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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"...Oh." Many of the details are slipping away, but because it's closer to memory than anything else and he's had the dream time and time again, he still knows the shape of it. He also gets the implication. Not that he was tossing and turning, as from what he knows he doesn't tend to do that, but that it came through in a way a few dreams have been coming through.

He's quiet for a moment as she pets the cat, trying to find words.

"Well. I did get fresh air out of it. Many apprentices and enchanters were jealous of that part. And rain. That was when I started to fall in love with rain, though I'm still a little disappointed whenever it's cold." When all else fails, make it less serious and painful.

'Making the issue smaller than it is will not help the cause, only your own feelings.' That's not a new complaint. He's heard it extremely often, even.

"In you go. I'll wake you after a time." Purrelden butts her head against Adelaide's hand, demanding more, paying him no heed, and he looks down at the little traitor. "You can borrow the little ingrate if you'd like, even. Apparently toppling from Nate's face is fine with her, but not my chest."

"There are some places in northern Orlais where it falls warm." Far from the mountains and Val Royeaux proper; it depends upon the season but-

That is thinking far ahead and assuming much. It is nothing she can offer; the small cottage has not been hers for thirty years. Whether or not she'd ever be invited again remains to be seen; even if she's missed it dearly. Less confining, less stiff, no real worries about The Game. The one place her family behaved like a family.

Purrelden has suddenly become terribly compelling. Adelaide keeps her eyes on the kitten, her own exhaustion limiting her filter to the bare minimum- but the offer warms her enough to look up with a hopeful smile. "Truly?"

Maybe one day he'll see those places, though chances are slim. He is who he is and the Blight runs through his veins. It could be nice to dream about anyway.

"Maybe your brother can send some of that with the next supply crate." Anders gives her a small smile that grows to reach his eyes at her smile and question. He'd not known she was that fond of cats. it's another point in her favor. "And yes."

He lifts the kitten up for a nose-to-nose touch before holding her out for Adelaide to take. "Don't worry if she takes a few moments to settle down, and if she drapes over your mouth and nose urge her up to over your eyes and she'll stay there instead. She likes faces."

It's a charming image, Anders and the kitten nose to nose. Compassion offers a wave of warmth and a nudge to rest- something she listens to and obeys easily enough, toeing off her shoes to slip under the furs of the cot. Purrelden is cradled to her chest as she settles, her hand gentle against the kitten's slim body. Much as she had when they played at tea before all this change, the kitten seems entranced with the dangling weight of Adelaide's braid as she tugs it out from under her.

"Strange little thing, isn't she?" Adelaide murmurs as she curls on her side, tugging the furs and throws up over her side, creating a soft little hollow for the kitten to explore at her leisure.

"All cats are. It's what makes them so charming. I've been trying to train her a little, but she's not quite as responsive to it as my last cat." That doesn't mean he loves her any less.

Purrelden starts inspecting the shape, nosing around and trying to decide if it's worthy of her, and he decides she'll be safe here.

"Rest well. I'll be back later. And behave as much as you're able, Purrelden." He offers them both another smile before heading out to check on the status of everything and see where he's needed.

"No more than two hours." She calls after Anders even as exhaustion drips and curls and drags her down, the soft thrumming of Purrelden's purr soothing the strain from her mind. It is easy to slip into warmth and rest, to drift in fever fogged dreaming to warmer, happier times. Sunlight through a window in the Spire, tucked in a chair in its library. Shelves upon shelves of books on magic, a scattering of notes, a younger self dozing half propped up against her own hand only to be shaken awake by a familiar hand and more familiar smile.

Tall, blond, smirkingly wicked in his own way but so, so easy to tease- the memories and dreams are indistinct. No demons, no tempting offers. At least not yet. Just the warmth of familiarity and the casual tangle of their fingers, the press of his lips against her shoulder as they studied, his confused pout when she makes him wait until this paper is finished. Even when there is only one chair there's playful wrestling, tugging at the sleeve of her robe or outright moments where he sprawled in her lap and refused to move until she offered him attention. She's young in these memories- happier, brighter, kinder. Setting aside work more often to debate sparkling versus still wine, this technique to another for magics, showing off casually her skills when they could get away with it. Here the templars didn't touch them, here they didn't care.

Tears, one night, as he clings. Indistinct murmuring in Orlesian- fear for what was to come. 'You have to come back.' he says, voice trembling. 'You have to be you.'

'They haven't tricked me yet' All the pride and certainty of youth, the arrogance of a mage untried and the memories of the actual harrowing are a smear of shadow and sound and unimportant in the face of stumbling out and being unable to find him. Of reading a letter- words shifting and blurring on the page, delivered by an anxious templar. Of sprinting to the library, halls endless and winding and circuitous and now, the whispers, now the demons.

'There is a cure if you can find him' they say, hands outstretched with familiar fingers, crackling with familiar laughter. 'We know the answer, you have to ask'

It is always hers for the asking, hers to have, and she can't. She screams, frost trailing in her wake and she finds him- she always finds him.

Snowing in the alcove they used to share and it hadn't been this cold- it is her fear made manifest, her grief. Sitting straight and flipping through a book methodically. Taking notes with a familiar scratch of pen to paper and his eyes when he looks up so flat.

So empty.

The brand burning on his skin still, sizzling with lyrium and pain and 'there is a cure if you can find him. We know where he is, we can show you, you can save him, only you can save him-'

Appealing to pride, to vanity, to grief long since abandoned-

Fire in the spire and the hurried sprint out, blood on marble and the children following behind with streaming eyes and shaking hands and he's still there- by the door. Eyes still blank, hands stiff and certain- as he holds a door shut behind him. Thudding against the weight of templars, of demons-

They're not making progress against this fever... but they're not losing much ground anymore. Maybe that's because of the limited amount of people? Skyhold is large for a fortress, but that's about it. At this point they have to make progress.

He sits down to go through the notes again a couple of hours later, looking for what they're missing. It's here. The answer is here. They just have to look at it the right way, consider all of the information they have, and not get distracted by quite the pretty blond mage standing nearby for just a moment before vanishing. Anders frowns. That hadn't been a spirit, and there's no point in demons tempting him. He's possessed.

Shaking his head, he goes back to the notes only to hear Adelaide talking about wine, and a male voice answering her. If someone woke up to talk to her about wine... He gets up and heads in, only to feel the whole of the scene, her fear and her pride and her loss. Anders bends down and rests a hand on her shoulder, murmuring her name.

Their argument takes a different shape, now, with this. But he'd think she'd want a cure, a way to bring him back. Maybe she's afraid of more pain. He can't blame her for that.

"Adelaide," he says again. They're in so much danger while this fever is around, and it's not just from present-day things.

'Addie' the ghost says in a flicker of the Fade- smiling and bright and warm- flat and empty and branded both. Urging her to go before she's caught and sent to the Senior Enchanters again-

To go before she's caught and killed.

It'd given her a scrap of raw, ragged hope that night and she clings and shudders, curled inward in a tight ball around the hollow where Purrelden sleeps in a warm, thrumming puddle of fur and pillows. It hurt then to hear it, hurt worse to think of it, aches to dream of it. Having that smile, having him here. Supporting her, letting her talk, pointing out flaws in her arguments, reminding her to be Addie and not just the Enchanter LeBlanc-

Adelaide, she hears, and starts awake with a sharp twitch away from that hand, eyes wide and damp and wild for the moment it takes her to place herself.

Reasons she sleeps alone and wakes without intervention.

Reasons her students leave her to it.

He doesn't reach out to touch her again, letting her come to wakefulness and knowing exactly how he must have looked. Purrelden, on the other hand, mews in protest at the jerk. She keeps being disturbed and she reaches up to put a paw on Adelaide as if to still her.

"This fever is not kind," he says after a few moments. "The good news is no one new has come in, and no one has run away from the tents only to be dragged back."

Justice is rumbling about fear and the Chantry winning every time someone reacts with fear to their own abilities or to mages in general, and Anders wishes he could simply cut the spirit off, stop him from talking.

"And please ignore Justice." Fear is bad to react to, horrible, he agrees, but he's not tactless enough to say anything remotely like that. She has lost. There is no point to drive that home, no point to lecture.

"Désolé , chaton." She murmurs, focusing first on Purrelden. The poor thing keeps attempting to sleep and everyone keeps moving her. How distressing that must be. Adelaide lets her eyes focus on the soft pattern to her fur, smoothing it back into place where she'd mussed it with her twitching.

No one new, good. No one running- better.

He'd seen- they'd seen if Justice and his grumbling is anything to go by and it stings to know that vulnerability has been witnessed. That grief. Compassion wells and settles, curling about her shoulders like a familiar cloak- reproach is not often something they feel but it sits thick in the air after Justice's mumbling. They speak, resonant and melodic 'There is nothing just in ignorant commentary.'

Adelaide snorts a soft, bittersweet laugh at that. "He reminds me of a particularly stubborn and insufferable Senior Enchanter in the Spire."

The cat looks up at her, watching for a few moments before stretching and deigning to allow the petting to continue. Purrelden has decided forgiveness is the way, at least for now. Her eyes close and she resumes purring while Anders continues trying to shut Justice up. It never works, but it's never as serious as this.

"Does he? Was there anyone that shut up that Senior Enchanter? It's not been an issue before this, the comments, not since he left the corpse and joined my body. But nothing shut him up when he was using Kristoff's body either."

If he can't be free of Justice, a gag would be nice. Just some sort of respite.

"And he's always been overly callous. I'm sorry for him."

"Me." On more than one occasion. "It was half the reason I was made Enchanter a year or so before even I expected- it made it slightly less mortifying for him when I corrected his poorly researched papers or sloppy assumptions about various schools of magic he had not quite studied as well as he'd thought."

It didn't solve the problem by a long shot- but it did make it easier on him to only have an Enchanter using red ink on his papers than a mere Mage. "Even for a spirit of Justice he is quite...curt."

And that is putting it kindly.

Better composed she dabs at her eyes with her sleeve and smooths her hair out of her face before looking to Anders. "How long have I been asleep?"

"My anger," he says apologetically. Justice hadn't been sunshine and daisies to start with, but Anders' anger has corrupted the spirit and edged it toward realms they don't like to think about. And in relation to the other, she does sometimes manage to shut Justice up. Just not as often as would be convenient.

"I kept track of time as well as you did." That's less apologetic. They all need rest. "Closer to three, not nearly at what you could use. But that's the story for all of us, I think."

'It is sufficient.'

Anders holds out a hand to her, in case she'd like assistance up. "Though I'm sure she wouldn't object to you staying there for a while. She's not had an easy night of it."

"That explains why my dreams took such a turn, I suppose." They often do if she takes more than an hour or two at a stretch- at least as of late. She's become grimly resigned to it; more than that leads only to deeper and darker places.

Lingering is tempting- but there is work. No matter how charming the kitten. Adelaide smooths her hand against Purrelden's fur one last time before taking Anders' to pull herself up.

"It is a hard life, being a kitten."

"Such a hard life," Anders agrees as he helps her up. "I take away so many things she wants to play with, she's frequently disturbed while simply trying to get some rest... pay no attention to how spoiled she gets at other times."

There's a faint smile on his lips as he next picks up the kitten, who protests that with a little mew, and then tucks her into her belt pouch.

"There. Now she'll be free to rest unbothered until she's good and ready to be awake and bothering me." As if she'd every bothered him. Justice, certainly. Often. Anders? Nope.

"In the meantime, I've nearly got another batch of fever poltices ready, and there are herbs soaking for sleep aids."

"A healer's work is never done." Adelaide sighs, combing her hair out of her face and attempting to straighten her kirtle from their state of perpetual wrinkle. She hasn't had time to do much other than work in the past few days- this moment of rest notwithstanding. But an answer will be found.

And this will pass. All such bouts of fever do.

"Shall we?"

"Let's." He leads the way back to the desk and starts spreading stuff out so they can both return to work. It never truly will ever be done, but at least they've gotten a small amount of rest and can approach things with fresher eyes.

Or at least make cooling poultices with more agility than when they were absolutely dead on their feet.

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OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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