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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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.

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.)

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?"

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.

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."

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.

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.

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?"

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.

Edited 2017-12-02 23:55 (UTC)

"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?"

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.

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?"

"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."

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.

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.

He isn't afraid of Atticus by any means. If this guy's just waltzing around in the middle of an Inquisition base, then he must have gotten time off for good behavior or some bullshit like that. If he pulls anything, he won't be alive for long. But that does not mean Church likes him. No, not a Venatori. That's like asking him to trust an alien. Or a Red. Or a Freelancer that isn't Tex (or Wash).

So he doesn't give up any ground. But he sure as hell doesn't look pleased.

"Enjoying it without any of your entourage. Did someone hit their head really really hard? Besides you when you got blasted across the room."

The marks of Atticus' former bondage are still clearly visible on his wrists; skin that had been rubbed raw by shackles over the course of several months will heal slowly, and scar over. But the fact remains that the shackles themselves are nowhere to be seen. His feet go unfettered. The drab prisoner's tunic he'd been wearing has been exchanged for a simple black robe; its quality is undoubtedly a severe step down from what a magister would be accustomed to in Tevinter, but far more than a prisoner might hope for.

These details, taken altogether, suggest that he is no longer a prisoner. (Or, at least, not of the sort that he was a month ago.)

Atticus deigns to overlook Church's sarcasm, though he of course heard it. "Not to my knowledge," he replies, the tiniest of wry smiles at the corners of his lips. "That would be a question better presented to the staff of your infirmary, I should think."

"Oh please." Just the kind of snarky, literal reply that drives him up the wall. It's like something Delta would do, only much less sincere, and therefore way more annoying. "You're not gonna tell me people think you're reformed or something, right? Were you just a really good boy and someone decided to let you out to play?"

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

She has his complete attention now, and not merely due to her forthrightness. Atticus turns to regard Galadriel with a passionless sort of curiosity, considering her in the relative quiet of the early morning. Somewhere else near the docks, a gull cries; beyond that the brief spell of silence remains uninterrupted.

At last he says, "They are quite cold." Perhaps the only admission he's made so far regarding his discomfort with the Inquisition's hospitality towards its prisoners.

It's a peculiar experience to find himself resorting to old courtesies here of all places. He dips his head cordially. "My name is Atticus."

It wouldn't be accurate to state that Atticus has no pride that can be wounded, but the tact that Church has taken in order to do so doesn't appear to be yielding much fruit. He stands still, if not stoic, under the barrage of interrogative questions Church hurls at him; infuriatingly, his little smile grows.

"I get the impression you don't like me very much, Messere Church."

(What cheek.)

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[OPEN] this guy is out now

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