faderift | [OPEN] this guy is out now

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[OPEN] this guy is out now

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.

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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.

Well this is annoying.

Atticus jerks his head back from the face of the chattering dragon, looking a bit like a cat on the cusp of lashing out if the flicker of intense dislike across his features is any indication. His grip on his book is too firm for it to be entirely tossed aside, but he does tug it firmly out from beneath Charis' weight. With his other hand, he makes to pick the small dragon up in one fluid motion.

Someone likely didn't have pets as a child. (Or maybe he did, but for the sake of this rhetorical exercise, let's all hope that he didn't.)

It wouldn't have had to be if you hadn't been so rude in the first place, Atticus.

As Atticus reaches for him, Charis rears back, cheeks puffing out, ready to freeze him in place —

"Charis!" Adalia stage-whispers from across the room, and Charis is distracted long enough to be picked up, his breath coming out in one aborted little puff of ice. Adalia rushes over as quietly as possible (which is not really all that quietly, unfortunately), her cheeks red with embarrassment as she reaches out.

"I'm so sorry, he's mine, he's no danger, I promise, he's just curious, that's all!" The words come out in one long rush as Charis squeaks and chirrups irately from where Atticus has him held.

Atticus turns his attention from the writhing reptile in his grip to the elf girl who has come over to his table to accost him--or, as it turns out, to beg pardon for her strange little pet. Atticus stares back at her in a decidedly unsettling fashion, shifts his gaze back to the dragon, then lowers his hand to the ground to set him down.

"A peculiar companion, in this place," he observes mildly. Anyone from Thedas would mark his accent as distinctly Tevene, but to Adalia, it's just clear that he's not from around these parts and sounds a bit different from everyone else. "I wasn't aware one could tame a dragon."

Charis doesn't even go to the ground when Atticus lets go of him, he just unfurls his wings and flies over to Adalia's arms, chattering angrily at her.

"Yes, danthe vrak, I know, you're very upset, please just — qe japachi ihk ir klewnor, okay?"

At this Charis finally stops his noises, huffing out a breath through his nose that frosts over Adalia's collarbone. She stiffens at the sudden cold, but manages a smile at Atticus anyway, supporting Charis with one arm while she tucks her hair behind her ear with her free hand.

"It's not taming, he's naturally friendly. He's not a — um. A Thedasian dragon? Thedish? He's not from here."

A beat.

"And neither am I! For the record. Um. He's from my world. I came through with his egg."

Ah. That explains much--her effusive (and alarming) good humour towards a Tevinter magister, in particular. Atticus cuts his eyes with interest towards her hand, trying to search without appearing too interested for the tell-tale green glow that indicates an anchor mark.

If she is a rifter, it must be there. He considers his options privately.

"Yes," he says at last, as though her words confirm his suspicions, "I have met a number of rifters during my time here." During his time as a guest of the Inquisition, making such extensive use of its hospitality. In jail. He sees no reason to clarify that for her now, and instead gestures to the puffed up and irritable animal in Adalia's grip. "Is it commonplace where you are from to take on a dragon as a companion animal?"

Adalia has never done anything to hide her anchor — it's just there, on her palm, as visible as it would always be. She has very little sense of shame, or of making herself anything she isn't so that others can be comfortable, and any native dislike or distrust of her because of her anchor (or her ears, or her magic, or her dragon) is met with relentless and almost aggressive positivity.

Presently, the anchor is just visible as Adalia tucks her hair behind her ears, and then it becomes obscured as she drops her hand to help support Charis again.

"No, not that I know of. Some dragons are good and like people, but I've never heard of one raised by a person before. It'll be fine though! Probably. He's a very good listener."

Please don't kick up a fuss about her son people are nervous enough about him as it is.

Judging by his present composure and poise, Atticus does not look particularly inclined towards kicking up anything remotely approaching a fuss. Instead, he continues his private consideration of Adalia and the dragon she holds. Whatever conclusions he draws remain carefully hidden behind his unsettlingly pale blue eyes.

At last, he gestures across from himself towards an empty chair. "You may join me, if you wish," he suggests.

Being someone in whom magic flows as surely as blood, Adalia has always fancied herself somewhat attuned to the supernatural presence of Vibes, good or bad. She Knows Things, she's certain, that others don't, can Sense when people are untrustworthy. Because she's magic, you see.

There's very little truth to it, of course, and deep down she knows that, but there's still something about this stranger which gives her pause. Just for a moment, just enough to hesitate, but there's something. Nothing quantifiable, nothing she can put her finger on, so after that moment of hesitation she crosses to the chair and sits, half on the seat and half off, back straight, poised to jump up as soon as the source of that something makes itself apparent. Charis jumps from her lap onto the table, wandering about between all the books laid out on it in search of a good place to lay down.

"What are you working on?" Adalia says eventually, looking from the table and all the supplies spread overtop it to the man.

He marks her hesitation but doesn’t question it, instead allowing the beginnings of a thin smile onto his face once she sits. She’s made her choice--as has he.

“I am researching the rifts in the Veil,” he explains, his tone almost mild as as a tutor’s broaching a new subject with a promising student. He reaches for one of the tomes on the table in front of him and turns it so that Adalia can read the words for herself; clearly, the subject matter in front of him isn’t classified. “Are you familiar with the subject yet?”

That is not, if Adalia is honest, a reassuring smile. This strange middle ground between trustworthy and not is not one she knows how to navigate well, and it's more frustrating than either extreme would be — of course she'd prefer he be a chill guy fro whom she has nothing to fear, but even if he wasn't, at least she'd know. At least she'd have some basis for how to act. As it stands Adalia is both worried he's going to creep on her and that she's being too obvious about her distrust and it's hurt his feelings.

"Not familiar, but I know a little. I've been studying more generally before I try at anything more specialized," she says, leaning forward to look at the book he's angled toward her. It's more focused in its subject matter than the books she's been reading as she tries to get the lay of the land here, but the title is familiar — maybe one she was planning on picking up later?

"The Veil separates your Material Plane from the Fade, which is where dreams and magic come from. The Rifts, caused by Corypheus' attempt to destroy the Veil entirely, let the Fade bleed into the Material Plane, which causes strange magical phenomena, demons, and Rifters like me."

She looks up from the book with a questioning expression — has she got it right, did she do good? It's all too easy to fall into old patterns of behaviour, looking to the elders with that particular tone of voice for approbation and pats on the head — both literal, when she was younger, and figurative now.

The smile he wears doesn't gain any real warmth, but there's still a glitter of approval in his eyes at her succinct summation of recent events. He dips his head once in a nod. "Nearly," he answers her, his expression wry, then reaches for a blank sheet of parchment and a discarded pencil.

(School's in session, apparently.)

"Consider your dreams as something your mind makes, rather than something your mind receives from somewhere else. Here." He draws a straight line down the centre of the paper, then another shorter line bisecting it in half. "When you sleep, your sleeping self crosses the Veil to the Fade. That is where your mind creates dreams, and the Fade gives shape to them." (The Fade, and the occasional visitor, though Atticus carefully is mum on this point.)

He nearly sets the pencil down, but pauses to consider her again. "Please forgive my curiosity, but are you a mage?" A pause, and then he clarifies, "A spellcaster of some variety, in your world."

No one could accuse the Avowed of warmth, as a general rule, so Adalia is adept at looking for other signs of approval from those from whom she is learning — which means that glint in Atticus' eye does not go unseen. She's not really sure what to do with it, exactly, nor the pleased blush on her cheeks, so she simply ducks her head and tries to appear as though she's looking intently at the parchment.

"So... Is it like, when people are dreaming, they essentially become mages? Given that a lucid dreamer can affect dreams like a caster might affect the waking world, just on a grander scale because dreams are limitless."

A pause, and then —

"Or, I suppose, that's how it works where I'm from. This Fade stuff is a bit difficult to wrap my head around — where I'm from, we have the Weave, but it's... everywhere. There's no Veil to partition it off, and magical deadzones are rare."

The question feels somewhat more... foreboding than it has from anyone else who's ever asked, but Adalia's never lied about it and she won't start now.

"I'm what's called a sorcerer, where I'm from, but I'd be considered a mage, here. I was born with magic."

"Given that a lucid dreamer can affect dreams like a caster might affect the waking world..."

That's a curiously astute observation; he hadn't even touched on the capabilities of Thedosian mages in the Fade yet. His particular skillset is understandably rare. If it is more common where Adalia is from, that would be an interesting conversation to delve into--given a little more time.

"Most mages lack the ability to truly affect dreams in the way I believe you're describing," he says. Strictly for the purpose of clarification, of course. (Of course.) He gestures mildly with one hand. "A mage may, for example, remain lucid as she dreams, but she will be unable to change the nature of her dreams, or challenge its fundamental nature. In that way, though her subconscious mind informs the setting, the conscious mind can only interact with what has been created. It cannot create something new."

A pause. Then: "Some mages do possess that ability. The art has largely died out, though I believe has been known to re-emerge among the Dalish." There. A truthful redirection. (For the most part.)

It feels somehow significant that he's referring to a general mage as "she", but at this point Adalia can't really tell if that's because she's looking for reasons to be suspicious of him or what. Being paranoid is not a fun experience, and Adalia's almost ready to give it up entirely, consequences be damned. She doesn't have the energy to wonder about the motivations of random men she's met in the library.

"That's interesting," she says, considering. "Where I'm from, anyone can muck about in their own dreams, at least once they realize they're dreaming, which some people never do, and some people do often. It has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with your mind just suddenly realizing 'hey, that's not at all as it is in real life, i must be dreaming', and then they can do whatever they like with the dream. It's the only way those without magic can ever fly, for example."

Which... rather simplifies things, when Adalia has a Broom of Flying in her room and that requires no magical ability to use, but it would be true if not for magic items, so she'll let the statement stand without correction.

"Do you think," she says slowly, feeling out the question even as she speaks it, "that without the Veil, any dreamer may interact with their dreams as I've described? And then a mage who could dream lucidly here would... I don't know how the lack of the Veil would change them. Do you know any more about their abilities?"

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[OPEN] this guy is out now

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