Adelaide has seen shades of this before- not this particular sweep of illness, but something contagious, something strange. She has not yet gone so far as to consider this a plague as she might what was killing people in the Mire- but the consistency of the symptoms, the strangeness in the air, the faded green everyone seemed to express seeing? Has her convinced there is a root cause.
Finding an answer and finding treatment, as well as seeing to everyone that comes through the tents quickly in the midst of all this weather and illness takes a bit of organizing- the Orlesian Healing tents are restructured- propped up on platforms against the mud, shifted into one large tent by way of repinning walls and rigging of rope so patients could move through and be seen to quickly- and off to one side? The lone curtains separating the treatment area from the research area, where a large percolator waits ever full of brewed coffee, chairs, books for research, and a large board tacked with notes has been set up. Adelaide forever flits between the two, tending to as many patients as possible one hour, burying herself in potential causes the next- a hot cup of coffee ever at her elbow.
Around Skyhold
Either to the library for reference materials, the kitchens for more tea, a cup of sugar for the coffee, stew for her patients that cannot be moved or whatever dried foods that might be spared the healers? Adelaide stalks from point to point, pausing only long enough to check in with those she has passed. In the Library she lingers to ensure the Tranquil want for nothing- attention, rest, food- in the Gardens she checks the store of elfroot. Never resting, never wavering is Adelaide- save when she simply cannot go on for another hour without a moment's meditation or drifting off in a chair somewhere. By a friend's bedside, in the library, or waiting in the kitchens for a pot of stew to be prepared. Those that can see the spirits flitting about Skyhold might note the hazy blue presence of Compassion draped around her like a cloak, formless but kind, whispering soft encouragement or pointing out hurts in her patients or those she passes.
Dreams
The kinder ones involve the Spire's library, a warm laugh, a handsome face both marked and not by a tranquil's brand- before full of smirking mirth and after blank and impassive. The harsher cracks and shards are also the Spire, marble stained red, men in Templar armor cutting down mages- fire, lightening and ice shattering metal and bone, a canopy of violence by blade or by magic in the white halls. A grotesque figure casting flame, an Abomination in the garden laying waste to apprentice and mage alike-
Worst still are ones that seem perfectly calm. A courtyard with a fountain and sibilant, cultured voices making offers. Endless offers. Of easy answers, of knowledge, of power- shadows wearing faces of friends and family making promises that are impossible to keep if only she would agree.
no subject
Adelaide has seen shades of this before- not this particular sweep of illness, but something contagious, something strange. She has not yet gone so far as to consider this a plague as she might what was killing people in the Mire- but the consistency of the symptoms, the strangeness in the air, the faded green everyone seemed to express seeing? Has her convinced there is a root cause.
Finding an answer and finding treatment, as well as seeing to everyone that comes through the tents quickly in the midst of all this weather and illness takes a bit of organizing- the Orlesian Healing tents are restructured- propped up on platforms against the mud, shifted into one large tent by way of repinning walls and rigging of rope so patients could move through and be seen to quickly- and off to one side? The lone curtains separating the treatment area from the research area, where a large percolator waits ever full of brewed coffee, chairs, books for research, and a large board tacked with notes has been set up. Adelaide forever flits between the two, tending to as many patients as possible one hour, burying herself in potential causes the next- a hot cup of coffee ever at her elbow.
Around Skyhold
Either to the library for reference materials, the kitchens for more tea, a cup of sugar for the coffee, stew for her patients that cannot be moved or whatever dried foods that might be spared the healers? Adelaide stalks from point to point, pausing only long enough to check in with those she has passed. In the Library she lingers to ensure the Tranquil want for nothing- attention, rest, food- in the Gardens she checks the store of elfroot. Never resting, never wavering is Adelaide- save when she simply cannot go on for another hour without a moment's meditation or drifting off in a chair somewhere. By a friend's bedside, in the library, or waiting in the kitchens for a pot of stew to be prepared. Those that can see the spirits flitting about Skyhold might note the hazy blue presence of Compassion draped around her like a cloak, formless but kind, whispering soft encouragement or pointing out hurts in her patients or those she passes.
Dreams
The kinder ones involve the Spire's library, a warm laugh, a handsome face both marked and not by a tranquil's brand- before full of smirking mirth and after blank and impassive. The harsher cracks and shards are also the Spire, marble stained red, men in Templar armor cutting down mages- fire, lightening and ice shattering metal and bone, a canopy of violence by blade or by magic in the white halls. A grotesque figure casting flame, an Abomination in the garden laying waste to apprentice and mage alike-
Worst still are ones that seem perfectly calm. A courtyard with a fountain and sibilant, cultured voices making offers. Endless offers. Of easy answers, of knowledge, of power- shadows wearing faces of friends and family making promises that are impossible to keep if only she would agree.