[OPEN] Some new guests in the Gallows.

[minrathousian]

WHO: Atticus Vedici, Benedict Quintus Artemaeus + OPEN
WHAT: A magister and his apprentice getting acquainted with their new digs.
WHEN: The beginning of Matrinalis.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Open to anyone, though especially to mage and templar characters

I. THE GALLOWS DUNGEON


Their accommodations leave much to be desired, but truth be told, their prison cells have better amenities than Atticus had been expecting.

There is a window, for example. It is a high window, barred and covered with magic-repulsing runes that prevent even the most determined and ingenious escape artist from making use of their abilities to make a break for freedom. There are wooden cots for sleeping, a blanket to ward off the chill, a basin with clean water in it for washing up--and a chamber pot, behind a small partition for privacy. (Atticus is unclear whose responsibility it will be to tend to that, but grimly, suspects he already knows.) Directly across from the door to his cell is the door to his apprentice's cell.

The door to the cells are steel bars, to allow for interrogation without the interrogator having to get too close to their subject. Atticus has already been subject to at least one round of rigorous questioning by Inquisition soldiers, but he is sure more are to come.

It is the middle of the afternoon, a few days after their arrival in Kirkwall and confinement in their cells. Having made an attempt at washing his face and hair, he stands with his back to the cell door and his eyes turned up towards the single window letting sunlight spill into his cell. He chafes the palm of one hand against the several day old stubble shadowing his jaw and the hollows of his cheeks.

It occurs to him, almost like an afterthought, that he's exhausted.



II. IN THE CORRIDORS


If Atticus Vedici and Benedict Quintus Artemaeus are to remain with the Inquisition and subside in relative comfort, then they are expected to make themselves useful in the process. Whether or not Benedict objects, Atticus does not.

And so, under a Templar guard and with their hands and feet bound with enchanted shackles, the pair of them are being led through the Gallows grounds en route to the Gallows' library, in order to perform (under duress), the research that will bring the Inquisition that much closer to gaining an edge over Corypheus and his Venatori forces.

[OOC:  If you don't feel like your characters would necessarily interact with two chained up Venatori mages under Templar guard but would still like to be involved, please feel free to post your characters' reaction, or interact with each other while witnessing this happen. w/e floats your boat really.]



III. THE GALLOWS LIBRARY


The work station that the Inquisitions' most senior enchanters and Templars have arranged for the two Venatori mages is located within the Gallows' library--but it is hardly situated in an area where a young apprentice or researcher could encounter either of them by random happenstance. In a converted cataloging room, Atticus and Benedict have been quite literally chained to their desks with a number of tomes, stacks of parchment, and other assorted tools laid out before them in order for them to perform their work. They have enough light to work by thanks to some light reaching them through an open window elsewhere in the library; the rest come from sconces and lanterns.

Atticus endures the dim lighting with aplomb, or appears to at any rate. After a length spell of silence--overseen by whomever has been (un)fortunate enough to chaperone them today--he makes a few final notes on a slip of parchment and passes it to Benedict across the table. "Cross-reference these with the notes we took yesterday," he instructs, his tone quiet and almost conversational. (His fingers, however, sport some suspicious bruising from where, the previous day, they had connected with Benedict's face.)


IV.  WILDCARD

(Surprise us!) 

Comments

[faithlikeaseed]

"That isn't true," Myr replies hastily--then thinks of Vandelin, and the maimed Circle that once lived in this very keep. "--For all Circles, magister. While our lives are circumscribed in some ways, we're given a great deal of freedom in what we might pursue. Our enchanters are even permitted to travel," albeit under guard, in limited ways, "to further their research and share their knowledge with others."

His knuckles are whitening where he's clinging to his staff like a lifeline. The pain of bone and joints complaining of their mistreatment finally cuts through the fog of anxiety; Myr forces himself to draw in a breath and relax, loosening his grip digit by digit.

"We did well enough, here in the south. Magic was meant to serve, and we did." There's a quiet and absolute conviction behind the words.

[altusimperius]

A scoff is Benedict's only contribution, and he shakes his head. Chained dogs.

[minrathousian]

Perhaps all that is needed is one seed of doubt. A lighter touch.

Atticus allows a weighted length of silence to fall between himself and Myr. Then, still quiet, "I see," he says, in a voice that suggests that he sees much--such as the way that Myr grips his staff like it is all that he has left, and those unspoken words that lend darker nuance to the lived experiences of mages outside the Imperium. Yes, he sees that very well; Myr doesn't have to tell him about any of it for it to be plainly wrought across his face.

"My mistake, Ser Enchanter."

[faithlikeaseed]

He didn't realize until the words were out of his mouth that he'd been speaking of the Circles in the present tense--and then wasn't, as reality caught up to him. They'd done well, but now they weren't any longer, and this was no temporary supervised jaunt away from a home that was still there to return to, and his life--for the first time and ever--is now entirely in his own hands.

A sick feeling curdles in the pit of his stomach, fertile ground for the very doubt Atticus hopes to sew. Leave, whispers the voice of reason; there's nothing to be gained by standing and fighting here.

Except not being seen as a coward in the face of a pair of monsters. It's Benedict's derision that puts steel back into Myr's spine. "You object to my description?" he directs over his shoulder, then turns and steps back and widens his stance so he's better positioned to speak to both of them.

To Atticus, he adds: "I never earned that title, magister." What other form of address he'd prefer he keeps to himself; he may be digging in on this like an idiot but he isn't so stupid as to give everything away.

Yet.

[minrathousian]

Atticus watches him go, leaning against the bars of the cage to keep him in sight. He considers him; the young man is rattled, but respectful. Principled, clearly gifted. What a waste of potential.

"I never earned that title, magister."

"Forgive me for saying so," he replies, "but I think that is a great pity."

[altusimperius]

"Southern equivocation at its finest," Benedict drawls, raising his eyebrows as Myr turns toward him. "Magic is meant to serve man, certainly. It's also meant to be used to its full potential, not caged and muzzled like a lowly beast."

[faithlikeaseed]

Atticus' thoroughgoing politeness does not sit easily in Myr's head with the image of what a Tevene magister ought to be: sneering, self-superior, contemptuous. He hasn't much experience with monsters, let alone polite monsters, and does not know what to make of one when it sits before him. Bereft of guidance, his own native good nature takes over. "I don't ask for pity, but I forgive you and thank you all the same."

Benedict's jibe, on the other hand, is well within the remit of Myr's experience. One corner of the elf's mouth twists upward in a wry smile. "Do you also keep wild horses in your stables in Tevinter, and wolves in your kennels?" he retorts. "Or embrace fire's full potential to burn down your house?"

[minrathousian]

Atticus closes his eyes and exhales, reining in his impatience, and chooses not to reprimand Benedict as the stupid boy runs his mouth again. Undoubtedly, Myr would suspect duplicity if Atticus came to defense of his perspective.

So he remains silent and observes the exchange between them. Biding his time, more or less.

[altusimperius]

"No," Benedict scoffs, "and nor would we. Are you comparing learned magic to the savagery of wild animals? How little do they teach you in these pathetic Circles?" The corner of his lip twitches up slightly, a challenging smirk. "You hold the fire in a lantern, but still you control it. You don't have to shut it in a room guarded by knights to keep it from burning things down."

[faithlikeaseed]

"No, you're too fond of chains to put up with the temerity of free things to be themselves, aren't you."

Myr straightens up, relaxing his grip on his staff--and smiling, of all things, at Benedict's retort. This is far safer territory for him to be in, and an interesting opportunity besides: A chance to argue with a breathing example of the Tevene philosophy, rather than what texts of theirs had made it as far south as Hasmal Circle.

"A lantern is carried from place to place where it might be useful, lighting and guiding but never leading of itself. That's no apt description for what you magisters do; you wield the flame against those who haven't been so-gifted. Hardly a model of leadership or restraint."

[altusimperius]

Benedict narrows his eyes, but can't find a retort right away. Instead he looks to Atticus, hoping it'll prompt him to weigh in.

[minrathousian]

It does.

"I would posit only one question to you," Atticus says thoughtfully, and waits until he is sure Myr is listening to him, rather than still fixating on his argument with Benedict. He makes a small gesture with his shackled hands, one that Myr can't see, but that jostles those chains just enough for them to be heard. "Who holds the lantern in your metaphor? Who lifts it up so that it may cast its light about? Is it you?" A pause, and then a nod of his head towards the templar stationed at the door. "Is it them? If you need the light, and they do not, does that lantern still burn, or is the flame doused?"

[faithlikeaseed]

Briefly engaging as the skirmish with Benedict was, Myr isn't so foolish as to have forgotten he's got two opponents on this particular battlefield. So when Atticus re-engages with the deftness of a master swordsman, Myr's quick to return his attention to the older man. His full attention, because they're good questions and require nothing less than his full consideration.

"I've long believed," he finally says, voice quiet but convinced all the same, "that it's the height of sin to quench such a flame that threatened no one. Magic is a gift from the Maker to His creations; destroying His gifts out of fear or selfishness is as bad as perverting them."

Without knowing it, he follows Atticus' gesture, face briefly turned back toward the templar on guard duty. If the woman's aware of the part she's playing in this philosophical discussion, she gives no sign of it--nor that she's even really listening.

"The templars of my Circle were good men and women, magister. I trusted them to be so--to know that magic was meant to serve the mages gifted with it as much as anyone else."

There's much more he could say--much of it equivocation, doubts given voice--but he cuts himself short. No sense overextending in an argument with a hostile opponent, any more than there would be in pitched battle.

[altusimperius]

Benedict doesn't contribute more to the debate apart from laughing, a derisive sound that follows Myr's assertion of Templars being somehow beneficial. Ridiculous.

[minrathousian]

Atticus allows Benedict's cruel laughter to be the only sound that follows Myr's heartfelt words for a long, tense moment. Coldly, he considers his apprentice beyond the bars of their cells, watching him with disdain that almost approaches pitying. What a waste of a different sort; he could have made much of that sharp mind if Calpurnia and Aurelias had thought to give Benedict into his care at a younger age, before the vultures of Minrathous' seedy society had time to sink their talons into him. Instead, whatever decadence and hedonism the boy has been marinating himself in for the past half a decade has rendered him utterly immune to Atticus' style of tutelage.

He grimaces. Perhaps if he'd waited a year or two before embarking on this gamble, perhaps if the boy had been given more time--well, time was not a flexible commodity for Atticus. The present was all either of them were allowed.

He shifts his attention back to Myr, reclaiming his focus. "Misplaced trust has done much to sow the seeds of discontent amongst the Circles here in the South, hasn't it," he notes quietly, his voice almost sympathetic. After another considering pause, he examines his shackles and continues: "You're right to be critical of Tevinter's magocracy; its reliance on--" What was that word the Dragon had used? Ah yes, "--profligate magics is whittling away any hope the society has at sustaining itself beyond an additional century or two into the future. Its collapse is inevitable.

"But even without the Magisterium, without the pointless politicking and back room dealing, even without the pathetic crutch of blood magic--the Tevene mages themselves, well." Here he smiles. "We will light our own way."

Even if he must wrench the light from the sky and show it to them himself.

[faithlikeaseed]

The contemptuous laughter is easy to bear, especially from a Tevinter stranger. Myr expects no less than that, and no more either, now that he's felt Benedict out as an opponent. That fits neatly into his view of the world; but Atticus...

Atticus doesn't, and that frightens him. He keeps his shudder at the magister's words entirely internal--just--hiding the chill they send down his spine. Taken on their face, there's no threat there; in fact, beyond the (earned) dig at the miserable state of relations outside of Tevinter, there's nothing about them that's even particularly hostile--indeed, much he can relate to. It's uncanny to hear something he all-but-agrees with from the mouth of an enemy, but it and the bit of implied blasphemy that follow it shouldn't be so unsettling...

All knew the Golden Heart of dreams' kingdom / Shone like a star, forever out of reach.

But there is a wrongness to the words that sets Myr's teeth on edge and prickles the hair on the back of his neck. "So you've always, magister, for woe or weal." He's proud in a vague distant way his tone is so level, even as he straightens up from leaning on his staff and takes a step toward the templar guard, toward the door and freedom.

No mortal foot could tread those halls, / No hand knocked upon the gate. / Secrets beyond measure were the keys...

"And much as I'd like to continue this conversation, I've glyphs yet to place in the rest of the Gallows. We'll surely cross paths again."

Another step, and another. Everything in him says to beat a hasty retreat, and yet he forces himself to walk slowly all that way.

[minrathousian]

"We'll surely cross paths again."

"I look forward to it," Atticus says courteously, and doesn't make any attempt to deter Myr from leaving. He couldn't even if he wanted to, shackled as he is. He tilts his head some to watch the young mage as he makes his thinly veiled escape from the dungeons.