faderift | [open]

If there are rumors of a certain young lady having dramatically collapsed during last month's tourney, they have assuredly been greatly exaggerated. It must have been due to the heat, or to the excitement of the day, or from having had one too many cups of wine to drink. For here is the young lady herself, hiking to every corner of Kirkwall in an effort to find a great assortment of equipment which the Gallows (or its Seneschal) has either refused to provide on the basis of a lack of necessity or has only grudgingly offered to compensate her for once acquired.

In the Hightown Markets, Wysteria may be discovered studiously rifling through a great selection of poultices, creams, and various herbal remedies. She is smartly dressed and not at all out of place there in bright blues and yellows, well protected from the sun with a broad brimmed hat and thin camel colored nughide gloves. From the way she consults a sheaf of paper in her possession against each vial or pot, it is both clear that she is shopping for something most particular and that her list, such as it is, is rather extensive.

In Lowtown, the shrill sound of her voice somehow manages to carry above the ting-ting-CLANG! of an outdoor smithy, the hawking shouts of merchants, and the bleating of various animals penned here in the craft-trade streets of the lower city where they await the dark fate of either the butcher's knife or the tannery yard. Here, her bright clothes are rather less in sync with the surroundings; however, for all that Wysteria might visually stand out like an especially sore thumb in Lowtown, she gives no indication of being conscious of that fact herself. Or she is too bust lecturing the beleaguered tradesman before her—

"That is an outrageous price for an ordinary thing, sir! And I refuse to be so blatantly extorted! Half that would be closer to fair, and even that begins to stretch credibility."

Indeed if there is any sign that all is not precisely well, it is most easily viewed on the Kirkwall docks while waiting for the ferry to finish its slow creep across the harbor. It's late in the day and the humidity is heavy and wearing. Wysteria stands with a paper wrapped parcel clutched against herself, holding it with both hands so firmly that it's as if the package is illogically somehow responsible for her staying upright. She has her chin balanced on the top of the parcel too, her focus entirely reserved from the quay as it lies just past the toes of her boots. It is a poor idea to close one's eyes while in Kirkwall, but this is something adjacent to that.

Under the broad brim of her hat, she is a little pale.

The rift hangs in the quarry basin of an old copper mine. Partially abandoned first thanks to the sweep of Venatori through the northern Free Marches, the rift's appearance had successfully chased away what was left of the workforce—much to the chagrin of the quarry's master of operations. And so here they are at the request of one of Riftwatch's economically advantaged would-be allies, conducting a survey in the shadow of the Imperium's hold on the Minanter river.

"I shouldn't worry," Wysteria had remarked at some point during their ride out. "It seems to me that if Tevinter thought to take possession of the quarry, they might have done it before this moment. I doubt we are likely to see hide nor hair of them."

It is fine logic so long as one presupposes that the Venatori's interest must be in the copper and not in the rift itself. Apparently, say the hail of arrows which rocket murderously downward now from the upper steps of the quarry and toward Riftwatch's forces, there are reasons aplenty to be worried after all. To say nothing of the terror demons currently pouring out of the open rift.

The shielding burst of energy which cracks free of Wsyteria's extended anchor hand is entirely instinctive. That it is well-timed enough to save herself and her nearest companion from being turned into pincushions is luck more than skill, the force of of it so abrupt and uncontrolled that it—

—Snaps whistling arrows in half, flinging bolts and broadheads in separate off course directions.

—Flashes with a nauseating acid green light.

—And is punctuated after with a cry of pain. Wysteria doubles over, tightly clutching her left arm.

Above, Tevinter marksmen let fly another round of fire.

In the aftermath of the assault on the quarry and given the successful closure of the rift, the party has fled an hour south in an effort to put some distance between themselves and the site of the skirmish before making camp in a dense copse of trees high over a riverbed. The cook fire is little more than embers and ashes. Tent canvas has been shielded with boughs of end of summer tree limbs and even the horses have been picketed at a distance so that any would-be assault on the animals might serve as a preparatory warning rather than a too-late signal to arms.

If Wysteria's tendency toward unrestrained chatter might typically be an imposition under such purposefully covert circumstances, there is little chance of her incessant conversation betraying them now. Burning with fever, she has been tucked up inside one of the tents where she alternates between shockingly lucid and startlingly muddled.

A thing Byerly Rutyer cannot abide: the sight of a young woman looking frail and unwell.

Another thing Byerly Rutyer cannot abide: Wysteria Poppell.

He stands, torn, at war with himself, for perhaps a good minute. Because - not talking to her is such an appealing notion. Leaving her be. Letting her plunge into the water and - It takes the girl swaying slightly to the side for him to act; he steps up beside her and offers, stiffly -

"It would please me to carry your parcels, if it would please you to be unburdened."

And Ellis is on hand.

On hand between the spans of time where he is well and truly required elsewhere, though he has capitulated to those duties with quiet reluctance. The pinch of worry has not left his face. If anything, that it is reduced to a pinch is some improvement over the entirety of their flight from said skirmish.

There is a singed book open across his thigh, but he's diverted from the reading to look at Wysteria and her flushed face, her obvious misery.

"Keep the cloth across your forehead," is spoken very quietly, instruction that precedes Ellis reaching over to her to readjust said cloth for her.

Adrasteia is well-positioned at the moment to encapsulate herself, Wysteria, and whoever else is within a yard or so of the two of them into a protective shielding bubble, the ground beneath their feet lighting up with the runic activation of a spell well-cast.

The next thing she does is cast once more, this time a fireball that launches itself towards the only marksman she can clearly see from her position. It hits him square in the face, the person beneath the armor screaming out in pain.

"Are you all right?" This is to Wysteria; Adrasteia is pulling off her gloves with her teeth in preparation for laying on hands to heal the other woman if needed. If that would even work, in this particular scenario. She's not sure it will, actually.

There's still the matter of the open Rift to contend with, and the demons advancing on their location.

The upward jerk of her chin as she is firmly pulled back to the present tense from out of her wandering awareness makes her teeth clack together in her skull. When Wysteria stiffens where she stands, it as much to remind herself of where exactly her feet are beneath her as it is in response to—

"Oh. Good afternoon Ambassador."

Or is it evening? No, it is still light out enough that the word would seem poorly applied. Despite the faintly waxy quality of her pallor, Wysteria is quickly donning that habitually turned up nose look which she has so often adopted rewarded him with in the past.

"No, it is hardly so heavy as all that. Though I thank you for the consideration."

And what, is he going to fight her on that? When she's taken on a look like he's a pile of manure gently wafting odors at her? Absolutely not. Every time he has endeavored to help Wysteria, every time he has tried to engage with her in any meaningful way, she has rewarded him only with contempt and biting judgment. He will be on his way.

"You look poorly."

What is immediately evident is, no. She is not all right.

Buckled over the rigid line of her arm, her hand ratchetted back as far as the joint allows as if in effort to escape the crackling burn emitting from her palm, Wysteria is an illustration of pain. Her face, turned to half bury against her old shoulder, twists.

"It burns—" is punctuated by a sharper inhale as the anchor gash pulses furiously bright.

A further whistle of arrows falls from above. From the pattern of where they thwack, thwack into the mud at the quarry's basin, the archers have turned their attention to hemming Riftwatch in a direction where the demons might do all the hard work on their behalf.

"I brought you some water."

He says by way of announcing himself, as he lets himself in. He's careful to pull the canvas closed completely, offer Wysteria what protection from the elements they can afford her out here.

It's not enough.

But nothing is going to be until they can get her back to the Gallows. He doesn't dwell on the fact that he doesn't know what they'll be able to do for her there; he can't help thinking that the person he'd normally ask that question would be Wysteria. Instead, he focuses on what he can do — which is drawing closer, right now, sitting near her cot and looking for her response. There's a flask in his hand, and he uses the other to open it so that he can bring it to her mouth if she so desires.

"It is in place already," is her bland protest, her right hand sluggishly chasing his as if she has thought to rob him of the opportunity to make the requisite adjustments and has only moved three or four beats too late to actually accomplish the thing. When she finds his knuckles in the way, she lowers her hand back down with a flicker of exasperation.

It had been fine where it was. There was something soothing about the cool touch of the thing at the top of her head where she can feel the sweat prickling amidst her hair. It would be preferable, she thinks, if by wrapping it about her left hand they might relieve some of the heat from it too. But surely they have tried that. Or, more rationally, if Adrasteia's magic had been of so little effect to it then what could a damp cloth possibly accomplish?

"Why have you stopped reading? At this rate, we will never be through it."

(It would be something to squeeze her fist around at least. The cloth would be.)

"How kind of you to say."

That is contempt. It is indeed biting judgement. It also comes while she visibly attempts not to set her chin back onto the crinkling paper of the wrapped parcel's topmost edge. Is there anything so terrible in the whole wide world as being forced to be pleasant to a person who finds you so very unpleasant when you are feeling just adjacent to being under the weather? Surely not. Truly this must be the sharpest kind of mundane cruelty imaginable.

(Thank the Gods she hadn't closed her eyes. She would prefer to be damned than to know Byerly Rutyer had witnessed her being so foolish on the quay.)

"One day I hope I shall have the opportunity to return the favor."

"We have time," Ellis tells her, a statement which is true to a degree. There is no specific sense of when they'll be able to travel safely. And so it is fortunate he'd brought something long and so far, satisfactory as a distraction.

He turns the cloth over on her forehead, tipping it back slightly in concession to the clumsy trajectory of Wysteria's fingers.. His thumb briefly smooths along her brow.

And despite the implication in her question, Ellis still asks, "Is the pain any less?"

His voice is very steady, quiet over the words. What he wants to say is that she should drink some water, or tea, or eat even a single slice of bread to fortify herself for the trip back. But he stops over that one question, assessing before deciding whether to press her or go back to the book as prompted.

A fortunate thing: Ellis is well-practiced at suppressing worry, at being a steady, fixed point in the middle of any difficult situation.

A bubble that happens to include Ellis, whose movements had been fortuitously guided backwards in response to the Terror demon. It means he can retreat further back when Wysteria shouts, but the presence of archers—

"We need to close this and go," is a reluctant observation. Either those soldiers are interested and the rift, and must be denied, or they're interested in any of the shardbearers on hand, and must absolutely be denied.

His off hand comes to Wysteria's shoulder briefly, though the look he shoots at Adrasteia communicates the exact gravity of the situation: caught between Terror demons and Venatori is no place for them to stay.

"Unlikely," By returns, which is such an easy retort that now he is deeply worried. Usually the girl's tongue is so disagreeable that he has to put some small effort into coming up with a response. This was far too obvious.

"Sit down. I'll hold the ferry till you've a chance to climb on board." And - "Have you been to see my wife?"

Bundled under a veritable coat closet's worth of cloaks and blankets—whatever could be spared from their company's persons or from the horse's tack—she is startlingly pale and kitten weak about the arduous task of freeing an arm (her right one; the one which doesn't currently feel like it's being slowly chewed to pieces). But despite the fever sheen about her person, there is something quite alert in Wysteria's attention when she finds him in the blue shadows of the tent.

"I would prefer you to bring me my traveling case. It is just there near my feet." She makes a small motion toward the end of the cot, shifting her shoulders about her in some vague effort to sit higher in the make-do bed. "My little writing desk is there and I have a great deal of correspondence to attend to."

In the morning, they will refresh the clay poultice which was slathered over the gash in her hand. She knows that because she recalls having a long conversation about it after attempting to unwind the bandage covering the paste because it had begun to itch on top of everything else. Which she is trying not to give too much thought, for she has only just put it out of her mind and if she thinks on it too much then the itch will return. It will be like when you see a spider in the grass and then every little tickle against the skin is perceived to come from eight legs—

Ellis has asked her a question.

"It is much improved. And this will pass also," is an absent, automatic answer.

Tomorrow she will be fit to ride, she thinks of saying. It is the missing reasonable connective tissue to, "I dislike that horse. I have been thinking of whether I might have one of my own rather than borrowing."

"Much as I admire your wife's abilities, I don't believe it an ill which can be cut off."

Surely that is marginally more respectful of Lady Rutyer's chosen profession than to call her a butcher to her husband's face. That would be quite rude and she had decided many weeks ago that she was finished with all this unpleasant business. But there are better circumstances under which to not be a barb in someone's side.

She doesn't need to sit down. She is quite steady on her feet, thank you.

"How is Lady Rutyer? Very much engaged with relief efforts and the refugees, I imagine."

Will it pass?

Ellis doesn't know. There is no one to ask here, and perhaps no one to ask back at the Gallows. His thumb strokes once more along her forehead, thumb coming to rest at her temple, his attention held more by the blithe assertion of improvement than the possibility of the purchase of a new horse.

The missing link between her answer and her objection to the horse isn't questioned, but it wedges like a stone alongside all the worries he is careful to keep from his tone. At any other point Wysteria might have noticed, but he has an advantage in this.

"We can see about purchasing a horse," Ellis says, proposition taken in stride. "You'd have to stable whatever your new mount at the Gallows, unless we knock down the brick wall and expand into your neighbor's yard."

"It weakens when the demons are dead," Adrasteia replies, because she doesn't believe herself currently capable of closing the rift in the Fade on her own, and she isn't sure that Wysteria is in any position to be trying to use her own shard to do anything. "That will be our best bet."

She can keep refreshing the barrier to keep the arrows from doing much damage, but they won't be able to avoid being corralled at the moment; she can't get a good enough line of sight on the entire set of archers to do much about them.

"I don't believe Madame Allard would take kindly to trespassing. She already takes such exception to the clucking. Poor Lady Shayna, unjustly demonized and simultaneously terrorized by the lady in question's cat. It must be a very hard life," she says, closing her eyes under the cool shape of his thumb. "To be a chicken."

No, she is already well sick of living adjacent to a barnyard. Madame Allard is. And perhaps, just a little, herself. It would not do to have chickens and a great dog and a horse on top of everything else. Riftwatch's stables would be a perfectly acceptable place to put such an animal—

She opens her eyes again and looks straight up at him, her attention an unsettling combination of too sharp and too disoriented.

"When we return to Kirkwall, you must meet Derangér. I have been forgetting to introduce you."

Blind to the exchange of looks and to certain tactical considerations going quite literally over her head, Wysteria tightens her grip on her wrist as if that might somehow squeeze the pain coursing through it into a manageable shape. The heated pulse spills through her fingers, rancid green light liquid bright even in the day. The shriek of Terror draws nearer; this is fertile ground for it to sow in.

"I can close it," is abrupt, cutting in time with the crackle-pop of a fresh set of arrows being repulsed by the barrier over them. "I can. I only need to be closer."

It's very suddenly that Wysteria may feel a presence beside her - a soft one, a quiet one, belonging to an incredibly ratty and thin young man in torn leathers. His pale face is shaded deep beneath the brim of an overlarge hat, sleepless eyes cast downward. Cole can hear that she is unwell, feel the reeling, the rending, the roiling of the Rift...and he had just happened to be heading back from a day in the markets when he noticed her.

When she wasn't looking, he had dropped his invisibility, choosing instead to approach her plainly...but he doesn't stare. Mustn't stare.

Clutched in one hand is a waterskin, glistening around the cork as if it has been freshly filled. He's holding it out to her, awkwardly, his voice tiny when he finally finds it.

"...You need this." Not accusatory, no hint of derision - simple, like a child might sound.

Some weeks ago, Mr. Dickerson cordially requested Wysteria’s covert assistance in assessing which of the newly born nuggets stabled in a straw-lined crate in a straw-littered, dark, and musty storeroom beneath the mage tower might possess extraordinary abilities.

If any.

That the message arrived a cautious four to five days after the incident at the tournament is surely a coincidence.

There are eight of them squirming in the lamplight, Adrasteia II’s piggy eyes gleaming with pride for what she and Marius Squarebush have wrought. Their weird little bodies are wrinkled and naked in a translucent spectrum of white, pink, and brown, tiny hands grasping for teets as they bow and flex for purchase in a pile. They’re just a few days old, their eyes darkened lumps on the sides of their soft, suckling skulls, not yet open.

Beside Wysteria, lamp in hand, Richard is too taken in by the sight to suppress a rankle at his nose, a thin show of his teeth.

[open]

KIRKWALL. (open)

FIELD WORK.

THE RIFT. (open, one thread only; threadjacking welcome + encouraged)

CAMPING. (open, feel free to handwave presence for rift-based action if you'd rather skip to this)

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slides this across the table before i dip out

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Kirkwall Docks

WILDIN.