( open ) let me tell you a secret —

[delphian]

WHO: Tsenka Abendroth & some strangers.
WHAT: Tsenka dreamwalks through the Gallows.
WHEN: Over the course of this month.
WHERE: Asleep in your beds.
NOTES: You do not have to have commented on my OOC post to participate. Details within. Chicken horse not guaranteed.

HOW THIS WORKS.

Under ordinary circumstances, Tsenka is an expert in the delicate, painstaking manipulation of a dreamscape in order to extract the information that she wants—in this case, she is seeking knowledge of Riftwatch, the Inquisition, Kirkwall, the state of things and the safety of mages within the Gallows presently. Unfortunately, in this case, she is also fresh off about two and a half years in captivity during which she was often kept drugged out of her mind and exhausted from sleep deprivation; these are not ordinary circumstances, and she is not at her best. Her attempts to guide dreamers to what parts of their psyche she wants to see may not be as deft as they ordinarily would, and she'll have less patience for dreams embedded in less relevant information.
I will write Marcus's starter, but your character's dreams will begin like any other; set up your dreamscapes below, and await the chicken horse.

Comments

[nonvenomous]

The corners of his eyes show white at the Senior Enchanter’s answer, a fresh tickle of unease in his sidelong tilt to gauge insinuation, implication, ire in the underside of the beak or the folds of its wattle. A chicken’s face is difficult to read, it turns out, even if the feathers are warm and the voice is soothing -- a zen rake combing through existential anxiety.

This is probably just a coincidence.

“I was under the impression there weren’t many survivors.”

He organizes his nerves to steel them with a discreet shift at his shoulders, the angle of his hip. The hay beneath him gives without scratching.

“Are you thinking of returning?”

[delphian]

“There aren't many survivors of a lot of places in Thedas. Many of those, Circles.”

Tsenka had not spent long at the Gallows, all those years now past; she had not needed to spend long there for its shadow to loom large, for her not to feel its weight behind her as she ran forward. Runs, now, inexplicably toward the place.

The chicken horse, her representative, remains placid. Companionable, even, saying: “Is it worth seeing, these days?”

[nonvenomous]

“I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for.”

Thankless toil? The illusion of purpose in the twilight years of free will on Thedas? The tang of dislike plucked through his delivery rings deeply bitter without force to its inflection. He certainly doesn’t have any better plans for himself.

“There are people worth meeting.”

[delphian]

“That makes all the difference.”

In any direction.

It seems right that he should be bitter; fleeing to the shelter of those old, awful walls for safety tastes the same way, somewhere between salvation and resignation. Reconciling to the inevitable that she would not allow is.

The chicken horse tilts its head. It isn't any more expressive than any of its other gestures, except that now its beady eyes are regarding him sideways.

“Friends of yours?”

[nonvenomous]

Both eyes tilt into view and he looks to the twitching pupils for a read, only to come away empty-handed for the second time. Kind and warm though the chicken horse may be -- it’s also a stranger, powerful, independent, externally motivated. Perhaps by its prior connection to the Gallows.

“Some of them.”

He thinks of Loxley, Ellis -- the Warden, Madame Fitcher, James Holden, Jone of Denerim. No true mages among them.

The mages they do have are disparate, or other rifters.

“It won’t be worse for you there than it is anywhere else.”