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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You're already sick," Michel offered, if they all had the same illness could it truly get any better or any worse sitting here? Still, he could sense that this was something that truly bothered Zevran, "what if I brought one here? Or if they had something that they could, at least, give me for the fever?"

Michel was out of his mind with not being able to do anything at all, and this was so unlike him, it put him on edge. Those dreams as well kept coming back to him, revolving in his head and perhaps he was staring at Zevran in a way that would make someone curious. He tore his gaze away after a moment pondering his hands and whether he should admit to seeing something so personal, "you had dreams while you were delirious."

"Sick, not dead." He is not going to the plague tents and he is not so poorly off that he needs a doctor. He is fine.

"Brandy, honey, and elfroot." That is all he needs. That- he has, actually, even if all he has in his hands is water. Brandy later, perhaps, along with the honey and the elfroot. "Did I talk in my sleep?"

Michel simply gazed at Zevran in silence, for now he would let him have his way, but if he deteriorated in anyway he would be hard pressed to stand by and watch it idly.

And Michel would be happy to get him some brandy, in conjunction with the water. He was sweating so much and losing so much fluid through his skin that he would dehydrate and Michel would be forced to act, he could already see it in those dry lips. At least in this he was somewhat reassured, "no...I would not say that you talked in your sleep so much as projected your dreams...this is...why."

"..." For a long moment he went still, swallowing water and considering what he'd dreamed of. What Michel had seen. Maker's breath why couldn't it have been Alistair that found him? Alistair that knew everything, Alistair that did not care.

Michel now knew. Michel would care.

"Dreams are dreams." Not memories.

"Certainly," Michel agreed with Zevran, but whether he believed it entirely was another matter. He cared, of course he cared, he'd allowed Zevran to see more of him than anyone ever had and mark him in such a way. Still he curbed his feelings and his enthusiasm and it left him feeling leaden and hollow, but he couldn't claim an ounce of anything that was real about himself.

"It was just a dream," Michel preoccupied himself, pouring a glass of water, if he didn't he would certainly eye Zevran some more and this had to be better.

"Nothing more." It is not something he wishes to discuss. He had the water in his hands and a heavy weight on his mind- thinking through the fog and attempting to consider what Michel might have seen-

There are a great many things. He could lie. Ask if he saw anything arousing (he probably did) rather than terrible. He survived the Crows, survived that room, survived Antiva.

Nothing more needs to be said.

"Of course...!" Michel rarely spoke above his polite and civil tones, even when he was frustrated about something, but there was a heat in his voice that elevated his tone. If it didn't surprise Zevran than it certainly surprised him and he pushed himself into a sitting position, legs hanging over the edge of the bed.

He ran his hands through his hair, his own body damp with sweat, most of it Zevran's the rest of it was from holding Zevran. Gaining control over that spike in his demeanor, Michel set the water aside, steepled his fingers and watched the opposite wall with interest.

"Pardon...I agree with you...of course," the calm was back in his voice, that usual air of politeness that clung to Michel like an old habit, trained into him.

Never one to flinch- Zevran went damningly still. His version of twitching away, of flinching at the tone is to lock up entirely for a moment as his bleary mind attempts to pick out what he had done wrong this time. Tempers of men flared often when the man was passionate and Taliesin had passion. Under the polish Michel did as well.

He ought to know better than to speak out against such a man when they were nude and in bed.

That Michel could reign everything in again so neatly, so coolly gave him pause. Making him lose composure in a certain way was half the appeal of knowing the man, knowing he could keep it was no surprise.

But anger was new. Frustration that wasn't sexual? Was new. "...clearly you have your own opinions on the matter."

Michel could feel Zevran lock up, it rippled across the bed, and whether it was something that Zevran had done wrong or Michel had done wrong...or perhaps both of them, the Chevalier couldn't say. There were a number of things running through his head right now and perhaps keeping so much of this to himself was driving him crazy. He curled in on himself after a moment, immediately regretting it, how a man as broad and tall as he could look as though he were disappearing, but it didn't last.

After a moment he twisted back around on the bed and bowed his biddably, as tractable toward Zevran as he'd ever been toward the Empress. It came with so many years of service and practiced dissembling, "...I apologize...it's nothing that really matters right now."

"Clearly it does, otherwise you would not be so upset." And what was curling up tight against the pressure and weight of frustration other than a sign of intense emotion? He knew well enough Michel felt it but there were times when it was easier to ignore them. Dancing around the matter of Sentiment had been easy enough in the past.

Why must it come to a head now when he was not thinking clearly?

Michel stretched out across the bed, hooking his arms around Zevran's tense body, his face pressing into his stomach. This was not something they had to discuss while Zevran was feeling this way, but a few things would put the Chevalier's mind at ease, "do you want me here, bel homme? Do you find me to be a reliable enough man?"

Alright- this was new. The closeness, the intensity, the asking. Did he find Michel reliable? Was there an answer he could give that wouldn't end in some manner of complication? Without words for a moment Zevran combed his fingers through the Chevalier's hair, stroking it gently in an attempt to sooth. "I do."

As much as he found any human noble reliable- but the qualifier does not need to be said.

"Then that is enough," for how long? Michel wasn't entirely certain, but for now it was an answer that would serve him, and he relaxed against Zevran, luxuriating in the feeling of fingers combing through his hair. For now he had this, but he was certain Zevran would cut him out soon, that was his expectation anyway. He might have marked Michel, but the Chevalier doubted he would be kept. It simply was not done, not in his experience.

"And yet, the sad face." He murmured, attempting to soothe this ire, to gentle this upset. "You should not seem so sad, Soleil, it is not becoming upon your handsome face, these eyes, this pout."

Not that the man is actually pouting and not that he can use his normal means of distraction in the slightest- but it is something he can try. To tease out a smile, to coax something closer to normal for them.

I...apologize..." because he really wasn't certain what to say, he wasn't sad or upset very often and it was in fact very rare that he found himself in such a state of upset. He usually swallowed such things and moved on, but in this case it was easier said than done. How did one go about describing their heart being tossed around anyway? The emotions he's built upon and attached to Zevran were compounded with frustration, was he truly sad? Or was he on the verge of a break down?

If that was the case he wouldn't be of any use to anyone in such a state. It wasn't something to talk about now, but he would have to get it out of his system before it killed him, "...it is not something you need to be concerned about, we'll discuss it when you're feeling well, yes?"

In the meantime he pushed himself back up and smoothed his hands against Zevran's sides, "what can I do for you right now?"

"You do not need to apologize. Tell me how to make you smile." Wait, that shouldn't have been what he said. How to cheer you up was- that was sentiment, not sex. But he could not offer anything sensual while this ill and finds himself hopelessly sentimental, if confused, in the face of Michel's upset.

And part of it is habit. Please the human to earn his own peace of mind. He's had to do it plenty with Taliesin throughout his life- a decade long break from that mentality hasn't done much to erase it.

"More water, I think. And an elfroot potion to help with the fever- there should be one in my desk."

Michel wasn't aware that he was leaning forward, he could only feel it, he could feel his lips press against Zevran's gently and they were warmer than normal reminding him that his companion was ill. He withdrew after holding it for a moment, eyes heavy, hands coating their way up to rest on bare shoulders, "you're more important..."

Besides, Michel was used to keeping a straight face...well whatever expression he was wearing probably wasn't straight, but neither was smiling.

"That I can do...I have an ointment as well that might be soothing," and without questioning it, almost as if it was automatic, the Chevalier set to work, elfroot potion... and water. He also rummaged around in his own clothing for the ointment he kept and returned to the bed shortly.

The kiss wasn't as surprising as it ought to be- Zevran knew he made a compelling image when he held himself just so- even with the scars. No, it was not the contact that gave him a moment's pause-

It was what Michel said afterward. That he was more important.

Sentiment.

Before he could say anything to ruin the moment Michel was already moving to serve without question; part of that warmed him. The rest renamed staunchly confused. This was not how things went for him. One day, perhaps, he would become accustomed to Michel surprising him. Today was not that day.

Michel let Zevran settle in with his potion and water before moving again toward the basin filled with water that was now luke warm. Soaking the cloth and wringing it out, he returned to Zevran, mopping his skin with it. This was not the same as a bath, but it was better than letting the sweat sit on his skin. It should make him comfortable, Michel wanted him to be comfortable at least, wiping him down in silence. That Zevran was allowing the Chevalier to take care of seemed to improve his spirits considerably, his eyes softer, his expression gentle for a warrior.

Not the same as a bath- but it helped him feel slightly less gross, a little more settled in his skin. Between that and the water, a swig or two of the elfroot potion- he wasn't better entirely but he was decidedly less miserable. Something in having a human serve that wasn't healer or Alistair struck a chord- how Michel slipped into it so easily, how he seemed to calm in being able to offer this...

An idea popped up and he was not one to ignore it. "I have not combed my hair since this morning- it feels a mess."

Michel ended his wipe down with the turn of Zevran's ankle before returning the cloth to the basin. The request to comb his companion's hair got a curious look from Michel, curious because he'd never actually combed hair before. His own hair had always been short enough to run his fingers through or brush quickly, but it piqued his interest and he scooped up Zevran's comb before sliding in behind him.

"You'll have to forgive me, Bel Homme, combing hair is...ah...new to me," but he did start by shaking his companion's hair loose and then started combing from the bottom up. He figured getting rid of any knots at the bottom should be the first thing he tackled before dragging more down from the top.

"Simply try not to tug and all should be well." He sat up as best he could, long hair damp at his nape and temples from sweat- he'd have to oil it when he bathed next but tangles aside? It was as silken and fine as it'd ever been. Though were he to peer closely and comment upon such things Michel may notice the odd stray hair that is paler still than the rest.

The odd white hair from age and stress.

"You are doing quite well for someone that is new to this." He murmured, drifting a little in the familiar, soothing sensation.

Tugging wouldn't be a problem, Michel tackled this task like a large animal dancing around a smaller, fragile one. While he noticed the stray white strands that turned up at random, Michel said nothing. He understood Zevran enough to know that this could possible hurt his sense of sensuality. That and it wasn't important, Michel wouldn't be surprised if he had a few stray silver strands in his own hair as well from the strain of being a soldier, fighting a way, and fighting his way across Orlais in spite of his age.

"You have hair that is wonderfully cooperative," running his fingers through Zevran's hair often enough he certainly got a feel for how wonderfuly smooth it was.

By the time Michel worked his way to Zevran's scalp he was listing backward, eyes half lidded- were it possible for an elf to purr? He'd be doing so. His skin still burned but his head did not ache so much and he felt slightly more presentable. Tipping his head back into Michel's hands didn't truly help him untangle what knots there were to be found but the press of his fingers felt good. Soothing, grounding. A different delicacy about him than most anyone else he allowed to play with his hair.

"A lifetime of practice and good care has done it well. The one thing it does not do? Is take red. I can make it darker if I must for a job, but it does not take the color red easily- and even should it do so? It does not last." All the better, truly. Blond suited him best.

Zevran luxuriating in the treatment of his hair stirred an odd sense of satisfaction within Michel. There was nothing sexual or erotic about the act, but there was a sensuality and intimacy that had nothing to do with their typical bedroom activities. Being naked and simply in Zevran's presence? It was different, it was pleasant.

"To dye such beautiful hair, criminal," Michel mused pressing his face into the well cared for mass, quickly smoothing under the care of a good combing, "I...cannot imagine you any other way...especially with red hair."

OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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