Dust and Shadow - Printable Version

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+--- Thread: Dust and Shadow (/showthread.php?tid=17965)

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Dust and Shadow - Atticus Ravencrest - October 5, 2025


The grandfather clock in the hall had long since stopped keeping time, yet its pendulum still swayed faintly as if moved by drafts that did not belong to this world. Atticus found himself in one of the many rooms of the Ravencrest manor. Thick curtains helped to shut out the the flashes of light from the late storm raging across the countryside, leaving only the wavering flame of a dozen candles. Their wax had pooled into pale rivers over the silver that held them erect. A smoldering cigar lay in a crystal ashtray one one of the table nearest him, filling the air with the dueling scents of tobacco and the age of the room itself.

At the center of this room stood Atticus, tall and still as a statue. His hair was dark, neatly combed back and the low light caught in the edges of a well-kept mustache. His shoulders filled his white shirt like a knight's armor; the sleeves rolled to the forearms revealing tattoos set in dark ink. They were of strange symbols with different meanings. The cut of his clothing, the gleam of his boots, all marked him as a man of old lineage and unbending focus and discipline. He could have passed for a military officer if not for the strange circle within which he stood with the edges glowing faintly.

“I am not asking for dominance,” he was saying, voice tight with suppressed frustration. “I am asking for guidance. There must be some precedent for this.”

The air in front of him shimmered, and from the dark corners of the room, pale figures drifted forward, thin, flickering, and translucent. They were the ancestral ghosts of Ravencrest. Their faces were indistinct at first but became more discernible as time passed. Outlines of rich robes and armor, coronets and heavy pendants hinted at wealth and arrogance of generations long departed from the human frame.

Bits of voices answered him, whispering over one another like the rustling of dry leaves.
“... the binding was set...”
“... meddle not in what was sealed...”
“... your pride blinds you, child of our name...”

Atticus, though none of the spirits had yet spoken his name aloud, drew a slow breath. His expression did not waver, though the candlelight trembled as if bending away from their presence. “Then I am to stand idle when I could increase the reach of our influence?” He was livid with disbelief. A deeper voice spoke from the cluster, slow and grave, carrying the weight of command: “You were chosen to rebuild and to remember.”

The wizard's eyes flashed with anger, but only for a heartbeat. “Remembering does not sustain the living,” he said, his voice remaining low and respectful. “Our family could shape the fate of this land, with your guidance. We could extend our reach even further, even into the muggle world, do you not understa...” He fell silent as one of the phantoms moved suddenly closer. A silence followed that was deep and suffocating. The room seemed to contract, the air colder, the walls breathing faintly with old enchantments. When the ghosts spoke again, they did so together, their tones merging into a hollow, echoing unity that filled the room.


The candles flared, their flames stretching high and then snapping down to a single guttering glow. The circle at his feet cracked, a thin hiss echoing through the floorboards like a sigh from a something ancient beneath. He stepped back, jaw set and his breath clouding faintly in the sudden chill. For a moment, he seemed ready to argue but only bowed his head slightly, the gesture precise, proud, but weary. “Very well,” he said. “Thank you for you guidance.” With that the ghosts began to fade, one by one, their features dissolving into silver must that bled into the shadows. Only their final words lingered, faint and cold as frost:

“Heed our words, Atticus. As long as the living obey, the dead are never truly gone.”

When silence returned, the wizard stood alone once more. Anger crossed his face in the shadow of the candles burning low. Somewhere in the echoing corridors of the old house, the clock's pendulum gave a series of hollow ticks. Frustration froze him to the spot momentarily before he threw a candelabra against the opposite wall as thunder rumbled through the halls of the manor.

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RE: Dust and Shadow - Belladonna Ravencrest - October 9, 2025

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RE: Dust and Shadow - Atticus Ravencrest - October 9, 2025

Atticus was turned from Belladonna when she entered and he froze when he heard the hinges grind against themselves. The last wisps of spirit-light flickered out around him. The temperature had dropped—just slightly—but enough that clouds of breath briefly formed in the air in front of him. He turned toward her, slowly, the lines of his face thrown into sharp relief by the candlelight. Though he often appeared cold and detached, his actions were fueled by intense emotions—and sometimes they bled through as did the anger that radiated from him. His repression of those feelings only made them more dangerous, and they often manifested in burst of rage or violence when words would not suffice.

The volcanic fury burned like fire in his eyes, and it would be easy to see how he had gained a reputation for lashing out savagely, often killing subordinates for minor mistakes. This wrath of his was both a weapon and a weaknesses, and he was fully aware of that fact. It fed his darker ambitions but also isolated him in ways. Where the spirits argued patience, Atticus favored a more direct route, and one that catered to more power, even if it must be gained by methodical cruelty, he believed fear to be a powerful tool to ensure obedience and project strength.

“Bella, my dear, whatever are you doing here?” He asked, his breath somewhat labored and his expression softening a little, though the frustration in his eyes was unmistakable. He knew she was no fool, she saw the sigils, felt the chill in the air, and likely heard the voices. The truth curled at the edge of his understanding like smoke. There was no hiding it from her, she was too smart for that, and too curious it seemed. “Come inside, it's alright.” Atticus spoke as if he were attempting to coax a rabbit from its hole, even going the length of the expression to beckon her forward with his hand.

Turning away from her once again, he produced his wand and drew the curtains back with a quick flick, filling the room with flashes from the storm and whatever light the evening had to offer. With great effort he managed to force the anger from his body as much as he could, not because it bothered him, but because he didn't want to unintentionally direct it toward Belladonna. Atticus was aware of what brewed beneath her surface, but she was still his family and he didn't want her feelings damaged on his account.

“I was in the midst of negotiating our family’s future, though I fear the spirits and I are not always of one mind. It may have sounded rather grim, but the matter was far less serious than it appeared. Do you follow, my dear?” Atticus said, forcing a smile to his lips as he looked over his shoulder in her direction. “Come, Bella, and watch the storm with me. These tempests grow fewer as the year declines, and I would not have you miss their final splendour.” His hand lowered to gesture to the chair next to the one he'd taken. He knew questions were to follow, but he did not guide the conversation, but instead allowed her to form them and ask what she would when it came to her. For the moment, Atticus merely crossed one leg over the other and laced his fingers in his lap, his eyes set before him to take in the storm as its fury beat against the window and the family crypts beyond. Atticus felt a kindred spirit to the storm, though the rain often came down beautifully, whereas Atticus rarely did.

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RE: Dust and Shadow - Belladonna Ravencrest - October 10, 2025


OOC: [The Speaker for the Dead] — Not yet played, Name TBD

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