[OPEN] this guy is out now

[minrathousian]

WHO: Atticus Vedici, the Division Heads, Wren, Myr + OPEN
WHAT: Someone is free-ish from prison, finally.
WHEN: Early December.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: In Benedict's thread, CW for Fade torture awfulness.

I. THE AGREEMENT (Closed to the Division Heads, Wren, and Myr)


Atticus has no choice but to submit to this condition of his freedom, even if in doing so he exchanges one set of shackles for another.

Tight-lipped and silent as he follows Ser Coupe into the private chamber to be utilized for this process, he schools his face into a neutral expression that only just succeeds in masking his outrage. Yet in this he knows he has no leverage, no trump card to play that would not in turn be played against him, too.

He stops in the centre of the room and waits. At this stage, there is little else he can do.



II. THE GALLOWS COURTYARD (OPEN)


It is exceptionally pleasant to step outdoors into a brisk autumn morning and not feel the looming presence of a Templar guard at his back, nor suffer the weight of the runed shackles around his wrists. Atticus examines the reddened flesh on his hands pensively, gives his fingers a tentative flex first this way, then that way; there appears to be no permanent damage, nor any adverse effects of his limited exposure to the lyrium within the runed cuffs.

In short, nothing truly worth remarking upon to distract him from his cursory, near feline exploration of the Gallows that are now laid out before him.

The courtyard isn’t his destination so much as a stop along the way; already he’s encountered a number of locked or warded doors that his better judgment refrained him from investigating further. The mess hall, at the early hour when he chose to rise, only had a scattered few individuals in it having their breakfast; curiously, none of them seemed interested in eating with him. So it has been during most of the interminable hours he’s passed this morning, though he can find little to complain over in having one of the communal baths exclusively to himself.

Likely he cuts an odd figure standing alone in the courtyard admiring this first unobscured view of the cloudy sky that he’s enjoyed in months, but that’s not reason enough for him to change his behaviour.



III. DREAMING (Closed to Benedict)


On some night--which one doesn’t especially matter, only that it is a still one, peaceable and quiet--Atticus lets his fadewalking lead him towards the outskirts of Benedict’s dreaming mind. It’s less that he intrudes, and more that he finds for himself some way to interweave himself into the world of the dream, and to search through it with vague interest for some sign of his former apprentice’s consciousness.



IV. IN THE LIBRARY (OPEN)


His freedom from the Gallows prison is accompanied by certain expectations, chief among them that Atticus will put his keen intellect and insight into the activity of the Venatori to good use and work.

So that is what he is doing now--or at the very least, he is perusing range after range of books upon aging shelves, withdrawing them at his leisure, bringing down volumes as they strike him as relevant, replacing those that don’t. He has acquired a small work station for himself in the corner, and returns to it occasionally to work.
 


V. PETRANA'S OFFICE (CLOSED)


If little else can be said for the quality of his character, let it at least be said that Atticus Vedici is punctual.

At the prescribed time he arrives outside Petrana's office door, but does not yet knock. An unexpected compulsion sees him taking a moment to straighten the sleeves and collar of the simple black robe he's acquired since being freed from the prisoner's tunic required of him in the jail cell. The fabric of the robe would never pass muster in Minrathous society; that alone makes him inexplicably satisfied by it.

He straightens and lifts his hand, hesitates only a moment, and then raps his knuckles against the door. "Madame de Cedoux," he says (never her given name, not so casually, not here).


VI. THRANDUIL'S OFFICE (CLOSED)

(OOC: This thread takes place shortly after the phylactery thread.)


Shortly after the phylactery ritual is completed, Atticus is summoned to a private meeting with the head of the Research Division. Well, that didn't take long.

He's given some time to himself to bathe first, wash his hair, shave the growth of stubble on his chin, and change out of his prisoner's tunic into something more fitting for one who is no longer meant to look like a prisoner. (He still is, he knows; as long as that phylactery exists. But that is a problem to be dealt with in the future.)

Now, dressed and clean, Atticus approaches Thranduil's office door and knocks.

Comments

vi.

[thunderproof]

As Atticus sets up to do his work, he may notice a young blonde elven girl at a table all by herself, books spread around her and a quill in hand as she reads. She certainly notices him, and gives him a bight smile if he looks her way, but otherwise keeps to herself. For about half an hour after that, the two of them work on their own projects, sharing the space in respectful, if not amicable, silence.

Half an hour later, though, Atticus will feel a strange cold around his ankles. A draft, perhaps. It'd be easy enough to ignore if the cold didn't quickly climb his legs — when he looks down, he will see a baby dragon sat on its hind legs right next to his legs, looking up at Atticus with bright, curious eyes. It blinks at him, chitters excitedly, and leans forward, placing a clawed paw on his knee to support itself as it inspects him.

[minrathousian]

In fact, Atticus does not look her way.

He does not seem to pay much attention to anyone else at all in the library, no matter how many looks he receives himself--looks of disdain which are no doubt comingled with horror and some disbelief, but whatever questions the gawkers have, it is of no concern to him.

It's the unexpected gust of cold near his ankles that catches his attention at last. Pausing in the midst of perusing a book from one of the shelves, he glances down and spies the culprit. There's no flash of surprise, delight, or irritation across his face--just the barest lift of his eyebrows, cool eyes examining the small creature as though trying to determine whether it's worth the effort required to shoo it away. At last he shifts his leg so that Charis has no choice but to drop his paw, and turns back to his book.

(A bit like ignoring a friendly puppy; what a prick this guy is.)

[thunderproof]

If a dragon could be deterred so easily, messere, the debate currently raging over the crystals would not be necessary.

Charis gives a disappointed little coo, staring up at Atticus with an expression that may have been called a pout on a human face, but it turns into determination after a moment. Without giving Atticus a chance to react, the dragon jumps into his lap entirely, places one paw on the book and shoves, forcing it down at the very least and possibly out of Atticus' hand entirely. The other paw reaches forward, supporting Charis with a grip on Atticus' shoulder as the dragon chatters at him, looking for all intents and purposes as though he's telling Atticus off for being rude.

I

[limier]

The cuts along her palms, Shivana's, have already been seen to. There are explanations enough for these things, but better that they never be called upon. Minimize the evidence of today's endeavours.

(A small blade, and very sharp. Vedici needn't know any more than that.)

Her shoulders are up, and that's not so unusual. The neutrality she wears by now will be routine to those within. The only difference is — Well. If there's been a phylactery made of these past three years, it's been a rare thing, indeed.

"Are you certain you should not prefer to keep these?" Dry, under her breath, as she sets about lifting the shackles one final time. The peculiar intimacy of the jailor at an end: The others have yet to arrive, but imminently, he'll stand among them with open hands. "They've seen use enough."

If that chain had been rope, if it had been possible to wrest from his grip, they wouldn't be speaking at all.

[minrathousian]

At the gesture of her hands, Atticus extends his wrists towards her obligingly, but there's nothing particularly obedient or subservient in his pale gaze. Yet despite the slow burn of his anger at this abominable requirement, he manages a thin smile for Wren and, like they're sharing some little inside joke between friends, intimates to her, "Oh, I think I'll be all right. Don't you?"

[arlathvhen]

Beleth is the first division head to arrive, and when she steps in to see only Atticus and Wren there, she immediately regrets it. Maybe she should have waited to walk with Thranduil--no, she's an adult, she doesn't need to be escorted like a child. Face school to be neutral, she steps in as confidently as someone who is entirely unfamiliar with the concept can manage.

There's a tension in the air--or maybe it's just her? She's certainly tense enough on her own. "Ser Coupe. Vedici." She gives a small bob of her head to each, and moves to the side. Is there anything else she should say? 'Hey, how you guys doing, ready to perform blood magic that'll get us all tarred and feathered if people found out'?

She elects to stay silent.

ii

[laurenande]

The Gallows were all their name promised and so much less; Galadriel could not abide them with any of the ease that she had carried through Skyhold. The halls were oppressive, the stones all but leaked the residue of the old song, and the not so distant crashing of the sea was a rough and constant reminder that she was far from home. The only true respite in this place was the open air above the fortress and Galadriel sought it as often as she could justify--she had never been terribly shy nor leary of being watched, but caution was not unwise. The Templar had not recalled her, nor had any of them been reassigned to her hip, and she had no desire to alert them to her presence....not while she walked without her ring.

Galadriel had not risen with the dawn, she had not yet acclimated to the balance of her power and the strength of her body, but it was a near thing. Unfortunately, while the courtyard was all but empty, the sky was overcast by shifting layers of grey and white clouds. There was some freedom in the sight of it, even if the sunlight was muted and watery, and she drew her grey hood back so that she might relish what she could. Her brown dress drew less notice than her white silks had, and less still wrapped in a cloak of Lórien, but her face and hair still exuded the light of the dawn itself and there was little to be done for that.

There were a scattered few meandering through the premises at this hour, even through the courtyard itself, but only one had taken the time to enjoy the sky above. Galadriel was more cautious now, but every conversation of late has been with some long-dead relative or another, and there were only so many tense silences she could tolerate before she snapped. She moved with purpose, making a conscious effort to have her footsteps resound, despite her bare-footedness, and came alongside him. Her eyes were turned skyward when she finally spoke.

"I lament the lack of green and growing things, but the sky is a perpetual balm, is it not? Even when the sun is hidden, and all the wide-open space filled, it is beautiful."

[minrathousian]

The sound of soft footsteps on the stone ground of the courtyard announce her presence, so that when Galadriel comes to stand at Atticus' side, he expects her--to a degree. Turning his eyes from the white overcast of the sky, he glances instead to the peculiarly transcendent elf. (A bit like Thranduil, he decides privately, but more. Somehow.)

His brows lift, and he says, "Yes," in a mild tone of voice, then once more tilts his head up to watch the clouds drift hazy and distant above them. "I confess I did not expect to have missed it."

Even with the cloud cover to diffuse it, the clouds are a bright white, and he shouldn't look at them for long. But like so many things he shouldn't do, that is not enough to stop him, and he squints, lifting a hand up to shield his eyes from the worst of it, but does not look away.

"Are you a recent arrival?" he enquires at last; he'd noticed her anchor mark.

[laurenande]

"After a fashion, I suppose," Galadriel agrees. Her eyes aren't bothered by the sunlight so terribly but she turns to face him after a pause. The breeze is sufficient to bolster her. "I have just returned to these lands, though this city is utterly new to me."

She does him the courtesy of not looking at his wrists, but she is well aware of what the marks of bondage look like. Given where they are, she has some inherent fondness for those who have been held by the Inquisition--or, well she assumes it was the Inquisition.

"Are the cells here warmer than Skyhold's? I imagine they cannot be otherwise, unless they are flooded."

iv

[justice_is_blond]

He's heard rumors of the new arrangement so he's not entirely surprised to see Atticus in the library. It's still a little strange, considering Benedict is so limited, but a lack of consistency among Templars is nothing new. Anders comes over to join him.

"I was wondering if I might ask a few questions, if you've time." As the topic falls under the umbrella of research, this shouldn't get either of them in trouble. All the same he's keeping his eyes out for who all comes into and leaves the library while he talks with Atticus because there's a fair chance some might have a problem with them talking.

[minrathousian]

"Would that be wise?"

Perhaps Atticus has had the same thought, though he doesn't appear particularly concerned about appearances. After all he is still shackled, though his chain is not of the variety that Anders could see. Still, he steps away from the bookshelf of tomes he'd been perusing to take a few steps closer to Anders, meeting his eyes. At length, he laces his hands together behind his back. "What can I do for you?"

ii

[meds4sale]

He was in the courtyard selling various goods and potions to Inquisition agents setting off on whatever duties they did. He'd cultivated a reputation for effective and affordable remedies and those who were, at least, indifferent to elves (or Rifters of unknown origin that *looked* like elves) provided him a good chunk of business.

The Medicine Seller had gotten good at recognizing who was who, though the man wandering through the courtyard was somehow familiar and very strange all at once.

"I make a balm that would alleviate the redness on your wrists," he said with that slow and monotonous cadence he was almost never without.

[minrathousian]

In contrast, Atticus recognizes this spectre from his recent past almost instantly, though he's careful not to betray that recognition yet. As amenable as the Medicine Seller had been to him in dreams, it did not necessarily follow that he would be similarly inclined in the waking world.

Clothing himself in courtesy, he approaches the Medicine Seller's stall and examines his wares with an interest that is not entirely feigned. "I regret I have no coin to pay for your goods," he replies. That alone should be indication enough as to his identity for the Medicine Seller: wrists rubbed raw from what could only be shackles, no income to speak of (or rather, none that he can access at present). One of the two dungeon prisoners clearly stands before him now.

ii

[motherfucking_ghost]

It isn't as though he'd forgotten the ordeal, or his offer to Sina to continue only for things to rapidly deteriorate from there. He hadn't heard much about the guy, though, and no further attempts to experiment on shards had happened that he knew of, so Church simply hasn't given the Venatori fellow much thought.

So he does a double take as he passes by this morning, wondering, surely his mind is playing tricks on him. Surely there must be a Templar or two standing around, watching and waiting. Surely this guy isn't just standing around free and clear.

Which seems to be exactly what's going on. "What the fuck are you doing?"

[minrathousian]

This guy is, in fact, standing around free* and clear.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Atticus turns his head at Church's terse inquiry to greet him with a neutral look. There's clear recognition in his pale eyes; yes, Church, he remembers you.

He spreads his hands to either side of himself and takes a few casual steps nearer to him. "I am enjoying the morning air," he replies mildly. "As are you, I can only assume."

--
*some restrictions may apply, actually.

[minrathousian]

He'd find the sight of her arresting no matter her choice in garments--but aside from a brief pause on the threshold of her office once he has the office door open, he composes himself well.

It would present too much an appearance of intimacy if he were to take a seat anywhere in her office, even in one of the comfortable chairs before her desk. Instead, Atticus crosses the room carefully to stand behind one of them, rests one of his hands atop the back of it. "My apologies," he tells her carefully, "if I've interrupted in you in the middle of a particularly important matter. I wished only--"

To see you with my eyes--

"--to present you with evidence of my completed research, today." It serves, in point of fact, as an accounting of his time and movements throughout the Gallows. He withdraws a folded slip of paper from one pocket and extends it towards her across the table.

meee

[altusimperius]

Benedict's dreams are considerably happier than his reality, especially now, when he's drugged up on painkillers and sleeping more deeply than he normally can in the cold cell. He's in the Fade's rendition of his quarters at home, a book-filled alcove with stained glass windows that look out onto the gardens. He's relaxing on his favorite chaise, gazing at the chandelier above and listening to the birdsong, a small and luxurious-furred animal of some kind resting companionably beside him. The room's temperature is perfect, the lighting just right as it spills in the window and leaves a colorful pattern on the floor.

[minrathousian]

There's a chair nearby and, in the way of dreams, Atticus has been sitting in it for some time, absently reading a text whose words shift and change before his eyes. They don't matter.

He absently looks across at Benedict and asks him, conversationally, "How are you feeling?" He's still alive, clearly.

VI.

[rowancrowned]

The change is appreciated—Thranduil would hesitate to call it effort, or even think it to be on his behalf, but a clean Man is better than a dirt-encrusted one. He would have done much the same, if he had been imprisoned—

—but he has not, and has no intention of familiarizing himself with the inside of Skyhold’s dungeons or the Gallow’s. If he grows curious, Galadriel can be relied upon.

Thranduil opens the door, and steps to the side, holding it for Atticus, gesturing him inside. A merry little fire is crackling away in the fireplace, and the chairs by the fire are turned slightly away from it. A bottle of wine has been uncorked and set on the table by the largest chair, and once Atticus is inside, Thranduil lets the door close and takes it, crossing one leg over the other and relaxing back.

“I assume you would prefer wine, but I do have tea.”

[minrathousian]

There is very little in this world that Atticus does on behalf of anyone but himself.

"Wine is excellent, thank you." He seats himself in the remaining chair as Thranduil does, posture comfortable though not overly relaxed, and laces his fingers together before his chest. For a moment his gaze, both passionless and curious, wanders the interior of the office, marking its defining features.

At length he looks back to Thranduil and spreads his hands to either side in an idle gesture. "What can I help you with?" He assumes this is not a social call.

VII Wildcard, I do what I want.

[laurenande]

The clouds over Kirkwall are a muted sea of mixed grey, the sun rides above them but it cannot break through and so time seems to pass slowly this day. The hours shift with little to mark their passing, no hard shadows, no turning light, even the gulls are quiet. It is perhaps early afternoon when Galadriel finds him; he is in an alcove that opens to the sky above, shielded from the view of those in the courtyard, but not entirely removed from sight.

When she first approached him, she took care to make sound, she had not wanted to startle him--now, that is a less imperative concern. She draws the spell around them without the haste she normally employs in Thedas and it falls, like a vacuum, over this small corner of the courtyard. The sounds of Kirkwall and of the sea are muted, the veil is bent, bowed above them, and the Fade beyond it is pressed away. Only stillness is left within the bound of the girdle; stillness so profound that even Galadriel's footsteps seem loud.

"I did not take you for a spirit," Galadriel says, the tone of her voice matching the dullness of the daylight. Her cloak shifts and the fabric is more apparent than the wall behind it. A moment passes and she pushes her hood back to reveal her face; at once the cloak is simply a cloak again and the concealment a memory.

She stares at him openly, her expression mild but wary. There are precious few creatures who can penetrate her mind, after all, and they deserve a measure of caution.

"No, I think this is something else."

[minrathousian]

The cold is unkind to Atticus in ways he had not been expecting. Minrathous is a city of endless summer, of hot months and monsoons that sweep through the countryside during the rainy seasons. He abhors the cold but, having spent months inside a dank, dimly lit and poorly furnished prison cell, his need to experience sunlight and feel it on his skin trumps his considerable discomfort.

Yet the bite of the cold into his skin, into his bones, is nothing compared to the visceral wrongness of having his connection to the Fade yanked away from him so abruptly.

He jolts at the sensation and sways on his feet, catching himself against the cold stone wall. When he whips his head around to stare at Galadriel, his gaze gone sharp and hard more like a cornered animal than a man, he looks pale and drawn.

"What have you done?" he demands suddenly, blindly defensive--yet even as he searches her face in sheer incredulity, there's growing fascination in his stare.

[limier]

A melody defines the edges of this dream.

It’s fragile: Raw Fade cut through with the shimmer of — something else, something nearer to waking. Difficult to say where either truly ends; the wrong footing here might plunge straight through.

The dream yet gathers itself to Atticus’ command, but it’s quick to recede for the inattention of either mind, to unspool itself into white song. Those worming notes, so difficult to catch, are harder still to release. Once gripped, they loop in precise reptition, slither between the ears, pulse in the beat of some distant chest,

Perhaps that of the woman before him now.

Wren lowers shovel to earth. The frozen ground’s held solid by her presence, thin with weeds and the waste of winter. She digs: First with the spade, until it uncoils from her grasp, finds itself gone. She kneels, then, to claw at the ice and rock. Shades flicker at the edge of her vision; some faces will be familiar of the Gallows (briefly, eyes of startling blue), others must be older, else misplaced. They act out some fraction of pantomime, exchange a word, dissolve as thoughtlessly.

She seldom looks to them. She digs. There’s no frenzy to it, no rapidity, but it’s unswerving all the same.

Eventually, her fingers begin to bleed.

[minrathousian]

The melodious notes that shift like an unsettling undercurrent around them defy his every attempt to place them; shortly, he gives up. It isn't a song he recognizes, and the more he grasps after it, the more effectively it seems able to elude him. Still--what a dismal, relentless task the Templar's sleeping mind has placed before her. (Less of a mystery are the faces he glimpses in the shadows, and blue eyes looking back at him like a mirror--)

Nearby and just out of sight, Atticus watches Ser Coupe at her work with both spade and her own fingers, considering the unforgiving soil that grows wet and dark as her blood streaks it. Exhibiting more daring than its fellows, a shade darts forward with an outstretched talon towards that smear of Fade blood; but Atticus dismisses it with a deft hand.

It's a desperate, grabbing thing; unthreatening, and uninteresting. The woman before him, however--

"Show me what you're searching for." The words, less an inquiry and more a command to her subconscious. Atticus doesn't need to provide a terror or a wonder for her, but simply rests a hand in the air near her temple and concentrates; whatever it is she dreads, or is determined to dredge up at least, she will find there beneath the frozen ground.