laurenande: (Default)
Galadriel ([personal profile] laurenande) wrote2015-10-21 01:34 pm
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IC Inbox

(Galadriel is fairly used to getting mail but she'll be a bit shocked to receive any in Thedas. For any notes, missives, letters, or other communications.)
minrathousian: (dragon | razikale)

[personal profile] minrathousian 2017-12-19 06:40 pm (UTC)(link)
The strength of her mind's recollection of this cold is powerful enough that Atticus, though he knows that the world around them is only the workings of her own thoughts put into the flesh of the Fade, feels the frigid bite in his bones. Somewhere in the waking world, he shivers, and looks with a rush of unexpected longing towards the light on the distant horizon. There, he knows suddenly, is relief, but it is so far away--

(A pause. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, to find his place in this fiction. A visitor, not a participant--)

It is then that he notices the buzzing swarm of demons shifting, hissing and undulating in the pitch blackness around them; there is no fear in his cold eyes as he watches them, only sudden understanding. Despair; that is what they feed on, and the despondency of this dreamscape only slakes their appetite for more.

"Tell me what it is that matters about this Middle-earth," he coaxes her, his tone like silk across steel, and keeps his eyes on the mass of demons that seem as repelled as they are attracted by Galadriel's peculiar, alien power.
minrathousian: (dragon | lusacan)

[personal profile] minrathousian 2017-12-20 05:33 pm (UTC)(link)
What an inconsequential bit of gold finery; it should not, in this place, exude such a draw upon anyone, least of all a magister whose interest in wealth and finery has never extended beyond sporting enough of it to denote his position in Tevinter society. Atticus' eyes glance off of it at first, the immediate threat posed by the demons and the murmur of indistinct whispering around them occupying the vast majority of his attention. Yet as Galadriel lifts her hand, he looks back again, and fixates.

"I am bound to it."

Around them, the dreamscape shivers, the scope of it narrowing upon the ring; what else matters beyond its potential, whispered into his ear with promises of the wonders he could create, if only he could touch the band one time? Wear it, and what obstacle would the Veil be to his vision? Rend it like shorn metal or part it gently like silk curtains, he could coax the visions of his sleeping mind into the waking world and weave together earth and sky and water with magic that could outlive the limitations of his own feeble body.

(Yet why limit himself in such a way? Why not weave together magic with flesh? A body is just another distant horizon waiting to be crossed--)

The helm that masks his face seems to disintegrate like ash caught on the wind, revealing his identity, his expression more tabula rasa than covetous. Atticus turns his pale eyes, wondering and wide, towards Galadriel... and witnesses the curl of elongated, bony fingers that rest against her cheeks. There, beside her face, a demon--and upon his own shoulder, slipping through his hair, cold talons and the near press of teeth. Venhedis--

His draw upon the Fade mutes and muffles the grinding groan of the frozen sea as it shifts under their feet. The protective barrier that suddenly envelops and encompasses Galadriel hums with energy, and absorbs the brunt of the impact from the spell that rips apart the demons that had been curling and crawling around them.

(A near-miss for the Inquisition, who nearly had two powerful abominations to contend with.)
minrathousian: (atticus | bloody teeth)

[personal profile] minrathousian 2017-12-20 11:22 pm (UTC)(link)
Like pulling the threads of a tapestry loose until the weight of the loose fibre hangs heavy enough to case the rest to collapse; like a ship's captain might read the clouds on the horizon or spy through a sextant to chart a course, Atticus reads the dream around him, and knows it is time to depart. Leave, awaken, before the power of this imagining draws more demons and spirits to this place than he can conceivably fend off without the aid of another mage equally confident in their abilities in this place.

The pale, smokey haze that lingers in the aftermath of his spellcasting is blown away as though at merely a gesture, Atticus can control the wind--and he can, in this place. His pupils blown wide, he turns to find Galadriel's eyes on his, and knows a moment's trepidation. Reckless, careless, he should not be making these mistakes.

"My apologies," he bids her once, countenance closed off. Then he reaches out a hand towards her temple.

"Wake up."