Simple Gifts [Closed]

[laurenande]

WHO: Galadriel, Thranduil, Solas, Myrobalan, Merrill, Kitty, Lakshmi, Teren, Marcoulf, Jang, Obi-Wan, and Anders
WHAT: A trip to a perfectly normal Chantry in the middle of nowhere.
WHEN: Current.
WHERE: The Island of Alamar, Ferelden.
NOTES: Current warnings, to be updated: Graphic Descriptions of Gore

The Abbey on the White Cliff

Travel to the Abbey on the White Cliff is no easy matter. While it stands not far from Amaranthine, the waters between the mainland and the island shores are a wicked confluence of eddies and razor sharp rock. The rain is ever-present here and the wind moves unpredictably at the best of times. Ships of size cannot travel easily to the island of Alamar and small boats are rarely steady through the choppy water. Fortunately, as the Inquisition approaches, the world takes some pity on them and the waters seem to still and calm. The clouds linger but, at the very least, they don't open above them until they have reached the land.

The island is a grey affair, all rocks and scrub and damp. The village, an austere looking outcropping of buildings, is entirely made from the local stone and, were it not for the red clay roofing, would blend into the landscape seamlessly. Very few people have strayed into the rain to greet the Inquisition and, without the voices to echo off the stone, most sound is drowned in the lapping of waves and the heavy fall of rain. As a result of the weather and the lack of citizens, the town has the general quality of a graveyard.

The merchants who work the docks are affable enough and, after unloading their haul and securing it somewhere a bit drier, offer to take the Inquisition up to the Abbey proper. The rain slows before long and the merchants lead the Inquisition to the main roads and, let them on their way. Fortunately, the Island is not terribly large and, even walking, it will take only a few hours to arrive at the far side of it.

As the party leaves the village and the shore, the island landscape opens before them. Sloping moors give way to periodic outcroppings of rock and, against the horizon and the far end of the island, there rests a dark forest of pines. The Abbey on the White Cliff stands at the far side, at the top of the hill and overlooking the waves. The road they travel is an easy one, well worn, and the buildings come into view long before they reach them--they stand several stories tall, made of the same stone as the village. They are moss-covered and have the look of an old building that has been questionably kept--at least, from a distance.

The closer one gets to the buildings, the more obvious the additions and repairs become. Windows that have no business holding glass have had colorful windows inset to them. The doors are heavy, wooden, and new. The ironwork on the walls is polished and unworn by the rain. There are no torches lit but, once the Inquisition members have reached the doors, they open promptly.

They are greeted by a Chantry Sister with a bright smile and rosy cheeks and, without hesitation, the lot of them are welcomed into the Abbey.


OOC:

Hey guys! So I plan on aggressively GMing this one. Basically I want to run this like D&D, or as near as I can manage.

The location threads below are available for single player/two player exploration, I will be tagging you with information based on where you go or what you do, but if you want to do a bigger thread please just use the team threads at the bottom. That way if you all decide you want to check out the [INSERT LOCATION HERE] and it leads you to [DIFFERENT LOCATION] I can move you along without changing threads.

Because of your proficiencies, different characters will have advantages in different areas/while talking to different people, so groups are best. I will also be PMing your character journal periodically with any information that your character may have picked up on that nobody else would.

The NPCs are available for talking to or questioning by any number of people. Their general locations are in their thread headers so you can travel there as a crew or ask me to send them at you, if you so desire.

Feel free to do new top-levels if you guys really want, I am just here to try and make this fun.

Comments

Brother Estmond - Found In The Infirmary Hall or the Kitchens

[laurenande]

The Infirmary Hall is a terrible place, dreadful and unwelcoming, but the man who works there is neither of these things. He has a kind face and ashen blonde hair that he keeps very short. He dresses neatly and wears his vestments, but is often covered in fluids that are best not spoken of in polite company.

He can be found easily, assuming one is willing to travel to the Infirmary Hall to do it. If one is very lucky, they can stumble upon him in the garden or crossing into the kitchens, but such instances are rare.

[shri]

When in doubt - work. Proved true not only in life but in investigating things that seemed too good to be true. Sick and injured people did not watch their words so well, and places that cared for them were always run off their feet to not want to turn down someone's help. So she picks her time, careful, watching Estmond in an offhand way and -

"Brother! A moment, if I may."

Her hand lifted to catch his shoulder as he goes past, blood or otherwise.

[laurenande]

Brother Estmond doesn't quite stop as her hand settles on his shoulder. The top half of him makes a valiant attempt, coming to a very quick halt and turning so as not to pull against her grip, but the bottom half of him flails a bit until he catches himself. It is clearly the learned motions of a busy man who is often stopped by small or weak hands. He blinks, almost owlishly, at her and then glances at the tray in his hands.

Bread and butter can wait.

"Um, yes, of course--" he begins and searches for somewhere to set down his burden. Few people ask him for conversation that does not lead into medical work, after all, and he needs his hands for that.

"Are you hurt--or in pain--I can fetch a potion, I'm sure the new batch is done--you don't look terribly ill so I should recommend not staying in the infirmary--oh but I am assuming, aren't I? Tell me, what's wrong?"

[shri]

"Nothing, Brother." her hands lift up placatingly. "Only I am someone not so adverse to hard work and am ever in want of it. I am afraid all this pampering sits strangely on me without something to show for it - "

She feigns an almost shyness with it, easing her weight, winding up to her point like she is worried about asking like it might be too much to bother him -

"I only want to know if there was work I could helping with."

[laurenande]

She lifts her hands to placate him and his eyes distractedly trace the motion. In doing so, he glances the mark in her palm and his whole face shifts with surprise. He looks to her palm, then her face, then down to his tray, then back to her face once more.

"You want to...help me? Already?" He asks, flabbergasted by the request, and looks to her hand again.

"I--That is--If you like you can assist me, of course--I have a terrible time on my own, not that I mind of course, but it is weighty work--oh, where are my manners?" His rambling interrupts itself with a near stutter and eventually he manages to speak plainly.

"I am Brother Estmond," he says firmly, with the air of someone whom has practiced that statement before a mirror. "Come, follow me and we can put you to work--oh, but you are not squeamish are you? There is often so much blood."

[shri]

They enjoyed the difference, didn't they? Or at least, there is her careful play, pretending about what she is and is not. Her hands lift, palm to palm, bowing her head over them. "I am the Rani Lakshmi Bai."

Her head rises, carrying on as she follows his direction. "I am very much so. A mother and soldier both." Children were messy in a way that was quite different to wounds, but both of them... rather foul when it came down to it. Which is to say the real answer of - I have spent so long living in slums, being clean is a fond daydream. "So please, you need not spare me."

[laurenande]

"Good, good--I mean no, it's not good that you are not spared, but you--yes, I am happy for the help," he says in his rambling way and urges her to walk with him. He is very uncomfortable walking with someone else, but he manages anyway, keeping his gait steady even as he looks to his side to make sure she's keeping pace.

"I take care of the worst of the pilgrims you see," he adds in a low whisper as they pass through the Main Hall. Several people there smile at him and he smiles back, however weakly, until they've reached the far door and exited out into the fresh air of the garden.

"So many of them are badly off when they arrive--it is a tragedy but we are happy to see them."

[shri]

"Their faith is a credit to you." She nods - and she has no trouble keeping up with him. Her stride lengthens with a straight purpose. Following beside him, her eyes falling over the patients with what she can't but be a forgiving gaze. Even if they were wanted to be tortured half to death as Teren suggested, it would be a cold day in hell before she walked away from those that needed help.

"I am not much skilled as a healer - but I am strong, and blood does not turn me."

[laurenande]

Estmond opens the door for her, the bright red color is more ominous than not, and waits for her to enter before him. It is an old habit and done automatically. The inside of the Hall is small, crowded, and absolutely permeated with the smell of blood and pus. There are the better part of thirty people in this building and all of them are in a dire state, on the very edge of death and lingering in a haze of drugs and pain.

All except for two.

Lakshmi enters first and is confronted with a curious sight.

There is an old woman seated on a bloodied cot with a young boy. She is bent and wizened, her limbs thin and her skin loose and creased at every point. Her gown is light, a white shift with a knit shawl drawn about her shoulders. Her hair is stark white and only exists in patches, thin and gangly but brushed back and tied into a braid. Her smile cuts very deep on her face and her laugh is an ancient wheeze but the boy at her side is delighted by it.

He cannot be more than six years old, his cheeks are flush, his smile is wide, and his hair is askew. He is not facing Lakshmi, not at first, but he turns when he hears them enter and his bright green eyes fall on her like a babe viewing the world for the first time.

"Go on now," the old woman says and ushers the boy off the cot. "This place is for the ill and weary."

The boy lets out an excited giggle and all but runs, barefooted, out into the rain. He shoves past Lakshmi with abandon and jumps, immediately into a puddle before scampering through the muddy garden and back into the Main Hall. The old woman remains, seated as she is on that dirtied cot, and smiles a strange and tired smile at Lakshmi.

"Hello."

[justice_is_blond]

Chantries haven't been comfortable places since he was taken. The prayers feel hollow, the decor is often paid for by the work of Tranquil mages or herbcrafting mages or basically enslaved mages, and even with the Circles broken Anders isn't entirely comfortable. But there is one place he might feel a little less ill at ease, the Infirmary.

Anders taps on the door before coming in. "Um." It's hard to use titles for Chantry people until he knows a little bit about them, but he's also a guest here. "Brother? I've some experience around an Infirmary, if you could use a healer for a time."

Here maybe he can catch his breath and figure out a bit more of what's going on.

[laurenande]

The Brother on duty doesn't come to the door, not directly, but it is not locked and opens easily under Ander's grip. The room beyond is small, even to the point of being mildly claustrophobic--the number of people within the walls of this tiny room easily outstrip the numbers elsewhere. A fourth of the population of the abbey resides in this tiny room, resting cot to cot, and the sight of them all is a grim one.

The injuries on display, even above the stained sheets and the stretch of bandages, are not encouraging. Men, women, even a few children, all of them are grievously wounded or deathly ill, none are wounded in a simple or easy manner and, even if they had a great deal of care, very few of them would survive more than a few weeks. These are the pilgrims that travel to the Abbey on the White Cliff, following rumor and hastily scrawled instructions, and here they linger.

There is not a man, woman, or child in this room that is not asleep or half asleep for how many pain potions they have taken and, moving between them, hurriedly changing bandages and applying poultices, is Brother Estmond.

"Oh! Yes--yes, hello," Estmond greets, distractedly, as he rolls a set of soiled bandages and tosses them into the bucket at his side. There is no way he could have missed Anders greeting him--there are only two rooms in this building and he is in the first and foremost.

"Of course, of course," Estmond agrees quickly and his eyes dart up to take a good look at Anders. He seems vaguely disappointed, though why is hard to say. "The fire needs tending to first--if you would? I can't have it go out, it has to stay comfortable in here, you see."

And it is, almost oddly so. Of all the rooms in the Abbey, this one is as warm and comforting as a summer's day. The icy chill that creeps through the stone in every other room is lacking here; this place is almost apart from everything else.

[justice_is_blond]

There are a lot of dying people here. Some are clearly lost causes at a glance, many he's not sure on, but it's clear that none are here with minor issues. It gives him pause, stirring the first bit of actual worry he's felt. The Abby is doing this well in the middle of a war with these many people relying on them?

"Of course," is all he says, hiding his thoughts for now as he goes to the fire. What did the look mean? Why be disappointed with a spirit healer? Is there something being hidden here?

He walks over to the fire and casts, stabilizing and enlarging it a little. That will hold as long as he's here, and before he goes he can do something a little more... well. Non-magical. The wood is tidied up to make that simpler in case he's tired after working, and then he straightens and returns to the brother's side.

"I'm Garrett, spirit healer. You've... I have to say I wasn't expecting you to have quite so many patients. This is usual?" And with only one person currently attending them?

[laurenande]

"Yes, ever since I came here it has been like this, more arrive regularly--one, perhaps two cases a week, once we had five! They do not stay long, they seek the blessing of the Reverend Mother, you see--" Brother Estmond explains, jittery and shifty from lack of rest. The man is nearly stuttering but his hands remain steady as he works.

Despite Anders's spell, the wind howls outside and the light from the hearth dips a moment. It recovers shortly after, but it earns a glance from Estmond.

"I am sorry--yes--I am Brother Estmond, pleased to meet you Garrett. You came with the Inquisition, yes? We are so relieved to have you."

[justice_is_blond]

The fire dips and Anders turns to stare at it, losing track of Estmond's words for several moments. What did that? It's not silence cast on him, he's still got his magic, it's not any sort of purge in the area for the same reason. What can mess with magic like that?

"Um. Right. Yes." His distraction shows in his voice when he finally catches up with what Estmond is saying. "Does that happen often? The fire... flickering like that. And are there any patients in particular who you'd like me to look at?"

That they're all so dazed suggests they're being drugged, but maybe it's needed. Maybe they're in a lot of pain otherwise, or something. He can't judge yet, though no one's denying that this place is odd.

CW: GORE

[laurenande]

"Oh that? That's a constant--everything in the Abbey is like that. Did you notice we don't have hot food? I do miss hot food," Estmond rambles as he carefully unrolls the bandage and shifts the arm of the woman he is helping. As he uncovers her flesh it becomes painfully obvious that she is suffering from terrible burns. Her skin is a mass of weeping, angry red splits and bursting blisters. Her bone is exposed in more than one place.

"If you would, I have to change the dressings on the man next to me--his left leg is off, you see. It will be some time before the Reverend Mother can bless him--I do hope he will make it."

The man at Estmond's side, on the next cot over, is in dreadful shape. He is as pale as the sheets around him and sleeps with a fitful furrow to his brow. He is sweating and his fingers have started to turn blue. His left leg is swathed in bandages and pads of linen, all soaked a terrible brownish red. If the shape of the bundle is anything to go by, his leg was torn off mid-thigh and whatever did it, didn't take most of his femur with it.

[justice_is_blond]

"Maker," he whispers, looking at what's so obviously been under-treated. "What do you... She shouldn't look like this! Have you done nothing?"

Bandaged it, obviously, but bandages on burns without the right salves are even worse. Quickly Anders pulls his pack off his shoulder and kneels so he can sort through his vials.

"Do you have any sort of supply of Prophet's Laurel? Any at all?" He has a little, and that's what he finally unstoppers, tipping a little bit of that vial into a larger glass vessel, adding a couple of things to it before stirring it. "And he's still bleeding, Andraste's breath."

He's angry, but that anger is being channeled now into doing what he can. It looks like many of these people who are too far gone for help have gotten that way because the care here is so lacking. All he can do is try to help a little.

[laurenande]

Estmond looks at him with surprise and watches as he digs into his bag, as he mixes and manufactures a better potion than the brother could hope to assemble in this place. He is amazed and his amazement renders him silent for some time. When he speaks again it is eagerly and he moves aside to allow Anders full access.

"Please, do as you can--" Estmond encourages and, realizing the mess he has left in the way, bends and scoops up the wealth of soiled bandage that rests between Anders and the woman he had been changing the dressings on. He straightens and dashes out of the way, moving to the hearth and the pot alongside it. He dumps the bandages into the empty cast-iron cauldron and then leaves the room for a moment. When he returns he has a tray of fresh bandages held out at arm's length, away from the mess he's made of his shirt.

"What do you need? Can I fetch anything for you? Perhaps I will have time to clean the linens at last--we have so few now."

third day, after a yell with Anders;

[faithlikeaseed]

You won't go looking.

Even if not said straight out, the words were implicit in Anders' scorn. Poor blind credulous Myrobalan wouldn't ever go chasing after something that would challenge his faith; he'd not deign to consider evidence that contradicted his rosy image of the world, not even when it was left out plain for someone worldly and cynical and wise like Anders to see.

Left out plain to fucking invent mountains of corpses from whole cloth upon, then claim he didn't need to produce the extraordinary evidence the accusation demanded when challenged on it. Take it on faith, Myr, he's a Warden. If only you'd believe him now and again he wouldn't have to sink to being absolutely vile to get everyone's attention--

Myr's thoroughly soured his own mood by the time he tracks Estmond down--not in the infirmary that Anders seems to have claimed as his own haunt, praise the Maker--but he does everything in his considerable power to keep that from his face. (And begs the Maker once more for patience, for some shred of forgiveness, to take the anger from him.) "Brother Estmond? I'm sorry to interrupt..."

Not knowing, entirely, what the man might be doing but suspecting--they're in the kitchens after all--and feeling a sudden surge of guilt that he's let this stupid vendetta take him this far.

But he won't let Anders' accusation stand.

He won't.

[laurenande]

Myr comes upon Estmond in the Kitchens where the Brother has taken a moment to sit and eat a simple meal. His soup is cold, as is his bread and butter, but he doesn't seem to mind much. He looks up from his bread as Myr approaches and gives the blind elf a puzzled but not unwelcoming look. He recalls, half a moment later, that Myr cannot see him and greets him aloud.

"Oh yes, of course, would you like to sit? I so rarely get to sit--it is a nice change--bread? It's a bit stale but goes well with the butter and a bit of salt."

[faithlikeaseed]

The brother's welcoming manner despite Myr's walking in on his much-needed break strikes a fresh pang of shame in the mage. Whether or not he's the skill required to look after the abbey's wounded pilgrims, Estmond's doing his utmost in a bad situation and deserves a rest.

Though it won't help that bad situation any if the rest of the Inquisition goes about suspecting the abbey's residents of more heinous things than being out of their depth and overworked. Myr heaves a silent internal sigh before offering Estmond a faint smile. "I'd be glad of it--and yes, please, I'm afraid I skipped lunch."

Even if he'd been Circle-raised, the habits of the alienage die hard; you don't ever turn down food. He casts about for a chair--finds one after a minute or so of searching--and pulls it out from the table to drop into it with more grace than he feels right now. "I've a question I hope won't put you too far off your feed."

[laurenande]

Estmond, by the sounds of it, is utterly unconcerned about what Myr might wish to ask him. He rises from his chair and the kitchen filled with a shocking array of very normal sounds. He takes out a plate, takes out some bread, finds a knife and cuts some butter for him. When he returns, a moment later, he places the plate before Myr as he retakes his seat across the table from the elf mage. Estmond, it seems, is a very tall fellow with long arms.

"Ask what you like--but don't skip meals or you'll catch cold in the rain, its far too easy to do and--oh I suppose we have a bed now but we should save it for an emergency, you know."

[faithlikeaseed]

Don't skip meals or you'll catch cold in the rain. In a mood like this it'd be far too easy for even gentle concern like that to spark Myr's temper, and yet-- His smile grows for it. There's something soul-soothing in being around people who care so openly and genuinely and without any consideration for politics or power or position.

Maker, he's missed that.

He reaches for the plate once it's placed before him, pulling it closer and feeling around the edges to ascertain how much bread he's gotten. "You've a bed," he echoes, not wholly sure whether that's cause for joy or sorrow. "The Revered Mother's healed someone else?"

Please let it be that.

[laurenande]

"Yef," Estmond answers around a bit of bread and scrambles to find his water. There is a short cacophony of table related items before he speaks again, unimpeded by his food.

"A young boy, brother of one of our newest sisters," Estmond says and, despjte his embarasment at being caught talking and eating, starts preparing another slice. "He was so very ill--but he is better now. Wants badly to hop in puddles but Sister Elonwy won't stand for it--has him in the laundry until she feels better about him running around."

Estmond pauses his work on his bread and, with a note of lament:

"The Reverend Mother is looking weaker--we may only have another day, perhaps two, before she--"

[faithlikeaseed]

Joy, then. Myr relaxes back in his chair, only now aware he'd been leaning a little forward with tension. "Maker be praised," he breathes, smiling wider. "I'd not blame her, after such a near thing." And given she was likely--no, almost surely--in line to be Revered Mother herself in short order, any time she could get with the kid was infinitely precious.

He picks up his bread, takes a bite, chews--as if by doing so he can drive the thought away, when there's really no doing so in a place where death's ever-present.

As Estmond is quick to remind him. Swallowing, he clears his throat and lowers his head. "She'd sounded fragile, last we spoke." A pause, a breath. "I fear I'm going to be the death of her."

It had been, he realizes, easier to say yes before he knew she was younger even than he was. That she hadn't lived the full life her seeming of advanced age--her very real wisdom--implied. But she'd made the decision to spend that life as the Maker guided her and he'd not turn the gift away now.

[laurenande]

"Yes, you will be," Estmond replies and it is a bit out of step with the conversation. True, that note of lament lingers, but there is a hopefulness there that is almost out of place. He does not note the disparity, however, and eats a healthy bite of his breakfast before continuing.

"She will not truly leave us--in spirit she will always be here--and while we will miss speaking with her and seeing her, Sister Luca will do great things. The Infirmary Hall will be emptied again and all those poor, suffering people will have their lives restored."