faderift | [closed] it comes as no surprise at all, you see

She freezes —

Brief, only brief, as raw panic slams against her senses; the foreign pull of the Fade reaching out for something far more familiar. She freezes,

( The Gallows again, and still the blade won’t rip free, wedged on some sliver of gore. The blade won’t come out, and they’re coming straight towards her: faces distorted in a red red rage. )

Wren slings Atticus about her like a shield, wrenches his wrists up sharp beside the sudden bar of an arm across his throat. Her free hand slips straight past her sword and for the knife at her back; in the space of a moment it’s hovering in threat above his right eye.

( Two Venatori and Ashlock, worse than bad odds. They’ve gotten Harriman, and now Ashlock. She needs leverage, )

"Get back," She spits at the pair, hauling Atticus up by the neck. Strength is easy in desperation. Her lips peel back into a snarl thirty years practiced, but this time her pupils are shot wide, her hand is shaking. "Now."

Edited 2017-08-15 22:30 (UTC)

The spell hits him like a blast of cold water, taking the breath straight out of his lungs, and the shackles, never fully fastened around his wrists again, clatter to the floor at his feet. He's winded, but still clear-headed; one doesn't spend a lifetime as a somniari without developing impressive resistance to magics intended to affect the mind.

Still. He's a mage--a glass cannon--and the grip Wren gets on him isn't one he can wrestle himself out of easily, especially with her arm crushing his wrists against his throat. Atticus chokes on a gasp of air and staggers backward in her grip; the knife poised so close to his eye has already sliced through part of his eyebrow, spilling blood into his vision.

Instinct forces him to put up a token amount of resistance before he wills himself to stillness, his eyes closed as he reaches for (and finds) a measure of calm.

At first blush, this hadn't seemed like a situation that couldn't be swiftly resolved by a good hard slam. It might even have been one that he could joke about as they left--can you believe that little pissant, Ser Coupe? What did he think was going to happen? Whatever the effect on the other prisoner, it doesn't look like it requires immediate medical attention, but when he meets Wren's eyes to gauge her reaction--

The Venatori is a human shield within a matter of seconds, blood running red before Simon's evaluation of the situation has finished violently reorienting itself, and he reaches both hands out in a gesture both urging and placating. There's no talking through what magic does to the mind, not even for people far better at this sort of thing than Simon is, and no amount of scouring the opposite cell clean with the Maker's righteous fire will shake loose the visions before they've run their course--will it?

"Let's none of us be hasty here," he says, trying his damnedest to look past Atticus and keep his gaze locked on Wren's. "It's only a routine transfer, Ser Coupe, you know that--you know that. It's all under control. Nobody's getting hurt tonight."

Simon is more right than he knows, at least on his own end. Benedict collapses on the floor by the wall, wheezing and showing no sign of casting any more spells. If he's aware of the effect this is having on Wren and Atticus, he doesn't show it (which is really too bad, since although it's not going as intended, it's still working pretty well).

Under control. Funny how much truer that feels with a hostage in hand. Her heart slams against her ribs,

( A lie in the rhythm, song gone off as rotten meat. It worms beneath every word he speaks: The echo of an echo. How could she let this happen? )

Simon's hands splay unarmed, and the calculus of this encounter tips momentarily in her favour. It won't last, but tbe shock of the reversal might buy her time before they realize she'll blind the mage anyway.

The boy's sprawled; if she can get closer to the door, she can shove Vedici's body at Ashlock, try to tangle his reflexes.

"Then get back," Wren swallows hard against the rising bile in her throat, the terrified certainty: that this isn't how it ends, that this is only the beginning.

( Scarlet glints in all the crystal spaces behind his teeth. Nobody's getting hurt tonight -- so when did she let this happen? )

"Against the wall."

Clear a path and she's one step closer to the door. One step closer to control. She lets up on Atticus' windpipe just enough to press him forward, ignoring the trickle of blood from his brow. The knife keeps uncertain pace, never veering quite close enough to maim.

Her sword remains untouched, her attentions divided between blunt fear and a distant time. This isn't the most cunning plan, and she's left unusual openings. If words fail, she's poorly prepared for a rush.

The crushing weight of her powerful forearm bearing down on his windpipe eases a fraction, and he finds his wrists have some limited mobility as the Templar forces him forward one step, then two. He can see only through one eye; the right one he has squeezed tightly shut against the sting of hot blood that has flooded over it from his eyebrow. A wound that looks--and feels--worse than it is, he knows.

He sucks in a breath and presses his hand to his temple before Wren can force him too close to the other Templar on the opposite side of the door. It happens in a flash--the mind blast erupts as a surge of telekinetic energy, the force of his mind slamming against Wren's, knocking her backwards.

Atticus staggers backwards from her with that done, swiftly applying the length of his sleeve to the gash above his eye to stem the flow of blood. He quickly exits his cell and goes to stand against the opposite wall, with a swift glare at Simon as though to defy the Templar; yeah, you tell him to get back in that cell with that bespelled lunatic, just go ahead. Then he glares past him at Benedict.

Unarmed he might be, unwilling to draw a sword against his own commander--but in the moment of frantic calculation he allows himself, he decides he's going to have to trust his breastplate against that knife.

He can hear Wren's lucid voice in his mind, even if it's saying very different things aloud--don't bother with me; attend to the magister, he's sure she would tell him if her mind were actually her own, but it's one thing to know his duty and another entirely to watch her reeling from the blast and not rush to ensure that it hasn't done permanent damage.

The door to the younger one's cell is still open, nothing blocking it but Simon's substantial width. With one quick wrench, rougher than he means to, he grabs Atticus by the upper arm, thrusts him into it with the other lunatic, and slams the bars shut. There's nothing to be done about the shackles, and he'll be at fault if they attack each other, but at least it'll slow them down if they try to run.

"They can't touch you from here," he tells Wren, desperate to buy time, wondering if the spell will break gradually or all at once. If he can just keep her talking, and not striking, until it wears off--

Benedict meets Atticus' eyes automatically, still out of breath and curled against the wall. He wasn't planning to cast anything further-- in truth, he hadn't even thought too hard about casting the first one-- but once Atticus is thrust into the cell with him, he begins to think twice.
Finally dragging in a breath, Benedict raises his hand as though in protest, a weak purple mist expanding and immediately dissipating from his hand. It was meant to be a barrier, but his concentration isn't great at the moment.

Edited (I keep changing my icon lol) 2017-08-16 04:04 (UTC)

It punches hard.

She staggers against the bars, slumped with the roil of some invisible force through her focus. A natural fear now, rising to meet the rest, eclipse it. Simon may as well be granite for his bulk in the doorway. Yet an obstacle — even if it doesn’t make sense, what he’s done here —

( It doesn't make sense. Is there something of him left, still? It doesn't make sense, and if she could just hold to that, )

Wren's grip curls tight about the hilt of the blade, reflexive, but her thoughts dig for purchase and find only smoke, the shifting blur of memory. She hauls herself up, paces the edge of the little cell, eyes locked on his and breath ragged. Logic won't fit together cleanly. Plans won't. But Simon's in her way.

( Big means a bigger target. Hold to that. )

When she goes for him, it’s with alarming speed. It’s also with a shattered balance, and she’s yet a pace or so away when she misjudges, stumbles — goes down hard. The knife jars loose at last, but not before rending a long gouge into the wood of Atticus’ cot.

The door to the cell clangs shut behind him, and he is locked in the cell with Benedict, whose pathetic fetal posture somehow enrages Atticus even more than his idiotic attempt at sabotage had. Catching his breath, he wipes the flow of blood off of his face and shakes it roughly from his hand, his teeth bared in a grimace of outrage.

The Templars grappling for control of the situation nearby don't deter him. He comes towards Benedict with tiger-like intensity, reaches out a bloodied hand as though he might grab his apprentice by the throat. There's a pulse of telekinetic energy crackling like static around his fingers; it would be so easy, it would eliminate so many variables, to kill this boy now.

It is an enormous task to rein in his anger and control his breathing, but Atticus clenches his fist in frustration and forces himself to inaction. Still, the intensity of his cold blue stare on Benedict should be enough to communicate the obvious to his apprentice: lash out again, and he will put you down.

He hadn't thought she would lash out so fast. He doesn't have the time to ready a defense without his sword in hand, doesn't have time to do anything but imagine in horrified flashes that knife plunging into his throat, or his eye--Wren knows templar armor better than anyone else in the room, and all its vulnerable points too.

He ducks, throwing himself out of the way, but the only thing that prevents it from being too little too late is that she's on the ground now as well. He can hear something going on in the cell behind him, and has a sinking pessimistic feeling that they might soon be down a valuable prisoner, but his strategy of simply waiting Wren out is looking now like a good way to decorate the cells festively with his own arterial spray.

He can't cut short the mages' fight and prevent that at the same time. Moving as quickly as he can, before Wren can retrieve the knife, he hauls himself to his feet and shuts the cell door on her, kicking the knife out of reach. A quick check back at the Venatori tells him they're both still breathing, but in the absence of shackles on either of them, it's going to be hard to guarantee that for much longer.

"Don't do it," he pants, raising a hand with only the promise of cleansing intervention in it. Words are easier to muster than that level of energy, though far less effective as a rule. "You know it's not worth it."

Consequences have never meant much to Benedict, because for the most part, there have been very few for any of his actions. But he is learning respect for them far more quickly than anyone would ever want to, and he isn't sure what he's more afraid of, the fighting Templars or the towering Atticus. He looks up at his mentor, hand still held out as though to shield himself with or without the barrier, and is terrified by what he sees.
He takes a deep breath and tries the spell again, this time with success. A small dome of energy surrounds him, through which he maintains eye contact with Atticus, anticipating the worst.

A hiss of effort sends her clawing to her elbows as Simon kicks the knife away. The blood on her isn’t just Atticus’ now, and some distant thread of clarity is beginning to wind its way through alongside.

( It doesn’t make sense. )

She’s not about to shift those bars, she’s missed her shot —

( None of this makes sense. )

Fear drains into resignation, weariness. It’s enough to make her heed the ringing of her head. At last, she slumps in place, sides heaving. Just a moment to regain her strength. Just a moment until the ground stops spinning.

"Fucking," She mumbles in Orlesian. "Vints."

She catches the flare of purple light from the corner of her eye; can’t quite work out what it means. Probably nothing good.

Edited 2017-08-16 21:52 (UTC)

"Don't do it. You know it's not worth it."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that," Atticus spits savagely, his eyes still fixed on Benedict. But when all the stupid boy conjures up is a pathetic barrier that even Atticus' fifteen-year-old son could obliterate in his sleep, he closes his eyes in sour, bone-deep exhaustion and looks away from him.

The crackle of telekinetic energy fizzles out. He relaxes his hand to his side.

He turns and walks back to the cell door, squinting, his head at an angle as he inspects with his fingers the damage done to his eyebrow by Wren's knife. "If I might request the services of a medic."

Simon's still on edge, hand still poised to counter the slightest hint of a spell if anyone so much as breathes too loudly, and keeping a wary eye on Wren besides, as if she might somehow leap up and rattle the bars loose with that terrifying speed.

But the younger Vint seems to have learned some manner of lesson, and the elder one has thus far struck Simon as one who understands the benefits of cooperation, thus the last-ditch appeal. He still has the creeping feeling that it's all a ruse, lulling them all into a false sense of security--but if it keeps the more dangerous one docile in the moment, Simon will take it.

It'll only work if they actually extend the benefits of cooperation, though, and Simon pauses with an instinctual sneering dismissal on his tongue. Venatori or no, the Inquisition can't afford a reputation for being inhumane to prisoners. And he was, technically, injured by a templar, through no direct fault of his.

He sighs. "I'll see what I can do as soon as this is sorted."

Edited 2017-08-16 23:08 (UTC)

Not about to stop cowering anytime soon, Benedict keeps his eyes trained on Atticus until the man turns away, then he directs them to Simon. He's clearly terrified, his hands curling near his face and ready to cast if the need arises; Templars have always been a joke to him, and now he can't quite decide if they're his salvation or a bigger threat than Atticus.

The shackles yet lie discarded nearby.

Wren turns her gaze onto them and waits for it all to make sense. They matter, of course, but why? They're not on her. The chain's too short to strangle anyone by, and no purpose to that when she's still a sword,

She still has her sword. Shit.

"Simon," The lurch of the world reminds her that it might be a bad idea to stand as she drags the cuffs back towards her. Wren worms closer to the bars to pass them out, low. She forces her voice crisp as she can: "Leave the boy."

Easier to kill unrestrained, if they have to. Well. If Simon has to. It's going to be a few minutes before she's much help — longer still before she can argue for transferring him onto magebane with any degree of credence.

( Some slurred train of thought suggests this all would have been an excellent diversion, an easy way to make a break. But surely they would have done so by now. )

Edited 2017-08-16 23:52 (UTC)

That he turns his back on Benedict should be indication enough that Atticus is finished with him--in this moment, and perhaps permanently. Let him rot here; let him languish, let him suffer, let him wither away into irrelevance. If any miniscule part of Atticus cared for his well-being before, it's gone now.

He fixes Simon with a carefully schooled look of patience, somewhat offset by the persistent trickle of blood from his eyebrow. "You had better put me in a different cell far from his before you shackle me again, lest that idiot boy decides to finish the job."

Edited 2017-08-17 02:38 (UTC)

There are two problems with this. (No, there aren't; the problems with this are legion, but there are two at present that stand out to Simon more than the rest.) First, that the magister is right, a sentence he has never thought before in his life and will absolutely never be caught saying aloud. And second, that the only way he can comply with both Wren's order and the prisoner's reasonable request is to get close to the bars again, when Wren does still have a sword on her and nothing stopping her from using it.

But her order comes from a train of thought he thinks he can follow, and she's calling him by name. It's a slightly more promising situation than they'd been in a minute ago.

"Ser Coupe, I'm going to need your keys." He approaches as if trying to pacify a wild animal, except that he doesn't have an offering of food, or anything to distract. Reminding her that she has the keys is a double-edged sword, much like the one she can still very much kill him with if she wants to, but there's nothing else to do. He'll need them if he's going to put Atticus into a cell Benedict can't cast into, and he'll want them if he's going to let Wren out at any point in the near future, though given a lucid mental state and a bendy enough wrist, she can do it herself if she keeps them.

Yes, Benedict hopes, put him in a different cell. He himself isn't going to try anything again, but with Atticus being close by, will he... will they still be brought out together, have to research together? Benedict feels an unfamiliar panic, like the growing anxiety he's been feeling, but greater: Atticus has been seemingly in total control of their situation, and has shown himself to be surprisingly cruel on more than one occasion. If they're not separated, what will his 'mentor' do? What will he do if they are separated?

Benedict gives a subtle, nervous nod behind Atticus, still looking straight at Simon.

Despite herself, she tenses at his approach; the words hang in the air before she comprehends.

Wren wobbles to her feet, feels at her side. The sword’s there: her hand lingers on the hilt, a reminder. Reassurance. Her fingers curl, sliver out perhaps a half-inch of steel —

( Still there. )

— It passes. She sheathes the blade again, shakes the keys loose.

"Ah," A sharp breath in. It’d be better to pull her own loose, but that would require remembering which one hers is. Nerves threaten to spider up again; abruptly, she just shoves the whole ring through the bars. "Quite."

Another time, with a clearer head, she might offer her weapon out beside them. Another time. Awareness is returning; empathy is yet a stretch. To see this as Simon ( Ashlock ) and the prisoners must see?

That particular nausea will come later.

The look Atticus fixes on Wren is cold, but absent the hostility he'd reserved for Benedict; she may have left his throat bruised and his face bloody, but, as insulting as it was to have a Templar manhandle him like some soporati street thug, she did not do it at her own behest. The effects of his student's spell are slowly, gradually wearing off of her, and he is forced to acknowledge that for all Benedict's foibles... well, his spell did its job.

He glances from the key ring that Wren thrusts through the bars to Simon, waiting expectantly.

He flinches when Wren reaches for her sword, backs hastily out of range as she begins to unsheathe it, and doesn't immediately approach again when she extends the keys. The Venatori, he thinks, can take their combined impatience and shove it.

Fortunately, his reach is long, and he can swipe the proffered keys and shackles without venturing too far into blade range again. This done, he unlocks the cell, still with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this is where it all comes undone, that all of it was leading to this moment, with the senior templar incapacitated and both Venatori unshackled, capable of overpowering him easily in tandem if they want. All it would take would be one more spell from the younger one, just like the first, and then they can slaughter their way through the Gallows like abominations and flee Kirkwall with a trail of devastation in their wake...

The adrenaline of Wren's attempted attack has worn off, leaving him drained, but he's not taking chances. He gathers himself and reaches again, with every singing drop of lyrium in his blood, for a cold sheet of negation to wrap the magister in until the shackles can do the job for him. It settles around Atticus like a clinging haze, and Simon beckons him when it's safe. "No hard feelings, serah. You know how these things go." The words might ring just a bit truer if he were willing to act like Atticus merits a 'messere.'

Edited 2017-08-18 01:50 (UTC)

Finally, when he sees the magical block happen, Benedict is able to breathe out. He rests his head back against the wall, still eyeing Atticus warily, but at least relatively confident he's not about to be cursed to death.
He'd get up onto his feet, but Benedict is pretty sure his legs would just shake out from under him and he's better off staying here. Out of the way. Totally innocent and nonthreatening.

It’ll sting later: That flinch, the retreat. In the moment it’s only irritation.

Wren casts a baleful gaze back to Atticus, expression settling into something a little less shaken — and no more pleasant for it. Her head knocks into a loose nod as Simon takes the keys (his distance matters, she can’t say why that’s so); her eyes skim down to meet the magister’s hands, squinting against the bad angle, the gloom.

As though she could do anything about it.

That silvery mist may as well be relief condensed, a signal that they're one step closer to this farce's end. One step closer, and. And a great many between. Too many to count. No sense in bothering.

Wrists, she almost suggests, decides Ashlock can handle that much. No one's getting a library pass today.

"Stay down," To Benedict, now. She draws herself up as tall as she can manage, attempts poorly to turn a lean into a loom. "You and I will speak."

Later. Later, when words come a little more easily. Later, when she's not in her own bloody cell.

The fog that mutes and muffles his senses may as well have ripped away his ability to touch, to smell, to taste; for a horrific moment he wonders if this even approaches what the Tranquil experience--then squashes that thought firmly. A pathetic and irrational fear, and he won't indulge it.

"No hard feelings, serah. You know how these things go."

Laconically, "Yes, I'm certain you feel just terrible about this arrangement, don't you." Regardless, he approaches the Templar and follows him out of Benedict's cell without a backward glance. He meets Wren's gaze unflinchingly. What; does she expect an apology? He's the one with the bruised windpipe and split eyebrow.

"I'll add the penance to my nightly prayers," he deadpans, securing the shackles and giving Atticus a little push to speed him into the cell next door to Benedict's. It's not a terribly forceful one. He'll consider that his show of gratitude for the magister's cooperation.

Benedict, meanwhile, has been a perfect model of obedience throughout the havoc he's caused, but considering how it started, Simon would be rather less inclined to treat him gently if he were giving the orders.

...Should he be? With Atticus secured, and Benedict at least incapable of running away without effort, Simon turns his gaze back to Wren, sizing her up with undisguised concern. He wants to think he'd be able to tell if she were fit to take charge again, wants to think it would be like flipping a switch or crossing some clear boundary line, but he doesn't know. Madness isn't always so evident in a person's eyes that he can tell when it's there or not.

After a moment's silence, he holds the key ring out to her again. He doesn't get close enough to the bars that he can't see what her hands are doing at all times.

Edited 2017-08-18 05:31 (UTC)

Benedict keeps his hands up and doesn't try to stand, sufficiently cowed by the Templars. Nobody tell his mother.
He heaves a sigh of relief when Atticus finally leaves the cell, and feels just safe enough to be incredulous about the woman's assertion. "It wasn't meant to affect you," he insists, his sourness tinged by remaining fear. He glances furtively in the direction of the person it was meant to affect, but Atticus is blessedly out of his sightline.

"Lack of control," Very little of the sort. Evidently the boy’s at least skilled — though as much might be surmised from his parentage, his placement. "My. Much better."

It’s still a touch too dull to be properly dry.

Why such animosity towards Vedici? What does he believe his position here is? Questions that will need to be asked. Atticus’ reaction isn’t so difficult to follow, infuriating as it’s been, troubling as reflection will find it. When someone’s trying to kill you, you do what you can.

(Had she been trying to kill him?)

Wren braces her hands against the bars, though whether it’s some unconscious effort to reassure Simon, or just convenient support is difficult to say. This time, when she takes the keys, she doesn’t bother to sort. The wrong one goes in the lock — then another — third try’s the charm. The jerk of her chin towards Benedict:

"Shackles, please." To Simon. Further discussion of consequence may wait until the boy can’t spook himself into a spell. "I trust you know a fitting place."

What a shit thing to say. (Had she even meant to say it?) She steps into place at the corner of the bars; backup, a familiar position, if not one she's assumed for some years.

When it comes to fine motor skills right now, Simon's evidently the leader. What a promotion. Congrats.

Thrust into a separate cage for the duration, Atticus stifles his annoyance over being manhandled and instead stands near the bars to witness what he can of what transpires next. He looks from Simon to Wren and fixes his attention on the latter, assessing her condition; her struggling brings the tiniest of satisfied smiles to the corners of his lips. Good.

Well. At least Wren sounds like herself again, or close enough to be faintly reassuring. For the first time since this whole fiasco began, the tension coiling his spine like a spring begins to bleed away.

Well, I was just going to hang them from his earlobes like pretty jewelry, but now that you mention it, I suppose wrists would work...

He wouldn't have said it aloud in front of the prisoners even on a routine day, but neither would he have felt vaguely guilty for thinking it like he does now. He lets himself into Benedict's cell and indicates, with curt, silent movements, that he should present his wrists. The balance of power has almost-but-not-quite restored itself, for which he is deeply relieved.

"Not quite," Benedict grumbles, to Wren's observation, and scowls as Simon so brusquely directs him. Now that Atticus is out of view, it seems some of the boy's petulance has returned to him, which might be a relief to his parents but no doubt a reminder to everyone else why he's been smacked around in the first place.
He thrusts his hands forward, angry with himself for allowing it. But if they can silence Atticus, they can do it to him too.

Finally. Maker. This has been a shitshow of a morning —

"Isolation," A gesture to Benedict, once chained. "I will put in the request for magebane."

What a fun letter that’s going to be to write. Particularly when the new apothecary is, rumour has it, another damn Rifter mage.

"The Magister may receive a medic here. One of the Tranquil, perhaps. Madame Marin has a fine hand at stitching."

With both secured, and knife retrieved, she folds her hands behind her back once more. A long look to Simon: It’s not that it isn’t measured, it’s just, she probably isn't using the appropriate units. Like setting a yardstick to weight.

"Find my office after."

Atticus would find the practice barbaric under any other circumstances. Right now, he derives a vindictive amount of satisfaction from knowing that Benedict will be punished for his actions.

"The Magister may receive a medic here. One of the Tranquil, perhaps."

At that he visibly starts, before biting down on the instinct to protest. No; he does have bargaining power, but not in this. Pursing his lips, he nods and says nothing else.

Simon, too, finds the second command a bit more disturbing than the first. He's not a fan of any course of action that requires him to interact with one of those unfortunate monotone bastards, trying all the while to keep from staring at the scars on their foreheads. But he'll do as he's told without complaint, and if it delays him having to discuss any of the rest of it, perhaps it's not so bad after all.

"Yes, ser." A little more deference than usual, mostly for the prisoners' benefit, trying to restore the status quo like flinging a single silencing spell into the swirling Breach. Perhaps it's a hopeful enough metaphor; the Breach is, after all, gone now.

He crosses an arm over his chest in a punctuating salute, and marches Benedict off toward the further cells.

Edited 2017-08-19 09:12 (UTC)

"What?" Benedict exclaims, suddenly fully back on-guard, "but it-- it wasn't for you!"
Between the magic-dampening shackles and the size difference between the Templar and himself, Benedict has no hope of preventing what's to come.
"I'm not even venatori!" he protests, "you can't do this!"
Naturally, being someone who's used to getting his way, he had hoped that Atticus might be removed, not himself. Isolation? It's common knowledge that the southerners are barbaric about mages, but Benedict never thought he'd become so intimately acquainted with one of their dungeons, least of all Kirkwall's. What is he, some pathetic Circle sheep being herded into a box?
...perhaps so. He doesn't make it easy for Simon, resisting as much as he can, his movements growing more insistent as they near his new cell. Isolation. He's never been completely alone in his life.

Edited 2017-08-19 20:30 (UTC)

[closed] it comes as no surprise at all, you see

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