Entry tags:

Simple Gifts [Closed]

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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.

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?

"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."

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.

"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.

"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.

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."

At least the neglect may not have been intentional, he considers, as Estmond springs into action. He casts to finish off the potion before carefully starting to drip it on to her burns with murmurs of apology.

"Clean is crucial, but what herbs do you have? I don't have a lot. I only brought my usual kit." One thing at a time. And worst-case scenario they may be able to get some others to help out with the laundry. With good supplies, or even halfway-decent ones, they could make a difference instead of making these people lean on something as hollow as faith. Blessings, Andraste's asshole. How many had died here while waiting for empty words?

"I--I do not know what we have, apart from what is here--they come in and I mixed them into potions--I could try to find more, but the trees are hard to navigate at the best of times," Estmond explains ruefully as he sets the new bandages down and goes to fetch some of the potions he has made.

He returns a moment later with a few bottles--they are amateurish and concentrated beyond what is safe. They contain far too many pain killers and far too much sleeping draught, but they are technically serviceable for his uses.

"I cannot name them all--I'm sorry--but I can fetch them if you will remain here. There is so much to do, I never have time to go looking--"

The speed at which Estmond runs the errands alters Anders' impression of him. This isn't deliberate neglect on Estmond's part; the fault lies higher up.

"Thank you," he says gently. The potions are useless, it's clear on a little inspection, but the herbs bear promise. "I'm sorry to be asking you to run and fetch, but whatever you have I could use, and I can turn some of them into potions to last for a while too as I know we won't be here long."

In the meantime he's grabbed one of the woman's blankets and rolled it up, tucking it under her feet to elevate them before very carefully wrapping her burns in the new dry bandages. If she's well enough to respond to that level of treatment he'll come back to use magic later, but right now he has to do triage as much as possible. The man with the ruined leg is next, Anders using enough healing to stop the bleeding as he unwraps the limb with care.

"Of course!" Estmond all but shouts and catches himself. He lowers his voice before speaking again. "I will be back as soon as I can, please keep watch," he adds and with little additional fanfare is through the door. He seems almost glad to be working at the behest of an actual healer.

The door closes behind him and there is a lingering sensation that something has left with him. The room is a little colder and, as Anders begins working on the next man over, the temperature drops again. The fire in the hearth still burns, bolstered somewhat by magic, but it burns low and there is a whistling draft through the floo above it.

The spirit that Anders calls to aid his magic does not come at once and when it does, the shadows on the windows grow just slightly longer. There is an oppressive nature to the silence, now, and it mounts the longer he utilizes magic to heal the patient before him.

The response gets the faintest of smiles from Anders before he's turning to work. All traces of smile are quickly gone, though. The temperature is dropping, and Mercy clearly does not want to respond, does not want to be here. Spirits avoid demons and what might corrupt them, and it's the latter that says a lot about what might be going on. This is supposed to be a place of mercy and compassion, but it's not.

Once he has the man more stable and the bleeding slowed enough, Anders tells Mercy she can go for now and sits back on his heels. Estmond wants to help. Something else doesn't want that to happen. But there's a thorn in the tidy guess of a demon being at fault here - a demon would want people to feel whatever its form is, and these people are far too drugged to really feed it.

Which means it might be people at fault here. Deliberately so. Whenever Estmond returns, Anders has one more question for him: "Were you touched by a miracle at any time?"

Estmond comes back within the hour. He is soaking wet and carrying a covered basket of herbs with him. Anders's question catches him by surprise, but nearly everything appears to manage that. On reflex, once he enters, he moves to stoke the fire and add more fuel.

"Me?" He asks, his tone making it perfectly clear that he does not understand why such a question would be posed to him.

"No, not directly. I wasn't in a bad way when I came here, I have never needed a miracle--but I have seen them! Quite a lot of them."

So that throws that partially out the window... but not completely. It could be that Estmond isn't a part of whatever greater mess is going on here, that he genuinely cares. He'd be a rare brother, in Anders' experience.

"Sorry. I get curious." Anders gets up to take the basket and start sorting through it as Estmond tends to the fire. "I can do things the regular person would find miraculous, but nothing that's actually a miracle. It all boils down to magical knowledge combined with what I've learned helping the poor and lost for nearly a decade. So hearing about miracles makes me want to know everything I can."

"I'm afriad I might be a poor judge of what is or isn't a miracle," Estmond admits. "I never even met a mage before I came here--but I have seen miraculous things. I have seen people jump up and leave here at a sprint, but most don't leave at all.

"I wish I were better at this, that I knew more, but I only have the books they give me--and they aren't bad is all, but they're only books."

"I'll write you some notes," Anders decides. "Notes on making potions, their applications, dosage, and the like. If you could have a servant drop by the room I'm staying in with some parchment and ink I'll see to it."

Now that he has the herbs sorted, he's portioning them out before lining up what vials he can scrounge up around the room. Then, sounding as casual as he can:

"It must be a nightmare of a time keeping pyres lit for those who aren't saved, considering the fires around here. I can't imagine the effort that goes into that."

The promise of notes and assistance perks Estmond right up, bringing a bright look to the man's wide and watery eyes, but that last comment--that strips the joy out of him as surely as this place snuffs out flame. The hand that is tending the fire slows and he seems at a loss--for words at first and then for air. Anders, it seems, has knocked the wind out of him and he has to look away as he tries to conjure the answer.

"Every day we try," he says, very softly, after a long pause. "And every day we fail. Of all the wounds in this place, that one--its the one that digs the deepest I think."

The bodies go unburned. And yet the place doesn't stink of death and decay.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"What do you, what can you do, at that point? I run a Clinic, back... back where I was, ran it," curse how much he sucks at being subtle, "and I can't imagine not being able to at least give the people who came too late that one bit of solace."

Estmond does not take his questions for anything other than rhetorical. He sighs in response to them and returns his attention to the fire as the melancholy passes through him. There is little to say on the matter of burning and bodies, they've nothing else to do for it, save attempt to keep people alive long enough to avoid joining them.

"I shall...fetch water. Do you require anything else?"

The questions hadn't been rhetorical, but Anders doesn't want to hurt Estmond so he'll let them slip away. Where are the bodies? What's being done with them?

"Mostly the company, at this point. The fire seems a little less eager to go out when you're in here, and I can help run you through some of this. But that can wait until after you return."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Simple Gifts [Closed]

The Abbey on the White Cliff

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CW: GORE

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