faderift | ( closed ) No longer I can justify the bloodshed in his name

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( closed ) No longer I can justify the bloodshed in his name

WHO: Leliana & various closed threads (for now - open stuff later)
WHAT: Wicked Grace night goes horribly wrong and Leliana is kind of dying
WHEN: forward dated to the night of the 22nd, post-assassination attempt
WHERE: Leliana's creepy Rookery chamber place
NOTES:
1. Pretentious images in the main post and starters in the comments because I'm a bit ridiculous.

2. Content warning for attempted murder/violence/poison/all that implies.

3. Party style threading is welcome and encouraged, it might make it a bit easier to discuss side matters after the initial discovery.

4. This will probably open up for including other threads and stuff that can be forward dated, but initially just closed.

5. There will be some terrible poetry in here and I'm not even sorry; it is only one in a series that will be left around Skyhold and will be posted later. Belle, Jansen & Libby are beautiful humans for enduring my rambles.

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"The sooner we know what it is we are trying to cure, the easier it will be." Whatever fear, whatever concern she might have aside from the professional is locked away entirely. There is nothing more than the cool flow of Compassion's power from her hands as she attempts to undo the damage wrought by the venom. Poison? Toxin. Something that is carving along a merciless path and is utterly foreign-

Her skill lies in wounds, in broken bones and torn flesh, in plagues and illnesses and burns and frostbite- not this. Without knowing what or how all she can do is offer general relief. And for a few hopeful moments? It seems well. Leliana's pain is eased, the tension seems to go from her. She can breathe.

"Faster would be better-" She calls after the aide, eyes flicking up to Anders. "It is nothing common-"

Of course it wouldn't be, of course the color would drain and the chill would spike and Compassion screams on the other side of the veil as what they have crafted to help? Hurts. Adelaide starts almost as violently as Leliana- hands slipping to her shoulders to hold her still- "Her neck, move her head, she won't be able to breathe-"

Shit. Anders darts over, getting his arm underneath her head to support it, holding her steady, trying to mix the tincture with the swirling of his wrist rather than with a stick.

"Relax, Leliana. I know it's not easy, but relax. Tensing will make breathing more difficult." The marks have spread since last he looked, and he shoots a look over at Adelaide. "What changed? Did you feel anything?"

It's not likely. But maybe they can figure out something despite how poisons aren't their areas of expertise.

"She's in more pain, now." There's little they can do when her throat is so damaged, when what he'd sensed didn't respond to what he tried, and clearly wasn't responding to what Adelaide had been doing. He can feel a tickle in his mind, nearly forgotten, and he knows an offer of power is there, an offer to fix everything, and it would be hilarious if not for everything else going on. "Leliana, please try to relax. I know it's not easy. I don't know if you can even hear me, but there are people working on this. Between them and us, we'll get you through it. Relax your muscles, slowly, and air will come."

The door crashes open, and through it-- well, a spell, one that carries unnatural wind through the chamber, ruffling clothing and guttering candlelight, a scent of storm on it before that feeling settles, a feeling only mages know well. The dispelling effect strangles the connection between the Fade and the two healers, and thus, Adelaide's healing magic on Leliana.

This could well feel like attack, which is why Dorian throws up a hand in apologetic surrender as he enters the room in the path of his own spell. In his other hand is a silver cup.

He'd been moving in a hurry, but stops short now, looking towards the writhing figure on the table. "Venhedis, how much magic have you used on her?" he asks -- sharply, but not necessarily accusatory, more pragmatism than emotion for all that he rarely does anything without emotion, this included. By now, there's an added smell to the room, something that smells both earthy as well as like that of decay, wafting invisibly from the cup he holds in an exceptionally careful hand.

Dorian sweeps into the room, finding somewhere safe to place it while he glances towards Leliana. "Has she been able to speak?"

Edited 2016-06-10 12:31 (UTC)

With the severing of the magic her body eases, albeit slowly, and without the real indication of relaxation that might make the moment a relief. The limpness is more akin to a flower that has been left to wilt, unwatered, pliable where it should be crisp and upright. A rasp signals that she is breathing, and her head is heavy in Ander's hands, eyes shut tight for a moment. A second breath, and a third, and she opens them to try and look up at him. To look at anyone, really, though moving her head is a struggle.

Instead she manages to lightly tap a couple of fingers against the table. Not quite so communicative as speaking, no, but at least an indication that she is present in more than body, that for now she has some grasp of her mind and her senses, though with how her head feels and the rawness in her throat she has to wonder how much more consciousness she has left in her.

"Something is reacting-" But to what? The herbs? The poison accelerating? That smell of rotted leaves wafts for a moment and she scowls, pulling deeper on Compassion's power to counteract whatever it is that causes Leliana so much pain. This isn't what should happen- she should be able to breathe by now, she should be able to take the bulk of her pain and mitigate some of the damage to her throat- not try to outpace the strangling grasp of the poison.

Doors slam and her mana falters, flares- cut off from Compassion she's scrambling with nothing- it would do to make certain they couldn't heal Leliana if they wished to be certain of her death. Adelaide has a hand on the knife she's kept at her belt but never truly felt the need to use for months now, braced for-

Dorian. Mouth half open for something sharply acidic- this is what she does, this is her patient, how dare he come in and cut her off short- save the question. Save the sudden limp drape of Leliana's body against the table, the abrupt lack of tension under her hands. "...A simple rejuvenation. I'd not done much. She has barely been able to breathe, let alone speak- Dorian. What is this?"

His attention is on Adelaide until the sudden entrance, and then he's wishing his hands were empty because he can't cast, and his staff is right there. Dorian is with the Inquisition, but in the end that doesn't have to mean anything. He could have other loyalties. This could be an attack. Except Leliana's suddenly breathing better, and Dorian isn't approaching directly. Yet.

"While you answer Adelaide's question, please move slowly." He wants to trust Dorian, but he can't without knowing more. For now, all he can do is support Leliana's head and wait for some answer, some idea of what's going on. "Anything you know, anything that can help."

Because the implication is that Dorian entrance is clear. "And tell me if spindleweed is going to cause problems as you seem to feel the magic will."

"Let me look at her."

He wants to answer questions; as an insufferable academic, it's among his favourite pastimes, and he moves-- well, perhaps Anders would prefer that 'slowly' be slower, but Dorian is as insistent and naturally assumptive as a housecat, winding his way to get a better view of the spymaster lying prone, sidling up by Adelaide. He doesn't touch around where Anders is touching, mostly for the sake of peace -- but he does lay a hand gentle on where Leliana's had twitched against the table, and duck down so he can see the markings on her neck.

When he straightens, he's leaning in just enough so as to address Leliana directly. "You've been poisoned with something called magna vitis. I wouldn't normally expect to see it this far south--" And he addresses the other two more directly, now, with a glance. "It's a charming bit of Magisterium politics -- hence it reacts in adverse to magic, when normally intended for magisters. Spindleweed won't have an effect either way, but if it would make you feel better--"

The hand on Leliana's squeezes gently. To her; "Don't try to speak."

It's a strange relief that Dorian is here. Of the three he is probably closest to the realm of friend, even if it is a camaraderie born of mutual torment and laughing about the exploits of the Herald. A strange thing, not a true friendship perhaps, but Leliana is learning there is little room in her life for friends.

Morrigan, she realises, very abruptly, and there is an urgency twisting in her gut, even as she nods to Dorian's instructions and, to the best of her ability, shifts her hand under his as she looks at him, a poor effort at returning the offered comfort. She is not sure what is in her expression.

Despite his instructions she does try to swallow, does mean to try to speak, but the swallow alone makes her wince.

"If he was going to do something he would have already." Adelaide does not stand aside- but she does make room. Dorian knows Leliana better, might know what this is as it is entirely unlike anything Adelaide has encountered.

Of course it's Tevinter.

Of course it reacts badly with magic. Adelaide allows herself a moment, little more, of swearing violently under her breath in Orlesian. "Is there an antidote?"

It being from where it is- her coin would be on no. But she would rather know for certain what their options might be instead of hopelessly guessing.

The gentle touch on Leliana's hand sways him more than Adelaide's words. There's always a possibility of a delayed attack, waiting for guard to drop, but Dorian's careful. Anders exhales and sets the tincture down. If it won't do any good, then it won't do any good.

"And if we've not got an antidote just yet, some way to relieve the symptoms while she fights it off."

He's never heard of this poison before, but it's no surprise. Simply frustrating. That there is an antidote he has no doubt - magisters wouldn't stop at anything to find a cure to a poison designed to help them - he's simply worried about what it might entail. ...And also worried by the way Leliana looks.

"I know it's terribly dull to lay here and focus on breathing, but that's the best thing for you right now, Leliana."

"The good news is that wine isn't remotely magical," Dorian says, with the kind of brisk chirp with which he can talk about almost anything, even if those that know him better can sense that undercurrent of sharper worry -- in his voice, around his eyes. This is addressed to Leliana and the healers both, with the latter, a little flatter, "The bad news is, I'm not entirely certain of what else there is to do without further research. Herbal remedies to slow damage -- royal elf root might buy us a little time, yes?"

He straightens slightly. He does not say, right now, how much time he anticipates that Leliana has. "I have some contacts in the Imperium who ought to have better insight. This isn't exactly my forté."

Stubbornly she tries again to speak; she may not have time, this is important, the Inquisition and their safety is important.

But her head feels foggy. The words seems warped out of shape and strange sounds that are sharp against her eardrum, and Leliana sets her teeth. She can't grasp the word, something so simple as a word.

Thorn.
She can hardly even recall why it is significant or why she must say it, only that it truly must be given voice-- her eyes shut, and she forces a sound past her throat.

It is a hoarse, rasping breath that only the first syllable survives.
"Ép--"
The 'p' is incompete, evident in her lips more than in the sound that passes them.

Again she tries, but it is weaker on the second effort. For Dorian's efforts or for someone who needs to be warned of a threat she doesn't remember clearly, thorns . Leliana shivers, and her breath catches audibly, painfully.

"Write it if you must but do not attempt to speak." Not that Adelaide is all that certain Leliana can write- but anything would be better than trying to force her way past words she cannot manage in a voice that pains all to hear. "Send a runner for it- we've a fresh plant ready for harvest in the garden."

Only one at the moment, truly, but if there is anyone hat has need of it? It is Leliana. None would question its use for her health. "Then why are you still standing there?"

Dorian, the woman on the table is quite likely dying. "Go write them- we will do what we can without magic until we know more."

His lips are pressed flat as he turns to get quill, ink, and paper. She wants to speak, clearly, so if he can't actually heal at least he can do this. Anders inks the quill, puts it in her hand, and guides it to the paper.

"Breathing comes first." There's a little sternness in his voice now. They can't ease her symptoms just yet, but at the very least she can stop making things harder on herself. "And yes, please move, Dorian." They might not have much time, and he's already lost one person this week.

The aide he'd sent away earlier returns with honey, and is promptly dispatched for royal elfroot instead. "And once you've written and caught your breath a little we can still try honey for a protective coating on your throat."

Really, friends? Are we to bait the mouthy Tevinter into sassing them at a time like this? It's Adelaide, more so than Anders, that is treated to a sharp look of incredulity, which is definitely as important as Leliana's problems, but he stays his tongue for the occasion.

Someone mark it in a calendar.

But he's dispensed with what he knows, and it appears no one has questions. One last squeeze to Leliana's fingers follows Dorian absenting himself from the chamber. "I'll notify the rookery to forward you on any reply directly," he says, over a shoulder, an echo as he crosses the threshold.

Her fingers flex in response - weak, but an effort made. She owes Dorian her life already, it seems, if she is managing to selected the right meaning from the various possibilities and combinations of words that seem scattered before her. Meaning feels as thought it is becoming an increasingly more difficult, nebulous thing to grasp, the effort as effective as trying to cup water in your hand with your fingers splayed.

The looks to Anders and Adelaide are not quite apologetic. Understanding, grateful mixed in with the pain, but not apologetic, even as she nods.

Dorian is gone, and in her other hand there is a-- a something, a something she knows the word for but can't remember. It feels... strange to the touch. The texture is all wrong, or her hands are wrong, can't quite seem to figure out how it is one ones an instrument for writing. Her grip tightens, pressing to the parchment in a way that she is certain is too hard and will break the nib, if she is not careful.

The pressure is barely enough to make a mark on the paper; her hand waves, and though she is concentrating hard, giving it all her focus and precision, what ends on the paper rather than an É and a p is a loose scrawl that doubles back on it's and wanders lost across the paper, ink bleeding out and smearing under her hand. Épine she writes, but cannot translate to a form other people can understand, before her ability to grasp the pen falters.

With the ceasing of magic the marks across her neck have slowed to a stop, receding just slightly with the loss of power to fuel them.

"Thank you, Dorian." It could be sarcasm- it could be condescension. It is neither. That someone, anyone knows anything that might be of use? That he could send word and bring them some manner of solution? Is nothing short of miraculous. Adelaide makes a mental note to buy him a very nice bottle of Tevinter wine when she next has the opportunity. He will have more than earned it.

Her hand lifts to trace the strange marks on her neck, barely there, an attempt to discern what they were. Scarring? Inflammation? A rash? Using magic to find an answer is right out but if they know how it is strangling her perhaps they can help ease the strain.

"What has she written, Anders?"

Dorian gets a nod of acknowledgement and thanks, as he heads out the door but it's easy to miss as Anders' attention returns promptly to Leliana. More specifically, what Leliana's attempting to write. He catches the pen and takes the paper gently, expression growing pained before he looks up at Leliana's face.

"I'm sorry. I know you tried your best, but I can't read this." The paper gets held out to Adelaide just in case. "Can you do a... a tapping thing, Leliana? For letters. I can go through the alphabet, slowly, and you tap when I get the right one. If that's all right with you, if you're willing to try it, tap your fingers twice. You don't have to do anything if you don't have the energy for it."

It isn't like he has anything better he can do for her right now, when nothing they have will help.

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( closed ) No longer I can justify the bloodshed in his name

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