[OPEN] Dark dream world / all alone.

[minrathousian]

WHO: [OPEN] Atticus Vedici + Anyone!; [CLOSED] Petrana de Cedoux, Sina Dahlasanor
WHAT: After being attacked by his apprentice, Atticus is alone in the Gallows now.
WHEN: Spanning the middle of August, after this thread. (Petra's thread is set the same afternoon of the attack.)
WHERE: The Gallows dungeon; the library.
NOTES: None currently, will update as needed.

I.  [SINA]


The black sand, murky sea, and green sky of Sina's dream is familiar to Atticus now, though it is strange to reconcile the sight of the glowing spectre in the water with the young girl he'd seen in the dungeon.

This visit, he doesn't bother to shroud himself from her view; she knows who he is. He comes to stand just beyond the reach of the tarn-like surf.

He has no pleasantries for her, or sympathy:  "How much time," he begins, straight to the point, "do you believe you have left?"



II. [PETRANA DE CEDOUX]


It has been some hours since Benedict's ill-fated attempt at hexing his mentor, and the violent fall-out that occurred shortly thereafter--enough time for a Tranquil mage to see to the angry gash in Atticus' eyebrow rendered by Ser Coupe's knife. In a different cell now, Atticus stands with his back to the cell bars, fingers gently inspecting the proud flesh rising up around his sutures; a scar will be inevitable without magical intervention, and he has few expectations of receiving that here.

Decorously arranged on the meagre workstation that has been provided to him, his books and parchment are open, quill in an inkwell. It seems he has paused his work only to pace his cell, grimacing with discomfort both at the state of his injury, and the shackles that continue to rub his wrists raw.



III. THE LIBRARY


Research without the aid of an assistant is tedious business, but it isn't as though there is a great deal else at his disposal at the moment to occupy his time. (At least, not in the waking world.) If he is occasionally pensive or distracted as he works, the root cause could be anything: the disruption to what little routine he's been able to establish, now that Benedict is no longer tethered to him; some question he is toying with answering.

At some point he gets up to stretch his legs--a bit difficult, with the shackles on, but he tries.
 

Comments

[minrathousian]

"It is just here," Atticus informs him with a rather suspicious amount of courtesy, assisting him to the chair with words of guidance if not a hand on his arm. Doubtless, the guard assigned to him would not tolerate him physically interacting with another member of the Inquisition, even under the guise of offering assistance.

When Myr is seated, Atticus crosses to the other side of the table and resumes his seat. He examines the designs on Myr's robes with interest. "You may need to refresh my memory," he says, "but I can't recall which Circle you hail from."

[faithlikeaseed]

It would be easier, Myr thinks, if the man had directed him amiss--given him a tiny petty cruelty he could hold up as a reason for his own unease, presented a flaw in that façade of perfect civility. It would be easier if Atticus seemed more like a monster.

(He doesn't know he already has evidence of that.)

"Hasmal, magister." A brief pause there before he answered; perhaps he should give nothing away-- But there's no point in it; the whole of the Gallows knows by now he's from Hasmal and word would eventually get 'round to an attentive prisoner. "Had I been born a little further north, you and I would be countrymen."

[minrathousian]

He keeps his monstrosity carefully partitioned, but shades of it seep through. There is a reason he sits here in shackles, after all.

"Magister Vedici," Atticus clarifies politely, then adds, "Yes, I have had occasion to meet Senior Enchanters from your Circle some years' past." He drops a few names, individuals Myr may or may not recall from his time there; his observations of them are courteous verging upon complimentary.

When a spell of silence settles between them, he maintains his shadow of a smile. Then he asks, "I make you very uncomfortable, don't I?"

[faithlikeaseed]

Given a chance to reminisce on his Circle as it had once been--even to an enemy--Myr seizes the moment, remarking on this one of the enchanters who had since passed to the Maker's arms, and that one who'd gone missing in the rebellion... Left out are the fates of those loyalists who were now with the Inquisition themselves; let them reveal themselves, or not, to this apparition of the past.

The question only evokes the dullest kind of surprise, the heart-lurching jolt of having been caught when he'd already known he would be. There's no point in evading it. "You do, Magister Vedici." He can at least act like he isn't, though. "But I'd thought that was an ambition of the ruling class in the Imperium, to be feared and respected rather than loved."

[minrathousian]

Atticus laughs. It’s a mild, friendly sound, or would be coming from anyone else. “Does it then follow that you are similarly discomfited by those of the Orlesian nobility who pepper the Inquisition with their numbers?” He tilts his head to rest against his knuckles, propping his elbow up on the arm of his chair; they could be having a relaxed dialogue in any other setting, judging by his demeanor, his poise--none of which Myr can see, but surely he can hear it.

[faithlikeaseed]

"I've not met any of them yet," Myr replies, his tone still light. "So I couldn't say, though I suspect the answer will be 'no'. Orlais is a very long way from Hasmal and doesn't send many destitute refugees of its horrors to the Marches besides."

In sharp contrast to Atticus, he's fairly radiating unease in how stiffly he sits his chair, how he's locked his fingers around his staff to keep from fidgeting nervously. He knows very well he's doing it, but usual tactics to soothe his own nerves--breathing deep, forcing relaxation--are not working.

[minrathousian]

“No, I expect it wouldn’t,” is Atticus’ unrattled, unphased response. “Orlais is particular about how it handles its horrors, isn’t it? Puts a bit of face paint and a mask over them.” That’s what his experience with Orlesians has communicated to him so far, at any rate.

He shifts in his seat so that he can lean his forearms against the table. “There’s not a single nation in Thedas without blood on its hands. The Imperium certainly wears more than others, but I’d caution you against giving too much credence to tales spun for you by your Chantry. Not every magister you meet condones the practice of blood magic.”

A pause. Then, “I should very much like to know your name, as you already know mine.”

[faithlikeaseed]

"So I've heard," Myr demurs. "Though I've only read about it and that sparsely."

Calm as their discussion is, it feels to him like walking over winter-rutted ground--uneven, treacherous, every shadow and shade potentially hiding a leg-breaking hole. Just the sort of place little fools who rush in without thinking might go to die.

Breathe in, breathe out. Send up a silent prayer for clarity, and stay the course. "I'm not so foolish as to believe any class of men to be universally identical, magister. The Imperial Chantry frowns on the practice as well, and surely some of its followers must still have scruples. Though I'd ask what else might lead a magister away from blood magic, if not that."

...Here, then, is the pit, but at least he can perceive it yawning before him rather than stumbling into it unawares. Yet he doesn't even consider dissembling, because to do so much would be to admit his own fear. "Myrobalan Shivana," he says--and wonders as he does just how many elves yet in Tevinter's alienages (how many distant doomed cousins) might share his surname, and whether this magister would have any reason to know so much of the lives of potential slaves.

[minrathousian]

Like collecting the last penny from an assortment of scattered coins. Atticus considers this last discovery--Myrobalan Shivana--and pockets it with a smile.

He hears the distant click-click-click of the page’s heels approaching their table, stuttering to a stop when it is discovered just who Myr is seated across from. Atticus breaks the new tension injected into the atmosphere between them. “I believe your books have arrived, Messere Shivana,” he tells the young man across from him. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

[faithlikeaseed]

Given an excuse and a dismissal (albeit one that rankles and sits strangely with him), Myr can at least be more graceful in his departure from Atticus' company than last time. "Thank you, Magister Vedici," he replies; it's thanks honestly meant, in its way, courtesy for courtesy rendered in informing him of the new arrival's identity. "I'll be very interested to hear more about potential--" (weigh your words carefully, Myr; there's an audience), "objections to certain of the Imperium's magical practices, in the future."

He says no more than that as he rises to meet the page and accept the books she's brought; there's really nothing else to say to someone he wouldn't wish the Maker's blessings or even a good evening upon. Better to simply remove himself from the situation and save the rest of it for next time.

Since there surely will be a next time. His own curiosity won't allow otherwise.