[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

ii. but always keep 'em on a leash.

[thunderproof]

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!"

I

[laurenande]

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?"

iii

[foundmyselfagain]

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.”

[faithlikeaseed]

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.

Outside

[justice_is_blond]

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.