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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She listens quietly, her exhaustion giving her patience that she might otherwise not have had. Patience is easier, when her own brain seems to be working at half the speed it normally does.

But she strives to consider all that he says, all the same, pain flickering briefly across her own face at Evelyn's name. Solas had been affected too, she can tell. She had wondered, when he had disappeared so quickly after her death. Was the pain so great? Or did he simply think the rest of them not worth bothering with any more?

Both, perhaps, but also...this. The fear of backlash, of blame. She chewed on her lip, thinking.

"You were not without reason to fear such things, given...given the Chantry's history," she admits. Not only the Chantry; Cassandra herself had threatened to execute him, once upon a time, if he did not live up to her expectations. "But...it is good that you returned."

She looks down, thinking of everything that had happened since he had left. The Abomination. Galadriel. Her own potentially disastrous, and very public, missteps, as she tried to do a job she was in no way qualified to do.

"The Inquisition needed you."

A stain wouldn't be too bad. It could always be washed, though perhaps some others in Skyhold would mind the colored fingerprints around. She would say as much as she turns to look at the other elf, but she's a bit too startled -- first by his sudden appearance, then by the use of da'len by an elf with no vallaslin.

But that's no excuse to be rude, and she offers him a slightly sheepish smile.

"It's difficult to rest. The voices all seem louder, then -- but you still can't understand them if you try to focus on them. And they're not very helpful when I fall asleep, either." If possible, one of the spirits of learning with her almost looks sheepish.

"Medicine, Sera."

Cassandra looks up quickly, trying to determine whether Sera is joking or not. With her, it's hard to ever tell.

"We give sick children medicine. Potions. Not wine."

"Nah, don't think that's right. Wine. Maybe sleeping on the roof."

Even she's not sure she's joking at this point. She'd had an interesting childhood, and while she knows that fact it meant these normal things like 'potions' and 'not starving a little' seemed like the weird ones.

"But not hunching over boring tables. Know that one's off."

Cassandra doesn't reach for him in return, and she certainly doesn't move to kiss him, or to stroke his beard, soft and enticing as it may be.

But she also doesn't jerk away when he sets his hand on her bare shoulder, or snap his fingers in half for his efforts, and really, that's almost as good.

"There is nothing to say," she says, and scowls at the floor. Her secrets? Her dreams, the one she has suffered for years and shared with no one in all that time? All laid bare before him. "I suppose I should hope that they are. Seeing as you already know them all."

It could have been worse, she knows. It could have been...Varric, perhaps. She does not like to think of the way the dwarf would have teased her, held the knowledge of her deepest pain over her head and tormented her endlessly with it. And she would have deserved it.

"No, it - "

She sighs. It is hopeless, and she knows it. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head slightly as she attempts - likely in vain - to get back to her work.

"Then it is good that I am not a child, isn't it? If you would like to be of help, Sera, to administer potions" - not wine - "to the sick, I am sure the healers would welcome your assistance."

"Look at that- you've got something there, Ladybits. No point fussing over what kids do, yeah?"

The good news in she finally slides off the table. The bad news is she does it to wander over into Cassandra's personal space. Way, way into it.

"Time for wine!"

"Now that I very much doubt. It can't all be death and sorrow," It wasn't a supposition, the way he says it, but a certainty, punctuated with a nod, "There are good memories, as well."

But those truly were private, for one. He wouldn't push. But he could feel the dark turn of her thoughts, the despair rising around the room like a fine mist, like a smell with no source. It seemed patently unfair that she should have been made so vulnerable, and have no reciprocity; to just leave seems, somehow, impossibly rude. Obi-Wan hesitates yet again, then settles back more comfortably, on the floor rather than the bed itself, leaning.

"Y'know, I... It's not the first time, I've seen something like that. The first time, I was just an apprentice, not even past my Knighthood trials. I lost my teacher."

"Dogs are slobbery and need attention every moment. Cats? They'll care for you, love you, even, but much of the time they're fine. They don't require your focus often. And when they do, they're far easier to deal with, draping over you rather than eating your shoes."

Fereldans are weird. Anyone who loves dogs is weird. And these flames? They're fascinating. Anders takes the pot, wondering at her irritation but far more focused on what she's created.

"I think it does matter. I think it could matter a great deal." He lowers his hand toward the flame, being careful. It's not a lot of warmth, but it's something. And a low-heat fire could even be extremely useful. "A great many of the spells any Circle mage or apostate knows are combat-based. Our repertoire of practical spells is practically non-existent. If we can pin down what's going wrong with your magic, wand or a difference between the Fade here and the source back in your world, we could adapt things over. The water you made a few moments ago, this, they could change so much, slowly help change how people view--mm."

Anders breaks off, ending the building intensity of his voice, and gives her a slightly sheepish look. "I was supposed to be keeping from getting quite so impassioned with you, I believe. I've forgotten again."

"I'm a man. Tell me when we're not foolish." His eyes might be more bright with fever than amusement, but at least there's a little of the latter there. "But most of my notetaking is on the fever itself. We still don't have cause or cure narrowed down."

And they really are getting more and more tired.

"If nothing else, we need to find a better way to alleviate the symptoms. A body can't stand to be this hot for too long; things cease to function properly and dehydration is highly complicated to avoid when someone's sweating out everything we give to them."

He's quiet for several moments, processing that. Someone with a purpose isn't broken. Would Compassion as it had been or Cole as he had been see this form as something not broken? Anders can't say, and if the Cole before him says he's not broken, he has enough, then who is Anders to say otherwise? Just because Anders feels divided and conflicted and a mess doesn't mean anything. Part of why he speaks to Cole, beyond simply liking the boy, is because he seems far more whole than Anders has achieved.

"It's enough to know what you're supposed to be," he agrees after that time. He's not sure he knows what he's supposed to be. Not this. Not being in fear that Justice will harm someone, not struggling to find balance. He needs to find a way. A purpose that's more concrete than mage freedom, because there are a thousand ways to work toward that.

"How did you figure that out?"

"I'm certain Madame de Fer would be quite fine with Silencing." The bitter comment is out before he can stop it, and Anders closes his eyes before shaking his head. "My apologies. My temper is not what it should be right now. I can't see a universal agreement on Silencing, which is for the best."

Taking away parts of who mages are fixes nothing. Especially when this isn't a mage problem.

"The only thing I see getting worse at this point is exhaustion-related injuries. We may need to see if we can get a few people to work on poultices and boiling bandages to prepare for that."

Smiling softly, Hermione murmurs, "Dogs aren't so bad. Most of the time. But I agree, cats are generally the better pet."

She has a moment, then, when she wonders what had happened to Crookshanks after she'd been forced to abandon him at the start of the war, but that causes a hitch in her throat. Right. It's probably not a great idea to focus too hard on who and what she's lost over the past few years.

Clearing her throat, she listens to Anders exclaim over her magic, feeling that building excitement in his voice before he begins to try and clamp it down. Shaking her head, she tells him, "No, that's quite all right. Magical theory is interesting, especially when dealing with two very different schools of magic. And especially if you don't have much in the way of practical spells here; those are about half of the charms we know, really. You would love to visit with the Weasley family; if you were a bit more of a ginger, you could probably even pass for one of their relations."

Considering the high regard she has for that family, it's probably for the best that she drop that train of thought, and so she carefully holds her wand in both hands, displaying it to him as she gestures towards the tip. The wood is a bit splintered and something dark and stringy seems to be curling out of the exposed tip. "See there? When I... fell here, I suppose, it cracked just the tiniest bit. It's a small nick, and I don't think I frayed any of the core, so it could be the wand or interference from the Fade or any number of things. I suppose I can try repairing it, though I wouldn't even know how to go about that, or maybe even try to use a staff, but there are just so many variables involved. Figuring anything out for certain would take time."

"Can't it?"

It isn't, of course. But every happy memory she has is corrupted, it seems, shot through with loss and regret. Everyone she's loved, she has lost. Or, Despair tells her, she is going to lose.

Her expression flickers with familiarity and old grief as he shares his own pain. A young apprentice, too young to be prepared to lose a valued mentor - she doesn't even have to imagine what he must have felt.

"I am sorry," she says, and means it, but she frowns. She can tell what he's trying to do, or thinks she can. He is trying to...to connect with her, to make her feel less alone. "But you do not have to do this. It will not change anything."

He holds her hand, letting several quiet minutes pass like that.

"I'm here." His voice is hushed. "I'll be here, for as long as the Wardens are. When you need someone, I'll be here. To talk with, to sit next to you, whatever. I want to help as I am able."

He has no clue what she's been through. All he knows is that she's been damaged by it, and deserves protection and friendship.

"What - "

Before she knows what's happening, Sera is practically in her lap, all but dragging her out of her seat and, presumably, to wherever the wine is stored. Cassandra resists, trying (with markedly less strength than she would normally have) to push her away.

"I did not mean me!"

"As I've been pointing out to an increasing number of people since arriving, whatever reason I was brought here, it wasn't for my protection," The Force moves in mysterious waves, like ocean swells, invisible and powerful, and it's not until you're bouyed along to distant shores that you really understand the magnitude of that power. Obi-Wan is philosophical about his status as a rifter, as in all things, "It's about what's right, not what's easier. And, anyways, if it were that easy with you..."

Well, she'd have a lot more friends, for one thing.

"...It's not wrong to grieve, and fear helps to keep us alive, but too much of it only leads to anger, and even hatred. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. We Jedi call it, the Dark Side," His voice, quite calm, fell away. A deep breath, a sigh, "I watched him die-- he was killed by an assassin, a Sith Lord, as we call them. Like Dark Jedi, the Sith are traitors to everything we should stand for. I wasn't fast enough to save him, and when I was able to strike back, I was so consumed by rage and vengeance that I was nearly ensnared by the same Dark Side that the assassin served. It was a harrowing struggle, not unlike your own, I suspect."

His hands are cool, compared to hers. A healer's hands. They're always the bloodiest, and she thinks of Simon. Of blood, and fire, fear too. They're never far behind. It's been quiet so far, but she knows they hunt her still.

They could still finish what they started. And even if they don't...

He doesn't know. No more than the others knew of him, when they invited him here, and they would have his head now if not for the Wardens. There is no such refuge waiting for her. Her fingers squeeze tightly against his as she closes her eyes, a small tear trickling from the corner of her eye.

"Stay. Please."

Surprise lingers on his face as he watched Solas work and heard him talk. Here, at last, was someone in the Inquisition's inner circle who wanted people to think. Leliana may seek equality, Josephine is kind, Varric decent, but this is a good sign.

"It's... easier to do things with a group than alone. Generally speaking. Though you don't want people who will simply go for the easiest way. Making change, making progress, is a balancing act. Then again, I say that as one who isn't particularly good at balancing matters." There'd been no little fear and panic and frustration involved in what he'd done.

"Would you share what you've learned of the rifts? Or a little of it. I've not the time to make a study of them, but if there's a way to use one to get a wayward spirit home..." Everyone who knows who he is knows he's possessed. It's just the way of things, at this point.

"Think if you fall, you're taking me down with you," he points out.

Likely, they'd have to find someone to go get Taas to help them both if that was the case, but he has no intention of letting her fall - not if he can help it. So long as they don't try and rush it, they should be fine. He hopes, anyway. But the smile he gives her in return is an encouraging one, even as he makes a small move forward.

"Alright then, let's try a wee step or two. Slowly, mind, and then you'll know soon enough if it'll not work before we get too far from the table."

"Just focus... I think..." He groans a little but, feeling a sudden ache and chill, the fever definitely has gotten worse, more noticeable now that he's not trying to be tough and fight. "...I think I get what you mean. But I definitely don't intend to let it come to that... I'm afraid the healers are on to me too much as it is." He knows Anders is on to his ways, anyway, and probably more of them. It's just like being home in a way.

It is as if Obi-Wan is describing a strange, alternate version of her own life. The dead mentor. The traitors. The mad drive for vengeance that, for years, had threatened to overtake her entirely - though that had been caused by the death of her brother, and not Seeker Byron. The details hardly matter, though. It is the same.

Not that she's about to tell all of that to Obi-Wan. Not that she's about to tell him about Galyan, or confess to him the most personal details of her own struggle against rage and resentment.

"If you fear I will be lost to anger and hatred, you can stop worrying," she tells him instead. "Take your platitudes to someone else. It is a lesson I have already learned. I do not need to hear it again." Suddenly she aches for Galyan, for Anthony, for everything she has lost, and she turns away, curling in on herself and facing the wall, so that Obi-Wan will not see.

"It's not a lesson, Cassandra," He sighed. And what else had he expected? Time to go, then, "It's life. And revenge isn't the only path to the Dark Side. Try not to let fear and despair get the better of you; I know it's easier said than done, but... you are better than that."

Obi-Wan stands, then, shaking out the dust from his trousers, and turns to go. But he hesitates before descending, looking back, considering. She seems, not small, exactly, but drawn-in. Hiding.

"If you like, if I... notice anything happening that you'd rather keep private?"

Ridiculous. He doesn't even know her - and what he does know of her is nothing complimentary. He's the one, after all, who had thought so little of her as to condemn and undermine her publicly. She had interrogated him at his first arrival, been harsh and hostile and treated him like a threat. He has no reason to think she is better than anything.

She stays where she is, curled on her side and facing the wall, all too aware of him as he stands and looks down at her. Somehow, she knows that it is safe to turn her back on him, just as she knows that he would never tell anyone what she had so unintentionally revealed to him.

She cannot bring herself to thank him for that. Not when loneliness and the great weight of loss press down upon her, threatening to crush her. Not when Despair crowds eagerly over her, moving in to fill the space that Obi-Wan had occupied.

It seems colder, the farther he moves away.

But he's asked her a question, and she must answer. She swallows the lump in her throat, along with her pride, and jerks her head in a nod.

"Please."

Better that Obi-Wan know all her secrets, than all of Skyhold know even half of them.

He has no idea what more of a spice has to do with anything, but before he can ask, he's being shown her wand. Anders leans forward, reaching out to trace a finger along the crack.

"I've never seen a wand used in Thedas except by you. I can't say no one has ever used it; the Circles have restricted magic lore and experimentation a great deal. But I don't know of any theories, even, when it comes to them. Staves, I know. I could slowly teach you how to work with a staff, and see if you can improvise with the assistance and guidance it gives? And then perhaps we can work with materials and see if we can figure out wands."

It will likely be very difficult. Making and enchanting staves is, after all. But it would be an interesting project to have going on the side. Sure, he's got a lot he does already. This, though, a chance of expanding the possibilities for what mages can do, would be good for the future.

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OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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