[OPEN] don't you ever tame your demons

[minrathousian]

WHO: Atticus Vedici + various starters, and OPEN
WHAT: Some dream stuff, some general stuff, some tense stuff.
WHEN: The first half of January
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: None currently, will update as needed.

I. DREAMING (GALADRIEL)


Whatever dream Galadriel finds herself immersed in, on one particular night, something about it will change--a softening around the edges of it, at first, like someone painting watercolour across the world around her. Colours blend and bleed into each other until her surroundings lose their definition entirely, though the painter himself, when he steps into view, is clearly identifiable.

Perhaps he should have asked first.

"Good evening," Atticus greets her in what is, perhaps, the closest approximation to real friendliness that he can muster.



II. DREAMING (ADALIA)


His appearance in Adalia's dreams--on another night, at another time--is more subtle. Masked and shrouded, he insinuates himself into the fabric of her dream in such a way that he is more a part of the scenery than a visitor distinct from their surroundings.

Still, he follows the marks that the sleeping mind leaves in the Fade; ultimately, it will lead him to Adalia.



III. AROUND THE GALLOWS (OPEN)


He has been free from the Gallows' dungeon long enough to develop a routine. It looks something like this:

He rises quite early in the morning and takes a small breakfast in his private quarters, before reporting, as required, to his Templar handler du jour for his work assignment. This, predictably, lands him in the Rifts and the Veil work rooms, or in the library, where the majority of his time is spent pouring over the Inquisition's existing resources and putting in requisitions for additional material. (Some of the books he requires, unfortunately, are only available in the Minrathous Circle's Arcane Library. He files each of these notes away for further consideration.)

Lunch he takes in the mess hall so as to not present the appearance of being secretive or unsociable (perish the thought). He rarely has guests here, or in the baths. Dinner, again, is a private affair in his quarters, where he pours over his notes from the day with a glass of wine and the remnants of his still very broken reading glasses.

Some evenings, if he can lower himself enough to ask permission for it, he tolerates the bitter cold long enough to venture outside and observe what he can of the City of Chains across the murky water. It's not much of a view, but spending half a year behind bars gives one the ability to appreciate even the most underwhelming skyline.

In short, Atticus keeps himself busy, and is often alone. He seems to prefer it this way.



IV. ATTICUS' QUARTERS (MYR)


One especially cold evening after the conclusion of his work, Atticus brings a few books with him back to his quarters and settles in to peruse them before turning in for the night. In the relative privacy of his room, he feels little compunction about frowning to himself as he closes his single window as tightly as possible, endeavouring in vain to keep the chill from infiltrating his chambers.

(Had it been this cold in the dungeons, or did the illusion of freedom give him more opportunities to nitpick? He quiets the thought.)



V. WILDCARD (OPEN)


(surprise the shit out of me)

Comments

[minrathousian]

Atticus takes a few steps towards her through the coiling mist, shadows retreating from his step as though his presence is enough to send them away. And it is--for some shadows, that is.

He lifts both his hands to rest in the air beside her temples, not touching but near enough that, were they awake, they'd each feel the warmth of each other's skin. It's a peculiar kind of intimacy, but so is the act of shared dreaming. "As you wish," he tells her, his eyes bright just before he closes them and sets to work.

It is not the work of mere seconds to take the dream stuff of one mind and bend it into shape and form; it takes several long moments, but as they unfold, the mist around them retreats as though blown aside by a cool wind. Moss and old leaves are suddenly soft under their feet; the air carries a ripeness to it found only in places thick and dense with growing things, with life that sprouts up from fallen trees as well as within living boughs. The rest around them is thick with the old growth, with ancient trees that reach up to support thriving canopies, as well as ferns that hack out a hardy existence on the forest floor.

It's warm here, too, with sunlight dappling them as well as the life around them. A blessed respite from the south's frigid winters.

Atticus opens his eyes, drops his hands to his side, and takes a moment to look around them, marvelling in satisfaction at his handiwork.

[laurenande]

Galadriel watches him with detached fascination, as though she is not truly present, but knowing that she is, after a fashion. The world shifts in a way that is so deeply unfamiliar to her, that she cannot help but wonder, watching his face as the indistinct plane behind him as it becomes. Air is breathed into this place and with it comes color, texture, and a sense of life. Age, indescribable and tangible, pours from the gentle corners of the wood, through the dappled light and the cool shade, and the sun carries the warmth of early summer.

Atticus's hands fell away and only then does Galadriel turn; she spins in place, slowly and gracefully, as she peers upward at the sky above. Though the trees rise and arch overhead, they do not loom. There is no shadow in their boughs. The smell of flame is long passed.

Her smile is easy and wide; she has not been in such a forest in many thousands of years. The last one, while similar, was never quite so temperate, nor did it allow such lovely light to tumble down through the highest crowns of the trees. Perhaps it is accident, or some trick of the mind and her great age, but the weight of centuries lifts off of her as she stares upward. When she looks back and moves, wanders toward a great tree and runs her fingers against its trunk, she is more girlish than she has ever been outside the far west, long years before she crossed the grinding ice.

"You have much skill," she says and turns back to beam at him. "I cannot thank you enough for this gift."

[minrathousian]

Her clear delight over the dream is satisfying, and is more than enough to distract Atticus from the wave of weariness now threatening to wash against him. (The working of such a creation is taxing.)

"I am glad it pleases you," he tells her and, after steadying himself against one of the ancient tree trunks, steps into a patch of warm sunlight and squints up into the canopy. Then he reaches out a hand, and from high above them comes a sudden rush of sound--melodic birdsong that isn't reminiscent of any living species. From the branches, a brightly coloured bird of paradise swoops down to alight on his wrist, its wings widely spread as it steadies itself.

He takes a few towards Galadriel and extends his hand out to her so that she might examine the bird, the remarkable simulation of life that preens itself elegantly under their combined gaze. "I daresay few others in the Inquisition would be as pleased to know of my abilities," he muses out loud after a moment.

[laurenande]

Galadriel marvels as the bird lights upon his arm and watches with open, unguarded fascination as he brings it nearer. For all the beauty of Lorien, it was a northerly place and the animals reflected that. She hadn't always lived beneath those boughs, but nowhere she had ever wandered had held anything as colorful or tropical as that bird. She is uncertain if it is by his design, or something real, but she lacks the desire and the cognition to question it.

He holds it out for her and she leans in as she stares at its bright plumage. As she lifts a hand to stroke the bird, she speaks again.

"Then they are fools," she says simply and with a certain note of finality. It is her pronouncement and one she has believed for some time. It is judgmental but she feels no remorse over it. Very few in the Inquisition have endeared themselves to her and she is much fonder of them, of their faces and fates, than she is of the organization that surrounds them.

"The mages here are so terrified of dreams and what they hold, it is almost a pity more of them cannot manipulate them as you do. Can it be learned?"

[minrathousian]

The bird's feathers ruffle and relax under Galadriel's fingertips, enough of a facsimile of the real thing to perhaps have been inspired by something real; a relic of Tevinter, his homeland, perhaps. Atticus smiles with almost boyish pride at his creation, then angles it so that the bird hops lightly from his own wrist to alight on Galadriel's shoulder. The weight of it is real enough; they could easily be within a wooded grove outside Qarinus, if the distant rush of waves against the shore is any indication.

"...Can it be learned?"

"Unfortunately not," he replies with a modest raise of his eyebrows. It's questionable whether he really believes that it's unfortunate that his gift is such a rare one. "And it is uncommon for somniari such as myself to survive long past the manifestation of our abilities. We attract the presence of demons. Look for yourself."

That is when he gestures towards the vague distance of the forest he has dreamed into existence around them. The shape of it remains solid and unchanging--but there in the distance moves a dark shape that seems to be testing the periphery around Atticus, like a predator scoping out the territory of another predator. When Atticus fixes his eyes upon it, the shadow recedes from view.

[laurenande]

It is a shame this skill cannot be taught but Galadriel mourns it for only a moment; just as osanwe is intrinsic, this must be to him. She turns and pays half of her attention to the bird sitting on her shoulder. She does not reclaim it until Atticus gestures into the wilds of the wood.

For a long time she does not see it; her mind skips over it like reflections over moving water, but then it moves. The shape is amorphous, to a degree, but is shadow given form. It circles, behind the ring of trees, and then vanishes into the shadows, dissolving into the canvas of the dream--and that is what this place is, is it not?

It is hard to remember.

This place is respite, or it has become such, but the whispering shadow is enough to rouse Galadriel to lucidity. When she wakes, truly, she will understand that this creature had access to her mind and will be alarmed by that fact. Until then, its presence only offends her. She strokes the bird on her shoulder and turns her gaze back upon Atticus.

"Are all of your dreams plagued by such things?"

[minrathousian]

"Yes."

No sense in diminishing or denying it; it will do neither of them any good to make light of the very real dangers that exist in the Fade, even with Atticus' capacity for creating these expansive and immersive dreamscapes. As he speaks, he is still watching the distant shadow as it vanishes into the distance, and only seems to relax once he is certain it has gone off to seek out easier prey.

"But that danger is not unique to me, though it is one that mages of the southern Chantry are taught to internalize with great prejudice." When he turns to look at her again, he raises his eyebrows and suggests, "Shall we discuss this more over a cup of tea?" Then he gestures just beyond her shoulder behind her--where there now stands a comfortable-looking country cottage.

[laurenande]

She turns as he gestures and some of her delight returns as she spies the cottage he has conjured. The architecture is foreign to her, but that is no surprise; it is small, well lit, and looks terribly welcoming. The garden out front is cheerful and there is a plume of smoke rising from the small chimney that extends up the back. It is a bit at odds with the forest and yet...fits in seamlessly, all the same.

"Yes, that sounds lovely," she agrees and turns to wait for him to join her before striding toward the cottage.

[minrathousian]

It is what passes for a homey, country cottage in Tevinter, one suspects--more darkness and angles than one would find in Ferelden (or certainly within Hobbiton), but with the aromas of dark, polished woods and a crackling fire. For those accustomed to these cultural accoutrements, it is a pleasant retreat indeed.

Atticus follows her indoors and over to where a pot of tea is already prepared for them. He turns to look at his guest with a glimmer of something almost playful in his eyes. "Whatever you might desire to drink, I can pour it from this," he says.

He's clearly leading up to discussion of something, but why not have them both be comfortable, in the meantime?

[laurenande]

Galadriel marvels at the interior with a sort of passing air, despite her latent lucidity she is still dreaming and those asleep rarely capture the whole of a detailed thing. She walks the edge of the room, runs her fingers on the walls, and thinks of Gandalf and his wanderings. Her dream conjures the faint aroma of pipeweed and she regards Atticus with a smile.

The teapot is as disarming as everything else, thus far, and she arches a brow as he makes his claim. She moves from the wall toward him and considers the offer. What would she drink given any choice in the world.

"Anything?" She repeats and, while she is not attempting to challenge him, her answer comes too quickly to refine it. "Miruvor."

[minrathousian]

At her inquiry, his smile grows. It seems he's chosen to take it as a challenge.

"Very well," he replies mildly and, carrying the teacup, approaches her as he did before, when he first reached out a hand to hover near her temple and grow the old growth forest around them. Similarly, he holds his hand near her face, but conjuring up her sensory memories of a drink from her past is far less taxing mentally than creating an entire dreamscape. The gesture lasts but a moment before, with a look like the cat who got into the cream, he pours the drink into an elegant porcelain cup for her.

"Tell me if this is to your liking," he suggests, and offers the cup out to her.

[laurenande]

Galadriel takes the teacup from him and holds it up to her lips. The smell of golden flowers assails her and she draws a deep breath--it is the scent of summer, of ancient trees and ambrosia, of life and light, and very strong alcohol. She takes a sip without hesitation and relishes the flood of old, familiar taste. It warms her, from her core, and eases the strain of her mind.

"It is perfect," she tells him, utterly delighted by the beverage, and takes another sip. Both of her hands wrap carefully around the cup and she cradles it as she regards him.

"That is an impressive skill, conjuring things you have never known."