they hardly seem like they could stand, yet they all fit together and into this place seamlessly.

It is clearly the type of city that only spirits could truly build and, in that, there are measures of both sadness and joy.

Only the latter reflects in Galadriel's face, as she walks to the trees, as she leans on her glaive, and as she turns to regard Merrill.

"I am glad you made it here. I knew the Dalish would be welcome; it is the Elvenhome, after all."

Now she swallows, nerves kicking up a notch. She hasn't been entirely without her magic since it first manifested. But if it will make the demon go away...

And she trusts him. He will keep her safe, even if Venatori and Red Templars attack immediately after he does this. As long as he doesn't overextend and reach the healing tents, they'll be fine. She'll be fine.

"I may- need your help with that, as well."

Especially if she's going to feel weak afterward.

"Should I sit, stand...? Hand you my staff?"

"Now they can fix it, though!"

Optimism Harder, Bethany.

"Oh, yes. I mean, I'm sure the goat is very lovely, but- not his type."

She blinks, turning her head to look up toward the balconies overhead.

"That's... a bit far away, isn't it?"

The sudden shift in scenery makes Merrill's stomach twist slightly, but she has a feeling that's more the illness than anything else. She shifts to stand as Galadriel turns to face her, feeling it may be a better idea to stand in case everything moves again.

Or in case she's actually talking to a demon.

"It's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it..."

The Undying Lands. Elvenhome. She can't help but look at everything with wide eyes, only resisting the urge to touch things because she knows it will ruin the illusion.

"They say we are less than we were. That you believed we could get here... that means a lot to us. You have meant a lot to us, and I hope you know that." Meant and still means. Tenses are hard when you're in a dream, even if it isn't yours.

But they should wake up. Oh, they really should, even if Merrill doesn't want to leave this place.

"It's like nothing I've ever seen, and- everything I've dreamed a place like this could have been. How did you get here?"

Some other day he would be horrified at the notion of putting out coin for a drink and not finishing it, but it was a sign of how tired he really was that he didn't even question it. He rose with Sam, grateful for the promise of a comfortable bed and someone to potentially share it with. He wasn't even thinking sex - just someone warm, the beat of a heart in his ear...

He shook his head, casting that aside in order to focus on keeping up with Sam. He's not surprised when they end up at the armory, though the stairs do come as one and he has to wonder why. He should have seen them before. But maybe it was the tiredness speaking again, his memory beginning to falter as his brain tried to focus on more important things like remembering to breathe.

"Think? No. But I'm going to have to, so I will." That's how strong the promise of a good bed was, Sam. He looked to him and laughed tiredly, moving to mount the first step behind the other. It felt like such an effort, and he began to fantasize about falling onto whatever it was Sam had, or even Sam himself, and just dozing off. But not yet...

"Wow, nice digs," he said when he got a look at the room. It was close in size to rooms he used to have on the Enterprise, so that hardly bothered him. But it was private and had a real bed and that was all that mattered. He spotted the bed after a second and let out a moan, meandering his way over and falling into it.

"Sweet stars, it's wonderful," he sighed.

"Get here?" she asked and seemed briefly confused. She had absorbed all that Merrill said with a pleased but somewhat blank expression, as though she couldn't fathom why she was being thanked. Merrill's last statement was familiar, but her question was singular enough that it seemed to strain the edges of the dream itself.

The edges of Valimar frayed and, as they did, the crowd of faceless elves was slowly dotted by the shapes of spirits. They moved toward the trees like moths, distracted by the eddies of light and passing shapes, but drawn nonetheless. Galadriel hardly noticed.

"I...did not die," the image of Galadriel answered after a pause and, some of her age seemed to filter back across her then. It was a fleeting change, one her youthful self all but rejected, but it strained the dream further. "I was born here."

"As were my brothers and my cousins," she added and, as if she'd summoned them, several of the elves around them took on clearer faces. Finrod, Aegnor, Angrod, all moved through the space around them, each of them alike enough to her to see resemblance. Her cousins were a little harder matched, their countenances differed from hers significantly, but as the only elves with faces it was not a hard to guess who they were.

The spirits drifted across and through them and, whether unconsciously or by design, the phantom elves started to trail wisps that colored with duty or sorrow or devotion.

"I was born in these years, long before--before," she stalled slightly and frowned. "Before I left, for the east, and found a home that was my own. But we all return here, eventually, though I may be later than most."

"I'm aware."

She says it dryly, focusing on her hands. "It's different for the Dalish than it is for the humans, for the city elves. We don't stick our mages in Circles. They're our leaders, the ones who are charged with keeping the clan safe and guarding our knowledge. If I had been a mage, I would be one of those leaders."

Without a connection, the demons, or spirits, or whatever they just happen to be -- have no reason to hold onto a mage. This he knows from long practice. He searches her face, then nods.

"I will keep you awake, at least until we get to the healing tents."

He looks around, and then leads her over to a fallen log. "Sit here, and put your staff beside you. You'll probably need it to stand."

He sucked in a breath, "And now ... I have to prepare. I'll need complete silence while I commune with the Maker, all right?"

"Even as a rifter? Well, I suppose now that I'm here I would be..." He's never been clear on that, but then, all things to do with the Fade and magic are incredibly strange to him. But that is very weird about the dwarves. He finally moves his hand away from his head and nods wearily. "I'm going to trust your word on that, you understand all of this better than me. These things, they... seem like they're right there, sometimes they're so loud... but it's true that nothing hostile has happened." Yet. He hopes she's right and it stays that way.

"It has its uses. It can construct a place of safety, for one." She placed a hand on Galadriel's wrist and the other arm stretched around her back to help her friend walk.

Ellana couldn't help but match Galadriel's somber expression. Something about her regal bearing seemed dimmed now, and it was hard to take in. Maybe it was better for Ellana to experience it; to get this notion out of her head that Galadriel was some sort of goddess walking among them, but it was also a cruel thought. Seeing Galadriel like this meant seeing her ill, and in a manner she probably didn't want. Ellana shook herself from the thought and kept leading her towards the healers'.

"That sounds awful. But once we get you to the healers' tent, they'll have to remain outside. I'm sure of it."

Digs? The word earns a raised in confusion - he's pretty sure that Kirk isn't referring to shoveling so the assumption is that the man is talking about his room. "Thanks," he replies, leaning against the railing by the stairs to help him stand upright as he starts to take off his shoes. Not the most private space due to the lack of a door or more walls, but it was private enough since so little people knew about it - except maybe a few who knew he slept here.

He's barely gotten the second one off when he hears Kirk moan, the noise surprising him enough to look up in time to see him making a bee-line to the bed. There's a moment of Sam just staring at Kirk tossing himself onto his bed before he snorts and starts laughing, though quietly since his energy is quickly dwindling at this point. Walking over he reaches down and lightly shakes Kirk's shoulder. "You're tracking mud all over. Better take off your boots."

It was more privacy than he had been privy to in the past month, so he was happy to accept it for what it was. Walls and two flights of stairs between them and the rest of the world. It was beautiful.

He smiles when he hears Sam's laugh, looking up at him with sleepy blue eyes. He groaned and his head tipped back, letting out an aggrieved sigh, though he could see the sense in not getting mud in the bed, and sleeping in your boots was never fun. He pushed up, leaning down to help work off his boots and setting them aside. Of course, it's in that process that he thinks of something else and glances at Sam.

"How comfortable are you when it comes to state of undress?" he inquired, playing with the blanket. "I'm fine staying in my shirt and pants if you need me too." His actual preference was to sleep either naked or in his underwear, but this wasn't his bed, so it was Sam's call.

Once Kirk has his boots off he grabs them and sets them over by his own, off to the side where they wouldn't trip on them, and so that there wasn't as much mud pooling and drying next to his bed.

He's already working on undoing his belt and some of the laces on his shirt when Kirk asks his question, which as the mage stopping just short of coming up next to the bed, and raising a brow. That wasn't a terrible question. "I'm a healer so I'm pretty used to different states of undress, but I suppose you mean for sleeping. Hm. Least keep the pants on? That's what I was planning on doing."

"Pants it is," he agreed. Not his favorite mode of sleep attire but not his bed.

He stripped off the tunic he'd been wearing, exposing his lean runner's frame and the dark black tattoo down his ribs. Carefully he folded it and set it down on the floor at the foot of the bed. He loosened the laces of his trousers for comfort but nothing more, shifting to lay on the side of the bed that looked the least used.

"I appreciate this, Sam," he said quietly as he stretched out. "I think I might actually get some quality sleep for once." A flash of a grin, a shadow of its normal self though it gave its best effort hampered as it was by exhaustion.

It's the second time he's seen the ink, head tilting some to try and get a better look of it this time before Kirk starts making himself comfortable in the furs and blankets. He isn't quick to join, working on getting his shirts off in a lazy manner with how tired he is, and then tossing them on the dresser once he's done. With his broad shoulders and muscular frame it was easy to see why he was rarely identified as a mage right off the bat based on looks.

Sitting down on the bed, stretching a bit with a yawn, he glances over to Kirk, noting how Kirk seems like he's ready to pass out, and yet still staying awake. "You're welcome - seems like you need it." Before he even starts to lay down and settle in himself, Sam turns to regard Fortitude and mutters softly to the spirit that it should just keep watch from over by the window.

Fortitude simply crosses its arms and hums lightly at being acknowledged. At first it had been rather talkative, trying to figure out the things going on, but now that Fortitude was more accustomed it was more of a silent guardian and partner.

The questions have Sam smiling warmly and tiredly. "Fortitude isn't what allows me to heal, I am able to do that by myself. With a spirit I am able to draw on its energy instead of or along with my own mana to heal or cast spells. That's why we're called Spirit Healers."

Elfroot. She was out here collecting elfroot? Sure they needed more healing potions, but not at this moment - this could have waited for the morning. By how she practically walks into him the collection should have been done by someone else as well.

"Elfroot is more common, and we could use more potions, but we don't need them right now. You would need more people to help brew the amount we need anyways, and everyone has retired. You don't even have a light source or anything..." He reaches out to grab her then, to help support her since it seemed Hermione was just a bit unstable on her feet. "You'll make yourself sick staying out here."

That is the exact opposite of what he tends to hear, and for a moment he can only blink at Nate and take the archer's hand in return. Easier and better. The amount that Nate cares for him is terrifying sometimes, all the more so when he doesn't know how to believe this can last. He trusts Nate. He doesn't trust his luck.

'There is no point in faith in man. They fail. You will fail him and he will fail you if you persist in this.'

Anders leans forward and kisses Nate's hand. He's persisting.

"And here I like making certain things harder for you." He smiles, looking up through his lashes at Nate. "Though right now you need your rest, so easy it is."

"Considering that they're usually accompanied by mass hysteria, I wouldn't think so," Hermione counters, dimly wondering if that's going to be the case here, and if Skyhold was going to be filled with panicking Qunari and templars alike.

"I know some people take whisky or some such thing for a cold, but I'd worry that you'd be more likely to tear your stomach to pieces, at this point. Just let me know if you need to stop and I'll get you somewhere reasonably dry for a light rest."

Hermione generally isn't one for close physical contact except for close friends, but when Sam grabs her, she finds herself leaning against him, though she can't entirely say how that's happened. "I've been learning to make them myself," she mumbles, just barely coherent. "I can do without sleep for a while yet. Though I should have put up a Bluebell Flame; my hands are a little numb."

Even taking all that into account, though, Hermione shakes her head as she wraps her arms around herself. "I'll be fine, Harry. I just lost track of time." Something about that doesn't sound right to her, and she frowns for a few moments before correcting herself. "Sam. Sorry. You felt like Harry for a second there."

"Well that is true. And better Gavin than Ermond."

Optimism Achieved!

"Oh, very good. I was going to be worried about the goat. I hope the goat does better."

She looked up where Merrill was looking, then frowned.

"....all right, what is closer? Varric's table?"

"...Fever..."

Maxwell came up slowly, his body leaden and refusing to move the way he wanted it to, even with the man's assistance. When he finally managed to find his feet, he swayed uncertainly and clutched at the man's shoulder for balance.

He had to take a moment, eyes squeezed shut.

"I haven't-- I haven't even been around the ill...."

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Page 40 of 73

OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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At least you get to see the giant pie with the tophat.

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merrill's fade rift personal quest tbh

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