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

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."

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."

Edited 2018-09-12 15:50 (UTC)

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."

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.

"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--"

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.

"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."

The matter-of-fact acknowledgment is good to hear, It's--refreshing, in a way. A little like how mages might talk of a Harrowing and all its uncertainty; no hedging, no euphemisms, no place not to accept the inevitable with responsibility rightly accorded. Myr lifts his head once more, considering the man across the table from him in that eyeless way of his, and wonders at what the abbey's made of its people.

(Especially that bit about spirits lingering; Maker, he'd hope not--she's more than won a return to His arms, hasn't she? ...It may be worth asking after that. These little isolated groups become cultish so quickly--

--thinks the man who's open to Andraste being a mage.)

"That she will. I've been--greatly touched, speaking with her; she's a remarkable woman." A certain melancholy awe colors his tone. "And some of those people are in sore need, I've heard--d'you ever lose them, before the Revered Mother can see to them?"

He's already braced himself for a response; much as he wanted to reject it on faith, Anders had been so certain and...he should at least entertain the idea of losses in triage.

Edited 2018-09-12 20:47 (UTC)

Estmond perks up at that, a wistful, proud look on his face. He sets his knife down and leans back in his chair before he answers. The rain outside doesn't feel quite so oppressive, then, but that may just be the improvement in Estmond's mood.

"Not a one," Estmond says and his tone is all relief and happiness. "They are amazing, our Reverend Mothers, and no matter how near they come to it, they have not failed a single soul."

Edited 2018-09-12 21:43 (UTC)

He'd been right.

Not only had he been right but the case was even better than he'd hoped in putting a worldly bound on his optimism. "Maker be praised," he breathes. "Truly they are. You're blessed to have them."

Satisfied--relieved, awestruck, maybe a little gloating--he tears a piece off his bread and eats it. "I imagine," he says once his mouth's no longer full, "it's still a frightening time for you in the infirmary. How are you getting on with our spirit healer?"

"He is very knowledeable," Estmond says and there is a thread of something that creeps into his voice. It is not a distaste so much as a mild worry.

"I haven't seen him use his spirit to heal yet--mostly I retrieve herbs or wash bandages and linens. He has all but taken my burden from me."

He sounds torn on the subject, as if he anticipates something terrible and would prefer to have his station back, however the cost may weigh on him. Still, he does not rise nor complain, he simply lifts his bread and takes a bite of it dry.

Edited 2018-09-13 00:30 (UTC)

Ever alert to nuances of tone, Myr doesn't miss the worry--but busies himself with reducing his bread to chunks before he replies, quelling his first instinct to pounce and assume the worst. "You don't sound quite happy with that," he observes at last. "Would you prefer he'd taken on less?"

"No--no, no," Estmond replies quickly and pauses to take a quick drink of water. "No--he is helping them, I cannot begrudge them real aid from..."

He pauses then and there is a long moment as he stares at his plate. The sounds of rain on the roof, a floor above them, are quiet but constant. There is sawing and hammering in the distance.

"From a real healer," he finally appends. "I--I just worry. Always worrying--it's how it must be, mustn't it. We do miracles and no one would need one if they weren't in dire need--but the dire-ness that concerns me always. I hate that part."

...Ah. There's something else there, Myr's sure of it, but the reward from pursuing it might not be worth the risk of alienating another of the abbey's denizens.

It may well simply be one of those things better left unsaid.

"You've a large heart, to look after them as you do, day in and day out; small wonder you're afraid one might not make it. Would it be easier on your heart to have someone more experienced around the abbey full-time?"

"Yes, I think so," Estmond says, his tone a bit brighter but his worry, or perhaps it is hesitance still lingering.

"I...would prefer they not be a spirit mage, though. I worry for Garrett already, I cannot imagine living here and summoning spirits all day."

He pauses then and drums his fingers against his cup, the ceramic makes a dull sound.

"I cannot imagine summoning spirits at all."

"Maker's breath, nor I," comes the fervent reply. "A wisp or two is as far as I'll ever go. Most mages take up Creation to get into spirit healing but--leave me well out of that."

He picks up a hunk of bread, sets it back down on the plate turned the other direction. "What would be so bad about summoning spirits here?" Asked in all innocence, for all he's intent on the answer as a hound.

"I would not suggest that here," Estmond warns and looks a bit skittish for a moment. He regards his food and lifts the bread to take another bite. Once he has finished he considers Myr's second question and how to answer it.

"We are safe here," Estmond starts again and slows. "The Reverend Mothers watch over us, each in their time, and their spirits watch over us when they have passed.

"I do not know how a mage would fare here after long, especially one who deals in spirits. I worry that I may find out with Garrett and I would rather not."

"--Right. I'll keep that in mind, thank you." Though of course, barriers were also spirit magic even if he didn't much think of it...

And how does he know this? tickles at the back of Myr's mind. Morely hadn't known of any hidden mages among the abbeyfolk--but that didn't mean there weren't any. "You'd said that before--their spirits watching over you," he picks up, leaving the question of mages for another moment. "That seems--very sad for them; haven't they earned a place in the Maker's arms?"

Easier not to come out at strange folk beliefs swinging; it never helped.

Edited 2018-09-13 04:33 (UTC)

"It is," Estmond agrees without much hesitation. It is a curious reaction given the comfort that seemed to stem from his insistence that they would remain watching over them all.

"They will find their way there, one day, but I cannot say when. It's not my place to guess at the motivations and machinations of Andraste and the Maker."

Maker's love. That is a strange assertion; it makes the hair on the back of Myr's neck prickle with unease. "You've...seen them, then? Or felt them watching over you?"

His tone is careful; there's nothing of incredulity in it.

"Oh yes, I feel it every day. Sometimes I imagine I can feel them waiting and watching over the Infirmary Hall when I cannot."

He looks sidelong at Myr and his confusion creeps into his tone

"Can't you?"

Myr's felt something; as much is clear from his expression of concern. "I have," he ventures at last. "In the Infirmary, you said."

Where the fires still burn. Where it's warm enough to keep the wounded and the dying comfortable.

"Is there anywhere else you've felt them?" The Fade is empty. The Fade is empty and something's driven Mercy away, something doesn't even like barriers...

"A few places--the laundry, sometimes in the dormitories, in the auditorium and the garden," Estmond replies a bit idly but he sounds more confident as Myr admits to having felt the same thing.

He's silent a moment at this revelation--takes a bite of his bread--as he pushes pieces of the puzzle into place. The garden was more perfect than any mortal gardener could have made it. The Infirmary's fires weren't snuffed out by whatever malevolent thing stalked the halls elsewhere. The others--

He doesn't know. But they bear investigating. "I don't know I've been to the auditorium," or the laundry, but he has a clear idea of what might go on there. "Is it often used?"

"Often as it needs to be," Estmond replies, his tone a little awkward. "It's damaged and a little dangerous--the carpenters are fixing it but they have a ways to go."

He sets down his bread and takes a long drink.

"I hope they'll have it fixed soon but I'd prefer to wait for the roof to be fixed."

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Simple Gifts [Closed]

The Abbey on the White Cliff

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BLAZE IT

tbh we need a high holy day for andraste on cloudreach 20

Agreed.

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