[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

[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."