So the Templars were not the ones who blinded him. Interesting.
Atticus has yet to draw a thread of connection between Vandelin and Myr beyond their similar propensity for attracting the attention of pride demons. This one doesn't look to be an imminent danger to the mage it has chosen to fixate upon; Myr's eyes have wandered past it towards a desert horizon that spills out into the forever of the Fade around them.
What an idyllic prison he has conjured into existence for himself.
"That power exists still, for the righteous to take hold of." Yes, that thought is in keeping with Atticus' limited exposure to this young man; righteous and secure in his belief that magic could best serve mankind when tethered like a well bred coursing hound.
Well. If he would choose to spend his dreams in a prison, then let the surroundings better reflect the reality.
Atticus slides one hand across the smooth stone walls of the interior courtyard; spreading outward from his touch, the stone itself changes in a way that is almost imperceptible at first--but so does the air, growing heavy and hot and damp, as though in anticipation of a heavy storm. Overhead, thunderclouds roll in, black with rain. When it begins to fall, the sand dunes grow dark from it, seeming to undulate as the wind picks up. Then a foamy cap forms atop one before it crashes into another.
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Atticus has yet to draw a thread of connection between Vandelin and Myr beyond their similar propensity for attracting the attention of pride demons. This one doesn't look to be an imminent danger to the mage it has chosen to fixate upon; Myr's eyes have wandered past it towards a desert horizon that spills out into the forever of the Fade around them.
What an idyllic prison he has conjured into existence for himself.
"That power exists still, for the righteous to take hold of." Yes, that thought is in keeping with Atticus' limited exposure to this young man; righteous and secure in his belief that magic could best serve mankind when tethered like a well bred coursing hound.
Well. If he would choose to spend his dreams in a prison, then let the surroundings better reflect the reality.
Atticus slides one hand across the smooth stone walls of the interior courtyard; spreading outward from his touch, the stone itself changes in a way that is almost imperceptible at first--but so does the air, growing heavy and hot and damp, as though in anticipation of a heavy storm. Overhead, thunderclouds roll in, black with rain. When it begins to fall, the sand dunes grow dark from it, seeming to undulate as the wind picks up. Then a foamy cap forms atop one before it crashes into another.
It isn't a desert anymore; it's a raging sea.