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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Galadriel didn't stir as Beleth threw a blanket over her shoulders, nor did she shift as she sank into more comfortable sleep. Her expression blanked and, by the grace of the Eldar alone, her head remained balanced on her hand. There was a stretch of quiet, still and unremarkable, before she settled into a dream.

Dreaming was strange and, for all her skill with the workings of the hearts and minds of men and elves, Galadriel had little control over where her own mind traveled in slumber. Her dreams rose up like the tide and, with the barest nudge, would crash, reform, and be made anew. The persistent chill was enough to guide her dreams, but the shifting of the ravens above tried to draw her in another direction.

After a few moments, amid the babbling of the Fade, there was the quiet sound of surf. It gave way, after a time, to the distant, indistinct singing of elven voices. A persistent sense of songbirds, if not the sound of them, crept between the bookcases and, as though she had always been there, an elf in a gown of shifting colors formed across from where Galadriel slept.

Her features were indistinct, as were the boundaries that defined her, but she grew clearer over time and, with that clarity, her voice became less of a fleeting sensation and more a sound. She spoke in lovely, lilting Sindarin and held delighted conversation with another. Her voice was, without question, the fairest Galadriel had ever heard and, even in dreams, she recalled it fondly.

Beleth could never have imagined anyone as fair as Galadriel. That two such women existed seemed beyond comprehension. And then there were the words. She knew none of them, yet there was a frustrating familiarity about them--like she had remembered the sound of the Elvhen language, and had forgotten all the words. But the meaning hardly seemed to matter, when the voice was so lovely. She could have been reciting a supply list and it sounded like music.

She felt...a strange longing, deep within her soul. Like she was seeing a home she had lost, a loss that had passed down to her through generations, an inheritance of yearning for what once was. Slowly, she reaches her hand out to the strange woman, knowing that her hand will pass through, and unable to resist all the same.

The woman across the table comes into focus like a figure approaching through heavy fog. Once she is whole, the world around her blooms into view, rising and coloring the Fade in uneven splashes. The change draws the spirits that linger in the library, as idly interested as Beleth is, but their presence is different. As they near, a true sense of Doraith emerges, the sense of community and population, the taste of summer and safety, and for a moment everything is content. The sound of surf becomes the whisper of leaves and the far-off creak of heavy, hardy branches. The candle at Galadriel's arm burns low and, as it expires, swaying dappled shadow settles over the library.

Beleth's hand stretches across the distance toward the woman but, as expected, it passes through her shimmering gown and her long, dark hair. She does not take notice, conversing as she is with the shape of an elf alongside her. As Beleth's hand sinks through her, however, the whole of her blurs, just slightly, and rises away, like a gleaming halo settled across her shoulders. She laughs, bright and brilliant but the sound is louder than it ought to be.

Half a second later, the crows above startle and a cacophonous rattle of feathers and cages drowns her out.

To dream of her friend and those ancient gardens is a gift, but like all dreams it is both fleeting and fickle. Despite Beleth's gift of a blanket, Galadriel is feverish and cold and the stir of birds and air in the tower creates a thready draft. A shiver nearly topples Galadriel's precariously balanced head and, as her head slips in her grip, the whole of the dream around them is jarred along with her.

The woman, in that instant, is two at once. The old memory is soft and gentle, but the new one is not. The second woman who stands, at once, in the same space as the first, is wrapped in a grey cloak rather than summer silks and she is as wholly different from the first as she can be. Her hair is spun silver, bound and tied back, and where the memory of Melian was warm and indistinct, this woman is real and sharp, enough to be alarming. She does not sing, nor smile, and as she turns to speak, Galadriel's head sinks again and both phantoms burst apart like smoke struck by a breeze.

For several seconds there is nothing of note save, perhaps, the faint scent of pipeweed.

Unfortunately, though the sounds have ceased and the figures vanished, Galadriel is not awake. Her posture is strange and uncomfortable, her head rests heavily across the inside of her forearm, her back is curled at an odd angle as she rests against the table, but she still slumbers.

The dappled shadow around them grows more uniform and, as her dream reshapes the Fade, there is a certain tension to it. The sense of songbirds and deep forests are swallowed up, gradually, and before long only the sense of deep remains. Where other spirits had hovered before, caught in the edge of ancient dreams, now they were absent. Only the most curious among them remained and they drifted far, away from the shadows that had taken the elves.

They were alone.

When the woman blurs and rises away, Beleth jerks her hand back, looking startled, as if she had caused some kind of actual damage to that beautiful vision. Then she all but jumps out of her seat when the crows startle, despite that Beleth knows them well enough she should be used to them and their noises. There's a strange air in the room, and she casts an apprehensive look at Galadriel. The elf seemed--uneasy. Should Beleth fetch another blanket? Wake her?

But Beleth finds herself too caught up in the dream, the memory, to be able to do much of anything but sit and watch. More women, more elves that were undoubtedly of Galadriel's world. More who looked like everything the elves had once had and lost, so long ago. No, she can't bring herself to wake Galadriel up just yet, not when she has this chance to see the kinds of things that her people hoped to restore.

But then it gets dark, and it gets--what was the word for it? Foreboding. Beleth scoots her chair closer to Galadriel's, as if the sleeping woman would protect her, huddling in her chair and drawing her legs up. Still, she watches quietly, a hand once again reaching out to touch the darkness, remind herself that they haven't moved, that they couldn't possibly be anywhere but still within Skyhold.

"And what is this...?"

The chill that had crept through Galadriel shifted, fickle and inconsistent as fevers are wont to be, and with it a sense of oppressive warmth crept into the air around them. The temperature didn't shift, not in earnest, but there was a disconcerting clarity to the sensation of rising heat, one that was hard to distinguish as separate from reality.

The darkness gave way but, perhaps, it would have been better if it hadn't.

She had only glanced this memory, bright and inconsistent in the heart of Samwise Gamgee, and it fell unevenly across the library around them. Patches of stone were lit by absent conjured light, the walls glimmered with veins of silver white as the stars, but the world refused to resolve itself. She lacked the details of Moria.

Unfortunately, her mind had no shortage of memory to draw from. The gaps in her knowledge were easily filled by her unconscious mind.

A distant, ruddy light crept into the library from below, from much farther down than bounds of the fortress allowed. There was a chattering of indistinct noise and arrows, invisible and silent cut through the air and clattered against the walls. There was a ripple of drumbeats, of falling rock somewhere far below, and the distant clamoring shrieks of orcs as they scrambled into their dark hollows.

For a time, it was still once more.

The whole fortress seemed to tremble as the first dreadful footstep fell and silence chased after it. From the great hall, another tremor crawled through the stone, and another, as the demon approached. Red light spilled in from all sides, it threw long shadows across all the surfaces of the library, and around them it grew ever hotter. The flavor of ash and death was heavy on the air.

The spirits that had lingered were, by turns, attracted and repulsed by the encroaching nightmare.

Beleth was terrified.

She knew it was a dream, she knew it couldn't hurt her, but logic couldn't quite fight instincts that screamed at her that this was bad, this was dangerous, evil. She didn't have to be told to know that, to feel in her heart that primal, base evil that crept out of Galadriel's dream. She recoiled from it, from the sounds of orcs, and then from that figure.

Fear overrode curiosity, and Beleth knew that it was time to wake Galadriel up. After all, if Beleth was this distressed, she couldn't imagine that the other elf was much happier, dreaming it. Still tucked into her seat, as if that would perhaps provide some form of safety, the Dalish woman reached over, gently shaking Galadriel's shoulder.

"My lady. My lady, please, wake up." Her tone betrayed just how unsettled she felt, even as she tried to reign in her emotions--it wouldn't do to seem overly fraught over a mere dream, not in front of Galadriel.

Unfortunately for Beleth, even when she was healthy, Galadriel had become something of a heavy sleeper. The gentle touch on her arm and the hushed voice that summoned her, no matter how urgent it was, was insufficient to rouse the feverish elf. Unfortunately, Beleth's efforts were not entirely in vain, and they crept quickly into the dream around them.

The walls quaked as Beleth shook her and the image of them came apart, breaking in pieces as the ground shook. The doorway to the library, in reality, was far too small to glimpse the creature that prowled this nightmare but, as the walls fell away, the cloud of clinging, pitch and darkness spilled through the gaps. It poured into the ruddy light and, beyond the collapsing wall, seemed to yawn into a great and empty distance beyond

This sight, this one moment, was one that Samwise Gamgee had witnessed in full. Galadriel's imagination needed no help to conjure this and, as the heat became nearly unbearable, the darkness whorled and the first licks of flame appeared. The beast drew itself up, a massive figure if shadow and flame, and miasma of smoke and ash stretched from it like great wings unfurling. It drew a deep breath, like the bellows of some long forgotten forge, and flame rose all across its skin. Fire wreathed its limbs, glinted across its terrible horns, sparked in the pits of its eyes, and a burning flail hung from its great, massive claws. When its eyes, white hot and searing, fell upon them, it released a terrible, earthshaking roar.

Beleth has faced a great deal of things in her life. She has faced attempts on her life, she has faced shambling corpses, she's faced people with red lyrium growing out of them, twisting them into monsters. By the dread wolf, she has fought a flesh golem!

This thing, a dream of a memory from another world, is unable to reach her. And yet, without question, it is far more terrifying. Therefore, she feels like she has every right in the world, as it approaches, to begin scooting behind Galadriel's prone form, eyes wide as saucers. She shakes Galadriel again, harder this time, praying that she wakes in time to--to what, fight this thing? Is that even possible?

Panic is already rising up in Beleth's throat, she can feel one of those fits coming on. And she struggles to keep it down, to not embarrass herself right in front of the Lady. But then the Balrog roars, and Beleth's mind goes a fuzzy, static white. She lets out an ear-piercing shriek, all decorum forgotten as she grabs for Galadriel and clings to her like a frightened toddler.

She's going to die, she's going to die and the Lady is probably going to die too because Beleth couldn't do anything but cry and hold on to her when the monster came.

Beleth's shriek and the desperate grip that suddenly seized her from behind were, finally, enough to rouse Galadriel from her dream. Feverish and confused, the elf woke in turns. The demon that rose up before them lunged but, as Galadriel blinked awake, it faded into smoke and vanished, absorbed by the hazy candlelight of the library. Galadriel stared at the space it had occupied, momentarily thrown, and hardly seemed to realize that she had twisted in her seat.

She looked down, at the blanket that hung over her shoulders, at the hands that grasped at her sides, and followed the path of her own arm. It had moved without her leave, she'd reached behind herself on reflex as she woke, and it took her a moment to realize why. A pair of arms that had gripped her and she, in turn, had drawn someone to her side. Half asleep, for a fleeting instant, she was somewhere a very long time ago and her heart was in her throat--but then she started to come back to herself.

"Beleth?" Galadriel asked, her voice rougher than it ought to be. She didn't release the Dalish elf, not immediately, and her confusion was plain on her face.

Not being released immediately suits Beleth just fine, because she's not quite ready to let go of Galadriel. The panic and fear had escalated too far to simply be stopped by the disappearance of the monstrous creature, and even with it gone, she clings to Galadriel, struggling with her breathing. She considers it a personal victory that she doesn't just hyperventilate right then and there, but it's a small comfort when she's in tears, whole body shivering.

Her name dimly registers, and it's a few gasping breathes until Beleth can try to acknowledge the elven queen that she was clinging to. The first thing that registers is a deep, profound embarrassment. Once her breath is under control enough to speak, she immediately begins to apologize.

"My lady," And, slowly, her hands free themselves from Galadriel. "I am so, so sorry, my lady. I know it was a dream, but it felt so real. I could feel the heat. I could hear it."

Galadriel stared at the elf, at the top of her head, as she shook, until she understood what she was speaking of. If she hadn't been half in dreams, herself, she would have never realized.

"You saw the demon?" Galadriel asked, quietly and, before Beleth could answer, turned and drew the dalish woman into a proper embrace.

Of all people, Galadriel knew well the horror of such creatures, the dread that they inspired. To see one in Thedas? That must have been jarring. She could not imagine how she would have reacted to such a fright, even knowing what she saw. That Beleth had been reduced to trembling was nothing to be ashamed of.

"Av'osto, Beleth," Galadriel said, softly. "It is terrible to behold, but it was not real. They do not walk these lands."

"That was like no demon I have seen before." Beleth whispered, as though the creature could somehow hear and take offense. She accepts the embrace, and returns it, wrapping her arms around the older woman. It's a comfort she won't deny herself, even if it's still rather embarrassing to act like a child in front of Galadriel.

Even if Galadriel was infinitely older than her already. It's the principle of the matter.

"I'm glad that it doesn't exist here. I can't believe it's a thing in your world. Your world has always sounded so--" So idyllic. A land where elves are dignified rulers who lived without being touched by time. Even Sam, with his surprising idealism, painted a picture without trying of some kind of paradise. "I wanted to see it. That's why I didn't wake you up sooner. I should have, but before that monster, I saw a land that seemed..." How do you even describe it, or that other woman? "...Like the world that had once been, and may be again, some day."

"Like it had been?" Galadriel repeated and, after a pause, and attempted to recall the beginnings of her dreams, before heat and the smell of smoke had warped them. The old world was what had spawned those creatures--how had she dreamed? What had Beleth seen that had been so separate from them?

"Melian!" she announced, almost surprised, as the image returned to her. Her laugh was the confused sound of the freshly woken, but it held a thread of genuine joy. She released Beleth so she could look down at her. "You saw Melian?"

"You saw that dream?" She asked but, it seemed expected no answer. "Melian was a dear friend of mine, from ages long past. Her lands..."

"Arda is...much darker than Thedas, I fear. Great and terrible things slumber in it but, despite them, there was much light as well. Melian kept safe the elven lands of Doraith, not even the demons could cross the bounds that she drew."

"Had I a choice, I can think of no image I would have rather shown you, no memory brighter than Melian."

Once she was released, Beleth straightened up, quickly wiping away the remnants of any tears with the heel of her hand. Crying?? No, there was just. Dust in her eye. "I saw a woman," Beleth admitted, "One who looked like you. Tall and fair, and--Incredible."

She hesitates for a moment, then glances up to look at Galadriel. "...Arda feels like a story--like something the hahrens told the children around the campfire at night. We hear about Arlathan, but..." She shrugs. "...I wanted to see it. That's why I didn't wake you up. I'm glad I got to see Lady Melian." Even if it was offset by the terrible things that followed.

"What happened to her?" Curiosity drives her to wonder, for Galadriel spoke of Melian as if she was no longer there. What could happened to someone so great, so fair?

Beleth's hesitance, the redness around her eyes and the set of her shoulders, spoke of deep curiosity but a certain delicacy as well. She wished to know these things, to know of arda, but there was a thread of hope tangled within her thoughts. It was a thread many of the Dalish shared and Galadriel did not intend to tarnish it.

Not if she could help it.

"I admit, even to my own ears, my life and memories sometimes sound like legends. They are things long passed, mired in time and nostalgia; it can be hard to recall that each name I knew was one that a person bore, that I should not think on them as symbols or the function of their power.

"That woman might've been me, for I spent much time in her company ere the end, but I cannot say for certain. Melian...grew weary, with both her grief and loss," Galadriel explained, her tone slowing as she recalled the fate of Doraith, as she thought on the cousins she now avoided, if only passively.

"Her daughter was lost to her, wed to a mortal man and bound to his fate, and her husband was slain for the want of a glorious treasure. Her lands were no longer tolerable, they reminded her of the dead, the passed, and she traveled to my homeland, to a place where she could find rest and reprieve from all her sorrows."

"She is there now, I expect, and I hope that I might see her again, but I do not think that is my fate."

But this was sad, and their conversation had come from such a grim vision. If she was not careful she would be consumed by these thoughts.

"Tell me, what does hahren mean?"

Beleth listens intently to Galadriel, nodding along as she tells her about Melian--Though she pauses when Galadriel touches on Luthien, blinking in surprise. "Her daughter married a human? Why in the world would she do that? Is--Is that normal, in Arda?" It was certainly taboo here, and the elves here weren't immortal noble beings, splendid and ethereal. She couldn't imagine what an elf who was would find attractive about a mere human man.

Because Beleth doesn't like human men!!! They all suck!!!

It's depressing, the story, aside from that, but the mention of a homeland peeks her curiosity. She wondered what kind of homeland a woman like Galadriel was from, what had caused her to leave it--and why she didn't think she'd be back. But Beleth's curiosity wasn't so great as to be oblivious to the reluctance Galadriel possessed to discuss it, and the Dalish could understand. She also had someone waiting in her homeland, and she also wondered if she would ever see it, and him, again. So she filed it away for another day.

"Hahren--It means different things to the Dalish, and the city elves. The word means elder, and that's what they are to the Dalish. We honor the long lives they've led--" She pauses for a moment, suddenly acutely aware that even the eldest hahren in the Ashara clan must seem like a child to Galadriel. She cleared her throat, and quickly moved on. "They keep our stories, and care for the children. Our oldest hahren is a man named Anan. He's of poor health, and can't walk around much anymore, but his spirit still burns brightly." She paused, giving a few moments for remembrance, smile fond.

"But for the city elves...I'm not exactly sure, but they seem to serve almost as a Keeper would. Perhaps because they used to send all their mages off to be locked away in a tower. But they lead the alienages, I guess." A small shrug followed the much less interested explanation. Who cared about city elves anyway.

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OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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