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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If it wasn't for how terrible Cyril was looking, and probably feeling, Sam probably would've thought that was cute, how he was trying to hide. Instead he sighs and brings his other hand up and carefully pulls Cyril's hands away so he can see better.

"Is that why I never see you blush?" he teases half-heartedly, smiling lightly as he focuses more on whether Cyril is standing with no issue and if he's sweating.

She probably shouldn't be here. She certainly doesn't feel well enough for any partying, though based on the tavern, neither does anyone else. But she's looking for James, for a Templar she believes may be willing to help her as best he can without hurting her.

Mud is splattered on her clothing and her hair is wet, her staff used as a walking stick; Merrill is sick, and sick and tired of it.

"James? I was wondering if you might be willing to help me."

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)

Cyril looks up at him and manages a half smile in return. "Maybe," he says. "Though if you think you can cake on powder to hide yours I'll still know."

[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.)

Cyril hums a bit at the cool touch, enjoying it despite himself. He reaches up a hand and presses into the cloth a bit.

"I know," he agrees. "I missed the chance to see you gush about your gentleman friend more in person."

As gently as he can, Alejandro pulls Bethany to her feet, holding her hand to ensure she can have him as physical support as needed. He isn't certain exactly where to bring her; maybe the Undercroft after all. The furnace is warm, and he'd been meaning to meet her there anyway.

Alejandro snorts softly and turns his head away. "I dunno about that." There's too much weighing on what happened. To put it to rest? He wouldn't even know how to begin.

"I can't assume what the hell you're goin' through like this." Being a mage and a Warden? Sounds more like a curse than a blessing. "C'mon. Let me get you somewhere dry."

"When you are feeling better we could use the extra hands. Until then? All you need to do is rest." A beat. "And stay in this cot. I was not joking about tying you down."

The usual dreams- the Spire, the pride demons, the death. She shakes herself awake with a faint sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. One or two hours at a stretch- if that- is normal. The air thrums with Compassion's magic as she casts a simple rejuvenation on herself to shake the last of the sleep and exhaustion away.

Tea and toast help as well.

"How long was I...?"

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

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

He remembers the O'Bannon, what it meant to spent so long experimenting on red lyrium and the chaos it spurned. The rifts, the Fade, the demons -- all of corrupted, and all for nothing. Alejandro doesn't dream, but there are plenty of nightmares.

When the dwarf shoves at him, Alejandro breathes in sharply and sits up, his eyes wide. When did he drift off? He can't remember, but he sees the red lyrium and he immediately feels the panic set in.

"SHIT! Shit!" It's not real, but he doesn't immediately recognize that.

"That's a shame. You probably look very nice all red." At least Cyril still had his humor and teasing - wasn't too out of it for that clearly. "Really? Is it your 'Sam sense'? I could just get a sunburn or something. You'd never know."

Whether he is so ill he simply does not care anymore or he's hoping for a quick death via poison- Zevran does not so much as sniff the concoction before downing half of it in one gulp. Probably not the wisest choice but- it might be quick and painless.

or he might shit himself to death, he's created both poisons in the past readily enough.

Ellana exhales a soft laugh, looking down at her lap where she's laced her fingers together.

"That's probably for the best. I'm sure I've been looking foolish, and maybe I should care about that. The Dalish representative to the Mage Council shouldn't be so giddy she might burst."

For a moment, she doesn't quite even realize that Cole is Cole--that he's there, speaking to her. She blinks a little as her mind refocuses on this side of the Veil, glancing over at him with a small smile. "I know. It's...a little frustrating. But I've been practicing, and I think I'm getting better at it. I hear things they say. I see people's dreams."

She looks back to the garden, a soft smile on her face. "Is this how it is for you, Cole? Or is it easier--I wish they'd let me look. I just want to...understand what it's like."

James looks up at the soft voice, as he's been staring into his glass of wine for a good ten minutes without drinking it. He's so damned tired, all he wants to do is strip off his armor and sleep, but he should do another pass by the healing tents ...

Merrill's voice shakes him out of his reverie, and he looks up at her, before he is wide awake. "Merrill? What's wrong?" He rises to his feet, a frown coming over his face. "You don't look well -- have you been to the healers?"

"You deserve some giddiness though," he counters. "Even more so because you do so much work for the Council."

"A few hours, nothing more. I'm not entirely certain how many of us have gotten more sleep than that." He gives her a tired smile, before he gestures down to the blanket and the bed. "You should try to grab more, if you can. You can't keep going on nothing, Adelaide."

She squeezes his hand tightly in hers - she knows he's on this side of the Fade but she wants to make that damned demon go away. The less angry he is, the smaller the rage demon becomes, before he starts to wander off again.

She exhaled, in relief, before she looks directly at him. Focusing on him makes the whispers softer, the Calling less of a shout and more of a murmur. "Yes, please ... I just need someplace quiet for awhile..."

Bethany shivered, mostly from fever but a little from fear, and around her, Merrill might see wisps of spirits gathering close. Compassion, Hope, Valor cling around Bethany like a cloak, but float away when Bethany twists around to look at her.

Really look at her, and the world bleeds back into reality again. She swallows, hard. "It doesn't have power. Because you don't want it, and I don't want it. It can't even get through." She exhaled, shakily, "Merrill ... why didn't you tell us it was there?"

"Yes." And that's not a lie, she has been -- she just hasn't stayed there. There are too many people, and she is worrying about all the others. She can't stay still.

"I'm- you're not sick? So you can't see what's- following me."

Merrill refuses to look around as she says this, firmly fixing her gaze on James and clutching her hands into fists.

"The Dalish believe all spirits are dangerous, if only because they don't understand our world. But I-" And here she falters.

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."

"Well, I didn't know," Merrill protests, huffing. "It's not like one specific spirit comes and talks to me every time I sleep or anything. They usually don't, actually."

Probably because Merrill in the Fade isn't quite attention-grabbing enough, since she mostly spends the time not getting upset about being lost and just seeing what she finds.

"All right ... then you should consider some rest ... " He trails off, before his eyes widen at her statement. Then he shakes his head, and he has to fight the urge to put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"No, not a hint of fever. So I cannot see what you see." He has a feeling though, that something is on the other side of the Veil. Merrill would not look so scared, if she did not know something was after her.

He looks down at her, searching her face. Whatever it was, she did not want to give into it. She wanted his help - his protection. And he would give it to her, for so many reasons but the most important one - it was his sacred duty to do so.

"There is a spirit following you, and you need my help to make it leave." He stated simply. "I can disperse the area -- that should rid us of the creature -- but we can't do it in here."

He's not so lucky. She's mixed up some concoction of elfroot, mint, and a few other random herbs including a hint of witherstalk; all in an attempt to either stave off sickness or at least provide an energy boost. She doesn't really care what her mixtures do at this point.

"I see you're weathering the illness well," she comments, a little dryly.

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OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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herald's rest

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Velanna's tent

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Re: herald's rest

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