(Atticus is not the only masked man in the Fade tonight, it seems.)
He stands in the middle of a grove of dazzlingly colorful trees, whose leaves and flower blossoms are bits of tinsel and ornamental paper. A row of luminous paper lanterns light his path towards a thicket. He follows it with slow, measured steps, and that is when he first glimpses the masked face through the trees; a face that belongs to a creature unlike any he's seen before, and one that seems to ghost from view when he turns his eyes directly on it.
At the end of the path he's confronted with row after row of empty seats that frame a central stage, where a raised wooden dais elevates an elaborately illustrated pastoral scene for the absent audience. There is no one present at all that Atticus can see, save for the occasional shiver and shift of a spirit drifting like dandelion fluff through the walls.
Pensive, he glances backwards over his shoulder again to search the trees for the strange face; he feels the weight of the eyes on him, but no one approaches him. Not yet, at any rate.
With a flick of his wrist, Atticus raises stones from the earth that he can step onto, in order to ascend to the dais, to explore the strange, stylized tapestries woven into the fine fabric of the backdrop. When he reaches out to touch it, he draws back fingers wet with paint. He turns and drags it like a paintbrush through the air, sending a gout of green light bursting from his fingertips and scattering shades of bright color across the sky.
He smiles as he does so; perhaps toying a bit with his host's sandbox will coax him out of the shadows.
The only thing that would herald the presence of another is the sound of slow, even, rhythmic clapping. And then the jets of colour Atticus had created burst with sudden noise into a display of fireworks.
Sometimes a man has to make his own entertainment.
The stranger, presumably the owner of this dreamscape, was not the masked man that had been watching Atticus so closely. Still, the Medicine Seller was probably no less odd - he looked like an elf and while the style of his attire was probably a bit strange, it was very clearly the kind of finery the Dalish didn't bother with and the city elves couldn't afford.
He was lounging some ways off from the stage where the seats fade into a grassy clearing. A long, thin pipe was held delicately between his fingers. His expression was unreadable - a deliberate sort of neutral to mask what might have been genuine surprise.
Not that he would ever admit to feeling surprised about anything ever.
"I do not often see others here," he remarked. It was, technically, true. He was of little interest to the more benign spirits, and most demons kept a healthy distance. Trying to gain a foothold on the Medicine Seller's pride or desire was like trying to gain purchase on a sheer wall of ice. Slippery, and not worth the hassle.
"...You are not a spirit."
It was stated, matter-of-factly, in that cold, slow tone of his
The explosion of sound and colour above him makes him instinctively put up a hand; the multitude of colourful tinsel and smoke fall around him in an arch, but don't touch him. It is through this veil of smoke that he glimpses the Medicine Seller, and realizes with some subdued surprise that this man is the dreamer--not the masked one who had been following him.
"I do not often see others here. ...You are not a spirit."
"Clearly not."
He lowers his hand, then pushes it to the side as though moving aside a curtain; in response, a low wind blows and sweeps the smoke and tinsel away. Approaching the edge of the dais, he steps off of it onto a flight of wooden steps that rise up from the ground to meet each of his steps. Down the stairs he descends, and approaches the Medicine Seller with avid interest; around him, the chairs scuttle out of his way on deer-like feet.
Atticus stops some meters away from the oddly dressed elf, then turns his head to the side to find that masked face still watching him from the treeline. He frowns, though it's hidden behind his own mask. "This is," he begins in a musing, pensive, and not entirely unthreatened voice, "peculiar magic."
He turns his stare back on the Medicine Seller. "If this is your dream, then who is it who accompanies you? How have you transported another here into the Fade with you?"
[ he calls at an hour fairly soon after the Gallows mess would have closed for the evening. his tone is polite, perfunctory. ]
This is not a social call, but rather one under the purview of Research. Would you mind describing, as best you are able, whatever you were doing shortly before you arrived in Thedas?
[ pause, shuffling of paper. ]
I am seeking to gather information about Rifters. As the Inquisition has stopped conducting formal interviews upon arrival, we do not have much documentation on the phenomenon for those of us who have arrived more recently. You are not obligated to answer, and are quite free to refuse.
[The Medicine Seller surveys the sending crystal with a bemused air. It was a terrible temptation to brush off his inquiry, and remain evasive as ever. However, if there were some link between the Rifters that could lead to getting the shard removed...]
What was I doing ...I wonder.
[It was almost physically painful to be direct but it was best to get this over with. He set aside his brush and papers, and stood to go heat the kettle over the fire pit. He'd need a cup of tea to get through this.]
There was... a woman. Ichikawa Setsuko. Her murder was made to look like a suicide and her anger took a most terrible form - Bakeneko.
[That poor soul. Always so unlucky in life. Before, she had been Tamaki.]
When all was said and done, I was headed to the old capital. I must have fell asleep on the journey there.
...The next thing I knew, I had woken in this world.
Glaewron, [ Yes, she's swiping Thranduil's name for him, fight her. ] are you available, at the moment? I wanted to give you your Satinalia gift, if that's alright.
Alright, then. I know the way to the house. I’ll...see you shortly.
[ Hope Kit doesn’t mind. Beleth doesn’t take too long to get there, though she stops at the door, giving a few short knocks, and looking nervously around. If neither are there—surely he doesn’t expect her to just waltz inside. The door is probably locked. And she’s not lockpicking her subordinate’s front door. Should she just wait outside, in that case?
Arms crossed, scowling worriedly off into the distance as she tries to puzzle out the proper decorum, Beleth has put the actual purpose of the visit aside to face this conundrum. ]
I'm not altogether certain if Medicine Seller is your name or your title, my apologies. It's Anders. Are you interested in matters relating to mages? I'm not certain what Rifters may or may not be.
Glaewron, I know this is somewhat belated, but...I wanted to thank you for the gifts. I burnt the incense at the memorial for Sina that's been set up in the garden. It smelled...very nice.
[ She sounds like an idiot and words are hard. Ugh. ]
I'm sorry that I took so long to thank you for it. Or to speak to you at all.
The Veil, [ she says, as though it's only just occurred to her. she doesn't bother with the niceties. this is coupe, this is coupe, and how many times have they all heard that already? unnecessary, now. ] Is there one of your home?
[He considers for a time how to explain it. There's a very good metaphor on the tip of his tongue, but there is, for now, a much more pressing question. Wren is a templar, after all. Competent, but Thedas would consider him a mage and thus she is someone he needs to be somewhat more on guard around]
It's sometime in the late afternoon when Kit arrives outside the Medicine Seller's peculiar shop and home. He loiters outside a few paces away, finishing off his cigarette (working up his courage, maybe), before he at last strolls up to the door, casual as can be, and knocks.
"Hey, uh. It's Kit." A pause. "You there?"
Re: action | backdated to a little after the snow event
When Kit finally crosses the threshold, he'll find the Medicine Seller on a step stool, hanging some roots and herbs from a drying rack over the fire pit. He's dressed down for once, a breezy light blue yukata and no jewelry save for the bejeweled hairpin holding the mess of ashen hair in place.
[A long pause, not deliberately drawn out but he recognizes the voice. Dimly. Had they shared a conversation once, or had he heard it in passing? But it's gone as soon as it's there - he's heard so many voices in his long life.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dream visit; timing is sometime after his chat w/ Sina
He stands in the middle of a grove of dazzlingly colorful trees, whose leaves and flower blossoms are bits of tinsel and ornamental paper. A row of luminous paper lanterns light his path towards a thicket. He follows it with slow, measured steps, and that is when he first glimpses the masked face through the trees; a face that belongs to a creature unlike any he's seen before, and one that seems to ghost from view when he turns his eyes directly on it.
At the end of the path he's confronted with row after row of empty seats that frame a central stage, where a raised wooden dais elevates an elaborately illustrated pastoral scene for the absent audience. There is no one present at all that Atticus can see, save for the occasional shiver and shift of a spirit drifting like dandelion fluff through the walls.
Pensive, he glances backwards over his shoulder again to search the trees for the strange face; he feels the weight of the eyes on him, but no one approaches him. Not yet, at any rate.
With a flick of his wrist, Atticus raises stones from the earth that he can step onto, in order to ascend to the dais, to explore the strange, stylized tapestries woven into the fine fabric of the backdrop. When he reaches out to touch it, he draws back fingers wet with paint. He turns and drags it like a paintbrush through the air, sending a gout of green light bursting from his fingertips and scattering shades of bright color across the sky.
He smiles as he does so; perhaps toying a bit with his host's sandbox will coax him out of the shadows.
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Sometimes a man has to make his own entertainment.
The stranger, presumably the owner of this dreamscape, was not the masked man that had been watching Atticus so closely. Still, the Medicine Seller was probably no less odd - he looked like an elf and while the style of his attire was probably a bit strange, it was very clearly the kind of finery the Dalish didn't bother with and the city elves couldn't afford.
He was lounging some ways off from the stage where the seats fade into a grassy clearing. A long, thin pipe was held delicately between his fingers. His expression was unreadable - a deliberate sort of neutral to mask what might have been genuine surprise.
Not that he would ever admit to feeling surprised about anything ever.
"I do not often see others here," he remarked. It was, technically, true. He was of little interest to the more benign spirits, and most demons kept a healthy distance. Trying to gain a foothold on the Medicine Seller's pride or desire was like trying to gain purchase on a sheer wall of ice. Slippery, and not worth the hassle.
"...You are not a spirit."
It was stated, matter-of-factly, in that cold, slow tone of his
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"I do not often see others here. ...You are not a spirit."
"Clearly not."
He lowers his hand, then pushes it to the side as though moving aside a curtain; in response, a low wind blows and sweeps the smoke and tinsel away. Approaching the edge of the dais, he steps off of it onto a flight of wooden steps that rise up from the ground to meet each of his steps. Down the stairs he descends, and approaches the Medicine Seller with avid interest; around him, the chairs scuttle out of his way on deer-like feet.
Atticus stops some meters away from the oddly dressed elf, then turns his head to the side to find that masked face still watching him from the treeline. He frowns, though it's hidden behind his own mask. "This is," he begins in a musing, pensive, and not entirely unthreatened voice, "peculiar magic."
He turns his stare back on the Medicine Seller. "If this is your dream, then who is it who accompanies you? How have you transported another here into the Fade with you?"
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crystals ;
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I am, of course, most humbly at your service.
What might you require?
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later
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[ he calls at an hour fairly soon after the Gallows mess would have closed for the evening. his tone is polite, perfunctory. ]
This is not a social call, but rather one under the purview of Research. Would you mind describing, as best you are able, whatever you were doing shortly before you arrived in Thedas?
[ pause, shuffling of paper. ]
I am seeking to gather information about Rifters. As the Inquisition has stopped conducting formal interviews upon arrival, we do not have much documentation on the phenomenon for those of us who have arrived more recently. You are not obligated to answer, and are quite free to refuse.
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What was I doing ...I wonder.
[It was almost physically painful to be direct but it was best to get this over with. He set aside his brush and papers, and stood to go heat the kettle over the fire pit. He'd need a cup of tea to get through this.]
There was... a woman. Ichikawa Setsuko. Her murder was made to look like a suicide and her anger took a most terrible form - Bakeneko.
[That poor soul. Always so unlucky in life. Before, she had been Tamaki.]
When all was said and done, I was headed to the old capital. I must have fell asleep on the journey there.
...The next thing I knew, I had woken in this world.
[crystal]
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put those fangs away bruh
[ Hope Kit doesn’t mind. Beleth doesn’t take too long to get there, though she stops at the door, giving a few short knocks, and looking nervously around. If neither are there—surely he doesn’t expect her to just waltz inside. The door is probably locked. And she’s not lockpicking her subordinate’s front door. Should she just wait outside, in that case?
Arms crossed, scowling worriedly off into the distance as she tries to puzzle out the proper decorum, Beleth has put the actual purpose of the visit aside to face this conundrum. ]
NEVER
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Crystal
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What would you ask of me?
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[ She sounds like an idiot and words are hard. Ugh. ]
I'm sorry that I took so long to thank you for it. Or to speak to you at all.
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[He knows enough of grief that it's like a raw nerve]
I hope you were able to find comfort with your friends and family in this time.
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crystal | during disease plot
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Not like this, at least.
[He considers for a time how to explain it. There's a very good metaphor on the tip of his tongue, but there is, for now, a much more pressing question. Wren is a templar, after all. Competent, but Thedas would consider him a mage and thus she is someone he needs to be somewhat more on guard around]
Why... do you ask.
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action | backdated to a little after the snow event
It's sometime in the late afternoon when Kit arrives outside the Medicine Seller's peculiar shop and home. He loiters outside a few paces away, finishing off his cigarette (working up his courage, maybe), before he at last strolls up to the door, casual as can be, and knocks.
"Hey, uh. It's Kit." A pause. "You there?"
Re: action | backdated to a little after the snow event
When Kit finally crosses the threshold, he'll find the Medicine Seller on a step stool, hanging some roots and herbs from a drying rack over the fire pit. He's dressed down for once, a breezy light blue yukata and no jewelry save for the bejeweled hairpin holding the mess of ashen hair in place.
"You seem troubled."
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crystals;
[ surely he has another name. surely there's some part of this file that is missing.
(surely there isn't. casimir can recognize his own handwriting, doesn't need to question its fastidiousness —) ]
The Medicine Seller?
[ obviously. the crystal works. ]
Re: crystals;
[A long pause, not deliberately drawn out but he recognizes the voice. Dimly. Had they shared a conversation once, or had he heard it in passing? But it's gone as soon as it's there - he's heard so many voices in his long life.]
...Do you require
...medicine?
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[This gets an amused noise out of him - something almost like a laugh, though it's more of a soft 'hm hm']
No, no.
I am just a medicine seller.
But I will help where I can.
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I am more curious as to how you were provoked.
[Neither Anna or Gillia are the chattiest people - and these aren't exactly things that just come up.]
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