closed.

[luaithre]

WHO: Marcus Rowntree, Tsenka Abendroth
WHAT: An attempt at communication.
WHEN: A little amorphous, subject to change.
WHERE: The rocky shores of dreaming.
NOTES: Violence

Finding him (in the way Tsenka finds people) is a little like locating an expected step in the dark. A lurch, followed by sure footing, a moment of stillness, and then—

Sunlight, a golden shard of it, cutting through a fog that doesn't burn away.

Not fog. Ash, swirling, whisper-soft on the skin. The stuff that is made of any manner of things but turns into something unrecognisably the same as all else that is capable of burning. It is more the leavings of fire than it is the thing that was burned, and now, it dusts over Tsenka's hands and hair and clothing and face as shapes move around her.

Not shapes, but a place. Distant mountains, trees, figures, buildings, all easing along beside her as if she were moving. It is not the clarity of sharp-hewn memory of a sleeping mage, a familiar one, but a grey muddle, with only the memory of solid ground beneath her feet as a tangible force.

Comments

[luaithre]

Focus splits apart again, but if it had any intent behind it, it could be considered helpful. A sort of surrender, to allow her to sift through recent memory, find whatever it is might be useful.

There is much monotony, which is of benefit. Easy to dismiss six hours of a dark box. There are flashes, moments of violence—dawn strikes across the Vimmarks (to the south—) and Marcus slings manacled wrists for the jaw of a man who made the mistake of coming too near without his helmet—followed by odd stasis, of staring, and a distant ache. It might ring familiar, these long moments of cottony sedation. The bitter taste of it.

And then a piece of something, as she feels over these few days. The mention of Val Chevin, when we stop at, offers something of a trajectory.

[delphian]

Tsenka Abendroth has no better decorum in dreams than does Marcus Rowntree on a crystal, which is to say—

time is of the essence. She takes what she can use and he is alone with what the fade shapes in her wake, for a time. A mage is rarely ever truly alone in dreaming, but that is a thing of little comfort, and there is little comfort to be had except that she was here, and she is coming.

She is coming—

it is easier to reach him the second time. A thing which does not stop her from greeting him,

“If you've not stopped provoking them into sedating you, I'll give you the dream again, you know the one.”

[luaithre]

"Please don't,"

spoken dryly, quietly. Cognizant, perhaps.

They are back at the fire. There is no blood on his knuckles, no manacles on his wrists. There is also no scar on his face, and his hair is cut short. His clothing is scrappy leather armor. The dark expanse around them conforms to the shapes of the odd northern Orlesian wilderness outside Andoral's Reach, the distant Blasted Hills, and the two moons show much of it.

A familiar setting to welcome her with. Another place and time.

"I can't think that you would go along quietly."

[delphian]

“Oh, and where'd I learn that,” without any heat, her own hair falling in untidy, uneven lengths around her jaw. If she'd have been just the way that she is without him, well, they'll never know so it'll never matter.

There will never be a one of them who wasn't shaped, in some way, by the other. It's of more comfort than the knowledge that this is one of their most comfortable shared memories, the possibility of the moment rendered bittersweet by what followed it. She thinks, absently, that this is why neither of them can ever stop fighting,

one day she would like to dream a memory of softness.

Before she can get too maudlin or he can counterpoint it, she says, “Julius has your horse, I told him to stay close to the path you took and I'll find him on the way. Do you see anything more?”

[luaithre]

Circles can be comfortable. Soft. Candlelight and fire tamed into hearths. But even if Marcus were feeling so nostalgic as to summon these memories, they have even less appeal than usual now. Not that he truly anticipates that another Circle awaits him.

This place smells of smoke and dust and horse and sweat, sense memories strengthening this one. He is not at full capacity, magebane threatening to drain away his lucidity with a single stray thought in the wrong direction, but he is trying, focusing, this place, this person.

Julius has your horse, and the phrasing may trick a bystander into thinking that they are only talking about his horse. Some held tension, tight and angry as a fist, is released, Marcus breathing out the air in his lungs and letting his head hang down below his shoulders. Linking his hands behind his head, holding there where he sits on dry earth, a near-decade younger version of himself.

Not answering, just yet. Focusing.