Not in the traditional sense of a guest to his door, invited or otherwise. This visitor comes quietly into the periphery of his sleeping mind, more a silhouette of a shadow than the easily discernible shape of a man, and there he stays; a leaf on the surface of a still pond.
This dream is one of brightness and light, soft at its edges with nostalgia; there are few shadows here for a visitor to hide within, but Atticus creates one to suit his purposes, disappearing into the shelter of an arched doorway that surely was always a part of this dream's architecture. Wasn't it? Shrouded, his identity obscured, he can nevertheless feel the dry heat of a Hasmal summer against his skin, smell sweet desert flowers on the air, can hear the distant call of a bird of paradise somewhere within the boughs of the trees that shade the courtyard of Hasmal's Circle of Magi. And there, seated on one of the benches at its center, surrounded by high stacks of parchment paper and sentimental tokens from a life he no longer lives, is Myrobalan. His head bent in concentration, he's writing something furiously--and he isn't alone.
Lounging nearby, a demon has taken some pains to guise itself as a human--but to Atticus' discerning eye, it's easy to mark the creature for what it is: a Pride demon.
Timeframe: the night after Myr's visit to the dungeon.
Not in the traditional sense of a guest to his door, invited or otherwise. This visitor comes quietly into the periphery of his sleeping mind, more a silhouette of a shadow than the easily discernible shape of a man, and there he stays; a leaf on the surface of a still pond.
This dream is one of brightness and light, soft at its edges with nostalgia; there are few shadows here for a visitor to hide within,
but Atticus creates one to suit his purposes, disappearing into the shelter of an arched doorway that surely was always a part of this dream's architecture. Wasn't it? Shrouded, his identity obscured, he can nevertheless feel the dry heat of a Hasmal summer against his skin, smell sweet desert flowers on the air, can hear the distant call of a bird of paradise somewhere within the boughs of the trees that shade the courtyard of Hasmal's Circle of Magi. And there, seated on one of the benches at its center, surrounded by high stacks of parchment paper and sentimental tokens from a life he no longer lives, is Myrobalan. His head bent in concentration, he's writing something furiously--and he isn't alone.
Lounging nearby, a demon has taken some pains to guise itself as a human--but to Atticus' discerning eye, it's easy to mark the creature for what it is: a Pride demon.
For now, Atticus is still; he watches, and waits.