[open & closed] and when that day comes

[thereneverwas]

WHO: Barrow & friends
WHAT: ye olde lyrium detox in its various stages
WHEN: vaguely Wintermarch
WHERE: the infirmary
NOTES: I'll be adding a few starters at a time since I want later developments to feel organic and make sense. please feel free to request something if you don't see it here!

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the evening before (for basterly)

[thereneverwas]

Lyrium doses are an every-few-days sort of thing, so Barrow has had a bit of lead-up to the time that he stops taking it. That day will be tomorrow, and experience has proven that it won't be awful, not immediately, but he's still considering it an official Day One. That means being in the infirmary, under observation, which is a hell of its own kind, as far as he's concerned.

So the night before, he takes himself out to the Loose Noose and proceeds to enjoy a generous portion of whiskey (of which, much like lyrium, he requires an enormous amount to even feel it). He's there alone, serenely playing solitaire by the fire, enjoying his last night of calm before the storm.

days one and two (ota, especially infirmary staff/patients)

[thereneverwas]

When he and Seeker Hart and Astarion fell from the griffons, there were a few days Without; Barrow had tried to power through them, only to relent when it was clear rescue wasn't coming immediately. He'd asked the comparatively uninjured Tiffany to fetch his pack and administer the dose, and she'd done it, and they'd all managed without any dramatics.

Dramatics still seem far away, at this point, but the want is beginning to seep through Barrow's consciousness. He keeps busy, not wanting to shut himself away just yet: he fixes things in the infirmary, tightens joists, oils hinges, perhaps making a nuisance of himself with how single-mindedly he goes about it. His demeanor remains friendly, if a bit strained. He's thirsty, quite thirsty.

But he'll make it through, he's certain of it. Surely it won't get too terrible. He's happy to say so to anyone who asks, and even sings while he works.

day three (for Strange)

[thereneverwas]

"All right," comes the breathless exclamation, from a fidgety Barrow who can't seem to decide whether he wants to settle in the side room or keep pacing around the main infirmary, "maybe-- maybe I was wrong. This was a bad idea."

There's a tightness in the creases in his smile as he lingers in the side room's doorway, bracing himself against the frame and giving the faint impression he might rip it right off.

day four (for Mobius + maybe more)

[thereneverwas]

The jitters in full swing, Barrow has been successfully confined to the infirmary's side room, where he paces like a captive lion, periodically stopping to scratch at his torso and arms. He's quick to look up when a visitor arrives, but any warmth that might normally light his expression at the sight of Mobius is replaced by a wary, animalistic stare. He doesn't speak right away-- it's difficult to do so spontaneously, with the way tremors overtake him when trying to make refined movements.

day five (for abby, clarisse, + eventually lazar)

[thereneverwas]

Pacing, punching things, cursing to himself, and generally having an exceptionally bad time, Barrow has been making a lot of noise behind the infirmary door. Periodically he'll lose his mind completely and start battering against the door itself, usually with a few choice words for Strange; now, in the early evening, he's put his shoulder to it with a newfound drive.

aftermath of day five (for lazar + eventually strange)

[thereneverwas]

Barrow had asked Lazar to help him to bed, and Lazar did, and there he has remained since. A low fever has crept in over the hours, and he lies as listlessly as it's possible to be while shivers wrack his body, curled on one side and looking at nothing while the blanket balled in his tightfisted grip threatens to shred from tension.

He hasn't spoken much. It was a an accomplishment that he said anything at all, earlier, with how his teeth chatter and his mind wanders. The room's quiet is enhanced by the early hours of morning, with little activity outside the infirmary-- anyone awake right now probably doesn't want to be.

P R U D E N C E

[thereneverwas]

There's a new face in the Gallows, however temporarily: a stout woman in her early 50's, tallish, whose drably-clothed figure suggests a lifetime of heavy farm work and having children.

None of them are about, and she looks all the lonelier for it, a stoic-if-slightly-confused presence in the halls near the infirmary. She spends most of her time within, sitting by her brother's bedside in quiet conversation; but everyone has to eat sometimes, and get fresh air, so periodically she can be found picking her way awkwardly through the dining hall or sitting outside on the courtyard steps, hands folded and gaze skyward.

She's from a completely different world, and this place, its residents, are beyond strange, but she won't shirk from a conversation. People are just people, after all.