[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

[limier]

"That which does not concern us is often worthiest of our attention."

She waves the little book, but doesn’t offer it over.

"It is your memory, and not your skill, which I require today." At least until she’s answers that match up enough to reassure. Near as she can tell, he hasn’t lied of the work thus far. The purpose of testing pettier messages, the boon of Petrana’s particular talent with spellwork, and yet, "You’ve become a popular man. No shortage of visitors —"

"Perhaps we might review those you've spoken with. Do any stand out?"

Myrobalan Shivana, Petrana de Cedoux, Kaisa Daesun, Siouna Dahsahlanor, the — (For someone with a ridiculous title of her own, this is still a bit beyond the pale) — Dragon. Vandelin Elris. A motley crowd, and the numbers don't exactly escape her: Mages, rifters, elves; Sina with her peculiar affliction, Daesun with her admitted blood. A dozen possible ways to divide them, and whichever chosen, the implications trouble.

[minrathousian]

"You've become a popular man. No shortage of visitors--Perhaps we might review those you've spoken with. Do any stand out?"

Atticus maintains his air of mild weariness well, and doesn't indicate how her inquiry gives him pause. (He must be more cautious when seeking what he requires from the Dalish girl, and Petrana--)

"Well--" He raises his eyebrows, draws in a breath, and then exhales it out again; they could be two teachers consulting each other about a troublesome student. "I try not to make it a habit of casting aspersions against the personnel of a host. However," and here he spares her the smallest of smiles, like the pair of them are in on some shared joke, rather than the waiting game, "the Dragon is an especially cantankerous fellow, isn't he?"

[limier]

A thin smile returned. It doesn't reach her eyes; she doesn't expect either of them would believe it if it had.

"There is no insult to be found in the truth," A short gesture to the cell. "At ease. Unless you are considering a change of career there is no reason we need both stand attention —"

The Dragon’s a clever enough choice of those he might discuss: Eccentric enough to make a plausible impact, yet safe for it. She’d been betting upon him or Daesun, and isn’t certain whether there’s any relief to be found that the girl hasn’t been presented as the opening bait.

Still, the conspicuous shape of Petrana’s absence, of Shivana's, needn't be summoned quite yet.

"The elven girl," A blood mage, and one dying of stranger power still; she hasn’t shown the finest judgment of late. "Dalish. Has the North anything of her like?"

[minrathousian]

Atticus' expression takes on a shade of incredulity, his smile wry. "The Dalish tend to give our borders a wide berth, to the best of my knowledge. If you're enquiring as to whether elven mages live within the Imperium, then the answer is yes." None within the Magisterium, of course, though Atticus will admit to some morbid curiosity over just how quickly his bureaucratic colleagues might eat each other alive in the event an elven mage did manage to secure a seat of such coveted power.

There is more that he could say, but for the moment, he chooses silence.

[limier]

A level glance at that. There are elven mages in every corner of Southern Thedas, and no reason to assume they wouldn't too occupy the north. Whether a Magister would have had ever much cause to speak with them —

"The Dalish, too, are led by mages. I have always found it a curious point in common." Savages, and savages; an unkind thought. She lets it lie. "The tattoos are striking, no? She makes an impression."

And not for the facepaint, as they'll both be aware. He does not seem to be in want of an audience, Petra had said: As entertained to find himself upon the stage as he is indifferent to the crowd's annoyance. (But that's no surprise. Who wouldn't make the petty things a little difficult, were their positions reversed?)

"A pleasant conversation?"

[minrathousian]

"A pleasant conversation?"

She's leading him through the steps of a dance he knows well, a pantomime that should surely be unnecessary between the two of them at this stage in his imprisonment. His smile gains a slight edge to it as he tilts his head at her.

"Ser Coupe, I get the distinct impression that you'd like to ask me a particular question," he observes, "so rather than walk us both through an annotated list of all personnel who have visited me since my arrival, why don't you simply speak your mind?" He takes the smallest of steps towards her. "What is it you wish to know?"