When one spies Malcolm, or is around and not paying attention, one might catch glimpse of and hear a spirit of Hope, lingering at one shoulder, chatting with the demon at his other shoulder, the flip of the coin, Despair. They talk as though old friends instead of mortal enemies.
Around
A mild fever isn't going to keep Seeker Reed from pulling his weight, directing refugees where to move if need be and how to better set their tents against mud and flood, as well as actively assisting in doing so. He is directing the gravely more ill inside where he can, to the nearest fires, to where the most healers are busy. He is carrying them himself if he must. He's Fereldan, even if at times that feels so long ago; the weather barely bothers him.
The animals, too, he makes sure are staying fed and as warm and dry as they can be when not being used to help otherwise. (With a little extra attention to Charles, his horse, and Milady, his poodle.) He even takes a whirl in the kitchens to help relieve any overworked staff trying to pump out hearty and warm meals more than usual, to keep the tea flowing.
The focus helps to ignore the oddities in the background of his fever. The flits of light and smoke and green. The quiet noise of altered whispering. If he stays busy, then perhaps it will not matter as much. Clearly it's only when he rests for a moment, or when his mind wanders too far away from his task. Which happens more often through the days, more than he would like.
Caravan
Illness be damned, he will not allow supplies to simply cease or people to be out in the cold and the muck and snow and die just because so many are down and out. If he can move and still be of use, he will do it and suffer the consequences later. Here he gives commands to his animals despite the weather and terrain, Milady to help track down those buried in the snow and dig them out, and Charles to rope wagons and even other horses to to pull out and back onto the pass.
Occasionally, he pauses to press the remnants of the collapsed snow to his forehead or against him elsewhere. Occasionally, he pauses and stays paused, watching or listening to something or another, at least until his dog nudges him eagerly and wetly with some new item fetched from the hillside.
Dreams
There's so much light and noise, the distinct flashes of magic thrown around and the glint of swords. Yelling. Battlecries. Someone screams for their fallen mother. Another voice distantly pleads why, cries stop. Indistinct bodies on the indistinct ground.
no subject
Around
A mild fever isn't going to keep Seeker Reed from pulling his weight, directing refugees where to move if need be and how to better set their tents against mud and flood, as well as actively assisting in doing so. He is directing the gravely more ill inside where he can, to the nearest fires, to where the most healers are busy. He is carrying them himself if he must. He's Fereldan, even if at times that feels so long ago; the weather barely bothers him.
The animals, too, he makes sure are staying fed and as warm and dry as they can be when not being used to help otherwise. (With a little extra attention to Charles, his horse, and Milady, his poodle.) He even takes a whirl in the kitchens to help relieve any overworked staff trying to pump out hearty and warm meals more than usual, to keep the tea flowing.
The focus helps to ignore the oddities in the background of his fever. The flits of light and smoke and green. The quiet noise of altered whispering. If he stays busy, then perhaps it will not matter as much. Clearly it's only when he rests for a moment, or when his mind wanders too far away from his task. Which happens more often through the days, more than he would like.
Caravan
Illness be damned, he will not allow supplies to simply cease or people to be out in the cold and the muck and snow and die just because so many are down and out. If he can move and still be of use, he will do it and suffer the consequences later. Here he gives commands to his animals despite the weather and terrain, Milady to help track down those buried in the snow and dig them out, and Charles to rope wagons and even other horses to to pull out and back onto the pass.
Occasionally, he pauses to press the remnants of the collapsed snow to his forehead or against him elsewhere. Occasionally, he pauses and stays paused, watching or listening to something or another, at least until his dog nudges him eagerly and wetly with some new item fetched from the hillside.
Dreams
There's so much light and noise, the distinct flashes of magic thrown around and the glint of swords. Yelling. Battlecries. Someone screams for their fallen mother. Another voice distantly pleads why, cries stop. Indistinct bodies on the indistinct ground.