faderift | let the day begin

The guard that shows him down isn't marked with the sword of mercy.

The Inquisition's supply of templars runs thin; so many are away, and the temporary swell of Hasmal's ranks have begun dispersing piecemeal back into the world. The prisoners are occasionally saddled with mundane minders — a grim-faced dwarf today, badgered into duty by sole virtue of species (itself grown vanishingly rare about the Gallows).

"Vedici, up at it," He rumbles. There's some kind of pattern he ought to follow, security protocols drilled over again by a harried human woman, but the old bat isn't here now, and all that's above his paygrade. He beckons into the dim hallway. "Come on, then. He's down here."

"Thank you," It's hollow of context. Casimir steps forward, glances over Atticus with a dispassion summarized in the fall of light across his forehead. "I'll require his restraints removed."

Edited 2017-10-01 23:54 (UTC)

It's late enough in the morning that Atticus is already up, dressed, and at his makeshift desk perusing more ciphers and translations for the Inquisition's efforts at sabotage and subterfuge when his 'guests' arrive. The callous tone of today's jailor isn't particularly out of place or enough to earn him more than a cursory glance through the bars; the dwarf is no one he recognizes.When it appears he's speaking to someone else, Atticus sets down his pen and turns some in his seat.

Then Casimir steps into view just beyond the bars, sunlight falling across the sunburst brand on his forehead, and Atticus blanches.

To Casimir, the dwarf shrugs. "If you say so," he says, unlocks the cell door, and approaches Atticus with a look of steely-eyed disdain that clearly communicates his willingness to get the hell out of dodge at the first sign that the magister is up to no good. He needn't bother; Atticus is staring straight past him at Casimir, his expression open for a fraction of a second too long before he regains his calm composure. As his shackles are unfastened, he rotates his wrists and rubs at the sore flesh beneath it.

He remains silent until the dwarf has vacated the cell, leaving him alone with Casimir. Staring back at him, it takes him a moment to reorganize his thoughts. Politicly, he says, "I don't believe we've been introduced," and leaves it at that.

He collects the cuffs at the guard exits, affects a thin smile, peculiarly detached from the rest of his features. Five years has been long enough to catalogue an array of reactions to his state; the breed that pauses Atticus has been some time away. Hasmal knew him well enough to fade: Another fixture of the crumbling halls and sunbleached stone.

"Casimir Lyov," His robes are near enough to Myr’s own — if altered in pattern, small telltale signs of some difference in rank. His accent, far different, even beneath the strained cadence of tranquility. "Of Hasmal. You’re Magister Atticus Vedici."

There; they’re introduced. His eyes track down to find raw wrists.

"Do they discomfort you?"

They must. He recalls thinking them so upon his own, and that at lesser stretch.

(Physical impressions remain, however severed of distress.)

Edited 2017-10-02 02:20 (UTC)

The details of his robe would have been noted sooner, had he been in better control of himself. Atticus presses his lips into a thin line; he will need to be more careful with this man.

"Do they discomfort you?" Casimir asks, eyes on his wrists. It's a puzzling inquiry; can a Tranquil mage feel concern? Being the recipient of such a question--from him--is more unpleasant than the pain caused by the shackles. "Not inordinately so, no." It's not quite a lie; they receive constant enough treatment that the likelihood of infection setting in is very remote, but the prolonged irritation is impossible to ignore completely.

A spell of silence follows, but playing the waiting game with a Tranquil mage is a losing proposition. Atticus clears his throat. "How may I assist you, Messere Lyov?"

Edited (italics difficulties) 2017-10-02 13:53 (UTC)

His expression lies inert, attention and smile fixed impassively upon Atticus until he speaks.

"Maintenance." He explains, because he finds explanations helpful; a habit to first offer what one would receive. "They're well-crafted, but not meant for extended use."

Shackles are typically a brief reprimand, or a holding ground for permanent solutions. It's unusual that they'd keep him so; not a caged raven, but a lingering threat to the Inquisition's work.

(This isn't mercy. He's been told enough of mercy to know it's a matter of endings.)

"Adjusting the fit would pose little difficulty." Nothing that he'd volunteer to, save that if Atticus' wrists pain him, he'll be slower at his tasks. His work is needed: Casimir's task is to mind as much.

He withdraws a small kit, begins about the business of unwrapping it over the bed. A series of picks and lenses glints in the filtered morning.

"There's only so much that might be done from here. Are you allowed travel within the grounds?"

"In some limited capacity, yes," Atticus responds mechanically. "I visit the library to conduct research while under guard. This is normally arranged in advance, with little input on my part."

He's staring at the back of Casimir's head now with such a rush of both revulsion and hostility that he clenches his jaw and tightens one hand into a fist to bring his temper back under control. What is meant by forcing him into such close proximity with such an abominable perversion of nature--is this the Inquisition's response to his offer of vital intelligence? No, he decides, the Inquisition is in no position to turn down sound evidence of an impending Venatori offensive, no matter the source or origin. A chilling reminder to him of what could become of him, should he lead them astray? That seems more likely.

It seems grotesquely ironic that he can't even do away with this dead-eyed fish in his sleep to prevent ever encountering him again.

When Casimir next looks his way, he's schooled his expression back into cold indifference.

Vedici's been easy enough to navigate this far; a welcome alternative to what he's heard of the other. Too much shouting. It would be a distraction, all that anger in a room.

"Yes, I've seen the bolts." Desk to floor, an unnecessary addition upon what otherwise seems a reasonable enough plan, "I'll request you visit the smith. The library won't serve for this."

"I'm going to review the runework." He lays out the cuffs carefully, gestures with a lens to collect it. "Would you prefer to observe?"

That's habit, too. He doesn't owe the man any allegiance — has been told not to follow any orders issued — but the templars have always wanted to know what he's doing, and it's been valuable to discuss theory with Myr. Perhaps it would better prepare him.

The anger is still in the room. It is simply quieter; a snake hidden in the grass rather than a barking dog.

"Would you prefer to observe?"

His lip twitches, the barest beginning of a disgusted curl checked before it can fully manifest itself. Atticus chooses to rise to his feet and replace his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, approaching the table. He elects to stand as far away from Casimir as he reasonably can while also being in a position to observe his work.

With anyone else, this is where the mind games, the subtle manipulations would begin. With Casimir, there are no strings to pluck, no sensitivities to prod at seeking bruises or old scars--but the serene countenance aside, his mind is no tabula rasa. Atticus does not have hubris enough to believe himself above the dangerous pitfalls laid out before him here.

So he opts for simplicity, and requests only, "Show me," with the barest gesture of his left hand.

It's an appreciable position, to the extent that it's possible to appreciate: close enough to observe without crowding Casimir's hands, risking damage of an instrument.

He sets the lens into his eye, near enough monocle. A vial unstoppers, sharps the air with a caustic tang. He twists the point of a miniature hook within it, carefully traces the interior of one —

"The agent reacts to lyrium," Blue light dances in miniature, carved place: the shape not dissimilar from neutralizing glyphs. "A modified version of that used in etching. The acid is weaker, it will not damage the form. However, if there's existing degradation in the structure, raw lyrium will be exposed, inducing caustic action."

As it is now, that chemical smell blooming into ozone. The shine flickers, winks out.

"Your skin contact will have been minimal. Toxicity is negligible." Even so, "Until repairs can be made, avoid wounds upon your wrists."

More than one already tries.

The threat of lyrium poisoning more aggravates than it frightens, and Atticus cannot disguise his slight scoff of incredulity; avoid wounds upon his wrists. Of course. "That may be beyond my ability to control," he replies curtly, turning an incising look upon the shackles. Nevertheless, the process had been a fascinating one to witness. The magisters of the Imperium did not rely on Tranquil mages to provide them with enchantments; their arrangements with the thaigs of Kal-Sharok and Orzammar provided a more than adequate supply to support the Tevinter Circles' needs.

Reining in his interest, he gives Casimir a cutting look. "How long until the repairs can be made?"

Casimir meets his eyes steadily, emptily. If Atticus' sharp manner has made any great impression, it's difficult to say —

"However soon your presence may be arranged. I've free hours in the evenings." More of them, if he puts aside sleep. "Perhaps this coming week."

More templars about by then. The tools fold away, the lens tucks into a case.

"We will discuss your assistance with a project at that time. It was suggested that you would find it," A pause. He seems to wonder a moment, at the shape of the word: "Interesting."

He offers the cuffs out once more, towards Atticus' wrists.

Atticus's upper lip curls a fraction when Casimir extends the shackles out to him, but he dutifully steps forward and extends his wrists so that they may be refastened into place. He exhales with visible displeasure as the magic-muting runes take effect, dulling the edges of his senses in an altogether unpleasant way.

"'Interesting,'" he repeats, cuts his eyes towards Casimir, and gives him an unfriendly ghost of a smile. "I highly doubt it."

He doesn't shrug, but the pasted-on smile at last slips from his lips, into boneless neutrality.

"You get used to that."

The guard's exit is unhurried, despite the best shepherding attempts of the guard. He shakes his head at the retreating back, shoots Atticus a look.

"Spooky fucks, all of you."

Edited 2017-10-27 16:08 (UTC)

If there's one thing you've got to do before making a promise, it's figure out how to skive off it.

— So she may have been making a few too many of those lately, without paying enough attention to an exit strategy. It was easy for a while. Inquisition's run too thin to spend time nagging, and if this hand's been good for piss-all, it's been for making sure no one tells her to piss off. So she's had a nice racket: Collecting tasks like dominoes and stacking them all up against each other any time the wind blows. Can't do that, serrah, got responsibilities to see to.

Wind finally blew a little too hard. She's up to her knees in the stables now, and not the paying ones uptown, neither. That'd be alright. That'd just be horses.

But the lunatics down here keep deer and dracolisks and whatever these giant bloody nugs are just penned in with the rest. It unsettles them all. It's a recipe for disaster.

It's what sends her lunging to intervene when Freddie gets close to one of the biters.

"Don't move an inch if you value your fingers," She warns, inching up beside a tall roan stallion. The horse blinks, eyeing Freddie with with the innocent, contented curiousity of a two-thousand pound herbivore. "He's been stroppy all day."

Edited 2017-10-02 00:11 (UTC)

"Has he?" Freddie asks, halting where she stands, hand still half-outstretched but not quite in easy biting distance yet, thanks to Melys. She flicks a glance toward the other woman before looking back to the horse. "What a shame, he's such a handsome fellow. And he doesn't look like he's in a mood. An unusually clever fellow then too, pretending to be calm to lure me in. Thank you. I rather need my fingers." She clicks her tongue in reproach.

Her long coat is split at the back for riding but long enough to nearly sweep across the dusty, straw-strewn floor and the dark blue fabric is already spotted with dirt around the hem. So are the toes of her riding boots, the heels clicking on the cobbles as she backs away from the roan's stall and turns toward Melys.

"How about this one?" she asks, turning again, this time to indicate a dark grey gelding a few stalls down. "Has he been behaving himself?"

As the ancient saying goes: Everything happens so much.

It's been... longer than she'd like, truly, since she's spoken with Cosima at any length or depth. Her own fault. The past few months have not been kind, and Wren makes promises, they too often fall short, fall flat — and then it's bloody fall somehow already and she's left wondering exactly where all that time went.

Four years, soon enough. Four years since the world up and went to shit (or six, or fourteen; it all depends upon when you start counting). Only a little less than that since men and women began falling from the sky. To be so far away, so long,

No. The months aren't often kind.

"Forgive me the short notice," She pauses at the edge of the doorway, fist half-raised from its knock. "My afternoon cleared unexpectedly. Would you care for some air?"

An enormous white dog shoulders its way past, snuffling wetly at the floor.

Edited 2017-10-02 04:34 (UTC)

let the day begin | closed

ATTICUS

Atticus Disapproves -1000

time to give him 200 gifts my dog digs up

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FREDDIE

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COSIMA