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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She's working, all her focus on the paperwork before her. It's hopelessly muddled already; Cassandra hates paperwork to start with, and with the voices buzzing in her ears and the way her body aches, concentrating is even harder than usual.

She smells the food before she sees it, her nose twitching in interest at the scent of spices and cooked meat, and when the plate appears on her desk, on top of the scattered pages, she looks over at it. She feels sluggish, slow, and she just stares dumbly for a moment before looking up.

She flinches instinctively at the sight of his face, an image flashing into her mind from nowhere - the blood runs from the corner of his mouth as he coughs weakly, his eyes finding hers, apologetic, even as the light fades from them - and then it is gone, and Cassandra smooths her expression, offering a tired smile.

"Malcolm." She looks down at the plate again, shaking her head. "I - thank you. But you do not owe me anything."

His hot face pinches in concern at her expression, however quickly it vanishes. (Despair chuckles heartily. It's found a friend in this woman.) What did he do wrong this time? Or did she happen to see something...odd around him?

He's not sure which would be worse, initially: to have something horrible from the fade taking an interest in him, or to simply not be good enough.

"I was inappropriate, before." He sounds tired. They both do. "Demanding of you. Although sometimes I think you like to be challenged like that. Plus, you ought to keep up your strength."

The voices murmur, Guilt berating her (he should not have had to come to you), Loyalty quietly praising Malcolm. Cassandra shakes her head, trying to clear her mind.

"You were concerned," she says. "As you should have been." She will not say he was right, not after he had spoken of appeasement and deceit, but then, neither had she been, in the end. She sighs, rubbing at her eyes. "I...should not have spoken as I did that day. I am sorry."

"There are situations," he continues delicately, "where there are no right answers. And we simply have to make due with the answers that get us closest to the results we want."

Though in his mind she still outranks him--perhaps not technically in the Seeker ranks, but as someone in a position of power within the Inquisition, whose orders he would still feel beholden to--he is familiar enough with her to sit without prompting, carrying a nearby chair over to do so. Plus, he's tired enough to not care to stand anything like at attention when he doesn't have to.

This is, after all, a social call rather than a professional one.

"We can be stubborn beings, there's no doubt about that. And now that the matter is settled, we can move on from it and hope to be better. If you can forgive my impertinence, I can forgive your harshness."

Cassandra laughs, with a rueful smile, as she picks up her fork.

"I am afraid you will have to forgive my harshness again in the future many times," she says. "But all right. All is forgiven."

She hears something, and though she cannot quite make out the words, the voice feels...familiar, somehow. She turns her head, trying to catch a glimpse of a large hat over yellow hair. "Cole?"

"I'm certain my impertinence will rear its head soon enough as well." It isn't as though he's never butted up against personalities and traits that clashed with his own, either for being too different or too similar. There's relief to hear her laugh, a light sagging of his shoulders at putting it behind them. Oh, there's still plenty of stress even now, with the weather and this damnable illness, but there is a weight lifted for now.

But she is distracted. By what, by who, he can't say, though he peers beyond her. There are a few people still shuffling around, those who haven't caught it, or those whose symptoms aren't too bad, or those who are determined to go on even if they shouldn't. He doesn't know the name she asks for, however. Wouldn't know who to look for.

Or they might not be there. Malcolm frowns. "Happen to look like a spirit, does he?" he intones, having come to understand some of the origins of the visions. They're still startling, obtrusive in quiet moments, and deeply troubling, but at least it isn't just him going insane.

"He is a spirit," Cassandra corrects him. "I thought I heard..." But Cole is nowhere to be seen, and she sighs, giving up and turning back to her meal. Her eyes meet Malcolm's over the desk. She has not spoken of the visions, the whispers, to anyone yet, but now that he's brought it up, said the word out loud..."You have heard them too, then."

"I thought perhaps I was hallucinating with fever. Perhaps it still is, some mass hallucination that is part and parcel to this illness going around. Something Fade-touched, perhaps?" He shakes his head. "Focusing on my work seems to help, even if it does little for my health. Still, they are seen when focus is lost. Even for a moment."

A smirk quirks his lips. "You know, while I would normally reserve the phrase 'you have a glow about you' for women with child or those who are particularly happy..."

"Whatever they are, they are distracting. And mostly unpleasant," Cassandra says flatly. Not all, certainly. There have been quiet murmurings of faith and righteousness, as well. But those of doubt and fear seem to take hold much more readily.

She lifts an eyebrow, looking at Malcolm somewhat disbelievingly. "Are you saying I glow, Malcolm?"

"I'm certainly saying you at least have glows around you. When one is not paying attention. Right now to me you simply have the glow that comes with fever." He waves aside his bland attempt at humour. So noted, only funny when he's giving his usual gallows humour.

"Even the pleasant ones are unpleasant. They're not for us to see, or anyone else. I don't care what spirits happen to think I'm particularly of interest--it seems...personal, in a way, that others should see."

Cassandra only shrugs. It is nothing to her whether people see the spirits hounding her steps or not. If no one saw them, they would still be there, and that concerns her more than who might see them, or hear what they have to say. "They are not personal. They simply are, whether we happen to be aware of them or not." But she's too tired to really argue (simply because she's been working, anyone would be tired - ) and she waves the subject away dismissively.

"I feel fine." The words come readily; they're the same ones she's been saying for days to anyone who might dare to imply that she might be less than well, or suggest that a rest might benefit her.

"I don't believe you're fine any more than you do." They are, after all, cut from some very similar cloth. He knows he isn't fine but will wave off anyone who suggests otherwise. Just because he isn't fine doesn't mean he can't still work. There are those worse off than he is. "And if you think others can't tell, then you're even more stubborn than you'd have everyone believe. I'm not saying hole up in the healer tents. They've enough on their plates as it is. Merely...pointing it out."

Cassandra watches him suspiciously. The concept of someone recognizing that she's sick, yet not immediately insisting that she rest, is a new and strange one, and she doesn't quite trust it.

"I..." She frowns, not quite sure how to respond. "...Point...taken." She sighs, glancing down at the papers before her. The words still swim before her eyes, and she sighs again, giving it up for the moment and looking back at Malcolm. The work will not do itself, is more important than her own troubles, but he, at least, seems to realize that. "You do not look good yourself."

A beat, and her eyes widen as she realizes what she'd said. "That is - I only meant -"

He wouldn't have thought anything of it but for her reaction. It starts as a surprised chuckle, rolling into proper laughter and a grin. "You only meant that I am also unwell." He coughs a little, leans forward with the effort and takes a moment to catch his breath. A smirk remains, self-depricating. "However could you tell?"

Malcolm shakes his head, sitting back up straighter. "Work must be done, and if everyone who had taken ill went for a lie-down until it passed, people would be dying on the passages here and nothing would get done, and this place would fall apart. And we must...keep appearances." Another shake. "You must keep up appearances, and Lady Montilyet, and Sister Nightingale, and Commander Cullen. Even if we see your illness, you strive to carry on. Now, were you in such a state that you were delirious with fever and could barely stand, then I would insist upon rest." He peers at her. "Unless you're worse off than you appear."

She tenses at his laughter, bracing herself for teasing and torment, but it doesn't come. He's amused, yes, but the laughter is not aimed at her, and - thank the Maker - for once, someone actually understands her meaning without her having to attempt to explain.

"Yes," she says, with a relieved smile. "That is what I meant. Normally you are very handsome."

She's so relieved that he hadn't taken her original pronouncement the wrong way that she doesn't think about what she's saying next - doesn't bother to analyze her words before she says them - and so she moves right on from the unsolicited, slightly backhanded compliment without a second thought or a hint of embarrassment, nodding eagerly in agreement with him. "I only wish everyone understood that as well. We are - we are the examples, are we not?" She frowns. "I am far from delirious."

Hopefully, however, he will not ask her to stand.

He wonders sometimes if it's just something most Seekers have in common. That they've formed a way of speaking that makes their meaning clear to one another but invites ridicule from those outside. Malcolm and Cassandra and Aleron all seem to understand one another perfectly fine, after all.

Still, that he is to be called handsome by her catches him off-guard. He's never considered the likes of Cassandra in any way other than a strictly professional--if friendly--relationship. So. Obviously it's just her trying to cover for inadvertently saying he looks ill. Obviously. She would never--

Hm. Maybe he should just ignore it as she did. That might be the safer and less embarrassing for the both of them. Still, doesn't keep him from staring for a moment longer and clearing his throat. "Far from it, of course. Just occasionally seeing spirits hanging around everyone. I just hope you're getting adequate rest when you're not under scrutiny. Maker forbid you collapse from pushing yourself too hard when it isn't called for."

He motions to the plate. "Which you have a habit of doing." Pot, meet kettle... "Hence making sure you do eat adequately. You would scarcely believe how busy the kitchen is, though. We'll be burning through quite a few of our herbs and meats and potatoes just throwing together so much tea and stew. And then the cooks complain that some ingredients are going missing or ending up in the oddest of places... But, those are things to consider once this illness has passed and our roads are cleared. For now we can only take care of our own and be glad to be able to do that much."

Cassandra frowns vaguely, but she does pick up her fork again and turn her attention to the food. Now that she thinks of it, she can't really recall the last time she had more than a quick bite to eat as she hurried from one meeting to the next. Not that she would admit that to Malcolm.

"I know," she says grimly, and gestures to the papers spread over the table. "That is - it is part of what I am trying to account for. It will not do to run out of food before more supply caravans are able to reach us, and we have so many here now." The refugees, the rifters, those eager to join the Inquisition - it is a wonder Skyhold can hold them all.

She shoots a glance at him, needing to make at least a token effort at defending her own health and ability to work. "I am not the only one seeing spirits."

He doesn't envy her paperwork. Even if they are, in technicality, the same rank, she is a head of the Inquisition, and he is not. He'll take some grim, private pleasure in not being inundated with it all. So he'll by pass it. She knows what's at stake; it isn't his place to keep reminding her as if she wasn't there when the Inquisition was formed, as if she wasn't there when the Herald proved to be the Herald.

"You are not the only one determined to work despite seeing spirits." So there. "The spirits can be...distracting, but not enough to keep me from lending a hand." Not even the heavy presence of Despair can hold him back, though it tries in dark moments. To have Hope so nearby helps. And that's just his own spirits to be distracted by, much less all the others, the glimpses and pauses and whispers of conversation.

"The illness will have to make me drop entirely before I back down. Hopefully it will not come to that point." It's been close, but he hasn't gone down yet.

She looks up at him, raising a single eyebrow in a simple gesture that still manages to communicate exactly how unimpressed she is with that declaration. There's a moment of silence while she tries to work out how to express her opinion diplomatically - and then she just gives up.

"You are being stupid." She frowns, and waves a hand as if to fend off any impending protests. "Not about the spirits. About the illness."

Well, he's always known he's the much more diplomatic of the two of them. "I beg your pardon?" he ends up saying with a laugh in his voice. "And what, exactly, are you being, then?"

At least he's laughing, and not taking offense. Cassandra doesn't smile in return, but she's more tired than actually angry or disapproving.

"I am doing what must be done, and no more," she says. Perhaps not entirely accurate, but close enough that she believes it, anyway. "I am working because no one else can do this - because I must provide an example. And when the pain and exhaustion become too much, I will stop." She narrows her eyes at him. "Fighting until you collapse will only put you in greater danger, and create more work for the healers, in the end."

"You speak like I refuse to sleep. I certainly sleep, and eat. And sit at a table and relax with a trusted-" what does he call Cassandra "-advisor. But to be perfectly fair to any and all healers that have ever had to deal with me, I am a poor patient."

And, well, not accident-prone or poor of health, but...still tends to take ill quicker than others, and puts himself in harm's way more often. So. It's a not-insignificant number of people. "I am able to look after myself."

Advisor? She raises an eyebrow at his choice of words, but merely shakes her head. Attempting to define her relationship with Malcolm is a task beyond her capacity, at the moment.

"Take care that you do, then." She won't force him to go to the healers; she would be a terrible hypocrite if she tried. But there's a large gap between capitulating at the first sign of weakness, and stubbornly ignoring even the extremes of one's limits. "I will not hear of you pushing yourself until you drop."

He could point out that hyperbole is a thing, but refrains. And if he's honest with himself, should the need come, he would push himself that hard. That need hasn't come, and he doesn't foresee it happening. "Yes, mother," he murmurs. "So long as you keep up your appetite. Or I will keep making pies until you do."

Even for a Seeker of Truth, Cassandra can be excessively literal - to the point where it actually hinders communication and understanding, rather than making things clear. And so she feels a flare of satisfaction - she had gotten through to him, he would not take foolish risks for no reason - even as she rolls her eyes, shaking her head with a disgusted noise. "Please. I am not that old."

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OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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