minrathousian | [IC/OOC] Contact

Teren doesn't dream often. She's usually too exhausted, or can't fall asleep deeply enough, or just doesn't sleep at all, too busy circling the Warden camp and obsessively peering at each tent, shining her lantern just long enough to see that its inhabitants are present and breathing.
It's actually the grey hours of the morning when she's finally collapsed onto the pile of blankets in her tent, the soft grass beneath them more than sufficient for someone who hasn't slept on a proper mattress in decades.

It's hardly an interesting dream at all, when it happens: she's pacing a hallway, looking for someone, aggravated and concerned by their absence. It may be her fault they're gone, but if she can find them and make it right, everything can go back to normal.

The changes to the corridor that she paces are subtle; a change to a light fixture, the stylization of a door knob or latch. Nevarran, perhaps.

When she rounds a corner, or perhaps when she opens one of the doors in the process of her search, Teren will find herself in the midst of a gala; below the balcony where she stands, a dance is underway, and while the fashions are inexplicably about twenty years out of date, that doesn't seem so odd.

"Curious to see you here." Atticus, boyish in his mid-twenties, comes to stand beside her, regarding the dancers in neutral silence. Then he turns and extends his elbow to her, a formal invitation to dance.

This all tracks, really. Teren isn't a mage, she has no true awareness or control in her dreams, so the shifting of the setting doesn't phase her for even an instant.
Zerique, she realizes, is who she's trying to find: she has to tell her something terribly important, and hopes for forgiveness as a result. Teren's pulse races with the stress of it as she emerges into the ballroom and is distracted by some gentleman or another. She's in her twenties as well now, wearing one of those cumbersome and revoltingly fancy gowns reserved for such an occasion, and she takes the man's elbow without a second thought.
"Is it?" she asks, demurely, "I haven't been to one in a while."

He leads her down an elaborate staircase towards the dance floor, where other ladies and gentlemen in elegant gowns and suits glide together as they dance to a stately Orlesian minuet. Atticus steps into the dance and draws her after him; he's a good dancer, moving well to the music.

He turns her in a circle, eyes on her face; as he moves his hand to retake hers, he says quietly, "You're searching for something."

She too is a surprisingly good dancer, not even just in her dreams; Teren clearly blends well, practiced in her deception of the wealthy elite.
She smiles attentively to Atticus, her eyebrows arching with interest at his statement. "We all are," she deflects, "or no one would come to these ludicrous things."

He gives her a smile like glass in return. "Yes, I suppose that is true."

She's good--not just at dancing, but at deflecting, even in her unconscious mind; an instinct borne out of paranoia, or preparation? He surmises the paranoia could be his own; theirs was a chance acquaintance at some boring gala in Hunter Fell decades ago, but Atticus had only been in attendance at all due to a distant, Nevarran cousin of his wife. What would bring this spectre from his past into the Inquisition?

It has been some weeks since his and Benedict's capture. Is that enough time for word to reach the Artemaeus family?

Holding her eyes as he turns her in the dance, he thinks, Fear--what frightens you now? Why are you here? and ushers into the dreamscape whatever it is that might represent for her--both in this memory, and in the present.

Edited 2017-08-15 18:42 (UTC)

Control is the name of the game in such situations, and when Teren meets the man's eyes but finds him staring right through her, it rattles her. Abruptly the room's occupants have all turned to stare silently at them, and Teren slows, looking around at attentive crowd with rising dread.
When she diverts her gaze back to Atticus, he's in shadow; the hall has shrunk and lost most of its light. Hard stone walls, the smell of piss and mildew, and strong hands grab her arms from behind, holding her there.
She knows it's Alistair because the rest of the Wardens are here too, replacing the crowd, staring, sneering. Behind the stranger, flanking him on either side, are Ayse and Benevenuta Thevenet, the latter with a knowing smirk.

Whatever she's been trying to hide, everyone's aware of it now, and they're hungry for payback. Teren's awful dress has begun to feel more restrictive, and she knows there's no running or fighting in it. She looks imploringly back to the stranger, momentarily too choked by fear to answer or even understand what he's asking for.

Her fears flow around him like a river current around a stone. Atticus folds his arms over his chest and considers what he sees--the faces rounding on Teren with vicious condemnation in hard, unforgiving eyes, the sneers, the covetous hunger to get even.

He's impassive in the face of her pleading stare, but frowns nonetheless. ...No. No, she doesn't know anything.

Lengths of black ribbon seem to curl around the spectral bodies of her friends and enemies, pulling them away into the shadows, like some eldritch horror has decided it's time to tidy up the carnage littering its hellscape. He approaches her through the unnatural gloaming and reaches out to rest his hand in the air beside her temple.

"Sleep," he instructs her brusquely.

The dream dissolves; the nightmare fades.

He wakes up to the distant call of gulls in the early morning light.

She's made vaguely aware of Benedict Artemaeus, but the thought just confuses her: 'we fooled his family' is the only impression she's able to give on that note, confounded and desperate by the scenario.
She's on the verge of a meltdown when the man touches her temple, and the actual Teren suddenly sits up with a horrified gasp. It's still dark; it can't have been longer than an hour that she was asleep, but that's the last of it she's getting tonight.

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It is fortunate (for Atticus, perhaps) that on this particular occasion, he is not joined at his table by his apprentice--though Benedict may not have noticed the subtle, uncomfortable shift in Atticus' demeanor at Petrana's approach.

"I would like for you to confirm for me the second effort at translation."

He sits very still as he regards the notes in front of him, not touching them; he doesn't need to. His expression is carefully neutral, revealing nothing and somehow everything at once. His pale eyes shift from the crooked script up to her face, speculating. Then, he lifts his chin and laces his fingers together.

"Yes," he says in a mild voice, "your translation is correct." There's an understood, 'now what?' appended to the end of that statement. Now what, indeed. He was getting reckless; it was only a matter of time.

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There had been a short moment, perhaps covering the span of five or six seconds, in which Atticus had been making swift mental calculations regarding his chances of escape; what strength he had in his arms to wrest a Templar to the ground, who among the guard might have the key to his shackles; how much time he would need to reach the library door, how much strength he had to cut a swath through the mages that might stand between him and escape. He reached for the sun, some voice inside tells him viciously. Did he expect not to burn in the process?

Petrana's words arrest him: "It is a new area of magic to me. I had begun to consider Thedosian practises quite limited, but this suggests more than I had imagined. I would very much appreciate any light you might shed upon it."

A mask of neutrality obfuscates his confusion, which is stark enough that he doesn't experiences the slightest pique of offence over the subtle dig at Thedosian magic. (What other magic might she be referring to?) His eyes flick to the Templar guard standing at the door, but he doesn't appear especially concerned with the nature of their conversation. Atticus looks back to Petrana, looks back to her shrewd gaze.

She could have betrayed him. She had not.

He inclines his head to her courteously and gestures with one shackled hand at the seat across from him. "Please," he invites her, quiet. "I'll answer what questions I am able."

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"Magic here - forgive me. I come from beyond a rift, and much is new to me . . . I have been taught- musicality."

A rifter. Yes, news of them had traveled as far north as Minrathous, though prior to his encounters with Petrana and the Dragon, he's had no opportunity to speak much with them. But yes, that explains much--the slight accent to her words that he cannot place, the unfamiliar maps that had littered the war table in her dreams, the strange spell that had allowed her, through a gentle touch to his hand, to learn the language he'd spoken from birth.

The edge of agitation begins to ease from his posture. He smiles, makes an idle gesture. "It is a rare gift," he explains, "one not often encountered beyond the borders of my homeland. It is my understanding, however, that the gift manifests occasionally among the Dalish elves as well."

At that he grows quiet, watching her, considering. Then he tilts his head and adds, "It occurs to me that you must know a great deal about me, and yet I do not even know your name."

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"There is little to know."

Atticus gives her a peculiar look, letting that spell of silence rest between them unbroken just long enough to make it clear to her that no, he knows better than that. They both know that he does.

He lets the topic slip away but slowly; releasing it, rather than having it escape from him. He drops his eyes to his left hand, shackled as it is, and flexes it slowly. "I regret that there is little else of the somniari that I can tell you, Madame de Cedoux. Even if theirs was not a dying breed, it isn't an art practiced openly in Thedas."

Carefully, he watches her over the rims of his spectacles, and hopes that the words he chose indicate well enough the ones that he means.

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"Perhaps you can explain to me what is the distinction. Why is it not practised openly? In your opinion."

It is only marginally easier to answer this question for Petrana, rather than struggle to wrap his mind around the reality of a world in which an affinity for magic is not an inborn trait, but an aspect of the world like light or air. Her gift is learned, then; it explains, suddenly, how matter of factly she approached the task of acquiring the Tevene language for herself.

He presses his lips into a thin line, considering his words with care. A brief glance at the Templar guard reveals that their discussion still doesn't seem of much interest to him. Atticus shifts his gaze back to Petrana. "Perhaps it is more accurate to say that somniari who survive to adulthood are a rarity. The ability to visit and shape the Fade in another's dreams attracts the attentions of demons." He lifts his shoulders in a resigned shrug. "As magical abilities manifest themselves in mages at adolescence, few at that age possess the cunning or willpower to recognize a demon's offer for what it is, or resist attempted possession."

Few, but not all. Atticus himself sits before her as evidence enough of that.

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"It is not," is Atticus' cool response; it would be answer enough for anyone else seated across from him at this table, but as is frequently the case with Petrana, he finds himself compelled to offer her more. "The Harrowing is a barbaric practice of the Southern Circles of Magi; by design, it is intended to shame the participant for the very abilities it is purportedly intended to test.

"In Tevinter, practices vary depending on the city. I took on a number of apprentices over the years. Benedict," he says the boy's name a bit sourly, "being the most recent."

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"Is that the common method of tutelage, to apprentice with a master?"

"Among the Altus mages of the Imperium, certainly. It is the way that I was taught, though by the standards of my peers, mine was a rather unconventional education." There, he smiles thinly. "I was apprenticed to my mother."

He looks to the notes on the somniari that Petrana has laid out before him, and reaches out to take up her translation. At last, he tells her, "I have never seen magic leveraged in this way before. How does it work?"

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minrathousian - 2017-08-16 21:48 (UTC) - Expand

Beleth isn't noisy about approaching him, or flashy. Atticus would be forgiven for not even hearing her quiet steps, until she pulled out the chair across from him, and sank into it.

"Magister Atticus Vedici."

The expression that greets Atticus is polite, and neutral. Beleth is in her diplomat mode--carefully poised, from her hands clasped together on the desk, to her back as straight as a rod, staring at the magister in front of her. She dips her head politely, motion made just as carefully as the way she held herself.

"Beleth Ashara, Head of Scouting within Kirkwall. A pleasure."

He doesn't notice her, though the surprise in his expression when she sits in front of him is mild and short-lived, transforming itself into something carefully courteous; Atticus Vedici is (nearly always) a courteous man. The scar on his eyebrow is still healing, but the bruises around his throat from his unexpected altercation with Benedict and Ser Coupe have faded to an almost unnoticeable grey-ish yellow.

"Beleth Ashara, Head of Scouting within Kirkwall. A pleasure."

If something might be seen to quicken in his pale eyes, it could just as easily be a trick of the light; his expression grows only a touch more accommodating. "Likewise," he replies, his smile thin. He sets down his quill and laces his fingers together in front of himself. Naturally, his eyes mark her ears, the vallaslin on her face, but there's no revulsion or derision in his expression. "I am, as you can see, at your disposal, Messere Ashara." He spreads his shackled hands a bit. "How may I help you?"

Her eyes linger on the chains, then move to his eyebrow, his throat. Imprisonment has not been kind to the Tevinter, and Beleth is too much of a big obnoxious Dalish to not take some measure of pleasure in the irony. But...she's not here as a big obnoxious Dalish, she's here as the Head of Scouting, and so her expression remains neutral.

Once they've both gotten an opportunity to study each other, she breaks the silence lingering between herself and the Inquisition's newest guest. She'll have to move carefully here--this is the first time she's actually interrogated a prisoner, and while Leliana had given out advice, it's still nerve wracking to implement it.

"It has come to my attention that you could, possibly, possess information that would make you an asset to the Inquisition," She begins, lacing her fingers together, hands resting on the table. "And I have the responsibility for dealing with these kinds of assets." She pauses, letting the words sink in, while she glances calmly around the library. "Would you like some tea? I can put together some tea for you, if you would like."

This was how you dealt with interrogating someone with less power than you--treat them as an equal, make them feel comfortable with you. If he had not been a prisoner--if he were restored to his former rank of magister--carefully laced threats and secretive shows of power would have been more appropriate. For now, however, he gets tea, instead.

"Yes, thank you," is his simple, courteous response to the offered tea, though his smile and eyes aren't warmed by the gesture. He knows the steps to this particular dance well--these things are not so very different in Tevinter.

He waits the requisite amount of time for her to call for a page to fetch it for them, keeps quiet until they are relatively isolated again. Then he sits forward in his seat and replaces his spectacles on the bridge of his nose; one lens sports a thin crack in it from frame to frame. "Let me see," he murmurs as if to himself and reaches out to one of the stacks of confiscated Venatori texts that have been brought to him for deciphering. He sorts through the titles for a moment, then removes one--a dry text on ancient dramaturgy--and settles it in front of her. "I deciphered the information from this text," he says, and lays the decoded text, with annotations in the margins, beside it.

The information is presented to her without context, but its content is fairly straight forward: the Venatori are preparing for a major offensive against the city of Perendale in Nevarra. This in and of itself might not be compelling news for Beleth, for Perendale is situated close enough to Corypheus' seat of power that for it to become the focus of a Venatori power-grab isn't incredibly useful intelligence.

When the tea arrives, Atticus reaches out to collect the offered cup and sips from it quietly. "That's not all," he tells her, as though anticipating her criticism.

Edited 2017-09-19 01:17 (UTC)

Beleth accepts the page with a thankful nod, holding the paper delicately as she reads through it. Her face remains politely neutral as she looks it over, offering no criticisms to him just yet. It's certainly new information, though it isn't particularly useful information. It proves that he's capable of delivering new intelligence...but that's about all it proves. That there's a possibility.

Still, she doesn't say anything until Atticus speaks again, and places the page down. Her attention turns to the tea, and she takes her cup, sipping from it as she spends a few more moments staring down at the page. Once she's had some personal time with her tea, she glances back up to Atticus, an amicable smile on her lips.

"I appreciate you bringing this to my attention, and I would welcome anything else that you have to add," She tells him pleasantly, stirring her tea with her spoon. "Let me know if you need anything else for your tea, as well."

"...I would welcome anything else that you have to add."

"I'm gladdened to hear it," Atticus replies, gives his head the smallest of shakes regarding his tea, and then adds, "There are Venatori infiltrators within the Inquisition."

This news delivered as though he's requesting milk for his tea, rather than sugar. He sets the cup down and continues. "It appears they have been within your ranks for some time. Theirs is not intended to be a coordinated strike with Corypheus' forces in Perendale, but rather a serendipitous coincidence. When the Inquisition deploys its forces to aid Perendale, the operatives will leverage your lower numbers, the changes to your routines, and will attempt to steal research from your divisions." This, it seems, is the true value of the information he has to share.

Briefly, Beleth contemplates accusing him of being a double agent for Leliana, and wonders if this is all another one of her tests. But Beleth has more than proven herself since she attempted to ferret out Venatori infiltrators in what proved to be an evaluation from her mentor. No, this was the real thing, and even with the cup of tea in her hands, Beleth feels her throat go very dry.

It's not so surprising that the Venatori have tried--it's surprising that Leliana hasn't caught them. That it might be up to her to try to catch them.

She takes a sip of tea, and closes her eyes.

"If what you are saying is true, that is dire news, indeed." She keeps her voice, her expression in check. "I'll have to alert the other division heads, of course. It would effect the entire Inquisition. If you can prove, or show us how to prove, that this information is correct..." She opens her eyes, glancing up at him. "That would prove that you could, in fact, be quite a valuable asset to us. And valuable assets are not left to rot in dungeons."

"And valuable assets are not left to rot in dungeons."

Lucky him. But he isn't gullible enough to trust Beleth's word that this will be done, once she has the intelligence in her hands. So he says, "I would be delighted to share my evidence with your fellows, at your leisure." Should she choose to take the notes and books that he has referenced up until now, he won't stop her; evidently, the source of his information regarding the infiltration is elsewhere.

Beleth doesn't blame him for the lack of trust--she wouldn't either, in his position. It's smart, for him to be careful like that. Not that Beleth wouldn't prefer having an idiot to deal with, but still. She can hardly hold it against him.

So it's with the same calm poise that she's maintained that she nods to his words. "Of course. The other division heads would need to know about this, and it would be practical for them to hear it from you directly." She makes it sound like an excellent idea, maybe to lessen the feeling of being goaded into taking him to the meeting. Maybe to try to flatter him.

She leaves most of the various information behind, only taking the page that he had offered her, folding it and tucking it away on her.

"I'll have a meeting arranged at the earliest opportunity, though...I'm not sure when that will be. Still, considering the urgency of the situation--I'm sure the others will agree to haste."

"A wise course of action," he replies thoughtfully. He watches her past the rims of his spectacles as she collects the single page, folds it, and pockets it, not protesting its removal. He spreads his hands to either side mildly, his smile thin and inscrutable. "I'm at your disposal, Messere Ashara."

"Yes," Beleth agrees amicably, and sets aside her tea, standing up. "You are. Have a pleasant day, Magister Vedici. I'll let you know when the meeting will occur."

And with that, she takes her leave, off to make all the necessary arrangements.

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He won't insult her by feigning ignorance; they've done well to avoid drawing much suspicion to themselves so far, he believes, but he's cognizant as well of appearances, and of his own ambitions, now that the time has come to begin laying the ground work for them in earnest.

Atticus has conjured an airy, open-windowed apartment overlooking the pearlescent buildings of this dream city, and stands now on the balcony beside Petrana. False moonlight casts everything with a pale blue glow; the air is alive with the sound of night birds, the distant clip-clop of horse's hooves on cobblestone roads.

"Yes," he agrees, and finds he cannot look at her for a moment; whether out of some discomforting uncertainty over what he will read in her face, or what she will read in his, he cannot say. At last, he drops his gaze from the horizon to consider her, expression withdrawn, inscrutable.

At last, he says simply, "This is quite dangerous for you, isn't it." To say nothing of the danger to himself, to his plans.

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When she leans against him he shifts instinctively to accommodate her shape against him, drawing simple creature comfort from her warmth and familiarity. For she has become that, at this stage--familiar, and wanted.

Her position, described thusly, does not strike him as being too dissimilar from that of a magister in the Magisterium in Minrathous. The risk, the high stakes, the relentless danger, all are unavoidable constants. An affair revealed between magisters would have far-reaching consequences, but could they truly be compared to what might occur, were he and Petrana to be found out now?

"Ser Coupe had questions."

He cannot disguise his ill-ease at this revelation, not in this place, and not from Petrana; the Fade is only too willing to betray him in the cold wind that chafes against both of them suddenly.

"She came to speak with me as well," he says. "What did she ask of you?"

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"I'd ask that you hear my next proposal without ego."

It's that last observation that manages to draw his attention away from the parallels between Ser Coupe's line of questioning for Petrana, as well as for himself. He shifts some so that he can study her face, at once suspicious and bemused. Mildly, he inquires, "Do I strike you as a man particularly inclined towards egotism?"

He is. Nevertheless, he waits for her suggestion (and anticipates her rebuke).

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No one enjoys to have their weaknesses laid bare, even by a tender hand before a sympathetic audience. Atticus especially dislikes it.

His chin follows the gentle pressure of her fingertip, his face turned as she wills, but his eyes are like pale blue stones as he looks down at her; a glimpse of the magister others see through the bars of his cell in the physical world, perhaps--though after a moment he reaches up to gather her hand into his, his touch gentle.

"A benefit," he repeats softly, "in my attachment to you." She isn't wrong. He brings down her hand to let it rest palm flag just over his heart, stroking one thumb over the fine bones of her wrist. Regarding her expectantly, he presses, "What would you have me do, Petrana, and to what end?"

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At her last words, his lips curve into an almost boyish smile against her mouth, and he draws back just enough to see her eyes. Eyes bright, he inquires, "Did I make you blush?" Easier to be coy, here, than to allow himself too much liberty to mull over how this clever scheme of hers may land him in a snare of her making, rather than the Inquisition's.

Yet to interrogate that concern further, she has already ensnared him, hasn't she? Here he stands before her in a dream kingdom he crafted out of Fade stuff, spelled into existence to make her vision a reality. There is no advantage to be found in passing his time here with her in this place, in this way; yet he is here because he wants to be here, with her, and he would do well to attend to that new reality, to find some way to ensure she folds neatly into his plans, going forward. If that requires him to follow her lead, then he will acknowledge that he has been caught, and will follow as she bids him. For now.

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His cat-like smile grows with satisfaction at her chiding, but he hears her reply, too. He notes the implication in her words and considers it; it confirms much that he's come to suspect regarding her marriage to the man he has replaced. Atticus knows very little of Marius, save what few details she has chosen to share--those details, and the image of him standing in a pastoral field, a flaming sword in his had.

A difficult man to love. He likely would not take to death easily, either, but that does not prevent Atticus from entertaining the fantasy, just for a moment. (It requires some effort to prevent that vision from spinning itself into existence around them, but he manages.)

He slips an arm around her waist and coaxes her close enough for another kiss; slowly, he's growing more familiar with his own desires, less bashful in expressing them. It's the moments of casual intimacy that still give him some pause, but here he learns, too. "We've whiled away many hours here tonight," he observes quietly afterwards, then adds with a touch of regret, "It is nearly morning."

[ She comes to visit him in the library, looking rather more weary than the last time she saw him—though less distant, as well. She’s simply too tired to hold herself aloft from others at the moment. She still doesn’t bother to ask before sitting (though whether that’s a power move or something done out of that weariness is hard to tell). ]

Vedici—[ He couldn’t go by Magister anymore, right? Who cares, what’s he going to do about it. ]—I was hoping you would indulge me with any information you might have regarding a Magisterium family that has come into contact with me. Does...House Asgard mean anything to you?

Edited 2018-01-27 00:52 (UTC)

[Not that his title truly matters anymore, but he hasn't yet ceded it to his heir. That will have to come... at some point. Once he determines how best to deal with those circumstances, still carefully hidden from view from the rest of the Inquisition.

He isn't seated at the table when Beleth arrives, but is instead standing at one of the bookshelves perusing the puerile selection with disdain. At her arrival, he looks back at her mildly.]

The obsequious younger one once made himself rather familiar with my wife, [he tells her, as though discussing something of little consequence, rather than revealing that Loki once had an affair with Ophelia Vedici. Judging by his expression, he does not look particularly bothered by the occurrence.]

He thinks himself cleverer than he is. I suppose that is a hallmark of the younger generation. [He returns his attention to the bookshelves, and withdraws one dismally. Perhaps this one will contain answers.]

[ She watches with a raised eyebrow as Atticus delivers tawdry gossip—small world, huh. Or Loki just gets around. His lack of emotions is...odd, but Atticus hasn’t exactly demonstrated being a stellar father and husband before, and his marital affairs (or his wife’s) are the opposite of her business.

She also thinks that the whole thing about thinking they’re smarter than they are is a shemlen thing, not necessarily tied to age. But this isn’t voiced either. She’s not rude. And if he isn’t as smart as he thinks he is, it’s better he doesn’t learn otherwise. ]

What of his father, Odin? He wrote me a very impressive letter, but I know better than to judge a man’s character on his ability to write.

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a dream is a wish your heart makes~

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a library visitor

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