It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep

[favoriteanalyst]

WHO: Mobius and open to the lot of you
WHAT: General existing, excuses to have shenanigans with people, dealing with bad sleep, your general open log
WHEN: Through Justinian
WHERE: Mostly in the Gallows, occasionally around Kirkwall
NOTES: Nothing in the body of the post, will warn if hinky shit comes up in the comments

Being in Antiva, assassination attempt aside, was actually very good overall. Parties had, shit investigated, minds changed. The political and economic ramifications are yet to truly be felt, but anything to help the war effort.

He'd forgotten about the dreams while there. At first, he wonders if they only feel worse because it had been some time. But it becomes clear that they are, in fact, steadily getting worse.

But that doesn't mean the work ends. So if nothing else, he'll get back to doing what he does best.

Most often, naturally, he's found in the library, its self-appointed librarian and custodian. For those whose tastes he's come to learn, he puts aside some books at a table where he does most of his work (reading, cataloguing, where he can be found to lend some assistance). Sometimes he's there far into the night, candles melting down to nubs (though thankfully there's still light into the evening these days) while he goes over some Research records or takes notes on the state of the tomes or whatever passes his fancy when sleep doesn't come easy. In the daytime, he tries to stay as alert and helpful as ever. Though as the days pass and the situation gets worse, he too gets worse. Fumbles a stack he was carrying, dropping things, taking longer than usual to direct anyone to the proper area, getting short with people when they give him some attitude.

Training is something he makes a point of keeping up with. While he'd still gotten plenty of exercise in his years away from duty and still wields a sword and shield like extensions of his body, he's wanted to get back into practice so his skills resharpen. He's done well, diligently, back into a blessed routine. Routines are easy. Routines bring focus. He's there in the mornings before the heat and humidity start getting too bad, but when sleep feels impossible, sometimes he's out there at the crack of dawn, chipping away at some poor dummy who did nothing to deserve the abuse. Attempts other weapons, two-handers and axes, to varying degrees of success. Sometimes it's more about working out some stress by swinging something big more than actually learning a weapon. In sparring, he's slipping, but the good(?) part is that his partner probably also is as well, so it all evens out.

He's probably gonna accidentally hurt himself. And he won't be happy about it.

At some point he more or less stops sleeping in the barracks altogether. This whole thing is an easy enough fix if it's just one person suffering, but when everyone is tossing, turning, waking up, sweating, panting, yelping, falling about? In that kind of space? No thanks. You might be able to catch him taking catnaps where he can. Or even where he doesn't want to but happened to nod off. In the library under a table or against a wall between shelves. On a small pile of hay by the stables. In the chapel. Right into his lunch only to jerk back upright with food plastered to his face. Standing up. (It's an acquired skill.) Spends a few nights in Kirkwall trying to seek some better sleep. Spoilers: doesn't work.

He loses track of days. He has to mark them very carefully so he knows when he last took lyrium. Wonders if he should go back to taking it daily, dip into the available stores more. It's there, for use. Why not? But the thought makes him itchy. Sure, he's tired, exhausted, with images at night that make him jumpy. Doesn't mean he's finally losing his wits. Isn't losing his mind. He doesn't need to make that day come any faster by increasing his intake. Just...needs to keep track. Days that turn into nights that turn back into days. Mark it down.

Prayer is something he does every day. Like training. Routine. But it gets...more, during the month. Goes to the chapel earlier, stays longer, goes there multiple times a day. If this is something demonic, then surely, surely the grace of Andraste and the will of the Maker will help them. Does he believe this? Well. It won't hurt, that's for sure. But that doesn't seem enough some days. What if it's the location, what if it's cursed for the atrocities conducted? He makes his way to the garden where the Kirkwall Chantry once stood, conducts his prayers there. He's not, apparently, the only one trying to take solace in a holy ground.

Occasionally, a fight breaks out. Occasionally, the racism and fear of the Other gets worse, becomes the worst. He tries to step in when he can do so safely, but sometimes a solid left hook is the only solution when words fail. Everyone's jittery, anxious, tired. He wants to help; Maker he wants to, but there's no soothing this, no balm he can give. He can only recite the words of the Chant and hope it digs into hearts.

By the end of the month, he's usually talking to himself, muttering under his breath. How long has he been reciting the Chant? It's not in order, doesn't have the whole thing memorized front to back, but there are whole strings of verses, occasionally a whole canticle. Sometimes plucks out relevant verses, repeats them to himself in the middle of whatever he's doing. If there are parts that seem unfamiliar, there might be dissonant verses in there, too.