(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.)
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.
The air is collapsing inward as the horizon draws close and a Mage stands before her here. Where is here? There is a moment of confusion and then he speaks, his apology ringing across the space between them, and reaches for her head.
Wake up.
Galadriel's eyes open with a start and the world appears before her in startling clarity. Her dream passes, as they all do, but too quickly for her preference. She grasps, past the whispers of the One, the cold and darkness of the grinding ice, and pulls the stray thread. The face is no guarantee, dreams work strangely, but she knows that voice.
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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."
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Wake up.
Galadriel's eyes open with a start and the world appears before her in startling clarity. Her dream passes, as they all do, but too quickly for her preference. She grasps, past the whispers of the One, the cold and darkness of the grinding ice, and pulls the stray thread. The face is no guarantee, dreams work strangely, but she knows that voice.
Unfortunately, she knew not what to make of this.