[IC/OOC] Contact

[minrathousian]

 

dream visits | letters and notes | in-person visits

To contact Atticus IC: Leave a response to this entry, specifying the means of contact (e.g., letters, in person visit). To contact me OOC: Discord:  middlemarching#9936 Plurk:  ragweed NB:  I work 9-5pm EST Mon-Fri, have additional volunteer obligations, and write fiction in my free time.

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[minrathousian]

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.

[minrathousian]

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."

[minrathousian]

"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."

[minrathousian]

"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.

[minrathousian]

"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.

[minrathousian]

"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."

[minrathousian]

"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?"

[minrathousian]

Atticus' thin smile doesn't fade. No, she certainly is not a fool.

He sets the translation back down on the table before him and slides it carefully across to her. "Well, I am obliged to assist you in that effort, if it pleases you, Madame de Cedoux," he says, then relaxes back into his seat to steeple his fingers neatly in front of himself. "You know where you may find me, if you require my knowledge in the future."