faderift | [OPEN] don't you ever tame your demons

Entry tags:

[OPEN] don't you ever tame your demons

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)

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

There are a few dreams Adalia has with some regularity. Nightmares, often, of watching Mat and Akrasiel melting in front of her as she is helpless to save them, of what the Black Dragon will do with her when the time comes, of dying alone and unmourned with no one who would even care to remember her.

This dream, at least, is more pleasant than those. One of the recurring dreams she has no problem experiencing again and again, save for the wistful longing she wakes up to in the morning.

Your breakfast is going cold, dear, put down the book, says a voice from the kitchen. The speaker is indistinct but there is a clear sense of femininity — in fact, much of the dreamscape is indistinct, though looking around conveys a clear sense of home. There is nothing to suggest that the corner of the room where the speaker stands is a kitchen except that it feels like a kitchen, nor is there any indication that the speaker is a mother except that it feels like it is. Adalia has never known what she wanted her background to be — when she was a child she wished she was a princess, or a polymorphed dragon, and her dreams reflected those desires, but now she's grown all she really wants is a family and a home. The shapes those things take don't really matter, and so they never take true shape.

Adalia, for her part, obeys the mother-figure with a put-upon sigh, marking her place in her book before she closes it and turns to the plate of food in front of her. When she becomes aware of Atticus, she looks up at him and smiles.

"Finally, she'll have someone else to fuss over. Muuuum, dad's awake!"

Edited 2018-01-03 03:48 (UTC)

Galadriel had dreaded the possibility of this dream, but there was a predictability to these things, and time flowed ever forward despite her attempts to deny it. The tower that rose above her was familiar, watery and terrible, a distant and damaged thing. She had only ever seen this place in distant memory, in threads long woven, and everything bled with the rust, the fade, the decay of time long passed.

The air tasted like blood and flame.

She stood, wreathed in dimmed torchlight, in moonlight reflected off of shallow water, and felt as though she were drowning. On the floor before her lie a body that bore striking resemblance to Galadriel herself, clad in shining blues and golds, inaccurate for how well she recalled this scene but utterly in keeping with his memory. He was sinking into the floor, into red waves and foam, and thunder rolled high above, muffled by a thousand feet of incorporeal water and walls of stone. She was sinking and the light, watery and fractured, became a heavy source-less glow.

The water that choked her lessened, and the flames that twisted red against the walls bled away, fell into the stone and into the fog of this place. In the distance wolves howled and claws rent at flesh and iron, but the sounds were hazy and grew less distinct with every passing moment.

The light was strange, but not unwelcome. The floor faded from sight and then from memory and, with it, the horrors, the ichor, the body of her brother, were lost again to the torrents of time and the watercolor wash of the world. Her cognizance takes a moment to come into focus but it does. The water is disturbed and an atmosphere settles in its place, akin to real air rather than the weight of the sea itself; Atticus greets her and she is blank-faced for a moment before a reflexive smile comes over her face.

"Is it?" she prompts. She supposes it must be evening if she is asleep--and she is asleep, is she not? It was too easy to mix these dreams for reality; the weight of it fades as the images do, and she is glad of that.

"It is better for your presence; how fare you my friend?"

Gareth spends plenty of his time in the library as well, usually going over notes and comparing them to what he’s already written. At one point, it looks like he’s managed to get a hold of architectural studies of the Gallows, and painstakingly copies them into his own notebook. Purely for academic purposes, of course.

And he does take note of his fellow researcher, though he does little to acknowledge him at first. But Atticus is different from most others in the Inquisition, and that’s either a cause for concern or bonding. He should figure out which one before too long, here. So Gareth introduces himself in that charming way he does, by bonelessly sliding into the chair across from Atticus, and giving him an easy smile.

“The selection here’s a bit shit, isn’t it? It was worse, about a decade ago. They started pruning everything they thought was overly seditious, lest we get ideas above our stations. And then the cookbooks, lest we get ideas above our cooking level, but that’s mostly Edith’s fault, she was just really awful at apple tarts. Probably not a bad idea to keep those away, still.”

Well, this is unexpected. So is the change to Adalia's dream.

As things tend to be with dreams, the transition from the vague to the distinct is difficult to pin down, but the feeling of home around them becomes a decidedly impersonal thing. The kitchen becomes less a place that they are in, and more a place that is nearby; around them, the room more closely resembles the elegant parlour of a rich Tevinter mansion, with enormous arching windows that allow the sun to pour in, gilding a head of curly dark hair belonging to a child--

--no.

Coming back to himself, Atticus thrusts away the familiar and instead reaches for Adalia's thoughts, her dreams, her longing for a family she never had. He gathers the the thoughts together like spools of yarn and spins a clearer picture for them both... and if he must wear the mantle of father here, then so be it.

"Obey your mother," he tells her--as he's told Octavius since he was small. "I have no patience for children."

It's taken Myr the better part of a month to work through his part in binding Atticus at the Inquisition's behest--and what he ought to do about it. Guilt and shame (of blood magic, of a violated conviction) are powerful goads, but slow to act when ranged against the iron claim duty has upon him.

He's been wavering on the cusp of doing something--saying something--for days before the cold snap catalyzes it into action. Whether or not he's little love to lose on Atticus, the magister is a fellow northerner to suffer miserably in the southern winter. And whether or not the man deserves to suffer for what he's done, that isn't Myr's call to make but the Maker's, and a higher duty still than the one he's got to the Inquisition says he owes Atticus.

So just as Atticus finishes with the window, there's a knock on the door. Myr will be waiting without, a heavy blanket tucked under one arm and an expression of studied neutrality on his face.

The details of her dream have not escaped his notice; Atticus lets himself ponder privately, distantly, over the identity of the face in the water, over the origins of this particular nightmare. (A drowning dream, but not one of his imagining or creation; ironic that he's here to prevent her from experiencing that one again, at least in the short term.)

"I'm careful not to let myself slip into dreams during daylight hours," he replies, and doesn't bother clarifying why; surely she can guess as much, given that she's now privy to his secret as well. He gives a simple gesture with one hand. "For the time being, it reduces complications to limit my explorations to the evening hours."

The Fade around them remains peculiarly vague and without definition, though ostensibly there seems to be something solid beneath their feet. Atticus lets his eyes wander, like an artist considering a blank piece of canvas, considering where best to begin. When he looks back to Galadriel again, there's an almost boyish spark of excitement in his eyes: this, toying and experimenting with the stuff of dreams, bringing visions to life, is what brings him towards the closest approximation of satisfaction.

"What would you choose to dream," he asks her, "if your sleeping mind gave you the choice? I can make it so." A pause, before he clarifies, "For a time, at least."

The magister considers Gareth beyond the rims of his still cracked spectacles and thoughtfully thumbs the edge of a page without turning it. Some people, in his experience, speak quickly in an effort to conceal their nervous energy, while others blather on inanely regardless of their circumstance. It's not clear to him which is the case for Gareth, though his familiarity with the Kirkwall Circle gives him enough to go on for now.

"Were you a Gallows resident, then?" comes his mild inquiry. Gareth has his complete attention for now--for good, or ill.

He gets few visitors, but the ones he does receive often are not courteous enough to wait for him to answer the door before they use their own keys to violate his privacy. Atticus is surprised when the door remains closed, and it's curiosity as much as anything else that bids him cross the room, unfasten the latch, and pull the door open.

Possibly it's a good thing Myr can't see the thin smile that settles onto Atticus' face at the sight of him. (He can remember it, though, can't he?)

"Myrobalan Shivana," he exclaims in a tone of mild surprise. He steps to the side, and doesn't bother gesturing in invitation; Myr won't be able to see it. "Please, come in."

It is a strange request and, had he asked it of her while she was awake, she would have stared for some time. In this place the answer comes faster, though not by much, and the world around them starts to gain some definition. It happens slowly, with a certain vagueness, like shapes forming in heavy fog.

"I would like to walk the forest again, the city wears on me just as Skyhold before it."

She might've asked to see Lothlorien once again, but Atticus had never been to those lands and she did not trust her own mind to shape them without shadow.

He doesn't like the cold. At all. But even now, months into living here, the Gallows can get far too constrictive and feel like they're closing in around him. Anders ducks out in a little bit of a rush, trying to catch his breath and nearly walking straight into Atticus.

"Excuse me, sorry," he mutters, glaring around for the Templar guard and... finding none. There's no one standing watch. There hadn't been the last time he'd seen Atticus either, but they're still guarding Benedict? The one who Anders is fairly certain couldn't harm a fly? Not for lack of trying or desire, but lack of... capability, really.

"There's really no one with you?" he asks, puzzelment clear in his voice.

Atticus stop short, narrowly avoiding a collision, and raises both eyebrows at Anders' hastily worded apology.

"That's quite all right," he assures him in a deceptively mild tone of voice that is, as one might expect, anything but reassuring. But before he can slip past Anders and return to the (relatively speaking) warmth of the Gallows, that second question catches his attention.

"There's really no one with you?"

"No one currently," Atticus responds, gesturing about them, "as you can see. Beyond yourself," he adds a moment later, nearly smiling.

He knows what Anders means. He's simply not going to answer the unasked question that easily.

There's a flicker of amusement on Anders' face at the addition, but most of his focus is on the absence. On one hand, he's glad that there aren't Templars hounding more than one mage. They need to stop hounding any so this looks like progress, except he can't wrap his head around them being more watchful of Benedict than Atticus.

"I'm the last to be upset by lack of Templars," he begins slowly, "but why aren't there any here? They're still watching Benedict, and he's more likely to accidentally stab himself with a slice of bread than he is to hurt anyone."

"Magister Vedici. Thank you--I'll not take up much of your time."

He remembers the smile and the cold, pale eyes above it too well; it makes stepping through Atticus' door uneasily like entering the den of some great predator. Yet Myr crosses that threshold without hesitation, any extra caution he might evince easily ascribed to the usual care he'd take on entering any new space. He feels his way as far as a few strides from the door--enough not to crowd his host--before halting and turning back.

"This," the blanket, held up for Atticus' inspection; it's rough-spun wool, crude but warm, "is for you, by the by. The standard linens aren't much to speak of and I didn't know if anyone had thought to equip you against the cold."

Edited (deleting my own feels. literally.) 2018-01-08 08:26 (UTC)

"Good thing I'm no longer a child then, hm?" Adalia says, prim, as if she's made the same point contless times before — and in the logic of the dream she has. Her desires are not concrete enough to make a fully-fledged scene from, so the Fade pulls from Atticus' memories and understanding of home and family to fill in the gaps. Mother-figure becomes mother, a blonde woman with a pinched and distant appearance; the kitchen space becomes the parlour, sunny yet somehow cold; a third, younger figure begins to take shape, this one with a mop of curly blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile.

It is a fuller picture than Adalia had conjured on her own, albeit one with far less warmth.

"You're going to have to start treating me like an adult someday, you know. I am nineteen now, fully grown and everything!"

There has been plenty of occurrences in Gareth's long and illustrious career of bad decisions where he has bitten off more than he can chew, and finds himself over his head in a bad way. There's an odd, calm intensity to the man looking at Gareth over his glasses that gives him a similar feeling. His kneejerk reaction is to go try to get Nell or Kostos, point them at Atticus and let them decide what's the best course.

But they'd probably just call him paranoid (which, to be fair, he was). And he's already here, already talking. He probably is just being paranoid.

"I was. Right up to the bitter, bloody end. Well--Not the end end. Most of the Gallows mages who had stuck it out that long are dead. In a bad way." Not that any of those deaths had been good, but being turned into a flesh golemn by your first enchanter was definitely topping the list. "But! Now just about every Circle has their very own 'went to shit' story. I'll have to figure out something else, if I want to really stand out."

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.

Atticus stops (reluctantly) to regard Anders archly. "I daresay Ser Coupe would not agree with your assessment," he replies wryly. "He did leave her bespelled during his ill-fated attempt to attack me in the dungeons, some months back. Would you care to have this conversation indoors?" he asks, turning a brief, sour look towards the sky. "I suspect the weather is turning on us."

Far be it for Atticus to leave his guest hanging. He takes the blanket as it is extended to him and considers it; an unexpected gesture, undoubtedly, but one that's in keeping with what he knows of Myr so far. A generous spirit, or a guilty conscience? He can work with either.

"How thoughtful," he replies, sounding almost kind. "You have my thanks." He crosses his room to rest the blanket at the foot of his narrow bed; his quarters are, in fact, about as comfortable as those belonging to anyone else in the Inquisition, and include the luxury of privacy.

"Was this all," he asks a moment later as he turns to idly pace the room back in Myr's direction, "or was there something you wished to speak to me about?"

"That's what you'd like, is it?" Atticus inquires and makes a vague gesture with his left hand. "To stand out?"

He knows as much about the fall of Kirkwall's Circle as anyone else in Thedas, for news of that rebellion was quite popular in the north. What self-respecting citizen of the Imperium wouldn't derive even the mildest of pleasure from discovering that a tyrant Templar's own ambition had turned her into a lyrium statue? (The red lyrium would, of course, become a bigger threat, but at the time even he had enjoyed the irony.)

He closes the book in front of him and sets it aside. "What is your name?"

He looks up to the sky following Atticus' gaze. The air had been badly needed, but if he wants Atticus to talk he's likely going to need to pay attention to the other man's comfort level rather than his own. With a slow breath he nods and then leads the way back in.

"I spent seven years in Kirkwall," he mutters. "It had enough decency to not snow or be quite this cold any of those years. Now that I have to spend so much time in this blighted building..." At least it's a little warmer once inside, and there's no one lurking in the small room they wind up in.

"I can't say I'm on the same page as her with anything. Which doesn't change my curiosity."

Anders has selected a modest (and unoccupied) office off one of the main corridors, and while it affords them a modicum of privacy, Atticus does not close the door behind them, but rather leaves it open. Best to at least present the appearance of transparency.

He leans his hip against the vacant desk and folds his hands in front of himself. In a shocking twist, he doesn't answer Anders' question immediately, instead choosing to quirk another thin smile. "You don't care for Ser Coupe," he observes--and here he can speak from experience, recalling his ignominious journey from the Gallows to the infirmary after experimenting on Church's anchor.

His expression gets a little flat as he leans against a wall, contemplating whether or not he really wants to go through hoops to get an answer here. The temptation to just leave is strong. At the same time, if the Templars are somehow up to something here, he may need to know. Wren's power and authority are basically unchecked as the head of Forces, a Templar underneath a Templar. It's not a good combination. Fine. He'll let Atticus toy about a little.

"No," Anders says shortly. "She seems to be of the opinion that mages and Templars were in the struggle together in the Circles, which is patently untrue, and she's a Templar with authority over the mages in the Inquisition. It is not a good situation. Were she the type to take some personal responsibility for what happened in the Circles it would be a different story, but she is not so it is not. Now. May I have an answer to my question?"

Edited 2018-01-09 04:58 (UTC)

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."

Gareth actually thinks on Atticus' question--about standing out, not his name. Does he want to stand out? He's certainly happy to go around talking about cutting off his hand and how shitty the Gallows was, but that was...different. No one ever took that seriously, just like he didn't expect Atticus to take his joke about standing out seriously. Maybe Atticus didn't expect Gareth to take his question seriously. Maybe this was a whole clusterfuck of unexpected seriousness.

"No," He says after enough time to mull it over. "I don't think I particularly do want to stand out. Not here, at least. It rarely pays to stand out among normal people." That word, 'normal', is said with a hint of wryness. "Especially not for something like that."

The name takes less time, but he does hesitate. But a name is an easy thing to find out, and it would look more suspicious for him than Atticus if he refused. Or gave a false name. "Gareth," He says, with a shrug. "Just Gareth. There's a couple people with that name floating around here, but I'm just the plain research mage one."

The information regarding Wren's relationship with the Inquisition's mages, her history, her opinion of the southern Chantry, is neatly filed away for later consideration. If there's something to be used there for leverage at some point, Atticus is sure he will find some way to use it.

But if Anders expects Atticus to respond quid pro quo, he's sorely mistaken. Without losing his vague smile, the magister replies simply with, "I don't wish to tell you."

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.

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?"

Without the blanket to encumber them any longer, Myr folds his hands around his staff, fingers laced together as is his wont at rest. (Perhaps this time he'll avoid the fidgeting entirely; his unease hasn't improved much, but he's a better façade to hide it behind. Keeping to forms helps, so:) "You're welcome.

"As it happens, there are two things I'd like briefly to discuss with you." He takes a careful breath in to steady himself before launching into the first (tries not to turn his head to follow Atticus' approach). "The first is the matter of the phylactery.

"I owe you an apology."

"...I owe you an apology."

A guilty conscience it is, then.

"Please," Atticus begins and pulls out a chair for Myr to seat himself; the sound of the legs dragging against the stone should be enough to indicate to Myr where the chair is. "Have a seat. Would you care for tea?"

He is a practiced and relaxed host, engaging with the expected niceties with poise. Once Myr is seated, Atticus crosses the room to his chamber door and closes it, but doesn't secure the lock.

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.

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?"

"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.

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.

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?

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."

Edited (Html on a phone is hard) 2018-01-24 20:03 (UTC)

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.

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."

Guilt had surely driven Myr to do more foolish things than this in the past--

He just can't think of what they might be, right now. Not with all his energy invested in the peculiar balancing act he always feels caught in when speaker to the magister. (Though why he bothers, he's not sure--he's not been particularly good at keeping his secrets in the past. You need to stop doing this, Myrobalan.) "I would not," it's not bread and salt but accepting it would nevertheless imply receipt of hospitality he's not comfortable with, "though I thank you for the offer."

It is a little beyond his own ingrained politeness to refuse the chair, though, not when they may be talking for a time. He arranges himself with his staff beside it within easy reach, laces his hands together before him on his lap--and waits. (If you've stepped into a spider's web, sometimes it's all you can do to let it make the first move, fatal as that might be.)

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[OPEN] don't you ever tame your demons

ii. but always keep 'em on a leash.

I

iii

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Outside

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

I know you've called a tag pause but I felt v bad I did not get back to this

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

compulsively tosses out late tags