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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The subtle shift of the fabric does catch Atticus' eye, and he doesn't well shield the spark of interest it kindles in him. The magicks brought to Thedas by the rifters continue to intrigue him; the opportunity to examine them more closely is just one of many reasons he is glad to be free of the confines of the Gallows dungeon.

Her offer gives him pause, long enough for the calm veneer of his expression to falter, just for a moment. Then he considers the scar tissue that has come to form around his wrists where the shackles once were.

"I would be grateful," he says at last, meeting her eyes. "To hear your tales, as well as to have these--" the scars, he indicates at a glance, "--done away with." The sleeves he wears conceals them well enough, but the flesh stretches tautly nonetheless.

Edited 2017-12-03 17:17 (UTC)

Galadriel inclines her head and extends a hand with gradual grace. They are exposed here, but the dawn is recent enough, and her arts so subtle, that they should pass largely without note. Her grasp is gentle, where she takes his wrist, and she lifts his arm. She doesn't bother pressing back his sleeve, it is hardly necessary, and instead slides her fingers beneath the hem of it, across the scars that mark his wrist.

"It did not occur to them, when I was in chains, that I should remain thus. I expect that oversight did little to aid you."

Beneath the edge of her cloak, just above her breast, the edge of her brooch catches the dim sunlight. It is an affair of silver and emerald and the gleam off the gem is both reminiscent of the marks and entirely unlike them, all at once. It shines just slightly brighter as she draws upon it and pulls its power to her fingertips.

Restoration is not healing, not precisely, and for that Galadriel is grateful. She has never been terribly skilled at the latter, but the former is well within her domain.

"I was cast into cells because I refused to swear them an oath, but Skyhold is an ancient and crumbling fortress built in the high mountains. The state of those cells, open and dreadful, was a far more compelling threat than any they ever managed to conjure," she explains. "I was freed, after a time, but it was a decision made without good will.

"Have they issued you a guard?"

At her gesture, Atticus offers both of his wrists to her. The peculiarity of his encounter will be something for him to deliberate over for quite some time, as nothing he's yet experienced in the Gallows can quite compare to it; a stranger--clearly one of tremendous power--speaking to him as if in confidence of her time in the Inquisition's chains, offering him a kindness with no clear expectation of repayment. She walks freely now, or at least presents every appearance of it, as he does.

The desire to know whether the Templars have bound her in the same as they have bound gnaws at him savagely, but he quiets the impulse to ask that particular question. Her similarities to Thranduil make him cautious, and he wouldn't put it past the head of the Research division to dispatch a spy of his own sort to ascertain his intentions--

--the unexpected sensation caused by her spellwork, the light emanating from the brooch, stills the rushing of his thoughts. When the work is finished, Atticus lifts his hands to consider the results with a flicker of surprise across his features. "I was cast into cells because I refused to swear them an oath... I was freed, after a time, but it was a decision made without good will. Have they issued you a guard?"

"Not as such," he responds almost wryly, the expression playing at the corners of his mouth. It might become a smile, eventually, if given time. "But my hours are tightly regimented, and I meet regularly with the Templars to account for my time and my movements." A considering pause, inscrutable as the look he rests upon Galadriel now. "I expect they would not be pleased to learn that you and I have spoken."

The subtle but unvoiced suggestion: perhaps we shall not tell them.

The mending is not as complete as she would have liked and, even as surprise darts across his face, her own dips with a very mild touch of frustration. She is tempted, for a moment, to reach forward and force her power into the Elessar rather than the other way around, but she has precious little of it to spare. Another day, when she is not recovering, herself, she shall make another attempt.

"I expect you are right," she agrees and her expression has a note of amusement to it. "It seems they have forgotten me, in my time away, and I have no desire to remind them of my presence. They were...troublesome accompaniment and, after a time, I began to worry over their health."

She settles her hands back beneath her cloak and regarded, for the first time in their conversation, the dreary walls that surrounded them. Her face didn't shift much, but her general disdain was extremely obvious. It passed, mostly, as she returns her gaze to him.

"It would be wise to walk, ere we linger too long and draw attention to ourselves," she says almost idly and with a tilt of her head, to the towers that rise behind them.

Edited 2017-12-03 18:49 (UTC)

Troublesome might not be the word that Atticus would first reach for to describe the Templars of the Inquisition, but he is content to leave that subject for another time. Her advice is sound; being seen in each other's company may rouse suspicions regardless, but if she is correct that her past has largely been forgot, then it would be best to take advantage of that fact.

Maintaining a low profile may not be an option for either of them, but to the extent that they are able--

"I intended to visit the library next, if you'd care to accompany me," he tells her, already turning to fall into step beside her and approach the stairs beyond them. "I've not been long out of the dungeons, but it seems the Inquisition had no shortage of research waiting for me upon my release."

Galadriel's step hitches as he speaks of the library but she continues forward, despite the brief faltering in her composure.

Ah, but she had forgotten! She had taken such notes, written pages upon pages of instructions for her kin so that they might read these local languages, and had even transcribed several of the histories of this world into the old tengwar. Surely those tomes rested a thousand miles away...assuming they have not been burned in her absence.

She will have to begin anew, especially now that so many Quendi walk these lands.

"Of course, I have always enjoyed libraries, despite having little call to travel to them." It's a light, conversational topic, and she lifts her hood as they walk.

"What do they desire of you?" she would admit to some curiosity, but it is an idle thing. She did not speak with him, nor assist him, in order to glean information.

"What do they desire of you?"

He had invited that question, hadn't he? Atticus gives Galadriel a sideways glance as they walk together towards the towers, then looks ahead of them as he considers his reply. "Research into the rifts and the Veil," he explains. "In the Minrathous, any such research that involved the Fade and the Veil have been my specialty for decades. It seemed a natural fit." As natural a fit as is possible, considering who Atticus is, and where he is presently located.

When they pass into the corridors of the Gallows, he grows more quiet, more circumspect.

"Strange, I was under the impression that the mages here feared such study, indeed they seem openly reluctant to engage with it," she replies casually; there is no guile behind her comment and she is clearly not vying for information. "The moment I delved into the subject I was all but reviled, treated as though I were the harbinger of some unspeakable doom."

It was, in fact, the cause of her own imprisonment, loathe as she would be to acknowledge it.

"They find even the mildest manipulations of the Veil to be dreadful things."

Her brow dipped and she considered him as they walked.

"If you do not object to indulging my curiosity, I have wondered often about the Veil and its purpose. Largely I am baffled as to why it pools as it does, why the weight of it falls so heavily in such uneven patches, but I've met few who can sense it and fewer still who might have answers."

What an unexpected place to encounter such a kindred spirit--not a term Atticus would deign to consider, surely, but there's something of the sentiment in his eyes when he glances at Galadriel's profile.

"They find even the mildest manipulations of the Veil to be dreadful things. If you do not object to indulging my curiosity..."

He does not object. Nor does he share the Southerners' compunctions regarding any discussion of the Veil as a thing that can or should be tampered with for the sake of research and intellectual betterment. There is simply very little there to be shared or referenced, though with a deep furl in his brow he attempts to draw together enough known facts on the subject to share with Galadriel.

"Those who might have clear answers," he decides, "likely are reluctant to share them because this remains the old taboo of Thedas."

When they reach the library, he seeks out a section that contains some writings on the Chantry. Selecting with with obvious distaste--not a devout Andrastian, this one--he extends it to Galadriel. "Do you know much about the Chantry's theory regarding the darkspawn?" he asks her.

"I had not bothered to look up any theories on the darkspawn; the corruption in them is known to me. Learning mortal theories about the Old Song seemed, at the time, to be a waste of effort," she explains and takes the book he offers to her. She opens it like one who is largely unaccustomed to the format of books but who has been compelled to learn--awkwardly but it finds balance in her hands after a moment of shuffling.

There is little index to speak of in religious tomes, but this particular book begins with the tale in question. Galadriel scans the first few pages with an expression of mild interest, but no dawning understanding. There is still much to read through, however, and Galadriel recalls at once that she cannot simply remain in place and not arouse suspicion. She gestures to a table that is not precisely obscured but not easily seen from all angles, either.

"What is this word," she asks as she moves to sit and holds the book toward him. Something about people from Tevinter, but the term is one she has never truly come across in her study. "A type of Mage, I presume? Or is it Istari? Wait...Wizards?"

At her gesture, Atticus joins her at the table and sits quietly by while she peruses the text. Whither and whether his thoughts wander isn't clear from his expression, which remains neutral, distant, until she addresses him.

"'Magister,'" he repeats, after only a momentary pause. He looks from the text to her eyes. "That is what I am." Or was, until recently, though the mannerisms and conduct of such a station are not easily set aside.

The clarification might not mean much to him, but it is a decidedly important one for Galadriel. Human words are often far too similar for her tastes and their definitions can be obtuse--a Mage does Magic, that she knows, so a Magister might be something entirely separate or, in her mind, elevated from a Mage. The only explanation for such things would be Ainur, the Wizards, but if Atticus is a Magister, then this story makes no sense at all.

The way her expression shifts at his identifying himself is hard to truly define. It is an absurd thought, that he could ever have been the source of the Old Song, or that he might despoil something simply by his presence. She had a hard time absorbing the whole of the situation as the book described it. Ultimately it was...a curious oddity.

"An interesting tale," she says, diplomatically and closes the book. "Inaccurate by far, but interesting. Does the whole of this land subscribe to it?"

If they do, it is no small wonder they ignore her warnings about the Wardens and the residual song of the Red Lyrium.

(Realistically, many within the Gallows likely find his presence despoiling enough.) So there they sit a moment, considering each other inscrutably, though the expression on Atticus' face might approach a level of cordiality he hasn't presented with anyone else within the Inquisition yet. (Well, nearly anyone.)

"An interesting tale," she says, "Inaccurate by far, but interesting. Does the whole of this land subscribe to it?"

"No," Atticus concedes with the slightest tilt of his head, "not all. The Imperial Chantry doesn't ascribe to the same demonization of magic that this Orlesian one considers sacrosanct." His opinion in that regard is clear, judging by the dismissive note in his voice, the little gesture of his hand. He adds a moment later, "There are any number of other religions practiced within Thedas that provide differing explanations for the origin and purpose of the Veil, but I confess I know little of them."

For a moment, he looks as though he might say something else, but then does not. Still, there's a curiosity in his gaze as he watches Galadriel that is hard to ignore.

"Upon that subject I cannot begin to guess, but it is an awkward sort of hindrance," Galadriel says and settles her hands in her lap. The way she sits is not stiff, but neither can it be called reclining because her posture doesn't fail her.

"At first I was uncertain how it managed to separate me from myself, a feat I still fail to understand to its fullest, but I have gleaned some knowledge in my time," she explains with the ease of someone who doesn't realize such information is necessarily valuable. She is no fool, of course, and has bartered information before, but the workings of mortal magics and the world are not things she believes to be terribly secret or particularly worthwhile.

Solving the riddle of the Veil is far more valuable to her than what advantages she might gain by meting out knowledge in indecipherable parcels.

"It can be thinned, if one has the ability to draw against it. I do not know if the staves of human mages function thus, I have failed in their use repeatedly, but I have found it is not too difficult to manage."

Here, perhaps, is where she should be cautious, for the people of Thedas have reacted poorly this statement, almost to the man. She hears no song in his veins, though, and already his reactions are more promising than most.

"Opening a rift, then, should be no harder than parting the clouds that shroud this world. However, apart from rendering aid in dire times, I can think of no reason to attempt it in earnest."

Across from her, Atticus sits contemplatively silent, his chin thoughtfully resting on his curled knuckles. The neutrality of his expression is deceiving; his internal landscape is roiling with the possibilities introduced by her words.

"Opening a rift, then, should be no harder than parting the clouds that shroud this world. However, apart from rendering aid in dire times, I can think of no reason to attempt it in earnest."

"Render aid?" he repeats quietly, adopting curiosity in place of silence. Affecting concern for their privacy, he glances briefly away from her, to look instead for any prying eyes or ears, but there are none. He's pensive when he looks to her again. "What circumstances do you envision?"

At this question, Galadriel pauses. It is fortunate he is so neutral in his countenance, and that she had been giving this information freely, else she would have been more cautious to speak it. He did not know her from Skyhold but, truthfully, any who had would not be startled by this revelation. Those who fought the Nightmare would not have easily forgotten the sight of her.

"If I must bring my full might to bare, I must have access to what lies beyond the veil, parted from my waking hröa," she says, perhaps more carefully than the rest of her accounts. "I have reclaimed it before and walked the world as I once was, undiminished by the lay of these lands.

"It would be a terrible risk, to be certain, but the circumstances in which I would attempt it would be dire already."

"Yes," Atticus responds quietly, watching her a moment longer. "A terrible risk, indeed."

If he appears intrigued by the prospect--perhaps excited by it--his interest is surely academic. He traces a thumb absently against his bottom lip, thinking, then makes a slight gesture with one hand.

"Terrible and, of course, entirely hypothetical," he adds, though whether it's for her benefit or for the benefit of any ears that may overhear them, it's hard to tell. "As you said, the circumstances precipitating such a thing would surely need to be dire. It would not be something undertaken casually, to be sure."

He watches her a moment longer, considering. Perhaps she will take his meaning; perhaps not. He suspects they will find cause to speak of it again, at any rate.

He starts to his feet, however, admitting, "I would stay to discuss this with you further, but my schedule is rather strict at present."

"To be sure," Galadriel replies. His pauses are subtle, as is the expression on his face, and while she has not read his heart, she thinks perhaps that she has taken his meaning. When he rises after holding her eyes for a time, she inclines her head.

"I would not keep you from your tasks," she says simply and gestures to the library as it moves away from them. "We may speak again, if your schedule permits it.

"Tenna' ento lye omenta, Atticus."

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[OPEN] this guy is out now

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