OPEN: Cloudreach Event

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[ombranera]

Around Skyhold

No one hates being ill more than Zevran Arainai. He is trained to withstand torture and poison, venom and acid; but sickness that lays him low with a fever that he cannot soak or sweat out with blankets and coals? Needs to be drowned. Whether on his way to the Tavern for more brandy, the kitchens for more broth, the hotsprings for another attempt to soak the grossness out or an ill advised trip down to the valley to be miserable upon Alistair- Zevran is bundled up in as many layers as he can manage and likely either half awake or mostly asleep, slumped against a table, a bookshelf, tucked in an alcove, draped across the back of a chair, leaning against the nearest solid person. Just for a moment.

Just until he can rouse himself to take another step. Being hounded by a warm, sultry voice, a shadowed demon of full curves and rich promise bobbing along behind him sadly does nothing in truth- he does not look at it or think of it.


Dreams

Sleep comes with cruel swift certainty, dragging Zevran down to warmer lands and kinder voices. Be it on a rooftop or on a beach, in a cramped apartment or in a loud tavern there is sun and wine and tangled limbs- an elven lass with red hair draped upon him, both of them entwined with a man of darker skin and flashing eyes, idly drawling tones and possessive grips upon them both. Kind or cruel, warm or bitingly brutal- the dreams are stuttered and strange. Zevran is glad to wake from them.

His room

[arsebiscuit]

She wasn't in the sharpest shape she'd ever been in. Headaches and blah, blah, and heading out with Fate at the end of the week. So Sera had retreated to the hammock she'd weaseled (been nicely given, but she'll claim all the credit she can) into occasionally slinging up in Zevran's room since that same Twisted Fate had stolen her room. Sleep off the headache, then make the bottles and vials she'd need for 'chatting' with a bunch of Dalish.

When Zevran made it back to the room that day, only a mop of blond hair and the very tips of pointed ears can be seen under her bundle of (ill gotten) blankets on the hammock.

[[ooc: Fine with him going to sleep/sera being nappeing and starting in dream land or going straight to Sera being awake and them chatting. Take your pick.]]

DREAM LAND

[ombranera]

It takes a moment of untangling himself from his current mass of layers and furs and woolen scarves to give himself space and room enough to heave himself into the hammock and tangle himself in those blankets and Sera's bony limbs instead. There's muttering and swearing and one mumbled 'andraste's breath' before he buries his face in her hair and passes out properly.

The dreams, when they come, are relatively kind.

Tangled like this (but nude) the woman laughing under his ear as she tosses gold coins from a stack next to them on the bed to a cup held by someone standing at the foot. There is quite a bit of gold, quite a bit of skin- and all three share the black curved lines of Zevran's tattoo on their face.

All three are Crows.

[arsebiscuit]

A much smaller Sera, seven, eight at the very most and dressed in fine silks and satin, walks silently through a lavishly decorated hall. Too many of the doors are locked, places she's not allowed in, but she tries. Tugging hard at each one, tears building as one after one is blocked from her-

Then she opens one to the scene of Zevran in the bed and she's no longer a child. Just Sera, how she's supposed to be in patched rags and plaid weave, and she wakes up with a sharp, reflexive elbow to the ribs of the body against hers. It's not hard enough to make the hammock even shake, not in her current condition. But she's awake.

"Ngh...Pretty? You're all...slimy hot."

[ombranera]

Inarticulate mumbling in Antivan. A child? There shouldn't be a child. His eyes film over with- what? Grief? Anger? Confusion? All of it as he shifts to get away from that elbow, the vestiges of coins clinking and old laughter yet ringing in his ears. "I just took a bath."

Like that would make it better. And it should have, rinsing the sweat off, but it has not.

[arsebiscuit]

"You're sweaty 'nough I'm dreaming of you."

It takes some wiggling and some flexibility, but she manages to move so her eyes are out of the blankets and she's looking up at him while still being mostly snuggled together, blankets in place. Her own dreams don't bother her anymore. Too many years, too much just throwing away her own stupid. But he was a living furnace, far more than her tiny fever.

Not good.

"You an' friends."

[singularwill]

He finds Zevran on a staircase, curled up against the wall, looking like he had emptied his closet in order to wear it. Solas reached down to touch his shoulder, feeling the strangeness of the Veil around them - not thinner, not exactly, but more transparent and gently shook to wake him.

"This is not an appropriate sick bed," he murmured. "Come, we will find you somewhere better."

[ombranera]

Half awake and hardly willing to move for someone he liked, let alone someone he did not know half so well- Zevran peered at the elf for a long moment before reaching up curiously.

He has no hair.

Zevran has never before seen a bald elf and something in his illness makes reaching past the man's face to his bare scalp not only appropriate, but acceptable. "...it is like an egg."

[singularwill]

It was hardly the first time that someone had reacted to his hair, or lack thereof, but it had been some time since someone had gone so far as to touch his scalp.

He lets out a long suffering sigh, gently taking Zevran's wrist and pulling it back down.

"You are likely to do yourself a harm, staying here. I have tea, if that would make you more comfortable."

[ombranera]

"You do not even have stubble." That is- why is that. He squints through dazed eyes and the fog of fever, trying to place this man. he's seen him before somewhere, or heard of him, or-

"You. You are Chuckles, yes?" Varrick said as much. "With the marvelous thighs and ass."

[singularwill]

He didn't bother to sigh again, the first had done enough, but he certainly felt it.

"Yes, that is often what happens, when one has no hair," He mused, kneeling next to him on the stair case.

"My name is Solas. I do not think I am in a position to speak on either my thighs, or my ass."

[disgracedchampion]

And when he does wake he's not alone, Michel was feeling none of the effects of the mysterious illness, but in turn he was subject to the side effects of the dreams. He'd found Zevran, bundled and as sick as anyone he'd seen that day and with the healing tents being overrun with the ill Michel hoisted his miserable bundle up and carted him off to his room. There might not be a bed for him at the tents just yet, but Zevran's own bed was free and it was etter to rest their, than some cold alcove where his illness would only agitate him further.

That left him exposed...exposed to whatever peculiar visions these were of Zevran and his two companions. Was this a different time? The man in the dream was certainly different, younger, shorter hair, fewer tattoos...fewer scars. Happy and enthralled in one instance, the world was often a place that those who were young had figured out...but the dream twisted and was shrouded in darkness in the next instant. He couldn't stop himself from feeling concerned.

[ombranera]

Carried and safe, his mind should tell him. Taliesin only preferred the same clove and spice and leather that Zevran himself still wore- but it did not keep the lilt of his dreams from twisting in that direction. Slimmer and brighter, laughing as he and they lept from one roof to another?

Dreaming of happier times. Of being carried by Taliesin while Rinna watched, smirking to herself while he was marked. Of being bound to the bed and forced to wait their leisure as they tangled together-

Of walking through the Back Alley of Denerim, Taliesin alone at the stairs, red knife in his hand, Alistair bleeding out at his feet.

[disgracedchampion]

While Michel favored Zevran scents on Zevran, Michel had his own brand of scents that contrasted with the clove, spice and leather. Undertones of the outdoors, horses and armor care equipment, with something cleaner--a creamy, spicy scent, hints of musk and citrus. Of all the scents Zevran had exposed him to, this is what Michel liked best, it seemed to suit his body as well. They were beyond scents and sensations however, Zevran's illness was beyond even Michel's ability to comprehend as he'd not experienced anything of the sort though many were feeling it.

For now all he could do was make sure Zevran was comfortable, not an easy task when subjected to the visions in his head, but he managed to unbundle him, strip him down, dab a layer of sweat from his skin, before stripping down himself and joining him. Throwing the blankets around both of their bodies as he rode this out with Zevran for a while, just until he could get him to the overwhelmed healing tents. Soon, he hoped, for now he could only be a comfort while he endured Zeran's visions with him.

Michel knew they shouldn't effect him so, either, the affection, the easiness, the passion, the...well...what he equated with the idea of affection. It had almost as much of an impact as watching the figure on the ground bleed out and Michel knew just how important that individual was. He wasn't certain how these dreams, visions, apparitions...how it all made him feel.

[ombranera]

Quieter nights, Rinna stretched out on a rooftop with his head in her lap, her fingers making tiny braids in his hair where it is simply he and she and nothing hurts, there are no bruises or wounds or shadowed hands clinging to them both. They could slip away. They could run. The thought's a short one, this again on a beach with them and nothing else, no one else-

Red drips from her throat and beads against Zevran's skin as he twists and it's dark, no stars, the only roar of the scrabbling Darkspawn, blood and bile ankle deep as he twists a dagger here or throws another there. Fighting at a Warden's back, fighting to keep him alive, to keep them alive-

The room, the hook, and none of this is so. Cuts like daggers along his skin, tiny needling things as blood wells and mists and they will break him, this is all it has ever been, him, the hook, the blood, whispers in the dark and hands long since dead clawing at his skin-

[disgracedchampion]

There was a great deal of personal pain in Zevran's past, a pain that roused a fever in Michel though he wasn't feeling at all ill. It was an ache that burned from the core of his chest, he was not at all used to standing on the sidelines and simply watch while events unfolded. He was better with a sword in his hand and something to strike out at.

This was a dream...a vision...a memory...a feeling, he wasn't certain, he was certain these was nothing he could do to help. There was no way he could assuage all of this pain, what he could do was roll through it, brush his lips across his fevered brow, pull him close. Slide their limbs together so that he could hold him close, keep him warm, sweat it out. If this went on much longer he would have no choice but to carry Zevran back down to the healing tents. If his fever became dangerous, if his dreams made him delirious.

[el_tybs]

Sam sighs as he leans back in his chair, the hot mug of tea gently wrapped with his fingers, but momentarily forgotten as he enjoys the bit of reprieve that he's been given. There's a slight strain at the corners of his eyes from the lack of sleep, and a low burning fever that he notices most along his cheeks - for once he's glad everyone knows him for blushing so it hardly seems out of place for him.

He's focused enough on getting a moment in his chair that he pays little mind to the person slumping into the seat next to him. At least not until there's a weight on his shoulder with a small 'thump'. Blinking awake from his cat nap at the touch Sam turns, brows furrowing at the bundle of blankets now against his side. It takes a bit of inspection to find the blonde hair and pointed ears.

"Zevran?"

[ombranera]

"No." He mumbles, nuzzling further into the shoulder or back or- whatever it is he's pressed against. "No Zevrans here."

Just lumps of fur and coat and leather bundled into a miserable mess. So. An ill Zevran, fever warm, doing what he can to ignore the whispering shadow of a Desire demon that has taken to following him around.

[el_tybs]

Even when it was cold out Sam didn't remember Zevran walking around with so many layers, and if it wasn't for how bad that he sounded, Sam might have found the situation a bit humorous. At the moment Zevran just seemed a little pathetic. And cute. Pathetically cute at the moment. A big contrast to how Zevran was the last time they both had been in the tavern - all that wiggling.

"You're sick," he comments, shifting only a bit to get a better look. "Were you on your way to the healer' tents?"

[ombranera]

"No shit." He mumbles, nuzzling in closer to Sam's shoulder. "No. A fever is a fever- you sweat it out or drown it with brandy."

He taps his empty cup that he should call for a refill; but he is too tired to bother at the moment. Sam is warm and solid and comfortable...why not linger a moment or two longer?

[el_tybs]

He sighs at the sarcastic comment, but even so Sam doesn't try to move too much since it seemed like Zevran was trying to burrow into him.

Looking at the glass, Sam raises a brow, reaching over to pick it up. That was what Zevran was trying to do. "Is it just a fever?" If Zevran is just sick with a cold perhaps it will work, if it wasn't a normal sort of illness... he's pretty sure Zevran is just going to end up drunk and with fever.

[failedfirst]

Velanna watches one of Zevran's attempts to locate Alistair from her seat in front of her fire, a hot mug of her latest experiment in her hands. She gets up after a minute, pouring a second mug and setting her own down, untangling herself from the nest of furs she's made for herself and rising. She somewhat wobbly makes her way over to intercept Zevran's wandering, shoving the mug into his hands.

"Drink this. It might help." It probably won't. But at this point she's not making it any worse, either.

[ombranera]

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.

[failedfirst]

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.

[ombranera]

He's had some of Oghren's brew before. If he can swallow that? This is-

Terrible, Maker's breath- but he can swallow.

He does bend double and sputter into a coughing fit, wincing at the strain on his throat with every hitched wheeze. "You are a cruel, cruel women."

wheeze

"It drives me mad with desire..."