faderift | [OPEN] Dark dream world / all alone.

Entry tags:

[OPEN] Dark dream world / all alone.

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.

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The spectre turns to look at him, her eyes empty as before, her clothing frayed as though the wind has been buffeting so violently that it's being torn away.
"Until it consumes me entirely, ive'an'virelan," comes her reply, unnatural and otherworldly as before. "Soon." She can't chart it out any better than she could say what the weather will be in a month, but there's certainty in her answer. It will be soon, however that can be defined.

"Until it consumes me entirely, ive'an'virelan. Soon."

Well, that's annoying.

He shifts his attention to the undulation of the waves, the rough sand, the sky green from some ever impending storm. Would he get more sense out of her if her surroundings looked less like some dire nightmare?

Atticus reaches out towards her, and the dream changes; the sky clears, the stagnant air blown aside by a fresh breeze that carries with it the fragrance of whatever home means to Sina; light from within the ocean chases away the murky, tarn-like quality that has diffused it; through it, short grass now grows, the sea transforming itself into a marsh, a wetland. A dragonfly hums past Sina's ear.

Atticus steps forward into the water, which wets his boots and the hem of his rich black cloak. "Apologies," he says dryly, "if you preferred to surround yourself with such misery."

The glowing creature bristles in outrage as control is wrested from her, but just as quickly she softens, her countenance losing its terrible edge and becoming simply Sina, even if her eyes are still lit from behind by the green light, even if she's still too thin and weak. She immediately starts to cry, sinking to her knees to press her palms against the cool grass, impossibly happy to see and feel anything but That Place.

"...gone missing? Not all of the Callistus in the library, I hope!"

"It all had to be reshelved after Ser Coupe and that little bug-eyed northern monster collapsed the original case. Much of it is in high demand for research concerning the rifts, and our incompetent pages have yet to be bothered to learn the new shelving locations for when the books are here, so you will forgive me if I can't point you to anything at the moment now that I've exhausted all the known places."

A blade-faced, sharp-voiced archivist rounds the end of the stacks with Myrobalan in tow, stopping here and there to check the titles on the shelves with a severe frown on her face. She's too preoccupied--and Myr too, well, blind--to notice that she's brought the two of them into hailing distance of the Inquisition's resident captive magister; the templar on duty spares the unusual pair an incurious look and nothing more.

"You've my sympathy, Serah Witcombe; we in Research couldn't get along without the archivists' constant support, and it grieves me to hear anyone in the Inquisition's been making that more difficult to render."

Mollified, she draws herself up and sniffs. "Quite. If you will wait here--and refrain from climbing the shelves," she adds acerbically, on noting the familiar pattern of his robes; Northerners, "I'll send someone to help you continue your search. Good afternoon."

She strides off, leaving Myr alone. He heaves a quiet sigh once he judges her far enough away not to hear, and makes his careful way to the nearest shelf. Not that there's anything he can do about the contents of it but reach out to brush his fingers against their spines. Finding one with embossed lettering, he's all set to try and work out the title by touch--when the clink of shackles catches his attention. That's not an expected noise, and he turns away from what he's doing to walk toward the sound--and Atticus.

"Hello?" Quiet, quiet. This is a library, after all.

Edited 2017-08-20 00:08 (UTC)

He turns when the door to his cell clangs open, admitting both Petrana de Cedoux and her wary guard. There's no blood--at least, not anymore, but the scar that splits his right eyebrow clean in half looks like it was painful to receive. There's also no hiding the angry blue and black bruising around his throat; Ser Coupe has a strong grip.

The guard gives him a scowl of warning.

"Mind yourself, madame," she tells Petrana, before backing up out of the cell and retreating back towards the other end of the corridor. If all hell breaks loose, she'll call a Templar.

Atticus follows the guard with his eyes as she makes her escape, then shifts his eyes back to Petrana. There's a peculiar expression on his face as he regards her, the corners of his lips pulled into a vague smile. When he can no longer hear the guard's retreating footsteps, he dips his head towards her courteously.

"Petrana," is all he says. It's all he needs to say.

This blatant display of combined anguish and relief is obscenely uncomfortable for him to bear witness to. He grimaces and waits in impassive silence for her to get whatever this is out of her system; almost as an afterthought, he looks to the water, and suddenly small fish flit through it, weaving in and amongst the marshy grass.

When he can't tolerate her tears anymore, he interrupts her coolly. "I'm willing to assist you, if you're prepared to begin."

It has turned into Home, over the past few moments: towering trees, greenery, the swamp leading into a small stream that trickles toward a distant Dalish camp. Smoke rises from their campfire, and the peaceful sound of lowing halla periodically interrupts the far-away chatter of a busy clan. Sina is entranced by them for a time, tears still streaming openly from her eyes, even a second or two after Atticus speaks again.

Not standing yet, she looks up at him, still wary as before, but so happy she can't find her aggression. "How?"

Atticus' work station is located apart from the rest of the library, but not so far away that other researchers wouldn't be able to locate him, should they choose to. It isn't surprising that Myr finds his way nearby.

The argument itself has drawn Atticus' interest anyway, and though his shackles (and a looming Templar guard) won't let him venture far from his work station, he turns where he stands at that question. The sight of Myr brings an involuntary (and decidedly unkind) smile to the corners of his mouth, but gratefully, the young man can't see it.

"Hello," he answers simply.

"As you wish."

Her expression is more than answer enough; having received it, some of the ambiguity fades from his expression, the slyness dissipating to leave some uncertainty in its wake. Yes, they have their answers. All that is left to address is--now what? What do either of them believe they're playing at?

He moves to his cot and sits down atop it; it's a far cry from where they'd lain together in their dreams. Looking up at her again reminds him of the last time he looked up at her from this angle.

...Oh.

Of course. He'd been told the Venatori were available as a resource to Research, and here they are. (Or one is, at least.)

Myr doesn't freeze like a hawk before a rabbit or anything so dramatic, but there's a hitch in that last step he takes before stopping a respectful distance away from Atticus' workstation. "Good afternoon, magister." His tone's polite as ever, though he can't muster his usual smile for this.

"Your young companion wouldn't happen to be with you, would he? I've got some time to kill, and our last debate did end rather abruptly." With him running away, but his deliberately light tone is meant to make a joke of that--and the creeping sense of unease in his heart.

At the very least, the presentation of that tool is enough to draw his intense, pale blue stare away from the line of her neck. He gives a visible grimace at the sight of it, clearly anticipating just how 'uncomfortable' it's going to be, but doesn't protest. "I appreciate your candour," he answers her a bit dryly, but gives the impression, as he tries to meet her eyes again, of sincerity.

"I have a salve, as well. May I?"

He drops his eyes to her lips, lingering. Then he nods, and reaches up with his shackled hands to loosen the plain collar of his prisoner's jerkin. "You may."

Distractedly, Atticus gathers up the hem of his cloak and gives it a shake, dispersing of the excess water; it floats away as bits of dandelion fluff on the wind.

"How?" Sina asks him, and he assumes she can't possibly be asking about his ability to shape the Fade. Surely she has pieced together what he is by now; his gift is one that is shared with her people.

"By attempting to touch it," he says instead, gesturing to the green glow still emanating from her chest. "With magic. I would like to determine for myself the extent of my ability to affect your shard here in the Fade."

The thinly veiled attempt at deflecting attention away from his own discomfort makes Atticus smile even further. It is vindicating, to him, to see this man's hubris humbled. It is an essential part of the learning process.

He spreads his hands apart. "I am afraid he is not present at the moment, no," he replies, and offers up no further detail than that. If Myr isn't aware of what transpired between himself and Benedict in the dungeons, then he has no intention of sharing that information with him. "However, I would find continuing our earlier conversation edifying."

Atticus gestures back to his work station. Benedict's chair is still there, though unoccupied. "Would you care to sit?"

He lifts his chin in an involuntary wince when she touches the tender bruising across his neck, but stills himself so that she can finish her work. Petrana may not want to meet his eyes, but that allows him the freedom to watch her in unguarded fascination; how different she looks here, how poised and elegant. What would it be like, he wonders, outside the Fade--

He startles when she takes hold of his hands and rests them in her lap, to put salve against the skin that has been rubbed raw from the shackles that bind his wrists--but he doesn't try to withdraw them. Nor does he miss the way she looks skyward as though seeking some absolution from the Maker himself before joining him on the cot. Atticus twists some so that he's turned to face her, watches her work for a time, then looks up to her face--

"You're very thorough," he compliments her quietly. The little, cat-like smile is back.

He won't run this time. He won't. Whatever it is that makes Myr fear this man, he won't let it rule him. "I would," he replies after a moment's hesitation, having considered and discarded rejecting the offer.

The gesture is lost on him, of course, though he assumes that he wouldn't be offered a chair if one didn't exist. And though it galls him to have to ask for help from a magister, of all people, it would be more galling still to stumble into something or miss the chair entirely by wandering off in the wrong direction entirely. So: "If you'd be so kind as to describe the chair's location to me, that is."

If Atticus is the sort of fellow to deliberately mislead the blind for his own amusement, that's telling of his character, at least.

Edited 2017-08-20 07:38 (UTC)

Her revenge is enough to make his lips part; in this small way, she's challenged his control over himself, and left him wavering. Atticus uses the time it takes for Petrana to stand and retrieve her pick again to recover some of his composure; he regards the pick with distaste, but doesn't protest its use.

"I will try to be as gentle as I can. I have to remove the stitches first."

"In that case, I'll try not to flinch." He takes a breath and steadies himself, straightening his posture a fraction.

At his gesture, Sina looks down at the shard, almost as though she wasn't expecting to see it still there. It looks more the way it does in her waking life: still very uncomfortable, but hardly taking up half her torso as it does in her dreams.

She stands with a small nod and takes a step toward Atticus, facing him squarely, arms at her sides and undefensive. There is gratitude in her face, for taking the sea away, however temporarily.

Atticus doesn't know what to do with her gratitude in this place, and so he tables his awareness of it--for now, at least. It will be something to evaluate, once this experiment is complete. What is this new dream worth to her, he wonders? What will she give him in order to keep it?

When she steadies herself, he fixates his attention on that shard; the raw power there is intoxicating to him, even as it is slowly, steadily killing its host. He extends his hand out towards her, letting the very tips of his fingers interfere with the green, glowing tendrils that extend outward from the shard's site. Like changing a dream, he tries to change her anchor; he thinks, ease, and apart, and let go, but with extreme, surgical gentleness.

It would not do to cause her unnecessary pain or anguish; she may not let him proceed in that case.

He breathes out in one long exhalation as she snaps apart the stitching initially put into his skin by the Tranquil mage sent to tend to him by the Templars--likely an intentional attempt at rattling him, and he won't ever give them any indication that they succeeded. Much as the pain of having the stitches ripped out of proud flesh is difficult to endure with composure, he'd rather have anything touched by those abominations removed from him, rather than let it linger in his skin.

The new trickle of blood from the injury bothers him very little. He obeys Petrana's commands in silence, holding the wound just so while she prepares the rest of her instruments, then moves his hand away again when she begins the process anew. There is pain, and he grits his teeth through it; it's almost enough to offset the affect the closeness of her body has on him. Almost.

When her work is finished he tilts his head up to regard her pensively. She's near enough to him now that he could touch her, could determine for himself if the curve of her hips is any different here than it is in the Fade--

"Thank you," he tells her quietly, and keeps his hands very still in his lap.

"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."

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."

Edited 2017-08-20 21:36 (UTC)

It is reasonable to suggest that Atticus' every conscious choice throughout most of his adult life has involved courting disaster, in greater or smaller measures. He's in this deep--his passions invested, his desire to acquire a Fade shard so close that he can almost taste his triumph; it is not so difficult to fold Petrana into those ambitions, to secure in his vision for himself a place for her as well. A place for her to have quiet dreams, uninterrupted by a man with a flaming sword, or a child laying dead in the grass.

He could make their glade reality, given enough time, enough power.

He stands when she does, but doesn't follow her to the bars. Not immediately--he cuts his eyes to the corridor first, hastily ascertaining for himself that they are indeed alone, even though he can hear the door swing open at the other end of the dungeon. Not for long--

He reaches out to take her hand and draw her back from the bars, just long enough to cup the back of her head with one shackled hand, and kiss her, just once.

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?"

He can still taste her lips when good sense has her retreat from him, but he hears her words clearly, "The glade--"

"I'll come to you," he has time to promise her, his voice pitched low, his eyes terribly clear--

The guard comes into view. "Step back, Vedici," she instructs him, and he complies with raised hands, taking two slow steps back towards the wall. Only once his back is pressed against it does the guard unlock the cell to admit Petrana to the corridor.

Atticus watches her go; he almost succeeds in schooling his face into implacability. Almost.

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."

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

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.

"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.

Although the sleeping Sina wants very much to cooperate, the shard thinks little of this. It does seem to loosen within the dream, but only reveals more of itself, the cloth and skin around it peeling back as their combined imagining wills it to. It crackles ominously, and Sina gives a small jolt, seeming to lose herself for a moment. The dream flickers around them-- it's having an effect on the actual shard, whether or not it's what Atticus intended.

His jaw tightens with displeasure, and he ceases the casting of his spell with an abrupt closing of his fingers into a fist; already he can feel the beginnings of a splitting headache taking root in his temples, at the place where his spine meets his skull. Damn.

“If I proceed, I expect I will kill you,” he tells her neutrally and lowers his hand to his side. “Already I imagine you’ll feel some--” hah, “--discomfort when you wake in the morning.”

As will he, no doubt. (Where he sleeps, already there is a trickle of blood from his nose. He will need to be more careful.)

“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.”

"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.

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.”

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.

Edited 2017-08-24 23:44 (UTC)

She’s been putting this off. All manner of reason to — and all of those invented, justification for a baser unease.

The guard that lets her in is young, if not some raw recruit, and it does nothing to soothe her irritation at how closely the girl hovers. Maker, as though she were infirm.

"Thank you," A touch pointed, when at last the door’s been opened and shut behind her with a nod (with a furrowed brow that she elects to ignore). When the rattle of mail disappears at last down the hallway again, Wren finally steps further within, the better to regard him.

With a few days and the right balms, the bruises have faded, if not back to blank flesh; a sour shimmer along the planes of her face. She'd wanted to come armored, so she hasn't, though the knife at her side should be terribly familiar.

She’s been putting this off. Still, the matter can hardly be forever delayed. Wren slips a hand into her coat, fishes forth a slim volume, unmarked.

"Your brow is settling." The ciphers copied into this she’s been more reluctant to disclose; hardly intends to give them in full now. "You have had no further trouble of it?"

Edited 2017-08-26 06:42 (UTC)

"Your brow is settling. You have had no further trouble of it?"

Atticus doesn't answer her immediately, though it is clear he has heard her. He sits on the uncomfortable wood of his cot with another text spread open in his lap, making notes to himself on a nearby sheaf of parchment. When she speaks, he shifts his very pale eyes to regard her over the rims of his reading glasses; the left lens has a deep crack in it, courtesy of their scrap during Benedict's ill-fated attempt to hex him.

He takes a moment to mark his place in the text, close the book, and set both it and his notes aside. Then he stands. "Would it greatly concern you if I had?" he asks her, not discourteously, but with the air of someone who frankly lacks the energy to fully commit to the illusion that he's perfectly content to be where he is today. Instead he focuses his attention on the volume in her hands. "If you've more work for me, I'll begin it now."

"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.

Once awakened, the shard doesn't go back down easily. The dream shifts almost imperceptibly with each flicker, a greenish tint filtering in, the pastoral grass and trees giving way to rocky cliffs and black sand, the repetitive rush of waves in the backs of their minds. Even a somniari can't keep this at bay.
Sina, at least doesn't change to how she was when they first met. Instead she looks around with a grim expression, her eyes beginning to glow green as they had before, but this seems only to magnify her disappointment rather than make her frightening.
After a moment's thought, she turns to meet Atticus' eyes directly, her gaze penetrating for a split second before they both wake up. In her case, there's coughing and wheezing, and likely a trip to the infirmary.

"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?"

He can't keep it at bay yet.

His displeasure evaporates as he witnesses the shard's efforts to preserve itself in its host, turning some where they both stand to regard with dark appreciation how the waves wash in again, the sand a gritty presence under his heel. How marvellous this object is, even as it saps the life out of the girl who holds it.

Atticus turns back to her in time to catch her penetrating gaze--and then he, too, wakes up to early morning sunlight that he cannot stand to look at. He stumbles out of his cot and over to the wash basin in his cell, catching himself on it roughly, and wills himself not to be violently ill. While he succeeds in that, the steady drip, drip, drip of blood from his nose takes some time to abate.

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?"

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.

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?"

"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?"

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[OPEN] Dark dream world / all alone.

I

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III - lmk if I assume too much here re> guards!

Re: ii.

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folds our previous thread into this kind of because stuff happened

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