we're all so upset about the disappearing ground

[thunderproof]

WHO: Adalia (thunderproof), Gwenaëlle (elegiaque), others
WHAT: Adalia is Not Having A Great Time with this illness stuff. She has a panic attack, prays to some gods.
WHEN: Throughout illness phases two and three.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: CW for anxiety/panic attacks. Subject to adding more threads throughout the plot/month.

i. for gwenaëlle — you say i choose sadness, that it never once has chosen me

Really, she's taken this illness about as well as could be expected up to now. She's kept a positive attitude, she's helped where and when she could, she got quite a bit done — even when her magic started becoming unmanageable, all she did was send Charis to Myr and isolate herself to keep from hurting anyone. If that had been the worst of it, she probably could have made it through this whole thing without panicking.

It's not, though, and she can't.

Losing her magic is — it's like losing her self. It's worse than selling off her soul. Not having a soul hasn't had any negative effects, at least, she just doesn't have one.By rights, losing her magic should be the same. It's not as though lightning and thunder magic have a lot of practical applications outside of combat, right, she doesn't use it every day like some of the natives do. But even if she doesn't use it, she still has it. She can feel that wellspring of power within her, and knows that if she reaches for it, lightning will leap into her palm and thunder will clap wherever she wills it. Now that wellspring is gone, and Adalia can't — she can't. She managed to go a few days after the realization without outright panicking. The period of unmanageable magic only lasted three days, so maybe unusable magic will last just as long.

Adalia's spent the whole of the fourth day in the Gallows courtyard, trying to call anything — sparks, a pop of sound, anything to her fingertips, but as the day goes on, it becomes apparent that there won't be anything. Her magic is gone, entirely, and nothing Adalia tries is going to work. The sun is beginning to go down and Adalia is stood in the middle of the courtyard, staring at her hands, cold dread spreading from the pit of her stomach throughout her whole body. The cold reaches her lungs and Adalia's breath begins to come in shallow gasps, it reaches her heart and it races — she can't see, she can't think, this isn't happening, she can't be losing this, too —

Her world is shattering into pieces, the delicate balance of positivity and denial tipping into despair, and all Adalia can do is stare at her hands unseeing, frozen in place.

ii. open — my mouth will just turn to dust if i don't tell you quick

Adalia's not much one for prayer. She never has been, not even back on Toril where she knew the gods were listening — less out of a lack of care for them than a lack of belief that she needed them. She's prayed twice in her life, though, to two different gods, and each time she got a response.

This is just another plane. That's what she's believed this whole time, no matter what any native says, and so — so Bahamut should still be listening, right? She hasn't heard from Alacruun since she was spat out of the rift, but that doesn't mean he's not listening. She just has to reach for them, and they'll hear her. They are not like Thedas' Maker. Bahamut would never turn his back on his followers. Alacruun wouldn't turn his back on her.

It was difficult to decide on an appropriate place to pray to both of them. In the end, she opted to go for one of the smaller chapels — if any Andrastian were to walk in, she'd probably be driven out for blasphemy, but she doesn't care. There's power in places, and the natives call upon their Maker and his bride here. Adalia needs as much help as she can get for her words to reach through the Divine Gate.

Maybe she's walked in on while praying to Bahamut — "I apologize, Platinum Dragon, but I don't know any formal prayers. I've never been a religious person, but I pray to you now with an earnest heart, and I hope that's enough. I chose wrong when I reached for Alacruun before you, I know that, but I — I know, too, that you haven't abandoned me. You're just and good, and I am doing my best to be the same. Please — Bahamut, Justicemaker, help me. Point me in the right direction, show me what I've missed. If not for my sake, then for all the others here who've fallen ill. We need guidance, and I know illness is not your purview, but I believe you can help us. Please help us."

Or perhaps when praying to Alacruun, after hours of prayer to Bahamut with no answer — "You've been quiet but I know you, Alacruun, you're not gone. You wouldn't give me up that easily. But what good am I to you if I have no magic? Help me, give me some of that knowledge you've collected. Lead me down the right path. I can't be your high priestess if I'm dead, or without magic. Come on, you fuck, answer me!"

Comments

[thunderproof]

Adalia... isn't much help. As soon as she hears the murmur — she doesn't understand Orlesian but she sure as hell can tell what kind of tone the woman is using — Adalia turns around and says "Bite me, Sister, your Maker's heard worse."

Not that she'd really know, of course, but one assumes — you don't become a god without dealing with some intensely pissed off people. And it's not as though Adalia hasn't said worse to the god she's actually addressing, even, so. She has no patience for scandalized religious women today.

Herian, of course, puts her to shame. She should be so patient, and usually she can be, but... Adalia watches the Sister leave, lips pursed and eyebrows drawn together, but she doesn't apologize. Later, maybe, when this is all over with and she has her magic back and the world is put right again. The question takes her a bit by surprise, and Adalia turns her attention to Herian with the wide eyes of someone asked a question for which they have absolutely no answer.

"I... don't know what people do when they pray. I've never really done it before." Only twice, ever, and that was under strange circumstances.

[dashing]

Herian resists the urge to cast her eyes skyward in a silent display of Maker, please - it would be more a plea for guidance on how to best help the situation, but she opts against indulging herself to avoid inadvertently stoking the fires of either party further. Once Sister Elsa is gone, she decides better to ignore the comment entirely. There was a time and a place.

"Fire is a complex thing in Andrastian faith. It brings light, and warmth. It is a cleansing thing, that so many of us rely on to survive. And yet... it is that which killed blessed Andraste. A cruel fate for any, let alone a woman who fought so desperately for the freedom of others."

She offers Adalia a hand to help her up. "We can light candles as votive offerings, to accompany our prayers. They are not required but... they are symbolic of the prayer, and I find they personally grant me further focus. A— comfort, of sorts."

Ugh, talking. Talking about feelings. Worthwhile but so hard.

[thunderproof]

For a moment Adalia tries very hard to put herself in an Andrastian's shoes — any religious person's shoes,really. She has always believed in the gods, but in much the same way as one believes in anything that demonstrably exists but has no bearing upon their life. The gods had never given Adalia anything, everything she had in Candlekeep she worked for herself, right up until the moment Alacruun slammed into her life and wouldn't fucking leave. The path to becoming a devotee was never one Adalia would have imagined herself walking, and she especially can't imagine what anyone would be doing worshiping a god who turned his back on his people. Andraste seems a good sort, at least, the very stuff martyrs are made of, but the rest?

It doesn't matter if she understands, in the end. What matters is the offered comfort. Adalia takes Herian's hand and lets herself be pulled up, brushing at the knees of her dress as she looks about for candles.

"Do you pray often? I'm guessing most prayer doesn't involve cursing but otherwise how did I do?"

Probably not great, really, given that she has absolutely no reverence for Alacruun as a deity and only slightly more respect for him as an entity. If he was listening he'd be suspicious if she talked to him all formally anyway.

[dashing]

"Yes. When I can I like to attend the vhenadahl and chapel once a day, but when circumstances do not permit, I simply pray whenever it strikes me. An altar and a holy place is... it can inspire hope and reverence, but it is not necessary for prayer. That comes from within ourselves."

She takes a moment before elaborating further. "Truthfully, I doubt there is any Andrastian who, even if only in thought, has not used more colourful language in their prayers at least once. When spoken aloud it is, admittedly, a break from convention."

Her words are, as always, so serious. There is also, however, a very faint smile hiding about the corners of her mouth, even if she does not indulge it. "I cannot speak for your relationships with your deities. How do you feel about it?"

And she leads them to the candles. They stand before a statue of Andraste, metal rack for the candles before her, and Herian takes two coins from her purse to put in the offering box. "Not required," she explains softly, "but as I've the coin to spare."

As I've the coin to spare she'd rather make contributions. That's all, really.

[thunderproof]

Vhenadahl. She's heard that word before, she must have, or read it at the very least. It takes Adalia a moment to place it, but she remembers — the tree the elves in the alienages all have. That... doesn't track.

"Why would you go to the vhenadhal? You're human."

The question, though rude in subject, is at least not rude in tone. It's genuine confusion and curiosity that colours Adalia's voice, not judgment or derision — she knows half-elves here don't have any of the markers half-elves do on Toril but she will always think human before anything else when she sees a humanoid with blunted ears. Granted Herian's hair is big enough to hide pointed ear tips (as well as a great many other things besides), but Adalia could have sworn she was human.

"— ah." How does Adalia feel about her relationship with her deities? It's a complicated question, almost certainly more so than Herian was expecting, and eventually Adalia just shrugs helplessly. "They exist? I've never been too bothered about them. Up until recently it was the kind of relationship you'd have with... I don't know, a whale? You know it's out there, doing its whale thing, living its best whale life, and you're happy for the whale and the people whose lives are bettered by the whale, but as a land-dweller it has absolutely no bearing on you or anything you care about. Does that make sense...?"

Probably it doesn't, but Adalia's not too concerned. When they reach the candles, she stares at the offering box, torn — she really does hate the Chantry. Maybe she shouldn't let herself have such a strong opinion on things she only knows about through books and biased arguments, but she can't separate the institution that should be helping from all the hurt it's done. She has coin to spare, at least a little, but she doesn't want to give it — nor does she want to be an asshole, though.

"Where does the money go? Do you know?"

Again not a judgmental question — if Adalia knew it was going to the elves in the alienage, or the people suffering in Darktown, she could give with a clear conscience.

[dashing]

"I am of elven blood. My mother was a human of elven blood, and my father an elf. When elves and humans in this world bear children, they are always human." Her voice as a different sort of evenness in it - it tilts into flatness, although the slight change might be hard to notice. "I grew up in the Starkhaven alienage before I went to the Circles." More simply, to cut to a point she has been asked about many times before, "the elves are my people and my priority."

One ear, clearly human, but the left is mutilated - two segments roughly cut off, in a mockery of an elven point. She does not draw attention to it, but it always feels painfully more obvious when she such topics come up, like her ears will be looked to with scrutiny.

"This box only serves to keep candles stocked, to the best of my knowledge. I like to make sure that there will be candles for those others who might come who are less able to supply candles than myself." For more meaningful ways to assist others, there she takes on a more direct approach. She has been burned by the Chantry too, for all her faithfulness, for all that she has been devout.

"And it does make sense. I am sure there are a good many here who feel that way of the Maker or Andraste."

[thunderproof]

"...oh? — OH. Yes, right, your half-elves are totally bizarre and make no sense. I remember."

Being a half-elf herself Adalia is allowed to say these things.

"That's good," she says, agreeable and even, if Herian cares to pay attention to the nuance, impressed. From what she can tell, it's better to be a human than an elf here. To throw one's lot in with the elves even without really having to... That, more than anything else she's seen of Herian, is what makes Adalia believe she's a good person. Anyone can be repressed and intense to a terrifying degree; it takes a truly good person to stick out something difficult when they could just as easily walk away.

And, well, if it's just for the candles — Adalia pulls a silver out of her pocket and drops it into the box.

"May we supply candles for many days to come, or something."

With that she grabs a candle of her own and passes her palm over it willing sparks to light it —

only they never come, and her shoulders drop precipitously as she remembers. Right. No magic. She's alone and useless and everything is terrible. For a long moment she just stares down at the wick, looking utterly stricken, and then she turns to Herian and wordlessly holds out the candle — she's a sorcerer, surely she can light a candle.

[dashing]

You have a truly enviable way with words. She thinks it, but refrains from speaking it. Wanton offence, not needing to be granted voice. Granted, she could fairly request that Adalia speak with a little more tact, but the girl is clearly distressed. Reprimand, at this point, even gently given, will do little good. Injury upon injury does not better a wound's healing.

The Chantry is empty, save for the two of them. Normally she would take the candle from Adalia, and lean it against one of the candles already lit. For the same reason that she did not offer reprimand, though, Herian does not draw the candle away. She cups the wick in her hand, and prays this will not be a moment her magic falters, that she will not feel sick from her mana seeming to drain away.

The candle lights, and Herian holds her own candle against it, so it can be lit as well.

"You magic and health will be restored to you. I am no healer, but those we have in the Inquisition's service are of great talent and dedication. They will find the answers - I have faith in that. You needn't hang all on a god, if that goes against your own beliefs. Have faith in those about us. You will be whole again."

sorry for the lateness, feel free to drop

[thunderproof]

If there is anything at all to be said for Adalia's tactlessness, at the very least it is that she never really means to offend. She speaks the truth as she sees it, not without care for how it is taken, but without consideration that it could be taken badly — her meaning is entirely clear to herself, so it must be to others, as well. The half-elves here make no sense because they don't consider themselves half-elves in the way Adalia understands the race, not for any other reason.

Of course, that doesn't change the fact that she speaks without thinking more often than she doesn't, but maybe points will be granted for not being a total knob on purpose.

Whole. The very concept seems foreign to Adalia, who has never felt whole for as long as she's been alive, but it seems especilly far away now. Magic is all she has, or indeed has ever had, to set herself apart from any other orphan. There was a legacy of power in her blood, something that made her someone rather than just some random nobody girl. Without it, she has no way to make her mark, no way to set herself apart, no future. Again, she sees her future yawn before her, interminable and endless and alone.

She shudders, and pulls the candle close to her chest, avoiding Herian's eye.

"Rather a difficult thing, to have faith in people who'd rather you not be here at all, don't you think?"

The Inquisition would be much better off if the Rifters ceased to be a problem. That is indisputable.