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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"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."

"I had to darken it when we went north to Nevarra- it was far too close to the Antivan Border for my comfort." He leaned back against Michel, eyes drifting closed even as he remained quiet comfortably awake and aware. "It was not the only change I made- I curled it and spent the entire time disguised as a woman."

Which- he did not think Michel had seen him dressed so, nor had any inkling such a thing were possible with how intimately aware he was of Zevran's masculinity. "The Red was for a job, something for an Orlesian Noble that had a particular taste for them."

"I'm finding it hard to picture than, if I am to be honest..." Michel looked at Zevran from where he sat, and as small and shapely as he was for a man...he was finding it very difficult for Zevran to pass as a woman. As a lover the Chevaier was very aware of his masculinity, though his companion seemed to carefully navigate it, it was a given that need not be spoken of. Zevran was beautiful, but it was a man's beauty.

"Hm...I prefer you just like this to be honest," his blond hair was beautiful, though Michel could not see him any other way than what he was, "but I suspect that those were intriguing times for you."

"It takes some work, of course. Painting and corseting and a rather ingenious contraption to create a false bosom, but it can be done. Perhaps when this is over and I am well again I might show you." He took pride in his skill after all, and there was something about being in a corset that made certain situations all the more sensual.

Little by little the thought ceased to warm him- or rather that was the wave of heat under his skin receding to leave him chilled. Not so much as to drag the blankets back up but more than enough to have him turning to tuck himself against Michel's chest. The man was warm, kind, and present. He would think about it later. "It certainly made the mission simpler. Get a man naked and distracted enough and he stops being quite so paranoid more often than not. Makes the kill afterward easier."

Perhaps it was a good thing that Zevran's back was towards him and not his face, because surely the heat was creeping back up along his neck again. He wasn't even certain himself what it was about this particular conversation that flustered him this way. It should be odd to him, trying to imagine Zevran in a corset and with a false bosom, as he so elegantly put it, and yet it warmed him for the moment these untoward images.

Fortunately the warmth receded easily enough as Zvran began changing his position. Satisfied that there were no more tangles to deal with and his hair was smooth, if not slightly damp in places, Michel placed the brush aside. He was more interested in Zevran's bid for warmth, his body turned into him,, this familiar presence light against his chest. The Chevalier curled one arm around his companion, his opposite hand continued smoothing over that well cared for hair, "so I should be concerned then, if you show up in bed with a new hair style and wearing such an alluring ensemble. As sign of things to come, but I would be... happy."

A little shifting, a little adjusting was required before Zevran could press his forehead to the side of Michel's throat and sigh happily at the flush of warmth against his skin. Everywhere they touched was bliss- and not in the usual manner. His mind began to drift in time with the pass of Michel's fingers through his hair, he felt more than heard the man speak.

Ah, yes, they were still talking. "Mmhmm. Remind me later and I shall make a note of it."

A promise for a future encounter, one with plenty of forewarning.

Zevran might have been ill, but there was something about this that was far more sensual and intimate than the sex. The sex was always beyond his ability to properly compliment, but he felt a kind of peace afterward on the occasions where Zevran curled up against him and simply fell asleep. Laying there for a few hours or more. Peace was not something that Michel knew much about, it never came easily, but that's how he felt.

"Now that you've piqued my curiosity..." Michel let that hang in the air, remembering the salve sitting not to far away. He shifted slightly so that he could cradle and continue to stroke Zevran's hair with one arm while the other reached for the vial. Thumbing it open he managed to tip just enough ointment into his hand, warming it a bit before applying it to his companion's chest. It would help lull him with it's soothing, refreshing elements, a versatile ointment that even Michel used on occasion.

"There are so many, many things I could show you, Soleil." A marvelous world of fun to be had with the right instruction and tools. "One day I will show you my case of toys."

One day. He thought nothing of the plans he made, the soft idle promises, floating on warmth and ill exhaustion and the comforting thud of Michel's heart in his chest. How a heartbeat could be familiar or not was a strange thing- but it did not sound much at all like Alistair's and yet had become its own comfort. Later he might think on that with no little trepidation- but for the moment? He was content.

Even if what shifting that needed to be done for the ointment wrung out a soft, almost petulant whine. A grumble of displeasure as he curled tighter against Michel's chest- but the disquiet did not last.

"I rather enjoyed being tied down by you," Michel nosed his companion's temple gently, not entirely certain what tools he meant. Again, he was rather straightforward in how he approached sex, it was Zevran who'd introduced him to his more colorful side. Now he wanted to do things that excited the other man, things they had done in the hayloft.

That he was included in Zevran's future plans gave him pause and for a moment he stopped his careful rubbing. The assassin was sick, perhaps he wasn't aware of what he was saying, but it didn't stop Michel's heart from hammering in his chest for several moments.

He was snapped out of it as Zevran whined softly and grumbled at him for the change in position and to satisfy him the Chevalier leaned back against the pillows and wrapped himself warmly around the smaller body. He was smaller that Michel, certainly, but the man was too much sometimes, "si précieux..."

"I never would have known." He mumbled. How beautifully he'd arched and begged, how he struggled, asked so sweetly for his freedom. The spirit was willing but the body? Ached and burned and shuddered in turn, soothed only by ointment, by elfroot, and by rest. He fell into a doze easily enough against Michel but this time? The dreams were warmer. Kinder.

Less blood and pain and more the sandy shores of Antiva and Michel stretched out, fair and oiled under an awning, Zevran himself bronzed and sitting with Michel's head on his lap, combing his fingers through his hair. Idle, comfortable affection in a place he loved.

Michel did not allow himself the luxury of sleep, he could not knowing that Zevran was still unwell and he wasn't certain what had put him in this state in the first place. He had to be certain this wouldn't get worse, that if he closed his eyes for a moment something wouldn't happen. So he kept himself alert, eyes memorizing the patterns of his companion's tattoos, until he drifted off.

The dreams came again, pleasant ones, but they were more confused than the ones before, at least they confused him. Warm images on a beach that was familiar, but Michel was there instead. It was just a dream...and maybe it had been brought on by the Chevalier's presence, but these...visions were still being projected. He...wasn't certain what this mean and he wouldn't bring it up, but the notion that Zevran's affections for him could run this deep? That they might...

His arms flexed around the assassin's body, he did not want to wake him but he couldn't resist holding him a little closer.

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OPEN: Cloudreach Event

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