[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

I

[eolasemah]

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.

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

[faithlikeaseed]

"...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.

folds our previous thread into this kind of because stuff happened

[limier]

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?"