[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

[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.