faderift | SUNBLIND

It may not be a conversation Inessa wants to have either, trying her best to be respectful of private affairs. Nonetheless, she can't ignore what she's seen. If Wren can't handle this alone, and she clearly can't, then the aid of a Warden and mabari will be there until she insists they leave. Even then, it's not on her mind to let this go.

"You...wanted to know if you could abstain? For how long?" She only knows that her crystal messages have not been answered recently, but there's still a pang in realizing Wren must have been in pain for some time now. "I can contact a healer, someone discreet. If you cannot go to them, we'll bring them to you. You may have done more damage to yourself than you realize."

Garahel grunts in agreement, knowing now is now the time to be playful or excitable, so he's neither. Just a solid, warm, furry presence.

"Three weeks." In Orlesian. Her eyes finally press shut; she tries again. Trade. Speak Trade. "Three weeks."

Nailed it. A breath in.

"Someone has to know. What they felt — someone has to remember it." Wren won’t. If she’d any doubts left, this has sealed them; no longer a choice but a certainty. One way or another, this is going to kill her. "Someone has to remember us."

She gives up, fingers curling empty on the air. Silence mulls. She’s ready for death; she isn’t ready for dying: This long, tarpit decline.

The Order is fallen, Vauquelin dreams of writing, and no way to tell him: We already have.

Maudlin thoughts. Ill-befitting. If Wren doesn’t own the energy for moderation, she at least retains the instinct of shame. There’s no way to keep going like this without making herself into someone else’s problem. Bad enough to have made herself Serra's.

I just want to stop,

"Discreet."

She agrees, at last. This sort of weakness, it wouldn’t play well.

Edited 2017-06-06 05:53 (UTC)

Three weeks? Inessa's eyes widen in alarm, realizing how much worse this is or could have been, if she hadn't taken the time to pay a visit. Garahel rumbles worriedly at that as well, those big eyes making it clear that Wren endangering herself isn't acceptable.

The Warden shakes her head, not liking the sound of any of this and a little angry at herself that she didn't check in sooner. "...well. Doubtless you have enough to remember, that you needn't continue. Remembrance is one thing, but this agony will not aid you further. It needs to end."

Her voice is gentle but firm. She won't see the woman fall apart and die before her eyes, not any further. "Lay back down -move, Garahel- and I'll contact a healer over the crystals. Don't worry about the mess, we'll deal with it." It's not high on the list of priorities right now, but as Wren clearly lacks the energy, Inessa will quietly tend to it when the healer arrives.

Wren hesitates in place. Finally, a small, miserable nod; she slumps back to curl on her side.

The fact that she has, very recently, been advising Serra on how to handle her shit doesn't exactly escape her. But there's nothing to be done for it now.

Look to your elders, Isn't that the saying? Look, and feel a little better about your own choices.

She tucks hands under her arms; watches the far wall.

"Don't worry," Quietly. "I am not going anywhere."

Her gaze drifts out of focus. She'll doze like that — not quite awake, not quite dreaming — until they arrive.

Christine makes her way over as quickly as she can without outright running there. She figures that would attract too much attention and others would be liable to follow to see what the emergency is, and her shooing them away might not work. Besides, who wishes for an audience when going through withdrawal? So she speed walks with purpose up to the Templar housing and knocks on the door.

"Inessa?" she calls out, hoping she has the right room.

Garahel perks up and barks, though hushes at a gesture from Inessa. She doesn't want to further disturb an already ill-at-ease Wren. Heading over to the door, she opens with relief in her eyes.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Christine. I appreciate it." Stepping away enough to allow Christine inside, she closes the door behind her and looks to Wren. "There's been no real change." Her condition is terrible, but at least it hasn't been declining since their brief conversation.

The bark sends her tensing, shot back to a temporary alert. Wren's neck cranes sharply about to watch them, features trembling with the strain of wariness.

She doesn't know Christine's face. If the name's familiar, the occupation — she's yet to make the connection.

But true scrutiny would take more to maintain than she has at present. It would also require her eyes not keep wandering to the room behind her.

"Who —?"

Wren croaks. Which is really more of an owl thing. Ba-dum-tsh.

"Of course," Christine replies, though she doesn't specify whether she's responding to the thanks or to Wren's condition. She enters the room and heads straight over to Wren, kneeling beside her.

"We spoke once before, you and I," she says by way of greeting, just so Wren knows this stranger isn't quite so strange. From her satchel she takes out a bottle of lyrium, no different than what Templars take, simply already mixed instead of coming in a kit. "Might I use magic to check your symptoms? I may be able to ease some of them."

Hopefully she's amiable to magical healing and doesn't flail at it. Christine doesn't want this bird to fly the coop. (laugh track)

As Christine heads over to Wren's side, Garahel plops down next to the bed, watching them intently. Inessa, no longer needing to sweep, sits down in the chair, one hand slipped over the other. Wren's state still makes her internally wince, but her outward demeanor is calm, wanting to be reassuring rather than overly emotional.

"I've seen her skill, Ser Coupe. She'll be able to assist, I'm certain."

Well. The lyrium's one way to hold her attention. Whatever's beyond Christine and Inessa isn't quite so pressing as that shimmer of blue. A delay, and she nods.

"I trust you."

She gravels to them both, and almost laughs at the lie. A silent shudder rocks her shoulders instead. To thank them would perhaps be appropriate; it's going to have to wait.

Gritting her jaw, Wren braces for the touch of a spell. Maker knows she's felt them often enough to know it, the difference between a healer's hands and something with teeth,

But she doesn't know herself well enough to know whether she'll be able to separate it now. Better to be ready, to hold herself back if she must. That it's a question at all — this has gone too long.

(She wishes they'd get Werner out of here. He doesn't need to see this.)

With the help of a spirit of Faith, Christine's eyes glow blue as she accesses the patient as best she can. She can ease the pain, if there is any, but she can't undo the damage that years of lyrium use has already done. She can't make Wren's brain stop what it's doing to her body: punishing it for not taking lyrium.

But she does what she can. The spell she lays on her should ease the aches, lift some of the weakness from her muscles. The dehydration, however, will have to be solved with water, which she also brought in a handy water skin.

Her eyes return to normal as she finishes, and she explains quietly, "Unfortunately, I cannot do all the harm extensive lyrium use does. But hopefully I have reduced a few of your current symptoms of withdrawal?"

Inessa and Garahel remain fixated and quietly anxious, the former allowing her mabari to remain close as long as he doesn't crowd them or interrupt. As Christine finishes, her gaze is questioning as she turns it to Wren. If anything is needed, she'll jump to get it, but first she needs to hear from the templar herself.

Blue, always blue. Funny, isn't it? The green fire of the Fade, the crimson of corruption, that radiant white silence that cuts through it.

Where would they be, if all the forces of their little sphere weren't so terribly flashy? What would life be like again, to see only golden sunsets, black night, and holes in the brown brown mud. She's dug so many holes. In herself, in everyone around her; wrap them in her arms, and she still can't hold them all.

(There are two holes in Werner’s face, where eyes should be. She doesn’t know how he died. She knows it wasn’t like that.)

This is what happens in the real world, the waking one:

Wren jerks as the spell settles, but she doesn't snarl. Doesn't lash out, and it's easier not to, as Christine works, as the magic moves through her. It grows easier to hold the thoughts in her hands; not stretched by hurt, weakness, by the tug of —

— No. That hasn’t gone anywhere. It won’t. A hole like that, you dig it long and deep enough, and it doesn't get filled again. Wren moves slowly, laboriously, to shift her back up against the wall. The motion swings dizzy, more freely than's quite wise; the temporary exuberance of pain lifted, without the balance returned to check it.

"I'm sorry." Quiet, hoarse. She tips her head — a little more controlled, less a loll — to the corner where Inessa sits.

(There are holes where his eyes should be, so she can't tell whether he knows she means it. He puts his hand on Inessa's shoulder, and it falls right through. Not Werner, then. Not Werner at all.)

Heavy breath, a long stare to the ceiling above. Where does this go from here? What the fuck do you say?

I'm sorry I did this. I'm sorry I didn't finish it. I'm sorry you had to see.

You don't say a thing. You pick up your shovel, and you get back to digging.

Christine sits back on her heels, glancing over at Inessa. She doesn't know why Wren is apologizing -- perhaps it's for the inconvenience? Though she's sure Inessa would never consider it to be one. Templars do the whole "suffering in silence" thing quite well. Having it out in the open must rankle Wren.

"Just take a few sips of water for me, hmm?"

[ooc: Feel free to skip over her for most of the healing session, she'll just be background unless needed.]

Inessa just shakes her at the glance, guessing what it's about and having none of it. "There's no need. Just allow yourself a chance to heal, please." That's the only apology she's interested in, anything else can wait. Garahel follows it up with a soft whine, anxious to help but knowing not to get in the way.

SUNBLIND | Open.

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