altusimperius

[ Softly, with a general air of conspiracy that sounds more mirthful than urgent: ]

Are you alone?

From:

Um. Yes?

[Lexie please you're a married woman and we saw how this went last time,]

From:

[ (Come dance with me let's pretend we're having an affair it'll work out g r e a t)

It's still soft, just in case. Also because theatricality demands it. ]

I must ask a favour of you. My ship has come into harbour a day early, and I should like to surprise our dear Ambassador.

[ "Lexie please you're a married woman" ]

From:

All right?

[Wiiiiith,]

From:

My appearance a day earlier than expected! [ This sounds entirely earnest, rather than like "keep up". ] Might I prevail upon you to make an appointment for me with him?

[ Amended: ] Well— not with me. With a facetious gentleman whose details I shall provide you with.

[ A moment, and then in case this was unclear: ] Of course, it shall in fact be me.

From:

[Oh, so it's this sort of thing. Not Benedict's favorite use of time, but... well, it's technically his job.]

All right.

This evening?

From:

Just so. At the very end of the day. For one... [ A brief pause, and then the storm: ] Jean-Jacques Pierre Robert Grégoire Maxence Chauf—oh! Have you a pen?

From:

[Dully,]

Mm-hmm.

From:

Parfait! Chaufourier Brochard.

He is a [ hm... ] merchant. Who wishes to discuss the finer points of the diplomatic applications of importing [ hmmm... ] dried beans.

From:

Uh-huh.

[He is writing it down, at least.]

Edited Date: 2021-04-24 10:34 pm (UTC)

From:

Has the Ambassador asked you to take wardrobe and demeanor notes?

From:

[Wearily,] what?

From:

How those who come to make appointments with him are dressed, their general demeanor, as an aid to preparation for—

[ This is for something silly and he sounds tired. More gently: ]

Never mind that. You may simply write this merchanrt heavily implied there is money to be made and it should be a very advantageous relationship for Riftwatch, and I shall take up no more of your time with my games.

From:

All right.

[It makes him a bit uneasy, he realizes, to be complicit in deception even if it's ostensibly for fun; Byerly can be unpredictable with these things, in his experience. Perhaps it just feels wrong to lie to him. Is that a thing? Feeling wrong?

But, trusting that Lexie knows what she's doing, Benedict is all business when he responds:]

I'll see it done.

From:

Thank you.

[ It's genuine, warm. Beans aside, the impetus for her mischief is a loving one. She is home. She wants to see Byerly. She wants to make him laugh.

When she comes, later, it'll be with a nice bottle of red she'd picked up in Minrathous as thanks. ]

From:

poleaxed

[It's been a few weeks, but certainly not six.]

Oi! Benny me lad. How's Kirkwall holding up?

From:

It's holding.

[He sounds exhausted, run ragged by the current situation.]

Is all well where you are?

From:

poleaxed

Uhh.

[Studio audience laughter.]

It's holding. There's an assassin lose in Starkhaven. There's something to think on. Who goes on a bloody spree now?

From:

An assassin?

...assassinating who?

From:

poleaxed

Rich folk. Don't worry, I'm safe as houses. You are too.

From:

[THEN WHY MENTION IT,]

Any idea when you'll be back?

From:

poleaxed

[Friendly conversation? About murder??]

Couple weeks, at least. Hopefully sooner rather than later; miss my bed something terrible. Why, you need something?

From:

Well,

[that's a good question.]

um... do you have any experience training people to withstand interrogation?

From:

poleaxed

Is that... something you're looking in to?

From:

[Grimly,] it seems like it would come in handy.

If Tevinter takes Kirkwall, I don't think they'll kill me immediately.

From:

poleaxed

[A long sigh.]

I'll be honest, there isn't a thing as not breaking. Everyone does eventually. 'Least, that's what I been told, and I believe the bird who told me.

She said, best way to get one over is to give 'em lies. They won't know the difference. Torture ain't... efficient.

From:

[A sigh in return, though one of acknowledgment. She's probably right.]

I'm just.

[He pauses, mulling it over:] ...I'm afraid of what I don't know. Which is a lot.

I'm not a good liar.

From:

poleaxed

I don't reckon they put clever folk in charge of torture. Seems to me a job perfect for weak sorts who get off on having power. I've known some professional torturers, at least, that's what they called themselves. May be different in Tevinter, I'll grant you.

[What with, you know, the blood magic and all.]

From:

I think we'd both be surprised.

[All he has to go from was that dream, but with everything that added up and made sense, there came some chilling truths.]

...but I'm not asking to be flayed alive. Combat training hasn't killed me yet, I don't see how this would have to be much different.

From:

poleaxed

I'm not going to hit you for the sake of hitting you, lad. Tried that at the start, remember? Wrong way of doing things.

From:

I'm not--

[He sighs through his nose.]

We could be sparring, and you ask me a question. I have to answer it with a lie, think on my feet.

[A beat.]

...I only ask because I trust you. You've been good to me. [In her way, at least, which he's come to recognize.]
But I won't press it. It's just a thought.

From:

poleaxed

Ha! [The snap of fingers.] That's a clever plan, luv. Thinking on your feet already, I reckon. I'll do it.

You've made fair progress. Want you to know that.

From:

[His smile is audible, the words genuine:] Thanks, Jone.

From:

kantikoy

Hello Benedict.

Is he still not sleeping?

From:

I've been gone, so it's hard to say.

[A defeated sigh,] ...but I've got a pretty good guess.

From:

kantikoy

[ Adrasteia sighs across the connection. ]

What do you imagine our options to be? There's no one above him to command him to rest, and I don't think he'll listen to either of us. I'm tempted to drug his coffee, frankly, but that probably won't go over well either.

From:

We don't have many. The longer it goes on, the more stubborn he gets. I've thought about just casting Sleep when he's not looking, but.

[An awkward pause.]

...that... could be bad.

From:

kantikoy

Probably about as well as lacing his coffee. [ A sigh. ] Too close to blood magic for most Fereldens.

[ Personally, she finds all magic has its uses. ]

I don't want you to get in trouble with him, so I won't suggest anything I'm unwilling to do myself.

From:

Especially in his current state, I don't think Byerly would take too kindly to what could be construed as actual sabotage.

Even if it's... not. [It's almost audible as he pinches the bridge of his nose.]

I've threatened him with his wife a few times. I'm not certain Sidony knows how bad it's gotten.

From:

kantikoy

I'd follow through with that threat. I know he's ignored her concerns before but perhaps we can bombard him into doing better by himself.

From:

Perhaps.

Whatever the case, he's not going to listen to me. And if he suspects my involvement, probably all the worse.

[Which is to say, You Should Talk To Her]

From:

kantikoy

[ A small sigh. ]

Alright. I'll talk to Sidony about it.

How are you otherwise?

From:

[The dismissive grunt communicates everything.]

From:

kantikoy

Things going that well, huh?

From:

How can you tell.

From:

kantikoy

Anything a Warden's presence can help with?

From:

Well...

[He has never actually thought about it before, at least not in those terms.]

...you could kill Corypheus? He's a Darkspawn, isn't he?

From:

kantikoy

He's a very powerful darkspawn and, I'm sorry to say, it won't be that easy.

From:

Worth a shot.

From:

kantikoy

A shot I'm willing to undertake, but not alone.

From:

I meant, asking you to kill him.

[It was a joke, albeit one that maybe didn't quite land.]

If you want to help me, solve the Byerly problem.

From:

kantikoy

Alright, alright.

From:

muckspout

[All business.]

Benedict! Have a question.

From:

[A bit surprised,]

Uh-huh?

From:

muckspout

You know your bottles?

Edited (forgot icon) Date: 2021-10-25 03:19 am (UTC)

From:

...what?

From:

muckspout

The bottles!! With the--the--

[Edgard is gesturing, but this is a crystal so Benedict can't see it.]

The smelly bottles!

[This last statement said in disgust.]

Edited (i forgot how to html) Date: 2021-10-25 03:23 am (UTC)

From:

...like bath oils?

From:

muckspout

Yes. That and the other clean stuff. Are you...

[Edgard isn't sure how to ask this.]

Are you using them?

From:

[A pause.]

...not... at this very moment.

From:

muckspout

No, no, no!

[A short huffed sigh.]

Will you use them? Are they important to you?

From:

[Almost offended,] yes.

[They're only his most prized possessions aside from the hookah, Edgard.]

From:

muckspout

[Frustrated sigh.]

Well...

[The word is long and drawn out.]

Which one is the least important?

[He definitely shouldn't have asked.]

From:

[In a warning tone,]

Edgard,

From:

muckspout

[Exasperated.]

Do you really need all of them? There's so many! How can you need this many? Why do people like this? Just one, Benedict.

[Here it all comes out.]

Just need one!

From:

Shall I show you where to buy them?

[A pause.]

If you steal one I'll know it's you.

From:

muckspout

Not going to steal one!

That's why I'm asking!

There's so many, Benedict!

From:

Well you can't take any!

...don't touch my things, Edgard!

From:

muckspout

Why not?!

Had I not asked would you have even noticed?

Let me have one, Benedict!

From:

Yes, actually!

[His voice breaks as he grows more emotional to add:]

They took all my shit and sold it, Edgard! Everything! Just let me fucking keep what's mine!

From:

muckspout

[Edgard immediately gets quiet for a long moment.]

Wasn't trying to--

[Deep breath.]

Not taking anything, I promise. Haven't touched it. Just looked. But won't anymore.

[He feels extremely bad. To him, Benedict's things seem extravagant and excessive, but he sees that it's very different to Benedict.]

M-Maybe you could show me where to get it? And...tell me how much it costs?

[There is the rub. This shit looks expensive.]

From:

[It is strange, granted, to imagine that someone with such a privileged and particular air as Benedict should not own many things-- less strange to imagine that he'd guard jealously what he does own, as that's not unprecedented for the wealthy, but there is instead something desperate in how he hangs onto the few material objects he's been able to procure since starting over.

He senses that he's snapped at Edgard, and his instinct is to withdraw; it's humiliating, for several reasons.]

I'll show you where, [he grunts in agreement, and then turns off his crystal. He needs a moment.]

From:

bouchonne

Dear Benedict.

From:

...yes,

From:

bouchonne

You are a mage of some skill, are you not?

From:

...some skill, yes,

From:

bouchonne

So why are you telling our most esteemed Scoutmaster that you're in need of protection?

From:

[a pause.]

You know that... mages can be killed, right?

From:

bouchonne

I've heard the rumor.

From:

[with a bit of ice,]

And that I personally have almost been killed several times since joining Riftwatch?

[He tosses his head like an anxious horse.]

From:

bouchonne

And when's the last time you trained your magic?

From:

[...]

...when Solas was here.

From:

bouchonne

Might that have something to do with your brushes against your own mortality?

From:

[sullenly,]

no, that was before.

From:

bouchonne

Look, my dear boy, some of us are helpless by birth and by nature. Nothing we can do can eradicate that helplessness. You have a choice. Do you understand?

From:

I understand.

[He sighs, gritting his teeth.]

It's just,

[he fights with it a moment before saying it, to his desk:]

it's not nice magic, like healing, or something people use every day, it's. It's meant to cause... anguish. Practicing it effectively means finding willing participants.

...or at least here it does. [let's not unpack that]

From:

bouchonne

[ Charming. ]

And what, stabbing is nice?

From:

You can practice it with wooden weapons. On dolls.

[He hunches his shoulders.]

I'm surprised you'd have a problem with me not wanting to use magic on people.

From:

bouchonne

Why? Because I hate mages ever so?

[ That's said dryly, even though his feelings on mages are admittedly complicated. ]

When I was training, I was drugged and poisoned so that I could recognize the effects if need be. It's simply what must be done.

From:

...well not no,

[since he's asking,]

--but also because it's not me who's dealing with the effects, it's whomever's volunteered to have it... visited upon them. You can't make a training dummy panic and piss itself, at least as far as I know.

From:

bouchonne

So find another specialization, if you're going to be so queasy.

From:

Right, and be completely proficient in it by the time we go to Antiva.

From:

bouchonne

All right. Die, then.

From:

Or I could ask for help, which I did.

I'm not completely helpless, I've been training in staves for over a year. But I'm-- ..I'm not stupid enough to be uncautious.

From:

bouchonne

Do you think we have boundless resources?

From:

No, of course not, but--

[he's starting to get tripped up now, his thoughts moving too quickly for his mouth.]

--but-- I’m, I’m a scribe. I panic in a real fight. Whether someone wants to kill me or— or I’m just in the way of them trying to kill you, I….

[He shrugs helplessly at his desk.]

I don’t know, she asked. I assumed she meant it. Any magic I cast would probably just piss off an actual assassin.

Edited (tone felt wrong!!) Date: 2022-03-31 06:50 am (UTC)

From:

bouchonne

[ Dryly: ]

Having been a target in the past of your magic, I believe you could handle an assassin decently well.

From:

[A long pause. Then, carefully,]

Do you want me to retract the request?

From:

bouchonne

I want you to learn how to defend your damned self, Artemaeus. If you're insistent on staying on the front lines, then you cannot limit your skills to ineffectually waving a stick around.

From:

[His shoulders are hunched, his posture tense. But he nods, once, staring into the middle distance.]

From:

bouchonne

[ And Byerly feels the annoyance curdle further inside of him. Nothing he loves more than feeling like a cruel monster. But he bites his tongue and says: ]

Do you need me to arrange for a teacher for you?

From:

No.

[Benedict shakes his head without looking at Byerly.]

I'll handle it.

From:

bouchonne

[ He purses his lips. Then, he says shortly: ]

If I had the power to subdue a man without taking his life, I'd be overjoyed.

From:

[Immediately filled with far too many ideas for what he could snap back in response, Benedict opts for none of them, forcing himself to think about it and, grudgingly, realize that Byerly has a point.

Ugh.]

I know, [is all he allows himself to say.]

From:

bouchonne

[ He lets out a breath, and finally looks away. ]

Either don't go into danger, or know how to properly take care of yourself. Having my attention divided won't help me in my work.

[ Translation: I don't want to worry about you. ]

From:

You won't have to look after me.

[He'll see to it, one way or another. If only being a mage were the free pass some seem to think it is.]

From:

bouchonne

Well, I will this time. You're hardly going to learn quickly enough.

From:

[Rather than answer, Benedict holds his hands out on either side in a frustrated, shrug-like gesture. What can he even say that won't launch this circular conversation back from its beginning?]

All right, [he finally concedes, at a loss otherwise, and turns back to his writing. Please, Maker, let him just finish the day's work and get out of here.]

From:

bouchonne

Are you going to the gathering of the mages, Artemaeus?

From:

I…

[cautiously,]

think perhaps I should, yes.

From:

bouchonne

[ A grunt of agreement. ]

I think you should, as well. Keep them from doing anything truly stupid, would you?

From:

[Drily,]

Because they’ll certainly listen to what I have to say.

From:

bouchonne

Fine. Then let me know when they're going off to do something stupid so that I might be able to stop them.

From:

You’re asking me to spy?

From:

bouchonne

Is there something wrong with being a spy?

From:

I don’t want to be on the outside. I’m one of them.

[Spoken with more conviction than one might expect, but he still falters at the end, glancing down to his desk.]

Besides, if you knew what was said and moved against them, don’t you think it would be obvious who told you?

From:

bouchonne

[ By rubs the bridge of his nose. Artemaeus finds his spine at all the wrong fucking times. ]

You're one of us, Artemaeus. A member of Riftwatch. As are they - but they're the ones not acting as such, holding secret meetings and embracing factionalism. Do you disagree with that?

From:

I-…

[He can’t, actually, disagree with that. But will Us stay Us if all the mages are put away by force?]

…what are you afraid they’ll do?

From:

bouchonne

[ A short, dry laugh. ]

What do you think? Set fire to the place and permanently sever all our diplomatic relations with the Chantry.

From:

Well that’s…

[seems dramatic, if not unprecedented.]

They’re part of Riftwatch too. I doubt they’ll burn down their own fortress.

From:

bouchonne

I meant more the place where this meeting will be taking place.

From:

[The point is made, but being Byerly’s little snitch still doesn’t sit right— not after all this time trying to prove himself trustworthy.]

If the Chantry forces its will, and tries to lock us away. Will you stand for it?

From:

bouchonne

[ Maker - This coming from the boy who just a few months ago was sighing about how he doesn’t want to use his magic. Whatever the easiest thing is at any given moment, Artemaeus picks the precise opposite.

The annoyance flickers through Byerly’s expression only a little. His voice remains level as he says: ]

In spite of common misconceptions about me, I have no quarrel with mages. They are members of this organization like any other. And as such, I will endeavor to shield them like any other.

From:

[At least slightly reassured, Benedict gives a small nod.
It’s been a strange month since returning from Antiva, with the nightmares coming back in force and all they imply— especially for a mage. He’s kept mum about it, and withdrawn. No need to frighten anyone else.]

I’ll tell you if there’s danger threatened toward anyone in Riftwatch.

[His gaze flickers back to his desk, then to Byerly. This is his compromise.]

From:

bouchonne

My dear Benedict.

[ Byerly's voice is quite pleasant. Dangerously so. ]

Was one of the conditions of your release and current employment not that you would hold loyalty to Riftwatch above loyalty to one of your...other affiliations?

From:

[It’s a tone he knows well. There’s little arguing with it.]

Please don’t ask me to do this, [spoken to his desk.]

From:

bouchonne

[ The pleasantry is dropped in favor of clipped brusqueness. ]

At no point have I been asking.

[ It's strange, and disconcerting, when Byerly - normally so dissolute and indirect and wry - turns steely. But he's steely now. ]

Your loyalty is here. To this office. Your sympathies may lie with them, but your loyalty is with me. Do you understand?

From:

[Numbly,]

Yes.

From:

bouchonne

[ Snappishly: ]

Grand.

From:

bouchonne

[ It's after the truth event, and after Cumberland, when Byerly finally says to Benedict, out of the blue one day in the office - ]

Listen. Artemaeus. I've been wanting to say - I'm sorry about my...rough treatment of you before that meeting of the mages.

From:

[The scratching of Benedict's quill pauses mid-word, and he holds still for a moment, like a rabbit caught in a hawk's gaze. Then, he turns to look behind him, casting a quizzical look at Byerly. An apology?]

From:

bouchonne

Yes.

[ Byerly clearly doesn't know what to do with that silence. So he just nods once, and clears his throat. ]

From:

[Waiting a beat longer, in case Byerly wants to say more, it quickly becomes clear that he doesn't. Instead, Benedict disrupts the silence.]

There are those concerned that you'd let the Chantry have us, if push came to shove.

[Despite what he says, his own tone isn't accusatory; if anything, it's apologetic, as if to say I know better, but not everyone does. Unless.]

From:

bouchonne

[ A little tilt of his head. ]

You meaning me, personally? Or the leadership in general?

From:

[Reluctantly,] you. Personally.

From:

bouchonne

[ A frustrated breath. ]

Of course. Flint would make use of them, Stark only cares for Rifters, Yseult doesn't give a damn - but Rutyer, he has a villain's face, let's blame him.

[ A shake of his head - ]

Did they say why?

From:

It's not that the others weren't mentioned. It's thought that Flint might use the rebellion as a smokescreen to achieve his own ends,

[he taps his index fingers together,] but I don't... know what those might be. And it was implied that you might protect me, but not others. If it doesn't serve you.

From:

bouchonne

[ A shake of his head. ]

Do they perceive that anything I'm doing here serves my own ends?

[ His gesture takes in his desk - cluttered not with charmingly nude bodies and decanters of fine brandy, but by dour paperwork. Still - ]

You don't have to respond to that. Paranoia need not be rooted in any sort of real evidence.

From:

[Though he opens his mouth to respond, Benedict concludes with a shrug-- he was just going to say 'I don't know', anyway.]

People are jumpy. I don't think anyone will be entirely trusted who doesn't come out in vocal support.

From:

bouchonne

What do you think? Do you think I'd toss them over to the wolves?

From:

It's not that simple.

[He squares his shoulders uncomfortably.]

I think you'll do what it takes for Riftwatch to succeed. You've said as much-- and right now, mages being part of the effort is beneficial.

From:

bouchonne

Mm-hm.

[ No help here; By just prompts him to continue. ]

From:

[With a bit of trepidation, but not as much as he might have had in previous, shakier conversations:]

...so it could go either way, from an outside perspective.

From:

bouchonne

I'm not asking for an outside perspective.

From:

[He glances downward uncertainly, then meets Byerly's eyes again-- his gaze is assertive in a way it often isn't, but still bears no particular judgment or accusation.]

It's true. You haven't come out in support of the mages' cause. All I can go by is what you've said to me in private.

...and I believe you, that you would support me, personally.

From:

bouchonne

Ah.

[ Byerly's lips thin a little. ]

And my statements that I am loyal to the members of this organization - Those are not sufficient.

From:

This organization has a lot of members, some of whose agendas conflict.

From:

bouchonne

What does that have to do with what I've said?

From:

How is it possible to be loyal to all of them, if they directly oppose one another?

From:

bouchonne

Loyalty to the people doesn't mean loyalty to their every thought and desire. A desire to protect them doesn't mean a desire to see their will done.

From:

All right.

[This is different from a usual spat-- he's not upset, and also not being made to feel small, which makes it far easier for Benedict to keep his head and continue the discussion.]

If the majority of Riftwatch sided with the Divine, and concluded that everyone would be safer with mages confined, what would 'protecting them' mean to you?

From:

bouchonne

That hardly seems likely to happen with our current population. We would have to be a very different organization for that to be the consensus.

From:

But if it did? Or if Riftwatch's hand were forced?

From:

bouchonne

Much of a man's character is in who he chooses to serve. There is a reason I am with Riftwatch, and not another organization.

[ But, drumming his fingers on the desk: ]

Are you imagining that the move would be immediately confining them?

From:

Not necessarily. But as an eventuality.

From:

bouchonne

How much power do you think I have, Artemaeus?

From:

That's not relevant. Would you support our freedom, or not?

From:

bouchonne

Isn't it? Relevant? I can't do anything. Not after the war.

Edited Date: 2022-08-10 12:01 am (UTC)

From:

I've thrown my lot in with you.

[The faintest of smirks.]

I'd rather not have been an idiot twice.

From:

bouchonne

Well.

[ By gestures slightly. Doesn't smile back. ]

I wish that my will would have any effect upon the fate of the mages. But it wouldn't. The areas in which I have any power at all - are small indeed.

From:

Sometimes it's just... nice to hear it spoken aloud.

[He twists in his chair, resting his chin atop folded hands along the back of it.]

To keep you from going mad speculating, if nothing else.

From:

bouchonne

[ By is quiet a moment. Then - ]

To be honest - I don't believe that mages should have unlimited freedom.

[ There's no pleasure as he says it, but: ]

An Abomination is fully capable of murdering hundreds of people. To pretend that's not a reality would be naive. To pretend that a mage is like any other person, that they do not need particular training - I cannot say that I support a world where magic is treated no differently from green eyes or left-handedness.

From:

Well...

[There's a flash of disappointment in Bene's eyes, but he recovers.]

...sure. Training is important. People ought to know what they have. [His gaze flits to the floor as he thinks.]

But it doesn't have to be a shameful, hidden thing. In Tevinter we see it as a gift, a privilege. People are educated accordingly. Some people abuse it, but. People abuse weapons training, too.

From:

bouchonne

No. It doesn't.

[ Byerly lifts his shoulder in a small shrug. ]

The current way of doing things is, without question, cruel. Circles are monstrously corrupt.

From:

[Benedict nods lightly atop his hands, still looking at a point on the floor somewhere between them.]

If I hadn't fucked my chances of returning to Minrathous after the war, I might not think on it so much. But my fate is with the Southern mages now.

[He purses his lips, his mind briefly drifting elsewhere.]

...and I don't have the excuse of ignorance anymore, even if I could go back. I can never unlearn what I know about Circles. [thanks Colin]

From:

bouchonne

Indeed. But one must pursue, whenever one can, the greater good.

From:

Right.

[He falls silent for another long moment, then gives a little snort.]

Nice to have some idea what that is, for once.

From:

bouchonne

Quite so. This war does not quite have the moral clarity of the Blight, but at least it's not far off.

From:

glossator

With half the company having gone running off toward Nevarra, the Gallows has lapsed into an odd state of semi-quiet and skeleton crew assignments. It's the ideal state wherein a man who ordinarily makes a practice of boarding himself up in the library might instead drag all his work out into the sunshine of the Gallows courtyard, or into the little chapel-adhavent garden, or simply to the dining hall—anything for a change of scenery, given the relative quiet he might find wherever he goes.

That is not what Laurentius Vesperus is doing today.

Today, he is standing in the assistant's office designed to head off inquiries exactly like this one being put directly to Byerly:

"I'm interested in joining the division. Tell me what I should know."

Edited Date: 2022-08-01 04:55 am (UTC)

From:

"Hello," Benedict replies flatly, quill in hand as he was mid-stroke when Laurentius arrived and announced himself, "do you have an appointment?"

Laurentius doesn't need an appointment, necessarily, but the only person allowed to stomp in here and start issuing commands is Byerly, and even he gets sass about it occasionally.

Edited Date: 2022-08-02 03:51 am (UTC)

From:

glossator

"Do I need one?"

It's a direct question, briskly asked—not impatient, but not exactly knocked back on his heels by the appearance of having committed some manner of scheduling faux pas. It's only afterward that Laurentius flicks a glance about the room, drops his eye to whatever paper it is that Benedict is halfway through scraping his quill across, and then returns at last to the younger man's face with something like expectation written in the heavy line of his brow.

It's not as if there was a queue in the hall, is it?

From:

If you're going to come barge in here all demanding like that, goes unsaid, Benedict instead taking his time to think about his answer as he finishes penning the sentence. That done, he sets the quill down and leans forward to lace his fingers together delicately, resting his chin atop them.

"Not necessarily," he says, "though it helps to be, you know. A bit diplomatic. When asking for something."

From:

glossator

"Would you like me to step back out?"

Is he being sarcastic? Hand to tell with the cut of his brow and the wide set of his mouth.

From:

"No. It's fine."

Clearly this tack is getting them nowhere, and receiving an earful from Byerly over chasing away a new division member is not high on Benedict's list of things he wants, so perhaps it's best to just shoot straight.

"It's a lot of schmoozing and letter-writing. If you have high-ranking contacts that you can bring to the table, all the better, as long as they're on our side."

From:

glossator

If Laurentius is at all relieved or pleased by this halfway surrender on Benedict's part, that too fails to manifest very clearly in the serious lines of his face. If anything, he develops the faintest suggestion of a frown as Benedict explains the tenets of the division—a fixed, considering sort of expression.

Letter writing, he can accomplished. It would require a false name, but surely that's easily accomplished. The rest is all non-applicable. What friends he might have once had are irrelevant now and would have been against this whole endeavor to begin with; and there is a reason Lalla attends to a great deal of the social maneuvering expected of any Laetan.

He studies these facts quietly and methodically before asking—

"How have people answered to you in your position? I can't imagine many in the south have been happy to find themselves negotiating with someone from Tevinter."

Not that he's speaking from experience.

(Yes he is. He and Lalla abandoned their little rented room in Kirkwall for more reasons than just the dreary furnishings and the stink of the city.)

From:

The question gives Benedict a moment's pause, and he ducks his head slightly, knowingly. It's surprising how difficult it still is to control his body language, to not automatically assume superiority over a Laetan-- because if Laurentius were a fellow Altus, he'd have heard of him, no doubt.

"I mostly take dictation and make appointments," he admits, clearing his throat lightly and gesturing to his desk, situated as it is at the front of Byerly's office. "Nobody answers to me."

Edited Date: 2022-08-23 08:11 pm (UTC)

From:

glossator

It's difficult to tell from the set of the older man's expression—he's a hard fellow to read, isn't he?—, but he doesn't exactly seem shocked to hear it. Disappointed, maybe? Perhaps by just the slightest measure. Never mind that he hardly expected otherwise; there is still something inherently discouraging in having confirmation that this matter of being Tevene in the south will evidently continue to be an issue requiring purposeful navigation.

(Then again, maybe the younger man is soporati or a freeman and simply has no idea how to go about talking above his station. It's possible he has landed here as an assistant to the Ambassador simply because taking down notes and doing as he is asked comes most naturally.)

"I've written a considerable number of letters. I can probably manage to write more."

From:

"Then it's up to you. If you like the looks of an assignment, it's yours to take. Just be sure to report back when you're finished." He [indicates wherever the assignments are listed IC, idfk, it's Hope's fault probably], and rests back against his chair, arms crossed delicately with the quill still pinned between two fingers.

"There is more than writing letters, obviously." Just, you know. Start small.

From:

glossator

"One would hope," he says, attention already flitting to the aforementioned [whatever]. In fact he shifts in that direction immediately, falling to sorting through the the available pages like a large bird picking through detritus in search of something to make a nest with.

"Though I don't expect I will be anyone's first choice when it comes to forming any kind of delegation or entertaining visitors."

Or whatever else it is diplomacy does. And not would he want it to be. It is of vital important that he keep some distance from the face of this whole thing.

From:

"I'm afraid that comes with the territory." A little wince, and Benedict shifts his weight in his chair, twiddling his quill around between three fingers.

"What did you do up north?"

From:

glossator

"I'm a Chantry cleric," comes easily, volunteered without any consideration whatsoever. "My focus has primarily been in translation and composition. Archival studies, you might say." One of those nose-in-a-book type Brothers, a literal cut in the cloth scholar.

(The Vyrantium Chantry may not be the seat of the Divine, but it is well respected. Why join Diplomacy, and not Research?)

Here, having extracted a few choice items from the pile of available work, Laurentius looks up and over to Benedict.

"You?"

From:

Benedict stalls a moment to nod, abruptly wishing he hadn't asked that, or at least that he'd had the presence of mind to recognize it might be asked back of him. Chantry cleric, yes, good, very useful, an inoffensive posting. Actual work, unlike Being Rich.

"Ah... student," he hedges vaguely, never finding that it gets any easier to disclose the son of an Imperial Senator slash Venatori or purposeless layabout who couldn't tell his arse from his elbow until he was forced to via his own stupidity.

From:

glossator

"Oh? Of which trade?"

However immediately the question is produced (which is in fact exceedingly prompt, particularly when compared with Benedict's apparent hesitation), there is little in the shape of it which suggests interrogation save for the naturally fixed and shadowed point of the Chantry Brother's attention. But surely that is at least in part habitual.

Maybe.

From:

He could lie. He could lean all the way over to his father's side and claim he was learning to be a textile shipping magnate, except he paid attention to exactly zero of his father's boring lectures about trade in favor of drawing beautiful well-hung men all over the margins of his notes.
Or one might say he took the occasional note in between drawings of hunks.

So, "...politics," he admits, with the sinking feeling the full truth will be out before too long.

From:

glossator

There is a certain comedy inherent in managing to say exactly the wrong thing. Laurentius knows next to nothing about the business of textiles save the broadest of strokes, and there the line of questioning might have naturally expired. But politics—

"I have a brother in politics." Who doesn't?, seems to suggest the briefly self-deprecating tilt of his temple. "Who was it you clerked for?"

There is something in Benedict's accent that suggests he's spent time with well bred company, isn't there?

From:

Immediately realizing his mistake, Benedict resists the urge to sink lower in his chair. He just turned twenty-six; his maturation may have been in a state of arrest for some years, but he's made up for it and then some in the last few, at least so he likes to think.
What would Byerly do, is the question at the forefront of his mind, but when he knows the answer is to obfuscate the truth more maddeningly and with far more panache than he could ever hope to have, he knows the jig is up. Be brave, little idiot.

"My mother," he says, straight-backed and professional, nonetheless oozing with dread. "I didn't clerk for her. I would have inherited her seat in the Magisterium."

From:

glossator

For a split second, Brother Vesperus doesn't seem to grasp the exact meaning of that sentence—a comedic failure, given the exact facet of his chosen profession that he holds so dear. He searches Benedict's face there where the younger man sits behind his desk, split between 'I would have inherited her seat' and the absolute mortification that shows in his expression and struggling to align the two in a way which produces any actual meaning.

"You're an Altus." It sounds brusque, plain and unemotional and not like Laurentius has just blurted it out before even really considering its implications (which is definitely more in line with what he's done). "Who is your mother?"

Tactful.

From:

A single nod to confirm: yes, he's an Altus. Then, "Calpurnia Artemaeus."
This part rarely goes well, at least if the listener is familiar with his mother. Generally, she's either the most evil harpy they've ever met (justifiable), or she's the best of her kind, and Benedict is a lazy ungrateful shit for not appreciating her more.

He always hopes they've never heard of her.

From:

glossator

There, in Laurentius' craggy face, something narrows in consideration. Likely its an unconscious shift in his expression. Indeed, that jagged countenance and the deep set shape of its features is something of a blessing to a man who has never quite learned to master the small, unconscious ways it might betray him. After a moment's thoughtful study—as if Benedict were a word on a page he might decipher—, Laurentius folds the assignment he'd plucked from the stack in half and makes to tuck it into his breast pocket of his very asymmetrical and very Tevene cut coat.

"A formidable woman, if my memory holds." Presumably he could say this about most members of the Magisterium and it would hold true. Jury's still out on whether that denotes real recognition or not. "Forgive me, but I didn't expect to find her son here in the South, much less with Riftwatch."

From:

Being looked at like this is one of Benedict's least favorite things, and it's all he can do not to sink down in his chair, but even so he doesn't quite have the spine to meet Laurentius' gaze squarely.

He nods, his mouth dry, at the initial assessment: then, a shaky smirk, his gaze cutting to meet the other's. "Neither did she. Or I, for that matter."

From:

glossator

Yes, that probably holds true for most northerners that find them this far south, particularly the sort cut from the distinctly unwelcome cloth they are. Strange winds must be blamed. Or, if Laurentius is particularly interested in the study of his own navel about the whole subject, maybe they can attribute these odd turns of fortune to yet higher powers.

Even so—that doesn't exactly satisfy his curiosity. Moreover, ask anyone in Vyrantium if Brother Vesperii has any compunctions when it comes to asking potentially awkward questions.

"What on earth motivated it?"

From:

Higher powers indeed.

Benedict gives a little sigh through his nose-- it's not the first time he's had to explain this recently, but it's never his favorite topic. "Do you know of Atticus Vedici?" he asks, rubbing his temple.
Another prominent Magister from Minrathous, this one far more prolific in research and magical study than in politics.

From:

glossator

Now here is a name Brother Vesperus clearly has some familiarity with. The flicker of recognition is self evident even despite the dour and very set lines of his face.

"Only by reputation." Laurentius's own academic interests mercifully have little overlap with the Magister in question's. But he'd colleagues more compelled by similar subjects and it's the nature of academics to complain about the various barbarous heels in their fields.

"And that he was captured some time ago."

(And that no peer from that aforementioned field of study had seemed either very upset or particularly compelled to negotiate the man's rescue or release.)

From:

That recognition is enough to send a shiver of dread creeping down Benedict's spine, and he averts his eyes, abruptly wondering if saying all this was a big mistake.
But Laurentius' response quells his nerves to a degree, and he gives a slow nod to confirm.

"I was studying under him at the time. The rest of our party were Venatori, and they were killed. We were taken prisoner."

From:

glossator

"Is he an agent of Riftwatch now too?"

Would that shock him? Maybe. But maybe not. After all, they're both standing here aren't they?

From:

Benedict shakes his head with a grimace.

"He stayed with the Inquisition. We became Riftwatch not long after, but he went to Skyhold. Where, hopefully, he will remain."

From:

glossator

"I see."

The small mercies of having been so uninformed when they'd traveled South—if nothing else, he's avoided having to account for a notoriously disliked Magister while trying to accomplish his work.

"I'll admit, I'm a little surprised he was willing to surrender his student to Ambassador Rutyer. Is your family aware?"

He could hazard a guess, but why do that when I can just ask the intrusive question?

From:

The assumption catches Benedict by surprise, and he actually succumbs to a burst of laughter before he realizes Laurentius isn't in on the joke. Schooling his expression back into something more professional, he clears his throat.

"I'm, ah, not in touch with my family at present," he hedges, feeling that's probably explanation enough.

From:

glossator

There is no faint glimmer of understanding that dawns in Laurentius' bleak countenance. But presumably something does click over in his head, methodical as the ticking of a dwarven clock, for a mere moment later he says:

"Oh. You're a traitor."

—without any consideration whatsoever for the possibility that this might not be the ideal terminology for a variety of reasons.

From:

Benedict opens his mouth and closes it again. Well,

yes,

From:

glossator

"Fascinating," is a thing he actually says, out loud.

And then Brother Vesperus folds the paper his chosen assignment is written on and tucks it inside his coat's pocket with a careless crinkle of the paper.

From:

"To you, maybe," Benedict mutters, a kneejerk reaction to an awkward exchange, "...it's not really news anymore, to most. At least I don't think it is."

If the Magisterium don't know where he stands by now, they probably never will.

From:

glossator

"Oh, that's not why." It's a thoughtless check, equal parts unthinking and gentle. Once, a long time ago and before everything had gone so very sour, Brother Vesperus had probably been strangely popular in the clerical halls of Vyrantium. Isn't it always a little pleasant when someone who looks so cruel is so lackadaisical and patient with their correction?

"It's fascinating that Riftwatch has you cooped up here in an office instead of working abroad. I would have thought a Magister's son would have made a convenient tool in support of their argument. Not to imply you'd be manipulated for sport, of course."

Of course.

From:

The correction gives Benedict pause, and he blinks rapidly once, twice, before considering. That... is an interesting thought, actually.

"I've done a bit of work abroad," he admits-- and granted, his freedom depended on it, but he did it all the same-- "but I'm not... well, I don't... you could say I don't have my mother's knack for public speaking." His quill twitches in his hand. "I find it best to stay close to the Ambassador." The Ambassador whose influence is neither small nor lacking in its protections, at least within Riftwatch.

From:

glossator

"Fair enough. It probably would be dangerous work. Antiva's assassins hardly have a monopoly on the trade. Still, I would imagine there would be some benefit to—"

He stops. It's abrupt, with the comedy-adjacent cadence of someone who's run themselves into a logical wall. Laurentius's hand has wandered absently back to the pocket into which he'd stuffed that letter writing assignment, though surely the contents of the page can't be so relevant as all that. The gesture must be automatic, thoughtless.

"Is there anything else I should know? About the work, specifically."

From:

"To...?"

Benedict leans forward slightly, prompting him on and ignoring the second question, for the moment.

From:

glossator

"To?"

This, equally prompting—as if he'd said nothing a moment ago to produce this, as if Benedict's question is some stand alone participle divorced of this conversation they're having.

(All the jagged angles of Brother Vesperus's face make for a very effective blank look.)

"It's important to me that I act responsibly here," he says at last. It may or may not be an answer. "If there's anything the division requires, I will of course make some time to help. Would you tell Byerly I was here, or should I leave a message?"

From:

"Some benefit to, you said," Bene prompts, knitting his brow. Did the man not hear himself?

From:

glossator

"Oh, that. I changed my mind."

Simple.

Or he has at least changed his mind when it comes to speaking the thought in question aloud, which is very like the same thing. This notion that there may be some benefit for a member of one of the notable Tevinter mage families to be seen in support of the south's war against the Venatori, regardless of whether Benedict is a particularly able diplomat or not, implies one or two things about his own intent to keep his head well down from being at all recognized. He can hardly say the one thing without being a little bit of a hypocrite at present, so better to leave it off until he's had the opportunity to tidy up the edges of the idea a bit.

"Do you not have friends anywhere in Tevinter who you might write to?"

From:

A little scoff, and Benedict shakes his head, diverting his gaze to his desk.

"Friends-- if by that you mean other Alti sympathetic to the cause, I have no way of knowing without trying to dredge them out in front of their Venatori colleagues. ...and what is a friend, anyway."

A sycophant, a hanger-on who knows where the good parties are, a supplier of superior smoking herbs. He knows so many names, and so few true natures.

"There's House Asgard, at least, who've publicly aligned themselves with us." For all the good that's done anyone.

From:

glossator

That's hardly a ringing endorsement, is his first thought—though that too warrants sticking with some mental pin. Funnily, it's somewhat more difficult to scoff at Asgard's support of the south while physically standing in that particular bit of geography.

"Then you have no intention to return home once this is all finished, I take it?"

From:

“That depends on who’s in charge when this is all finished.” He taps the feathered end of his quill against the desk, a restless motion.
“I’ll go back if to do so doesn’t mean being a prisoner or dead.”

From:

glossator

"Do you think the southern powers will allow that?"

The line of Laurentius's eye drops to the gleam of the anchor in Benedict's palm. It isn't subtle; he isn't trying to be.

From:

Benedict follows his gaze, and curls his fingers to withdraw his hand into the safety of the space below the desk.

"I don't know."

It's a stupid thought-- he's in with them now, isn't he-- but the mere notion of being held against his will again turns his stomach and blurs the edges of his vision.

"Per...perhaps in some diplomatic capacity." It sounds more like a question than an answer.

From:

glossator

The sound Laurentius makes—'Hm'—isn't dismissive, just thoughtful. Is there some measure of skepticism contained within it? Absolutely. But surely it would be almost disrespectful not to treat that suggestion with a heavy dose of the stuff. Nobody likes a sycophant.

"Maybe so," is generous. "A little optimism certainly never hurt anyone."

From:

Perhaps one can blame it on the charged, nervous energy this conversation has imbued in Benedict, but he abruptly and irrationally finds himself loathing this man, with his noncommittal hums and his silent but obvious judgment pulsing under the surface.
He feels a compulsion to lash out at Laurentius, but stills it with a tight, joyless smile and a nod in the affirmative. A little optimism, yes. That's just the thing that's needed here.

From:

glossator

That miserable little smile prompts an answering out out of Laurentius, though his version seems markedly less taut about the edges (save perhaps what is natural given the naturally rather strict arrangement of his face). Then, with a soft pat of an exceptionally long hand to the pocket with the crinkling paper—

"When the Ambassador returns, you'll tell him that I'm at his disposal?"

From:

"Of course."
And he will, even if he'd rather not work with Laurentius closely-- ultimately, that's Byerly's decision to make.

From:

glossator

"Thank you."

Laurentius goes so far as to incline his head. It's a small thing, that little nod, and by no means equivalent to the sort of respect a Laetan ought to give the son of a Magister. But then, Laurentius Vesperus is an Imperial Chantry brother first and that would afford him some leeway even in Vyrantium, to say nothing of these far flung southern states where there are no rules and where they are both playing the role of societal cast off.

"Best of luck with the rest of your work," he says. And then, as promptly as he'd first appeared, Laurentius swings for the door and makes his exit.

From:

armd

(Surreptitiously,) Benedict. Do we gossip?

From:

[Almost instantly,]

do we.

From:

armd

... I don't know, that's why I'm asking.

From:

That was rhetorical.
We do.

From:

armd

Then just say that we do. (Oh my god.

Wait, she didn't message just to argue with him.) Forget it-

You like guys. (Spoken as a statement, seeking confirmation,) What do you think about Flint.

From:

Have you never heard of-- [oh my god, it's called enthusiasm, maybe try it sometime,] -- Flint?

[Well that was a mighty derail. He falls completely silent for a moment.] ...what about him?

Edited (icon) Date: 2023-03-12 11:35 pm (UTC)

From:

armd

(Patiently,) Do you think he's hot. Be honest.

From:

Oh.

[A long pause. Then, haltingly,]

well. Yes, obviously.

From:

armd

(A breath out,) Yeah. Obviously.

(Okay.)

Same.

From:

It’s just—

[No, maybe it’s best not to say anything.]

From:

armd

(Curiously,) Just what?

From:

Well, he's...

[Terrifying. Best avoided for personal health reasons. Short.]

...we go back a bit, I guess you could say. [He quickly adds,] not like that.

From:

armd

Ohh, okay. (You could say.) You gonna tell me more...?

From:

I’d rather not, if I’m being honest.

From:

armd

(pshh) You're no fun.

Fine: your turn.

From:

Look, it’s just not a time I enjoy remembering—

[oh, his turn. hm.]

Kostos.

From:

armd

Kostos?

Why?

From:

I dunno. [He’s amused by her incredulity.]

Imagine being the person who makes him stop scowling.

…or scowl more.

From:

armd

Huh. (That's– yeah. Okay.

She makes a non-committal noise.) I don't think anybody is gonna make him stop scowling though.

From:

Doesn't mean it wouldn't be worth trying.

[At least if Kostos didn't seem to loathe him-- but to be fair, Kostos sort of seems to loathe most people.]

From:

armd

Agree to disagree.

(And moving on,) Byerly. (She's saying this to mess with Benedict; we'll see what happens.)

From:

[with terrible affront,] Oh, no.

From:

armd

Don't you think he's got a kind of... hot dad appeal– (She rapidly loses composure as she says it, ending in burst of giggles.)

From:

Ugh!! No!

[He pivots quickly to end his suffering.]

Jude.

From:

armd

(Underneath his protests,) I think it's the moustache!

(Anyway.

After she's stopped laughing:) Sure.

From:

Just “sure”? Have you seen Jude?

From:

armd

Yeah, (obviously,) I just- don't think of him like that.

(He is friendzoned.)

From:

Well that’s where you’ve got it wrong.

From:

armd

Oh, uh huh. Wanna enlighten me?

From:

Not thinking of him like that.

But if you've lost your mind, I understand. It happens to people sometimes.

From:

armd

Wow, okay.

I haven't, he- (how to explain this,) is obviously hot, I have eyes. He helped me out with some stuff, that's all. We're friends.

From:

And?

[since when has being friends stopped anyone, geeze]

From:

armd

(Ignoring him and changing the subject and being mean about it,) Gwenaëlle.

From:

Nah.

[He pauses as he thinks. Then, because he needs revenge for Byerly (and they’re on girls now, apparently):]

Ellie.

From:

armd

(Smoothly,) Nope.

(But nice try.) Yseult.

From:

[Another pause that feels a bit fraught somehow, like with Flint; he endures it this time.]

You get that I’m not into women, right?

From:

armd

... Yes, I know, but if I can think people are objectively hot so can you. Don't be a baby.

From:

Don't tell me what to do. [or what not to be, in this case]

The Provost.

From:

armd

Ha.

From:

Ha?

From:

armd

He doesn't like me.

From:

Really?

[time to be a hypocrite,] why?

From:

armd

He knows what happened between me and Ellie. Guess he picked a side.

From:

What did happen between you and Ellie?

[He's trying not to sound too curious, but: dish, bitch]

From:

armd

(Pause.)

I don't mind telling you, (this is honest,) but it's fucked up.

From:

[Say what one will about Benedict, he can read a room (most of the time). Abby's sincerity inspires some from him in turn, perceptible in how all wryness is gone when he says:]

Go on.

From:

armd

(Oh boy.

Okay:) I hunted down and killed somebody she loved. She didn't see... all of it, but she was there when I ended it.

From:

...oh.

[Well that's a little more than the standard drama one expects from This Kind Of Woman.]

Shit.

[He's silent for a long moment, then:]

Why?

From:

armd

(Tonelessly,) Because he murdered my dad.

(So. There you go.)

From:

Oh.

[Another pause.]

There are worse reasons.
...I think.

From:

armd

Probably.

(She feels weird now.

Impulsively,) D'you wish you didn't ask.

From:

What?

[He hesitates, but:]

No.

From:

armd

... Okay.

(She's trusting him, here.)

From:

[Her trust isn't misplaced, despite how it may seem.]

It's fine.

People do bad shit to each other sometimes.

From:

armd

(Abby laughs. He says it so plainly it sounds insane.)

I don't want people 'taking sides'. (The thought sickens her, really.) But- people keep coming to start shit with me. This doesn't happen to her.

From:

You’ve got a toughness about you. They’re probably trying to prove something to themselves by picking a fight.

From:

armd

Maybe. (But she can see what he's trying to do.) Thanks.

(... Actually, it's suspicious.) You're being kinda nice to me.

From:

[oh no ew]

Uh, and… you dress like a mud farmer.

From:

armd

(Much better!) As if that's a real thing.

From:

It's Ferelden's primary export.

From:

armd

Har har.

(On that note, and because she's back in menace mode,) Edgard.

From:

You know?

[attack parried.]

Not the worst, if convinced to bathe.

From:

armd

I do know. Unfortunately.

From:

[With a gasp of delight:]

You do?

From:

armd

... No. Not like that!

(YIKES) He told me about you!

From:

[a long silence follows. the temperature drops somehow, despite this being over crystal.]

he what.

Edited Date: 2023-03-20 03:59 am (UTC)

From:

armd

(uh oh?

Abby senses that she should stress,) He didn't want to, it was back when we all had that fucking soup and told people the truth.

From:

[That's,

a little less bad. But not Not bad.]

What did he say?

From:

armd

(Thinking back...)

He said you fucked. And that I shouldn't tell you he told me. (Pay no attention to the man behind the 6'1'' woman, it's all HER fault)

From:

We didn't fuck,

[he sounds furious.]

I--

--made him take a bath and then I blew him, and he should be grateful for having had the privilege.

From:

armd

(Oh wow.)

... That's fucking. You do understand that's fucking, right.

From:

No it's not??

[Look, he has a whole complex built around this, he's the expert.]

Fucking is fucking.

From:

armd

If somebody came it's fucking.

From:

[He's getting upset. Why is he getting upset? That's not a question he's able to sensibly examine at present, because he's upset.]

Fuck you, [he snaps instead, and turns off his crystal. Sorry Abby.]

From:

And lo, the pitter-patter of tiny feet was heard throughout the Diplomacy office. No, it's not Bring Your Kid To Work Day, it's just Vandelin.

He's here with the intention of introducing himself to whoever's taken over the division in the years since he's last been here, and seeing as it has been years, he's not necessarily expecting any familiar faces--not a situation he likes to find himself in, dealing with the unfamiliar in any way, but needs must.

Unless the first face he sees is a familiar one. Then, Van might allow himself to look slightly, visibly pleased.

"Benedict? Aren't you a sight for sore eyes." Sore, very large eyes.

From:

It's early, sleep has been bad lately, and sometimes the only way one can manage to stay awake through the dragging morning hours (without Byerly, who's still abed, sniping at him from over at his desk) is to doodle and hope for something more interesting to come along.

Something more interesting does come along, and Benedict almost doesn't hear him enter, his head too clouded with fatigue; but the sound of his name makes him sit bolt upright and slide the drawing off his desk with practiced agility, the very picture of a lazy student who's just been called on.
It's only when he sees who did the calling that he stops, blinking with a look of honest surprise.

"Vandelin," he says stupidly, his mind still struggling to catch up with his eyes.

From:

Van had been mostly unconcerned about the prospect of his erstwhile sorta-kinda-maybeish apprentice not recognizing him, but the confirmation that Bene does is appreciated anyway. His smile grows, faintly.

"Looks like you've done well for yourself."

This is not as surprising to Vandelin as it might be. Benedict's status had been trending slowly upward when he'd left, and Van remains unaware as yet of anything that would have happened to change that, so it stands to reason that as long as he's still here, he ought to have a solid job. The 'still here' part is where the surprise would come in, if Van were someone who would ever in a million years show surprise in company.

From:

The smile is returned, and is oddly a little sheepish in doing so, but any trepidation Benedict feels isn't enough to outweigh his relief at the sight of a familiar face. A familiar friendly face, or as close to one as there was before a specific era of his life.

"You might say so," he says evasively, immediately shifting from his hand-in-the-cookie-jar surprise to his more characteristic preening, always easily buttered up or at least appearing to be so. "Are you back with us for good? It's been a while."

From:

"That's the plan," says Van amiably.

Only with someone he gets along with--and that familiar look on Bene's face does bring back memories, tinged with fondness--would he even let on that it's not a done deal already, implying as that does that Riftwatch might not take him back or something, or that Van's decision to manifest something might not make it law.

"Who'd be the one to speak with about that, these days?"

About getting his foot back in the door with Diplomacy, specifically. Bene does seem to be the one to ask, or why else would he be at the desk?

From:

"Depends on what you're going for," Bene replies, folding his hands in prim mockery of a businesslike posture, "...but if it's Diplomacy, then Byerly. Once he's awake." The corners of his mouth tug upward slightly-- whether or not he's remarking on his boss' habits is not for anyone present to determine.

"That might be a while. In the meantime, you're welcome to hang around. Have a coffee. Do you drink coffee?" Turning to his own cup, Benedict lifts it invitingly, arching his eyebrows. "I could make you one."

From:

"I was thinking of Forces this time around, actually. You remember how they were all just clamoring to win me over."

Vandelin has no idea, actually, whether the demographics of that division have shifted away from 'multiple templars with particular reasons to hate him' or if it's still just about the same, but Benedict's certainly heard enough of Van's disdainful commentary about it in years past.

But this does not preclude him from appreciating some gentle ribbing of the diplomats he actually does want to join. The name, he thinks, is familiar, even if he can't put a face to it--but he'll keep that much to himself, wanting to seem a bit less out of touch. If Byerly does ring any bells once Van actually sees him, then he can just pretend to have known that all along.

"But coffee would be wonderful. Much obliged. It's been ages since I had any."

From:

The wrinkling of Benedict's nose communicates all he has to say on that matter, as he flashes Van a look that suggests he hopes he's joking-- but there are more pressing things at hand.

"Come on then," he says in his lofty way, rising from his desk and picking up his own cup, casting a cursory glance behind him at the still-unoccupied main Diplomacy office, just to make sure he isn't just missing the Ambassador. More coffee is never a problem, anyway.

"Unless you'd prefer to wait here." The world has truly turned upside down, if Benedict Artemaeus is heading to the kitchen to make something. For someone else.

From:

Van, too, cranes his neck a little--not standing on tiptoe, of course, because he would sooner die than admit to being too small to see over Bene's shoulder--to see if there's anyone in that room or any information to be gleaned from what's in his field of vision. There is not.

But stranger and more miraculous things are occurring, and now he actually does arch his eyebrows with visible surprise. Who is this new and helpful creature wearing Benedict's unfairly pretty face?

"Where would the fun be in that?" He follows, at his own unhurried and short-legged pace. "Clearly there's a great deal I've missed. I don't remember this division being quite such a well-oiled machine when I left."

From:

"I suppose you could rifle through our documents. And sell them to... I don't know. Wherever you've been." He strolls out of the office and into the hall, moving toward the stairs-- the many, many stairs-- so they can begin their long descent to the kitchen.

"Where have you been?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder to fix Vandelin with an inquisitive look, "it's been an age." A dragon one, even.

From:

"Hasmal."

Which says quite a bit, just in and of itself, about why it's taken him so long to get back. Vandelin is still enough of a diplomat to feel that it sounds rude to leave it at that, though, when the shortness of it could sound pointed in light of Benedict's origins, and he doesn't mean it to be.

Or at least, not for that reason. In the alienage, he would say to most other people without shame, but something holds him back now from being so frank about it. For all the things that are mostly water under the bridge between him and Benedict, there are a few rocks still lurking to poke holes in the bottoms of boats.

"With family," he settles on, which is saying pretty much the same thing anyway. "Never a dull moment with a new little magelet in the house."

From:

That does say quite a bit, and if Benedict hadn't spent the last couple years in the Diplomacy mines, schooling himself in the correct behavior to not start international incidents, he might have hitched a step.
He does remain silent for a moment, measuring his answer, and finally decides to settle for "I'm sorry." Then, "a baby? Or someone manifested?"

From:

The apology gets an it's all right sort of hand gesture, which Van actually means. Anything Benedict could do to counteract the sins of his countrymen, he already seems to be doing.

"My nephew," he says, which doesn't necessarily answer the question, and then, "He nearly burned the damned house down after a nightmare," which does. "You know how it goes."

This, he's realizing, is one of the things he's missed most in the past several years--having other adult mages to talk to, people he can say things like that to and know they'll simply be understood.

From:

"Ah," Bene intones, "of course."

Of course, kind of; it's a rather different environment in Altus families, where one is coaxed into doing magic as early as possible, to ensure that one can. No accidental fires in Minrathous, at least among the upper class.
But now doesn't seem like the time to point that out.

"What brings you back to Riftwatch's loving embrace?"

From:

Benedict not pointing that out would be all the proof Van needs that he's a good asset to the division, but the fact goes over Van's head entirely and he remains oblivious. Which is, in itself, proof that Bene is pretty good at the diplomacy thing now.

"Well," he says, "tutoring is well and good, but I thought Riftwatch's embrace might appreciate a bit more firepower." Or hellish, entropic deathpower. As one does.

"So here I am, doing my bit for the war effort. But what about you? You've been here all along, haven't you? How's that gone? What have you been up to?"

From:

Byerly would be so proud.

"Heheh," comes a stupid little chuckle-- firepower, Kirkwall, look it's a whole thing-- but Bene's thrown off by Vandelin's next question, to which he still doesn't have a properly diplomatic answer that will both sate curiosity and prevent further questioning.

"Uh," he stalls, suddenly fascinated by the wall of the stairwell, "this and that. Mostly working for Byerly since after I..." Awkward pause, "...took a break." Great job. A+

From:

prelest

Hello. Is this Benedict Artemaeus?

From:

[with mild trepidation,]

Yes. Who's this?

From:

prelest

[ Oh, he sounds like a little mouse, doesn't he? ]

Nina. Don't worry; I don't bite.

From:

[A little snort. All right.]

What can I do for you?

From:

prelest

You speak Tevene, right?

From:

I certainly do.

Are you looking to learn it?

From:

prelest

I certainly am! Do you have time?

From:

We have open tutoring sessions on [mumble] evenings, if you'd like to attend. Plenty of reading materials. Sometimes Brother Vesperus is there. [is that a selling point? it's... well it's a point]

From:

prelest

I’m not really looking to learn how to read it.

From:

Oh.

Well.

[He's momentarily thrown off.]

...I mean you should, if you want to speak it, but-- I can help.

From:

prelest

Oh, well - Sorry. I should say that I will learn to read it, of course, but that's the easy part. So you'll meet with me?

From:

Ah... yes.

[He sounds a bit flustered, like he just got bait-and-switched into something before he knew what was happening.]

Sure.

From:

prelest

Are you available today?

From:

--sure.

[His first impulse was to find an excuse to not be available, but one must overcome one's instinctive fear of girls at some point in one's life.]

From:

prelest

Right now?

From:

[A pause. He almost caves. But no, Benedict, you're an adult, you're a professional, you do not have to cave to every request just because it was made.]

In a few hours...?

From:

prelest

[ Pity. People who cave to every request are so easy. ]

Seven o'clock!

From:

Seven o'clock. [There, that's kind of a victory wasn't it?

And he's there on the dot, in the designated Vint Study Table of the library, reading a scroll with his chin resting prettily atop one curled hand.]

From:

prelest

[ Nina comes in a few minutes after the dot. She is, it must be said, a lot. She's tall; her figure fills out - nearly spills out of - the Riftwatch uniform; her hair bounces in tumbling chestnut waves; her manner is bustling and energetic. Her voice isn't soft. Her gaze is direct. Even her scent is striking. ]

Avanna, Benedict Quintus Artemaeus.

[ And she bows, a fairly decent approximation of a respectful Tevinter greeting. ]

From:

[She's a lot of the things Benedict has learned to fear in anyone, not just women, but he holds her gaze with a polite-if-slightly-anxious air.]

Nina, [he confirms, realizing he never caught her surname, if she has one. He rises and inclines his head, the picture of well-bred gentility.]

From:

prelest

[ He's a pretty lad. Looks like he knows it, too. This makes her feel better; if he were truly timid and retiring, she'd feel a bit bad about pushing him around. ]

Is that the right term of address? All three names?

From:

Ah... just Benedict is fine.

[It is sort of funny that she included the Quintus, which is usually reserved for family and formal situations. It must've been recorded somewhere on his arrival to Riftwatch.]

We're not in Tevinter, anyway.

From:

prelest

Well, no.

[ Admittedly. ]

But I'm looking to learn how it would be in Tevinter.

From:

I suppose.

Intending to infiltrate high society there? [His smile is wry.]

From:

prelest

[ Flirtatiously: ]

Wouldn't you let me through the door?

From:

[His laugh is a little awkward, a little surprised, a little mean. Oh, honey.]

--sure, [he covers, something about the Tevinter High Society discussion activating his (albeit very weak) cloaking mechanism.]

From:

bouchonne

[ At some point, after learning of Byerly's death, Benedict will have to go through his desk to get his affairs in order. And so he'll find a sealed letter, tucked away in a locked drawer that only Byerly and Benedict had the keys to. The sealed letter is addressed to Benedict himself. It's not long, and is written in a handsome but rather careless cursive. ]

Artemaeus -

Given the danger we face in this organization, it seems to me useful to write down a few instructions for if I am incapacitated or killed. Please take these as suggestions rather than commands, as I am sure that the best course of action will depend on the precise circumstances; let your judgment be your guide, as it has proven of late to be quite a sound source of counsel to you.

1. Bastien will make a fine interim Head of Diplomacy, but I would ask that you not make him the permanent head, as the position would stifle his sense of joy. I suspect, in the longer term, that Seeker Hart would be the best true candidate for replacement; however, she may be a politically delicate choice, as her position as Seeker may be disliked by the mage contingent. Work to lay the groundwork amongst them for her election.

2. You know where I keep my lists of outstanding issues and priorities we must tackle next. Do not forget about that list, and use it to guide work for the next month or so.

3. I know that I am not there to protect you any longer. I believe that you have proven yourself worthy of trust amongst the other Division Heads, and that they will not do you any harm. If, however, you find that this is not the case, you may actually be able to turn Flint into a strange sort of ally. Go to him and tell him that you are a strong believer in the liberation of the slaves of Tevinter and that this had been a project you and I had been working on. You'll find more details of my plans in my quarters. He cares deeply for this cause, and he may well overlook his dislike of you if you prove to be important to furthering it.

4. If that does not suffice, and you believe yourself to be in danger from the others, you can seek refuge with my sister. Her name is Nadine Rutyer Elsworth, and she resides in Gwaren. She knows of you and knows to expect you. She will give you everything she has, but consider this a strict order that you are not to allow her to give you everything she has; I expect you to take up a profession to assist in supporting her and her family. Your clerkship skills are certainly more than sufficient to earn you work.

5. If Bastien has died with me, I will ask that you look after Whiskey. She likes a bit of pumpkin as a treat.

Be well. It has been a pleasure to watch you grow from the boy you were into the man you are. You will be fine.

From:

From:

katabasis

No one has died, and so eventually Gallows settles back into its more ordinary cadence of weekly meetings and dispatches, cycling rota assignments, and packets of paper shuttling between one desk to another with somewhat alien efficiency. For all the urgency that itches at the back of the neck, no one is really behind in the way it feels like they ought to be—those weeks of being short staffed and working double- or triple- duty having happened to other people, in some other place, in some other time.

And so there is no reason whatsoever for Commander Flint to manifest in the Diplomacy antechamber and not simply pass directly into the office beyond without so much as a glance spared for Byerly's assistant cringing behind his desk.

Instead, he stops just inside the forward chamber. He doesn't bother to draw the door shut behind him, and the looming point of his attention swings with dread weight in Benedict's very direction.

"Artemaeus."

From:

Benedict doesn't always look up immediately when someone enters, especially when he's particularly invested in what he's doing. This is one of those times, but the sound of his name being spoken by That Voice is enough to stop his quill mid-scribble, and he remains frozen for a long moment before turning only his head to regard the Commander.

He doesn't say anything, but there is a flicker of his gaze toward the back office as he realizes that Byerly isn't here, and if this goes poorly nobody will know how he died.

From:

katabasis

Which is when Flint reaches back for the door, and draws it firmly shut behind him.

From:

Benedict begins to fumble for his crystal, grasping the chain in his fist while still watching Flint.

From:

katabasis

"Leave that." He's a sturdy man, James Flint, but there's something plenty agile in how he prowls forward from the office threshold to close in on Benedict's desk. "You and I are going to have a conversation."

If there's a chair on this side of the desk, he doesn't bother with it. Instead, coming to stand across from where Benedict is sat, Flint helps himself first to one of the blank sheets of parchment ready for an assistant's quill, and then to the quill itself (presuming Artemaeus had dropped it in his haste to go scrambling after the crystal's chain).

Flint dips it in the waiting inkwell. Scrapes the excess ink from the nib.

"You can start with a list of names. Your mother's associates in the Magisterium, and their children."

From:

Drawing himself up tightly as though in anticipation of violence, Benedict leans away from Flint in his quick approach, flinching with the usual instinctive, gut-clenching terror that the man invariably brings out in him.

But as the parchment and quill are presented, he hesitates a moment, staring down at them like he can’t quite believe what’s happening.

Is that all?

He accepts the pen delicately, taking a deep breath and steadily pressing it back out as he regains composure, straightens, remembers who he is.

“You could’ve just asked, ser,” he says, a prim veneer over what nerves still remain. The nib is set to paper.

From:

katabasis

The pivot of Flint's attention from page to Benedict's face is so knife sharp that it's a wonder the younger man's insides don't spontaneously become his outsides all over the desk. Are you really giving him cheek right now, you miserable little shit?

"Write."

From:

Benedict flinches accordingly, but doesn't collapse into a keening heap, not this time.

"I am writing," he says with the same haughtiness, despite how his hand shakes, "ser." And he is: he's even made a header for the part of the list he's working on now, which is SENATORS.

From:

katabasis

Good. So he won't mind if Flint settles in, palms flattening on the desk and weight seating forward across his shoulder so he might lean in loomingly across the desk.

The width of him casts a grim shadow over Benedict's work. He lets him proceed like that for a number of trembling lines, before—

(A name, familiar to his own eye maybe, materializes on the page.)

"How did you spend your summers in Tevinter, Artemaeus?" This is presumably not pleasant chit chat with which to pass the time.

From:

What a question. There are so many possible ways to answer it, all of which might contain traps, but apart from waxing nostalgic about all the slaves he mistreated, Benedict isn’t necessarily confident of where it’s going.

“…sunbathing,” he mumbles, with a wrinkle of his nose as he continues the list, “swimming. Parties. What anyone does when the weather’s hot.” Anyone within a certain socioeconomic tier, anyway, but it’s the information he has.

From:

katabasis

"In whose company? At which of these family estates?"

He gestures to the list with a faint tip of the temple, though the point of his attention remains fixed on the younger man.

From:

Fleetingly, Benedict meets Flint's eyes. He takes care not to look too insolent, which is easier said than done-- he just has one of those faces-- but with the faintest of rolls, he looks back down at the list.

"Vedici," he says, "Atticus is already over at Skyhold. His son Octavius is..." a little dweeb, "probably not a threat." He continues to scan down the list, occasionally reading off a name if he recalls spending time with them-- there's the obligate inclusion of Pavus, Asgard, and Florus, even if they're likely less of a threat.

"I wasn't close to any of them," he murmurs, sounding a little embarrassed.

From:

katabasis

"Your mother will have no doubt burned whatever ties you had even if you were," sounds like I don't give a fuck. What does he care how miserably unpopular Artemaeus may have been inside the Imperium?

"You will have spent enough time in someone's company to have blackmail, or to know their vices, or to remember the layout of the estate grounds regardless. That's what you're to include in this list."

He punctuates it by jabbing a finger at the paper.

"I want to know every detail you can remember about every one of these families your mother has been aligned with. Understood?"

From:

Benedict is mid-word when Flint jabs at the paper, and it startles him enough to throw off his stroke, blotting onto the page. He frowns at it, and, as much as he dares, at Flint.

"Understood, ser," he says in a low voice, but his shoulders are tensed in the manner of a bristling cat, ready to flee but prepared to swat first.

"You could have just asked me," he says again, trace amounts of firmness in the quiet words, "I'm not a hostage." (anymore)

From:

katabasis

Stood above him, the urge to lay a hand on the scruff of Benedict's neck and give him a firm shake is so strong as to be nearly overpowering. What a little bastard he is, shrinking in every time except in the one he shouldn't.

Instead, Flint lays both hands flat on the desk. The rings on his fingers glint dully in the lamplight until the reflected light is swallowed up by the slanting of his shoulder as he leans forward over the desk's edge.

"Have this report sent to my office first thing tomorrow."

From:

Jaw clenched, Benedict forces his gaze up to meet Flint's. "It'll be done, ser," he says quietly through gritted teeth, his fingers curled onto the quill in a death grip.

From:

katabasis

Flint challenges the audacity of that eye contact for a long, crackling moment, leaned forward still to cast a long shadow across the desk, and the page, and the younger man in the chair opposite.

On the subject of summer games in the Imperium, there is a particular sport put on for spectators in the southern territories which involve a black Marothian lion and youths armed with only short hasta. For those with a delicate stomach, it's the sort of entertainment best viewed from high enough in the stands that the bloodshed is reduced to pretty colors. The lion often wins the game. That said, it's no bull. After two or three kills, the lion tends to grow bored with pursuit. It's entirely possible for a youth in possession of no skill with a spear whatsoever to survive or even win the game. He or she only has to keep out of the animal's teeth for longer than his or her compatriots.

So. With a rasp of metal ring bands across the desk's surface, Flint draws his hands away. He straightens. Then, short the usual pleasantries one might excuse themself with, he simply leaves.

From:

All the while Benedict's every muscle is tensed, his inner dialog a muddle of fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, and of course he blinks first-- or rather, cuts his eyes away momentarily, in the instant before Flint seems to accept his victory and takes his leave.

This results in an audible sigh, all the breath leaving Benedict's lungs as he's tempted to collapse right there on the desk. Instead, he draws himself up one last time to mouth FUCK YOU at the closed door in a silent shout, both middle fingers extended to the aether.

From:

bouchonne

[ One day, when Byerly comes into the office, he has an unusual air of awkwardness. Not dreadfully so, but - he gives an impression of faint discomfort. ]

Artemaeus.

[ - he greets, voice light. ]

From:

[Benedict looks up at him, pleasantly enough, but Byerly's expression incites tension in his own. If one listens closely, they can hear the klaxons beginning to sound in his mind.

Of all the words to describe Byerly Rutyer, awkward doesn't tend to be one.]

Edited Date: 2023-09-27 10:45 pm (UTC)

From:

bouchonne

Coffee?

[ Whatever is causing that discomfort, he evidently isn't in any great rush to explain it. He settles at his desk and awaits his morning (early afternoon) brew, reaching into his inbox for his pile of work. ]

From:

[It successfully snaps Benedict out of his worry, at least for the moment, but gone is the boy who’d scramble to run downstairs and make a new pot: there’s already a carafe waiting on a warming glyph, and Bene rises to go deposit into the waiting mug.
He makes it the way Byerly likes (a cooling glyph bears the pitcher of cream) and comes over to set it on his desk, offering an unsubtle once-over, but offers no commentary.

Everyone’s been through a lot lately. Acting weird is the status quo.]

From:

bouchonne

[ There is, Byerly reflects, no putting it off. No cowardice. So, before Benedict walks away, he says - ]

Hold on, Artemaeus; I'd like a moment of your time. Please sit.

From:

[Benedict pauses mid-step, his shoulders seizing with tension again, and instead of returning to his desk he comes to sink into the chair across from Byerly's.

His eyes search Byerly's face, frenetic and nervous; this isn't the way the Ambassador talks when something good has happened.]

From:

bouchonne

Oh, calm down. You look like you're about to shit a brick.

[ That's profane enough that this clearly isn't that bad. But still - there's that awkward air. He fiddles momentarily with his pen, a smile on his lips, and says - ]

So - I've come to a bit of a decision.

From:

[The phrasing is enough to bring a familiar wrinkle to Benedict's nose, a common reaction to when Byerly gets especially vulgar, but no actual admonition is given. It's part of their rapport: Byerly says something rude, Benedict gives him the stinkeye, they move on.

He doesn't chime in, too tongue-tied with anticipation to get lippy or try to hurry things along, but his expression becomes slightly more imploring. Out with it, please.]

From:

bouchonne

[ Fine, fine. ]

I've decided to step down as head of Diplomacy. Go back to being an ordinary diplomat.

From:

[The words land, and they're neither better nor worse than Benedict was anticipating: well, all right, maybe a little better, in that nobody's dying or being fired. A silence settles between them as he processes it, no doubt trying to determine whether to panic and exactly how much. So far, he holds off.]

Why? [he asks, and the word isn't as accusatory as it might be; it's spoken quietly, almost in the same tone that someone might say 'are you all right'.]

From:

bouchonne

I died.

[ His smile is crooked, and wry, and there's a bit of pain in it, too. ]

And it made me realize that - Well, I don't want to spend all my time in this world doing something I hate. And I have been unselfish for several years, now, and think I've earned the right to selfishness again.

From:

[As easily as he sneered before, Benedict mirrors the smile that's flashed his way, even if it dwindles shortly after. Recent events put a lot of things in perspective; one of which, as much as he might have hated to admit it not too long ago, is that Byerly is important to him. That he cares about his happiness.

But still: there are other factors to consider.]

What does this mean? [he continues in a low, controlled, tone: he's still working to keep panic at bay, because growing empathy doesn't make his position any more precarious. He's not going to pick a fight about it-- and he's not getting clapped in irons and hauled away, so perhaps catastrophizing won't help anything, tempting though it may be.]

From:

bouchonne

What you want it to mean.

[ He looks at Benedict. ]

If there's one thing that's been made clear, it's that you don't need my protection any more. When I was gone, no one did a thing against you. You've been a steady and loyal member of this organization for years now - no one is interested in persecuting you.

From:

[The subtle shifting of Benedict’s eyes indicates this might not be entirely true, as he sees it, but he doesn’t argue: he’s got it handled, or something. He’ll figure it out.

More importantly, and with a discomfort that manifests itself as haughty:]

You’re not leaving, are you?

[He looks stuck up because he always does, but the question contains far more than judgment.]

From:

bouchonne

[ Ah. Byerly is taken aback by the way that question is asked, enough that he's not terribly discreet. He says: ]

Would it upset you if I did?

[ - but it's not mocking or cruel. For once, it's a genuine question. ]

From:

[Bene’s expression doesn’t change, but his gaze flicks to Byerly and away. He nods.]

From:

bouchonne

[ Well, what the fuck. By smooths down his mustache and answers, evenly as he can: ]

No. It is not my intention to leave. There's still a war to be fought, after all.

From:

[The faintest of smiles twitches onto the corner of his mouth, but he schools it into a more serious expression.]

And you’ll still, [he begins, but stops the question before he can ask it. Too pathetic, abort,]

From:

bouchonne

[ This, he can't imagine the end of. ]

Still...? What?

From:

[Foiled.
He looks down and away, holding onto what little poise he can maintain in this moment.]

…talk to me, [he mumbles.

It’s been years, and they’ve spent almost every day together in some capacity. Suddenly not having Byerly around sounds strange. Sad.]

From:

bouchonne

[ Maker. What to do with this? Byerly has been accustomed, all his life, to people finding ways to avoid talking to him. Never once has he heard someone express an anxiety that he'd go away - only ever anxiety that he wouldn't go away.

What a strange life it is, he reflects, that he has come to lead. ]

I suppose that depends.

[ His voice is light, and far from unkind. ]

Do you have any intention of becoming a bore?

From:

[Benedict almost laughs, but at the last moment he uses the opportunity to look offended and disgusted instead. A bore? Him?

It's a joke.]

From:

bouchonne

Then you have your answer. Besides, we’ll still be working together.

[ A little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. ]

If you stay on as assistant, you may even end up my superior.

From:

Perish the thought.

[Bene's smile returns, but goes a bit strange: he's not sure he wants to see that happen. Historically, he doesn't lend himself well to outranking people.

But no need to borrow trouble from the future, maybe it won't happen.]

What will you do instead?

From:

bouchonne

Be a diplomat like any other.

[ He shrugs. ]

Be a bit more dissolute, a bit more scandalous. Rub elbows with less respectable company.

From:

More scandalous, [Benedict remarks with a smirk,] how will you find the energy?

From:

bouchonne

My dear lad!

[ He seems affronted at this question. ]

I have been scandal-free for going on four years now. Or close enough to scandal-free. I wouldn't even have to try to be more scandalous than I have been. If anything, it shall be like releasing a muscle that has been clenched for far too long.

From:

Well, [fondly,] Maker help us all.

From:

bouchonne

Mm.

[ His fingertips give a faint sense of awkwardness as he fiddles with his pen. ]

So you are...all right with this?

From:

[Bene's smile dwindles into a more introspective set of the mouth, his brow furrowing self-consciously.]

I have to be, don't I?

From:

bouchonne

Not necessarily.

[ The awkwardness grows just a bit. ]

You can, in fact, forbid it. If you so choose. I - will not leave you without protection if you truly feel you must have it.

From:

[The incredulous look Byerly receives is genuine this time: Benedict fully doesn't know what to do with that kind of... what, control? Power over Byerly, of all people?

He shakes his head slightly, uneasily.]

...I don't keep slaves anymore. [he's not going to forbid anything, damn]

Edited Date: 2023-10-10 10:11 pm (UTC)

From:

bouchonne

[ That extremely raw line gets a mildly impressed look from Byerly. ]

All right. Then to phrase it a bit more gently: your disapproval is of consequence to me. I care.

From:

I know.

[The corner of his mouth twitches up in a sheepish smirk, which goes away just as quickly.]

But who would that benefit? Even if I could make you stay in the role, I couldn’t make you like it. I can’t… be responsible for that.

[He squares his shoulders.]

And besides, I don’t think you’d ever forgive me.

From:

bouchonne

[ That earns a furrowed brow. ]

That would be an idiotic thing to hold a grudge over. It would be my choice.

From:

Your choice to operate according to my whims? Even if we both knew you’d be unhappy?

[He pauses, then, furrowing his brow right back,]

Byerly, why would you ever do that.

From:

bouchonne

Because I desire to be of service, I suppose.

[ That's glib, surface-level. Easier than something more personal and true. ]

From:

That’s stupid.

From:

bouchonne

[ An easy shrug. ]

Is it? Do you have no concept of service amongst the Alti? No noblesse oblige, as the Orlesians say?

From:

[A pause. Then,]

it’s stupid to do it for me.

From:

bouchonne

Oh, come now.

[ It’s not malicious, this teasing. It’s clearly well-intentioned. ]

Where’s that preening narcissist I know and love? Where did he go?

From:

[Bene’s smile is genuine, even if there’s a bit of tension at its corners.]

Death by a thousand cuts, I think, [he says softly, uncertainly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to joke about it— you know, personal growth forced by bucketloads of trauma.]

I miss him a little. He always knew what to do. [ugh, principles]

From:

bouchonne

Hmm.

[ From Byerly's smile, he certainly approves of that sort of joking. ]

Well, you'll get that back. It's like learning to speak a new language, you know - you start out clumsy at first.

From:

I do know.

[But it has gotten easier, all told.]

...I'll miss you around the office. Assuming I'm permitted to stay.

From:

bouchonne

[ It's a sweet sentiment. By relaxes just a bit, accepting that he does indeed have permission to do this selfish thing. ]

I'll be in, now and again. On the other side of the desk.

From:

I'll still make you coffee.

...if you ask nicely. [he is being a little shit on purpose]

From:

dissolving

Cedric is shuffled to a few places before the Personnel Office. A bath wasn't one of them. It's been a long week - a longer campaign - and he wears half the road between Kirkwall and the Silent Plains when he crunches in.

"Hello?" Hands folded behind his back. "I was sent for an Artemaeus?"

Hard not to feel naked, unarmed and unarmored and still reporting for duty. Didn't he have a nightmare like this? The one where all his teeth fell out -

Edited Date: 2024-02-06 03:47 am (UTC)

From:

The desk looks empty when he first comes in, because its occupant is ducking behind it to sort through a pile of homeless parchment and scrolls. He doesn’t realize anyone is there until Cedric speaks, and then Benedict sits bolt upright, barely avoiding banging his head on the surface.

“Hello,” he says with an air of intense confirmation— “yes, that’s me.” A quick toss of his head, and he straightens out his shoulders, pushing his hair back in an unconsciously posh rearrangement of his person. It’s important to make a good impression.

From:

dissolving

Definitely the teeth one.

"Blessed day," Funny, to see your manner mirrored. His own hair is carefully arranged over mangled ear. It took the better work of five flights. "Any more stairs and you'd be arranging a funeral."

Cedric smiles, squints back. That accent's Tevene, but a Carsus can hardly quibble.

"Just joined up, and I heard you're the man to see." He steps forward, inclines his head to the spare chair. "This a good time?"

From:

The smile is returned unthinkingly-- he's got a good face, is all. And Benedict isn't smiled at all that often, so it's difficult not to mirror.

"Certainly," he replies, and gestures to the seat before lacing his fingers together on the desk, a bit nervous. "Although, ah, you should know I haven't been doing this long. You're actually my first..." Client?? "victim." He is joking.

From:

dissolving

"Never done this, either." Seems past time to try. "So don't bite hard. Name's Cedric,"

A hand out to shake (palm shimmering with new Anchor-mark). There's an oilskin pouch, a shuffle of pages. He licks a finger to peel the pages apart, passes one over.

A letter of transfer: Affirming the temporary reassignment of Ser Cedric Carsus to Riftwatch until such a time as the matter of his Anchor is resolved or alternative arrangements are made, his service to which does not discharge a sworn duty to the Chantry, Divine, and nation of Nevarra -

"We might've met actually, in the Plains. I wasn't in camp much."

From:

"I'll try."

Still smiling, Benedict shakes Cedric's hand (his own shard glints through its glove on the desk) and accepts the parchment to look it over.

"Ser," he says aloud, and flicks his eyes up to meet the newcomer's. "You're a Templar?" Between that and 'Chantry' it seems a fair guess.

From:

dissolving

"Nevarra City," Cedric says, like he held the job more than six weeks. "Then the Inquisition."

There's a nagging year between - the Conclave didn't arise from a period of peace. But he's alive and he isn't red: That's about as clean a record as they come.

"Been with the March the last few years, under Captain Broward."

That isn't the name on those papers (Vidal). He holds eye contact, steady; painfully aware of the dirt under his nails.

From:

Even if Benedict does notice the discrepancy, his job isn't really to grill anyone or ferret out lies: this is a branch of Diplomacy, after all, not Scouting. If Cedric is lying, it's Yseult's problem.

Hopefully.

"Am I correct in assuming your strength is in combat and the like?" He's been scanning the papers, but looks up to ask.

From:

dissolving

"Sure, it's been half my life," He says, and could leave off there, shuffle into yet another watch rotation. Only he's been practicing this bit since he first decided to leave, "But speaking plain, I,"

The papers have a list of recent assignments, something about abomination retrieval; then a reprimand for a fistfight, not long before Riftwatch's arrival.

"I've been hoping there's more use for it than that." A life. Cedric follows up: "'Course, I'll lend an arm wherever I'm needed."

Edited Date: 2024-02-09 12:12 am (UTC)

From:

Benedict is in the process of writing a note when Cedric interjects, and he looks up at him, interest piqued.

"What do you have in mind?"

From:

dissolving

"I've got my letters. Nevarran and Orlesian," The latter's a stretch. He can do the Chant. "And if you don't mind me saying, Messere -"

It's not as if they don't know.

"- I've got standing in places Riftwatch has trouble making nice." There's a reason they shipped the louder rebels out here. A hand presses forward, blots an incidental thumb over that fight, "I keep a cool head."

From:

Intriguing. Benedict angles his head, eyebrows raised, prompting further elaboration. "Such as?"

From:

dissolving

"Shutting down that nightmare magic bought a lot of goodwill," He ought to know. "But soldiers are quick to forget. I don't only mean Templars, you saw how many are out there. Mercenaries and conscripts."

"There's a narrative - and I'm not saying it's everywhere - about Riftwatch being where you go when you wash up. It shouldn't be." A breath in, "Fucksakes, you kill dragons."

From:

(answered this here for organizational porpoises)

From:

cozen

[ From Orlais, where Benedict is not, before any kidnappings or crises have had time to occur: ]

Can your parents take a joke?

From:

Categorically, no.

What did you have in mind?

From:

cozen

You said they were very eager to marry you off.

From:

...at one point, yes, [PROBABLY not now]

From:

cozen

So they would not care now if they received an announcement?

From:

[A loaded silence. WOULD they care?

More importantly,]

Who am I marrying?

From:

cozen

No one real. I do not want to get anyone killed by Tevinter assassins.

—other assassins, fine, we could pretend those were not our fault.

Edited Date: 2024-02-12 09:46 pm (UTC)

From:

I suppose it is one way to determine if I've truly been disinherited.

From:

cozen

[ Ha. ]

Even better.

What do you think. A noble's young mage daughter, no longer bound for the Circle because there is not one for her to be bound for? A Fereldan [ sorry for this being the most offensive-to-Tevinter thing he could think of, By ] milkmaid?

In either case, we could heavily imply she is pregnant.

From:

[An indignant scoff,] Fereldan? [Offense achieved.]

The first one, I should think. At least make it believable.

[a pause,]

...they might not believe she's pregnant.

From:

cozen

Why not? They have barely seen you for the better part of seven years. Maybe things have changed for you. Or she is very wonderful.

[ Look, he has a Thedosian Kinsey 5 sometimes-sex-is-work understanding of sexual fluidity. Surely anyone can eventually get it up for anyone else. What even is a gene. ]

From:

It's worth a try, but you'd better be ready to sell it.

From:

cozen

You better be ready to sell it, [ quoted back to him in a bad imitation of his accent and affectionately mocking how dare you imply I might ever not intonation. ] Who do you think I am?

Although I was thinking, you know, it would be a joke. Something to make them think for a moment and then laugh or. Crush in their fists. Whatever they do up there. You really want to convince them?

From:

[Another scoff; he doesn't sound like that,]

I'm not sure they'd find it terribly funny-- if anything it's adding insult to injury, since they're still down an heir either way.

At best they'll say fine, have a nice life, and throw the note in the fire.

From:

cozen

Eugh.

[ Why do everyone's parents suck so much? ]

Well. Would you find it funny?

From:

[A thoughtful pause;

then, a very noncommittal:] I suppose.

From:

cozen

I am not going to go through the trouble of making this convincing for a suppose.

From:

I'm sort of busy right now.

From:

cozen

Oh!

[ He sounds neither hurt nor more than mildly and politely surprised, because he's a professional. ]

Of course. Sorry.

From:

bouchonne

Dear Artemaeus! How are you.

From:

[absently,] hmm?

From:

bouchonne

[ Louder: ]

Dear Artemaeus. How are you.

From:

[After a beat,]

…fine?

From:

bouchonne

Is that so?

From:

Yes?

Did you want something?

From:

bouchonne

[ Fine. ]

Are you high?

From:

No. Did you want something?

From:

bouchonne

Then are you distracted by something? Have you adopted a cat that's demanding your attention?

From:

Presently I’m being distracted by someone nattering at me over sending crystal.

From:

bouchonne

[ What the fuck. ]

My dear little weed. You know I'm typically a fan of a fellow being uncouth, but that's a particularly uncharming sort of rudeness you're practicing.

From:

[Dismissively,] I’ll keep that in mind.

From:

bouchonne

[ He purses his lips thoughtfully. ]

Where have you gone lately, and who have you been in contact with?

From:

What? [with the faintest touch of unease,] How does that concern you?

From:

bouchonne

How do you think it concerns me? We have an enemy who exploits blood magic. If someone starts acting uncharacteristically dickish, one must ask questions.

From:

[A halfhearted scoff, a pause, and Benedict's end of the line goes dead. DON'T BE RIDICULOUS anyway bye]

From:

[presumably sometime after this conversation has come to an end:]

Are you busy?

[spoken like someone who is going to burst into flames on the spot unless he gets the chance to say what's on his mind first.]

From:

Um--

[the urge to say yes is rising]

--has something happened?

From:

[good, that means he's free. not five seconds later, brisk footsteps can be heard in the hallway, and then there's Octavius pushing open Benedict's office door.]

Is that Orlesian healer always such a colossal prick?

[hi.]

From:

Uh,

[Benedict was not expecting such an immediate entry, and stares at him blankly, quill half-raised.]

Isaac?

[He doesn’t sound surprised, but neither is he offended.]

From:

Oh, is that his name? [sharply peevish, hands firmly deposited on the jut of each hip bone] I can't quite recall whether he bothered to introduce himself during his game of twenty questions, or while questioning my professional competency.

[scowling, he drops himself down into the chair across from Benedict and glares down at his fingers; looks like he's been picking at his nails again.]

From:

[A little snort of wry amusement, and Benedict shrugs one shoulder.]

Isaac, [he confirms,]

he’s probably just trying to get a rise out of you.

[The man is not known for his tact.]

From:

[an incredulous look from Octavius, before he moodily looks aside.] ...I regret that he succeeded.

[embarrassingly well.]

From:

[With a dry laugh, Benedict sets his quill down.]

There are plenty here who’ll do that, [he explains,] sometimes you just have to play dead and they’ll lose interest.

From:

[weird how having someone laugh at him lifts his spirits a little. Tavi cracks a wry smile of his own, still self-conscious, but glances back at Benedict anyway.]

Is that how you've managed all this time?

From:

[Benedict, known for his unrivaled vanity and pride, tosses his hair—

—then twists his mouth to one side with a commiserating nod.

It’s the secret to survival.]

From:

[his smile deepens enough to put dimples in his cheeks. he considers Benedict for a moment more, head tilting a fraction to one side.] You like it here, don't you? I don't mean Kirkwall, I mean, [a gesture around them,] with Riftwatch.

From:

[He doesn’t like to be caught out having actual feelings, least of all by Octavius, so Benedict’s smile is skittish and evasive as he looks past his guest at one of the wall hangings they put up together.]

I do, [he says with a sincerity that’s almost shy. Other Vints don’t have a great track record for understanding, least of all Alti.]

From:

[how terrible for him that he's been caught having a feeling in front of this particular Vint, whose empathy power level is well over 9000. Octavius seems to have all but forgotten his earlier irritation with Isaac.]

It suits you. [and, as though anticipating Benedict might think he's being a disingenuous shit, he leans forward a little bit and adds sincerely,] I mean it, it really does.

From:

[The sincerity in itself is what spooks Benedict, who gives a little anxious flip of his hair as an excuse to look away.]

What does that mean, [he mutters, both a bit sardonic and genuinely curious, as much as he'd hate to admit it.

Strange how existing for so long outside the vipers' pit has allowed him to grow a personality that no longer revolves (as much) around hedonism and substance-induced dissociation.

But that was his whole charm, wasn't it?]

From:

[that, or perhaps someone had seen glimpses of this depth to his personality before, and is simply pleased that the right environment has allowed it space to flourish.] It means you look happy.

[self-conscious of his own sincerity, Octavius looks down at his hands and interlaces his fingers together to stop them from fidgeting.] Certainly happier than you were in Minrathous.

From:

[smug little shit]

Well, [Benedict attempts to counter, or evade, and instead just sits there silently for a moment, trying not to let the words sink in.]

...yes. [ugh fine]

From:

[he's still a touch too self-conscious to grin about his victory, but there's a pleased little gleam in his eye when he looks up again.] My condolences, [he adds, transparently teasing now. then he sighs and gets up from his seat, straightening his waistcoat as he does so.] Anyway, I can see I caught you in the middle of, [a gesture at whatever is on Benedict's desk,] something important, so I'll get out of your hair before you have to tell me off.

From:

[Catching that gleam, Benedict rolls his eyes, but with less actual exasperation than he might normally.]

Don't let Isaac bully you, [he advises in parting, offering a little smirk as he looks back down at what he was doing.]

From:

armd

Got a minute?

From:

Mmhmm?

From:

armd

I... (SIGH,) need your advice about something.

From:

[whoa]

Really? What is it?

From:

armd

Uhh. (She draws the sound out, stalling, then drops her face into her hand.)

Kinda — relationship advice, maybe...?

From:

[ah yes, she's come to the right place: Benedict, master of relationships,]

Yeah?

From:

armd

(A prickling of nerves coasts her spine. Abby is alone, has been sitting alone for a while now but still glances around herself as if someone else may have snuck up on her while she wasn't paying attention.

The coast is clear.)

I fucked Clarisse.

From:

[GASP]

From:

armd

Don't—

From:

I need to know everything.

Well not-- not everything, but, you know. Everything.

[don't tell me about your vaginas please]

Edited Date: 2024-10-15 09:22 pm (UTC)

From:

armd

I'm getting to that! (Please, this is not helping. Her face is so hot.)

It was — it just happened, we were hanging out by the training yards in the dark and smoking and I asked her if she'd ever thought about me that way and she said yes, and—

(Well.)

From:

Aww.

[he sounds genuinely pleased]

Well what's the problem? You didn't fuck in the training yard, did you?

From:

armd

No.

(She gets up, suddenly needing to pace around while this happens.) We haven't really talked since. I feel like— (I took advantage of her while she was upset? She doesn't really know how to say it to herself let alone Benedict. She doesn't finish the sentence.)

Edited Date: 2024-10-15 09:39 pm (UTC)

From:

Well...

[a pause, as he considers,]

Do you think of her that way?

From:

armd

Yeah. Obviously.

(They fucked, dude,)

From:

[THAT IS NOT ALWAYS A FOREGONE CONCLUSION, ABBITHY]

Then... check in? What's the problem?

Bring her some flowers.

From:

armd

(Abby is so thrown by this that she doesn't reply for a moment.

The only thing she can think to say is,) She would hate that.

From:

[it's what the straights do right]

Bring her a dead toad or something then?

From:

armd

It's not about bringing her something. I think I fucked up.

From:

Oh? How?

From:

armd

She's still cut up about Ellie. (It rushes out of her now, guiltily.) And we were high, and I don't know if she wants... I don't even know what I want.

From:

[All right. That makes sense.

He flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling to process the situation.]

Sometimes it just... [he speaks a bit haltingly, a moment of vulnerability,] ...sometimes you just have to get it out of your system. Being high's good for that.

[He pauses,]

But Ellie-- maybe she'll show up again, maybe not. If she does, she might not remember anything.

[It's with some pain that he says the words aloud: Abby knows his thoughts on Rifter disappearances, and it isn't a topic he takes lightly.]

Anything could happen. Anytime. If you really feel it... you owe it to yourselves to figure it out sooner than later.

From:

armd

(Abby stops pacing. She holds her crystal close, nodding even though Benedict can't see her doing it. It's oddly reassuring to think of Thedas being much like it was at home. Anything could happen. People leave, people die, things change on the flip of a coin, faster than you can react to it.)

Yeah. (He's right.

And at least she knows what she doesn't want.) I don't wanna lose her as a friend.

From:

Better talk to her, then.

[with gentle humor,] lay it all out there. The worst that can happen is she'll hate you forever.

From:

armd

(Abby snorts.)

I'd hate me forever.

From:

Don't do that.

From:

armd

Okay, okay.

... Thanks.

From:

laruetheday

Morning, and Clarisse is sitting in the mess hall, shoveling spoonfuls of oatmeal into her mouth. In between bites, she happens to look up and see Benedict looking at her from the next table over.

It's not weird. People look at each other, especially when they're in a crowd.

She's actually considering getting up and moving over to his table, but then she looks up again and he's still watching her.

Clarisse drops her spoon into her bowl and says, "What?" with her mouth full.

From:

He straightens abruptly, wearing the distinct look of one who has been caught out staring without meaning to.

"What!" he says abruptly back.

From:

laruetheday

Clarisse glances down at her lap to make sure she hasn't spilled oatmeal onto her shirt. Then she reaches behind her back and feels for anything stuck there (look, it's happened before). Only when she can't find anything obvious does she get to her feet and move to Benedict's table, carrying her bowl along with her.

"Why are you looking at me weird?"

From:

"I'm not," he hedges, looking everywhere but at Clarisse as he shoves a spoonful of Stew du Jour in his mouth. He chews it fully and swallows before adding, pettily,

"you were looking at me."

From:

laruetheday

Clarisse is a bad liar. She knows one when she sees one. It's actually kind of gratifying to see someone else be as terrible at it as she is.

"You're full of shit." She spoons another mouthful of oatmeal into her mouth. "I wasn't looking at you, I was looking around the room. And every time I did, you were staring at me!"

From:

Squirming silently for a moment, Benedict looks away as he tries to come up with literally any reason he might have been looking at her other than what he was actually thinking about:

"Your hair looks good," he says, throwing on a brilliant smile. Diversion tactic. It works sometimes.

From:

laruetheday

Oh.

Clarisse's cheeks go pink, and she reaches up to pinch a strand of her hair between two fingers. "Thanks. I've been... using that stuff." If nothing else, it smells good.

From:

It worked. Benedict nods with a grin of triumph, mirroring her gesture to give it a little pinch as well.

“What’d I tell you?” he gloats, pleased, “now you’ll just have to tell me what Abby—“

He stops. Sits back, bolt upright. He didn’t say anything you said it

From:

laruetheday

Don't worry, it hasn't clicked yet. ... Though it has made her even more suspicious about why he's being so weird.

"What Abby what?"

From:

Shoveling a last bite of food in his mouth as if it might gag him, Benedict mutters “nothing,” through it and stands abruptly.

“Must go.” He’s very busy you see. Many things to go and places to do.

From:

laruetheday

"Wait."

Before Benedict can walk away, Clarisse lunges across the table and grabs his wrist. Her grip is unsurprisingly strong. She's not going to yank his shoulder out of joint or anything, but it's a pretty firm hold.

"What the hell is your problem, man? I thought we were cool."

From:

His gasp is one of alarm and only slight fear— the instinctive knowledge that Clarisse can and would and almost did kick his arse— but Benedict stops, pinioned more by her words than her grip.

“We are,” he says, apologetically. He doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t explain, either.

From:

laruetheday

On a normal day, a gasp of slight fear in response to her human touch would make Clarisse feel proud, and then later it would make her feel gross for having felt proud. Today she's too confused by this entire sequence of events to really register that it happened, but she does release her grip on his wrist.

"Seriously. What's the matter?"

From:

He looks at her a long moment, chewing his lower lip and clearly struggling with something unseen.

He doesn’t run, at least.

“Um,” he finally hedges, “I heard about something.” He glances around, his shoulders dropping— Abby will never forgive him— “that happened. And it’s good, I think it’s good, I’m. I’m happy. For you.
Both.”

Wince.

From:

laruetheday

It takes a minute, but it finally dawns on Clarisse what he's saying. She opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again just as quickly.

It's not like she told Abby not to tell anybody. Truthfully, it hadn't occurred to her that Abby might do that in the first place. Clarisse wrestles with that for a few seconds, then pushes it away to deal with later. There's more pressing shit to go over first.

"You don't know what you're talking about." Clearly.

From:

For a long and tense moment, Benedict looks afraid again. But Clarisse’s reaction seems, in fact, to relieve him.

“You’re right,” he agrees, far too cheerfully, “I’m probably making it up for attention.” Anything, anything but the awful truth: that he fucked up.

“Byeee,” he concludes, hurrying away before she can protest. He’s got some damage control to do, or more realistically, spiraling: whichever comes first.

Edited (icon + clarity ) Date: 2024-11-23 07:09 am (UTC)

From:

Something is wrong with Benedict.

Benedict is not, nor ever has been, a beacon of sparkles, sunshine and cheer - at least not to Vlast's knowledge. But the past few days has seen a certain listlessness in the human that has, slowly but surely, prodded at nescient feelings of concern deep in the rifter qunari.

He... respects Benedict. He supposes that's the word for it, anyway. The man has found his niche and seems to excel at it and has never made a nuisance of himself in a way that didn't somewhat endear himself to Vlast.

So. Respect. He'll go with that. And he doesn't like seeing someone he respects in such a state of misery.

Vlast looks for Benedict a little before dinner; it's easy enough. There's a bittersweet quality to Benedict's magic; the sharp tang of a storm brewing over the sweet, smoky scent of a wildfire that would have drawn Vlast's curiosity regardless, though their recent proximity as roommates has made it very familiar and easy to trace.

He finds him in the courtyard, and keeping his footfalls heavy enough not to startle, Vlast falls in line at his side.

“I'm headed out to the city,” he says. “Would you like to join me?”

From:

Vlast hasn't known Benedict long enough to fully tell the difference between a sulk, a period of reflection, and a proper spiral: the duration varies, but the third is noteworthy in his inability to sit still, finding no pleasure or relief in his usual hedonistic activities.
It's for this reason that he's been difficult to track down, at least until Vlast manages to come across him sitting on the steps out to the harbor, smoking and brooding.

The question is enough to startle him out of it, and he blinks up at the qunari like he isn't quite prepared to make his brain move in a different direction; but, after an awkward pause, he simply nods, and rises to his feet.

"Where in the city?" he asks quietly, dropping the cigarette to ash it under his toe.

From:

Vlast watches him with the sort of look usually reserved for some puzzling tome he's plucked from the shelves, as if by simply looking he can discern what's troubling his roommate.

It obviously doesn't work, and by the time Benedict is on his feet, Vlast's gaze has turned to the ferry that heads to the city proper.

"I have some errands near Hightown," he says, already headed for the boat (though he keeps his strides short so Benedict can keep up). "Then a meal that isn't..."

He wrinkles his nose, lips curled in a disgusted sneer. "...pease porridge."

The food at the Gallows is never what Vlast would consider, by any standards, good, but he's gnawed on carcasses of hydras that had been laying out in the desert sun for a week and would consider such haute cuisine compared to pease porridge.

"I'd like your advice on the latter."

Edited Date: 2024-11-25 03:09 pm (UTC)

From:

Vlast's reason for wanting to find alternative food is more than enough to elicit a laugh from Benedict-- "good choice," he says, with a wry glance at Vlast, "the pease porridge in Hightown is extraordinary."
Just in case there's a possibility he can convince him it's all they eat in Thedas.

Edited (wording) Date: 2024-11-25 07:25 pm (UTC)

From:

It falls flat, though only because Vlast has been here a few months to have sampled enough Marcher favourites like Mystery Meat Onna Stick (with soggy veg) and Fried Seafood That's Probably Fine (with soggy fried potatoes) and Sausage Inna (soggy) Bun, and even a Fereldin favourite of Homogenous Grayish Brown Sludge (aka Stew).

Say what you will about Orlesians, but at least they know how to cook.

The aforementioned 'errands' are little more than a quick stop at a leatherworker to pick up a parcel. The real destination is a pleasant little bistro, just on the edge of Hightown. The area is upscale enough to keep out Kirkwall's grungier riff-raff, but not so posh that the upper echelons of the city would pay it much mind lest they felt like "slumming it".

It's a nice little place. The glasses are clean, the wine's good if you know how to ask for it, and, while the selection is limited; the food is excellent.

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Perhaps it's ungenerous of Benedict to be so surprised at how easily, how normally, Vlast is making his way through Hightown. He definitely gets looked at more than the average person, which is the fate of any Qunari (or non-Qunari who looks like one), but somehow Benedict had had it in his head that there would be more stilted conversations, misunderstandings, general shenanigans.

It occurs to him that this isn't kind. That it is, in fact, extremely Altus of him, in that he somehow can never escape his worst impulses and cruelest thoughts, even when to do so is all that stands between him and loneliness. Here he goes again: the spiral.

He's deep in his head when they sit down, but he looks around, offering Vlast an odd, distracted little smile.
"This is nice," he remarks, unable to keep from sounding impressed.

Edited Date: 2024-11-26 08:19 pm (UTC)

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Vlast doesn't seem to pay people much mind. It's a careless sort of naivete; the indifference of one who can afford to brush off sour looks without worry. Optics were never Vlast's strong suit; to the Elonians, he was a protector, but one to be wary of. On one hand, he stemmed the tide of Branded and kept Joko and his tyranny to one side of the Elon River. On the other, he had a reputation of being vicious, temperamental and aloof.

...It's going to be an uphill battle for him to understand the underlying source of Benedict's spiral.

"I thought you might like it," he gruffs. "You've seemed... ill at ease, these past days."

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It takes perhaps a little too long for Benedict to clock Vlast's meaning: that they're here for him, and not just to find a decent meal. He looks almost concerned for a moment, staring past his companion as their wine arrives, but he eventually meets his eyes again.

"I made a mistake," he says quietly, uneasily. "Someone trusted me. And I didn't deserve it."

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"Hm."

A low rumble of acknowledgment before Vlast falls into one of his pensive silences, turning Benedict's words over in his head, inspecting them. Maybe he can infer some hidden detail, but probably not.

"It was, as you say, a mistake, was it not? Or are you believed to have acted maliciously?"

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With a fretful sip from his wine, Benedict watches him.

"I don't know," he admits, hunching his shoulders, "it hasn't come up again." YET. "I..."

He's silent a moment as he chews his words, "...I think I want to apologize. But I'm not sure how, especially if she doesn't even know it happened."

It's amazing that he still runs into these situations: a 28 year old with the emotional intelligence of a young teenager, still scrambling to catch up with his peers despite all the scrambling he's already done. He knows it's not a good look, works as hard as he can. At least, of all people, Vlast maybe understands.

"I'm not very good at them," he adds uncomfortably, "apologies."

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It's a while before Vlast speaks again, though he at least uses the time to sample some of his own wine.

"Everyone falters," he finally says. "Such is inevitable. Whether one can admit their failures or not is what shows how trustworthy they are."

A platter of breads, cheeses, meats and other accoutrements both sweet and savoury are set down in front of them. Vlast nudges it closer to Benedict because the young human really does look like he needs to eat more.

"How much do you think this blunder will set back Riftwatch...?"

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For his part, Benedict doesn't even notice the charcuterie being nudged toward him: he takes some selections and begins to eat unthinkingly, considering the question.

"Maybe," he admits, to the first bit, after he's had some time to chew and swallow. "I-- no, it's not about Riftwatch, really. Just one person." Another bite.

"I'm afraid," spoken hesitantly, "if she's angry. If I've-- I've really fucked it up. It won't affect the organization, it won't set us back, I'll just. Miss her."

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Vlast frowns. If it's not something that affects the organization, then how bad could it actually be...?

(Thinks the man who's never had to deal with a single interpersonal problem in his life.)

"If you are honest with her, and she abandons you over such a small thing, then was there truly any bond there at all...?"

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Benedict furrows his brow as he chews on a pastry. It's a fair point. But,

"Couldn't she say the same of me?" He frowns-- it doesn't seem right, that Abby would react that way, but the theatre of the mind is an incredible thing.

"She's been through a lot this year."

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"Yes. We are at war. That tends to happen."

If there is a single person in Riftwatch who has been unaffected by the conflict, he'd be shocked.

"You speak of her trust in you," he says, "but it seems you have little of your own to spare her. Already you have reached the conclusion that she will end things over, as you said, a mistake. How much harm have you actually caused? To me, the scope seems quite small."

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Opening his mouth, then closing it again, Benedict is unexpectedly offended by the assessment. First of all, how dare you--

"--I-- well recently--," he stammers, ultimately shutting himself up by drinking from his wine again. "...it can be hard to tell," he concludes with a frown. Perhaps the scope is small. Perhaps he's blowing it up out of nothing, focusing, as always, on himself and his own significance.
He scowls at the table.

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Vlast's pale yellow eyes remain fixed on Benedict.

"Your only path forward is to speak with her and confront the matter directly," he says. "Then you will be able to tell. However it goes, at least worry will no longer eat you from the inside."

There's a thoughtful frown as Vlast tries to find a logical reason for Benedict to be so afraid of his friend.

"Is she particularly territorial...? I can subdue her first if need be."

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Feeling Vlast's eyes on him, Benedict glances up to meet them, but not for long-- it makes him uneasy, but a strange warmth blossoms in him as well, not unlike how he used to feel when Gabranth got stern with him. It's oddly pleasant, comforting in an undignified way, and he finds himself blushing slightly.

How he misses Gabranth. But Vlast is here, and his eyes are so eerie and intriguing, and--

"--what?" The question snaps him out of it, and he almost laughs outright. "No-- no, don't do that."

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It's Vlast's turn to look away with a huffy little exhale.

He's not really sure why that expression on Benedict's face has him so flustered. He is Vlast! The first scion of Glaust! The grandchild of Kralkatorrik! He was in line to inherit the role of an Elder Dragon! Nothing should make him feel flustered like some sort of giddy little hatchling! He's beyond such things!

"Have it your way. If she bites you, you can't say I didn't offer."

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Between the unusual tension of the situation and Vlast’s specific warning, something breaks. Benedict erupts into laughter comprised half of genuine hilarity at the mental image of Abby biting him, and half Something Else.

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Vlast stares in utter bewilderment at the outburst of laughter (to say nothing of the other tables, startled by the noise).

It's hard for him to tell if what he said was, unintentionally, quite funny or if the stress Benedict has been putting himself under has driven him a little mad.

"Ridiculous," he scoffs, grumbling under his breath as he takes a draught of wine.

But as his lips touch the rim of his glass, there is the faintest hint of a smile - almost as though he's pleased with himself for getting Benedict to laugh again.

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Though he manages to put a lid on it before anything gets too disruptive, Benedict’s grin remains as he meets Vlast’s eyes once again.

“It’s sweet of you to worry,” he chides, “but Abby’s not going to bite me. She’ll have to save it for Clarisse—“

He claps his hand over his mouth. IDIOT,

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It is a double-edged sword for Benedict that Vlast's very limited experience with interpersonal relationships leaves him rather oblivious to the implications.

On one hand, what Abby biting Clarisse means has flown right over his head. On the other, it's going to take a lot of work to get the rifter qunari to recognize the obvious for what it is.

"...Ah. They're quarreling. Is it over food? Territory? ...No, forget I asked."

He shakes his head. Not his circus, not his monkeys.

"Stop fretting. I already said I won't get involved."

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Normally this would be the perfect opportunity to let the subject go, but one might say Benedict has a vested interest in Vlast being able to read certain signals. He arches his eyebrows over his wine at the qunari, waiting for the punchline- and when it never comes,

“it’s…” he begins, and, realizing this is a delicate needle to thread without digging himself deeper in his own guilt spiral, adds, “good biting.”

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Vlast's upper lip curls in his confusion and disbelief. Benedict may as well have just said there's such a thing as good hemorrhoids.

Biting is for warding off rivals, it's for catching and killing prey, it's for ripping flesh from bone.

Perhaps in some cases that's good, but only for the victor.

Then again, humans are full of quirks and nuances. Once upon a time, Sadizi had tried to explain, but Vlast had brushed him off when he soon learned that very few of those matters applied to him.

Trapped in this mortal form, Vlast is reconciling with the fact he may have to re-assess.

"Explain."

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Benedict takes a breath, blows it out, and picks up a pastry to bite thoughtfully into it, staring past Vlast for a moment. This clearly isn’t about gossip anymore.

“It’s like,” he continues, once he’s finished with the bite, “well how do your kind show that— that they like each other?”

He innocently bites the pastry again.

From:

The innocent bite of pastry holds his fascination, at least for a moment. The question hangs in the meantime.

And then Vlast's gaze turns inward.

"We don't."

...Like each other, that is.

Vlast reaches for the bottle, refilling their glasses. It's something to occupy his hands while he tries to find some way to summarize the ongoing conflict with his immediate family.

"Whatever affection endures between my kind decays under the weight of time, duty, or death."

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One incredulous look and sip of wine later, and Benedict asks, “well how do you make more dragons?”

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Vlast's bafflement is plain to see on his face.

"Not... like humans. We just - we draw on magic from the Mists. Shape it into another." What an odd question. "What does that have to do with the topic at hand...?"

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The amusement gradually fades into puzzlement, verging on disbelief: what does it have to do with--

"Do you," Benedict asks, in a low and concerned voice, "do you know how more people are made?"

From:

“Of course I do.”

He doesn't.

“Sadizi explained it all to me.”

He really didn't.

“I'm not sure what biting has to do with it. One would think that would be antithetical to whole process.”

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Benedict narrows his eyes.

“Tell me how.”

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"One human inserts an appendage into the cloaca of another."

Duh.

"He mentioned something about fluids but I had already lost interest by then."

There's a brief, thoughtful moment.

"I also know humans carry their young in their belly. It looks... uncomfortable."

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He shouldn’t have drunk from his wine, because Benedict nearly spits out what’s in his mouth when given such an illuminating description.

He steadies himself a moment, swallows, and smiles in a strangled sort of way.

“Which appendage,” he asks.

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It's Vlast's turn to narrow his eyes.

"The one I didn't have before coming here."

And which makes wearing pants such a fucking ordeal.

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Benedict’s smile is sweet, teasing, charmed— he may well be aware that a few heads are surreptitiously turned their way, but doesn’t seem to mind.

“You haven’t used it yet,” he guesses, and pops a bit of cheese into his mouth, smirking.

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Vlast looks deeply bewildered by this.

"Of course I have. At least twice a day."

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At first, confusion; then, Benedict catches his meaning and laughs again.

“You should drink more water,” he advises— only twice, sheesh— “but there’s.”

He pauses, collects himself. This isn’t the most appropriate conversation to have in public, and Maker knows he wouldn’t want someone talking about his equipment so casually.

“There are other things,” he explains, gentling his tone, “I can… find you some books. If you like.”

To do or say more at the moment would be… it doesn’t feel right. Vlast is far from a child, but an innocence like his is a delicate thing, too easily upset by haste and carelessness.

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Vlast doesn't have the presence of mind to be embarrassed about his body, junk or otherwise.

"I doubt it could hurt," Vlast admits. "There are... many gaps in my understanding of people. I know this now."

He still doesn't get what his mother saw in mortals. Maybe he never will. But he's starting to see what questions he should have been asking.

From:

pathlit

[ In response to this, probably late morning: ] Benedict? It's Jayce. You like cheese?

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[with audible surprise,]

Uh-- yes. I mean, depending. Why?

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pathlit

The mushrooms you gave me, I made risotto with them. Turned out pretty damn good. Want some?

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Oh!

[This is the voice of someone who is downright tickled.]

...yes?

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pathlit

[ He chuckles lightly, then speaks with a theatrical note of grandeur. ] I'll deliver it personally. Your office or--?

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My office is fine.

[Maker, should he clean it? should he-- should he put on something nice? COMPANY IS COMING]

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pathlit

[ It's just Research, though today Jayce doesn't happen to reek of ash and smoke. ]

Be there in a few.

[ Having anticipated acceptance on the offer, Jayce had utilized the Gallows kitchen. As such, the bowl of mushroom risotto is still warm and aromatic when he delivers it to Benedict's office. ]

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[Benedict is at his desk when Jayce enters, and he looks up with an odd little smile, a slight awkwardness about him, like he isn't sure what to say or do in the face of a kindness like this.]

We ought to have you working in the kitchen, [he remarks, standing to accept the bowl.]

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pathlit

[ If Jayce notices any slight awkwardness to him, then he doesn't comment on it.

(He doesn't notice.) ]

Yeah? I'm not against a few shifts here and there, [ he says with a chuckle, passing the bowl to Benedict, spoon with it. He shifts his weight backward. ] But maybe you should hold the idea until you've tried it.

[ The risotto, he means. It does taste good, though he'd say it's difficult to botch mushrooms, hard cheese and butter. And though he did unconsciously shift his weight backward to give Benedict some space, Jayce lingers a moment longer in case Benedict intends to try it now, because he is hoping for approval on the dish despite thinking well of it himself. He made it as thanks, after all. ]

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[Bringing it to his face to inhale, Benedict smiles and sits back down, taking a bite. He wouldn't just let it sit there and get cold,]

I ate my own boot this year, [he remarks,] you've already surpassed expectations.

[He freezes, realizing how that might sound:]

No, sorry, I mean--

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pathlit

[ He exhales in surprise, shoulders rolling forward. ]

What?

[ No offense, only questions. ] As in, literally--?

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[Benedict furrows his brow, surprised by his surprise-- he spent like two months in a dungeon earlier this year while an Envy demon pretended to be him and tried to kill Julius-- and he gives a little nod and a shrug before taking another bite.]

--it's good, [he clarifies.]

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pathlit

[ His brows remain high. Jayce recognizes a non-answer when it's given, but he isn't nearly close enough to Benedict to challenge it. Instead, he shifts his weight backward again, relaxing. ]

Well, [ he lifts his hand lazily, offering Benedict a wry smile in departure, ] if someone wants a day off, you let me know. I'm sure I can pen it into my busy schedule.

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I'll keep an ear to the ground.

[Benedict's smile is genuine, a bit playful even.]

And thanks.

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pathlit

Welcome, [ he says, as his lifted hand vanishes through the doorway with the rest of him. ]

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sprent

"— Hold the door?"

Said behind a stack of things, boxes in her arms and hair, having come loose of its tie, all over the place and in-between. Gela puts her shoulder against the frame and pushes through, putting what's in her arms down on Benedict's office table, on top of whatever is there. Just for a moment.

Finally she looks at him, already gathering her hair back now that her hands are free, spitting some out of her mouth, rescuing the leather wrap to reuse.

"Is now a good time?"

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Benedict holds it as requested, stepping aside with a look of initial surprise that turns pleased when he realizes why Gela is here.

"Definitely," he decides-- who cares if it actually is-- and grins, closing the door behind her. "What've you got?"

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sprent

"Many things!"

Hair: tied, box lid: off. She tilts the top one toward Benedict to show him the fabric and ribbons inside, rather haphazardly packed. "I know you said you wanted the dress taken in but I brought my scrap-box in case you see anything you like — we could always add it on?"

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"Ooh."

Coming over to peer into the box, Benedict helps himself to a silky black ribbon, which he withdraws with an appraising look before glancing hopefully to Gela.

It's difficult to see her, to hear her voice, without remembering her on the other side of a steel grate, weak and tired and hopeless: the taste of tattered leather, the smell of mildew, the cold.
But here they both are, hale and healthy, like it never happened. Altering a dress.

"Could we do something with this?" he asks, extending the ribbon to its full length.

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sprent

Sometimes in order to forget the horrors that's exactly what you need to do: add ribbons to things. This is something she is well practiced at — maybe too much so. Gela takes it from him and it slips through his fingers, satiny. "Maybe trim? Or as a bow?

"You should put the dress on, so I can measure, and we can play around with the ribbon."

She's cuffing sleeves one after the other, bringing them to her elbows.

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"Is a bow too--" he pauses, considering, then lands on-- "juvenile?" But even so, he nods, coming behind Gela to close the door so he can remove his outer tunic. He obviously won't be wearing trousers under the dress, but there's no need to make this weird for either of them by taking those off.

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sprent

"I like bows," Gela says, already tying the ribbon into one just to see — it is floppy in her hands. She turns her shoulder automatically to grant him privacy while he changes, and then draws closer to his things, naturally curious.

"Is the dress for an occasion?"

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Beginning to slip it on, Benedict pauses-- it's a brief hitch of self-consciousness, but he shoulders past it as he pulls the sleeves over his arms.

"A party," he says evasively, testing how the words feel: it's not like his mother is here to scold him for doing something ridiculous, but her voice lives in his head nonetheless.
"For... dressing up."

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sprent

Gela instantly turns back to him to say, "Oh, fun!" and realises he's still dressing, which makes her immediately turns back around again on her heel, averting her gaze with a breathless apology. Then, "Which party?"

And can she snag a +1 to it... perhaps...

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He smiles back at her, mirroring the sincerity, though in the instant he turns back around Gela's next question freezes him in place.

He weathers the anxiety of it, takes a deep breath, sighs it out. She already knows he's wearing a dress, it's not like this can get more incriminating.
"It's called, um," he says delicately, "a drag ball." How tantalizingly scummy. "It's at [idk man] in Lowtown, in a few weeks."

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sprent

"Ooh," Gela says, her expression barely changing from a wide, interested smile (lest he be afraid of catching any stray judgement). "And are you performing there...? I didn't know you did that."

It's a sort of art, isn't it, dressing yourself up in a way you don't usually and then selling other people on it. Gela actually knows all about that but she's never gone so far as to attempt drag before.

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“I— don’t,” he admits with an awkward laugh, but warms to Gela with the openness of her reaction.
“I did it once for a mission, and just sort of. …liked it.” Tucking a strand of hair behind one ear, he offers her a fleeting, shy glance. This isn’t something he’d talk about with many, still sorting it out on a personal level.

“I think there will be people performing, though.”

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sprent

Yes she can tell, and it's really nice. He looks very pleased with himself about it and tentatively happy, a far better look on him than what he wore when they were in the cells together.

"And you're going to watch. And think about joining in?" Who knows what will happen when you're a few drinks into a night, yes? "It sounds so fun, Benedict.

"We'd better make sure you look really good, then."

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"I don't know about joining in," he scoffs with a self-effacing laugh, "nobody wants to hear me sing." He directs his gaze down to the waistline of the dress, smoothing the skirt beneath it.

"It will be fun." Spoken resolutely: a declaration, a command. "I'm sure you could go, if you wanted to see. Just don't expect me to be onstage." He flashes her a smile.

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Julius is a man of habit. While Benedict sees him regularly, it is somewhat irregular to have him popping in at an unplanned moment. On the other hand, it's the middle of the day, and their offices aren't far from one another, so it really is only odd because it's Julius knocking on the door frame (since the door itself is open).

"Do you have minute? Nothing dire if you're in the middle of something else."

At least his tone matches his words. He doesn't seem to be breaking his habit because anything is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.

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It’s a welcome interruption from the tedium of paperwork, and Benedict smiles up at the door from his desk.

“What can I do for you, Seneschal?”

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"I had a couple of questions for you if you have a moment." He comes in properly to sit across from Benedict properly, not on edge but with the air of one too many irons in the fire he often has these days. "I suppose, first, I was wondering if there was anything you were hurting for in particular, supply-wise. We're all dealing with the same shortages, paper and so on, but I'm stepping in for the few duties I can wrest away from the Quartermaster while she's in the infirmary. At the very least, I could save her some legwork on prioritizing resupplies if she insists on working from bed."

He's more quietly concerned than critical. For one thing, he's no better as a patient and he knows it. Still, if he can keep Ness's work lighter at present, he's inclined to do so.

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"Ooh."

There is, of course, the obvious request: "paper?" Suggested with a hopeful, endearing smile-- hasn't he been ever so good and doesn't he deserve it more than anyone else who asks-- but there's a humor in his eyes as well, as he already knows what the likely answer will be.

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Rueful but not without a hint of a smile, he says, "Ever and always doing what I can on that front. Maybe some will fall out of a rift, it sounds like other worlds also have paper. One can always hope." Even if futilely. On which note: "Provost Niehaus mentioned something about a surface that can be written on and cleaned, like a chalkboard but less dusty. Maybe we'll get one of those and save ourselves some trouble."

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"Couldn't hurt to try," Benedict muses, relaxing out of his begging stance to look down at what he was working on before Julius entered-- and something occurs to him, causing him to sit straight back up again.

"I do need your counsel on something," he realizes, "or-- perhaps everyone's-- I'm not sure. Manfred, the ah. The professor's assistant. ...skeleton."

His smile is something more like a grimace.

"How do we... what do we do with Manfred."

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"Maker, what a question to have to deal with." Not, clearly, Benedict's fault. "I suppose with Volkarin present, there's not much to do unless he," it? deeply unclear, "misbehaves. I can't say I'm thrilled with an ambulatory spirit running around the Gallows on principle. Then again, we've had other situations I wasn't enthusiastic about in the past."

A brief shake of the head, but then an increased focus. "I didn't ask and I should: Has anyone complained? Or is it just the broader situation that you're asking about?" The latter still makes sense, but the former could mean the need for a different approach.

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His smile broadening slightly at Julius' reaction, Benedict is pleased to commiserate on the matter.

"Not directly," he replies-- has anyone complained-- "but if startled reactions and looks askance in the Gallows are any indication, it's going to be an interesting time if the Professor tries to take him out into greater Kirkwall."

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"I'll raise the point at the next Diplomacy meeting," Julius says, a tacit agreement. "I think it can be done; it's hardly the first time Riftwatch has leaned into its status as a novelty. But given the difference between Nevarra's approach to spirits and Kirkwall's, it is worth a quiet word about expectations and adjustments before an incident arises. At the same time, I don't want to single out Volkarin. We've had more potentially problematic agents before."

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"Of course," Benedict says easily enough, visibly relieved by Julius' agreement of the situation's significance. "He seems..."

A fair number of descriptors for Volkarin pass through his mind before he lands on, "kind."

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"He does," Julius agrees. "I don't think he'd purposely make someone uncomfortable without reason. And we've both been here long enough, perhaps we don't always remember what a culture shock Kirkwall can be."

Even if the particulars were different, given their backgrounds, Julius doesn't feel it's presumptuous to make the point.

"On the bright side, Kirkwall's had us here long enough that some amount of oddness can probably just be chalked up to ah, you know, Riftwatch, if it's handled well." Most people had gotten used to rifters, and that has taken years.

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cozen

Not long after receiving a talking-to, Bastien turns up in the doorway to Benedict's office and says, "Catch."

The little bundle of cloth tossed at him, underhand, contains a pair of earrings, matched but asymmetrical and high enough quality that there is no way he did not steal them.

That means it's costing him more, actually, to say, "I'm sorry for giving you a hard time."

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Benedict does not look up fast enough to catch, and the small bundle lands to nearly skid off his desk, but he manages to grab it in time. His look at Bastien is questioning, perhaps a little incredulous, until he unfolds the cloth and hears what he has to say.

He opens his mouth, thinks a moment, closes it.

"It wasn't easy for you," he says measuredly, carefully, "being forgotten."

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cozen

“Nnneh,” Bastien says, shrugging. Or more eloquently: “C'est la vie, c'est la mort, c'est la grande inévitabilité.”

It’s like so fine.

“And thank you,” he adds. “It is good to know that if something happens to me, Byerly will have someone else there to tell him not to let dangerously mad vagrants sleep in his house.”

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IS IT FINE

Benedict squints a little bit, not daring enough to call Bastien out directly, but not completely buying the dismissal. If it's really that simple, then... no, it's never that simple.
But he can't help heaving a sigh of deep relief at the reassurance-- he wasn't in the wrong, necessarily, for how he reacted in the moment.

He looks at the earrings again, expression softening. "These are nice," he remarks, and holds one up to his ear with a little smile as though to test it, modeling for Bastien. "You didn't have to."

Edited Date: 2025-04-07 09:33 pm (UTC)

From:

cozen

“I know,” Bastien says, smiling as if oblivious to all squinting. He is rather proud of the find; either one will look good alone, or they’ll look good together, and they match Benedict’s ensemble from the other night well enough. “But it was nothing. Truly nothing. If anyone accuses you of stealing of those, tell them the truth, that you got them from me, and I will handle it from there, ouais?”

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Try as he might to remain skeptical, Benedict's resolve is beginning to slip; Bastien can be so warm and so affable, and at times it's near impossible not to be drawn in by how badly one wants it to be sincere.

"Is that likely?" Benedict asks, lowering the earring again, his smile growing uncertain. Then, tentatively, "...did you steal them?"

From:

cozen

“No, no, of course not.”

His smile is vague. He could wink, loop Benedict in, but that’s no good; Bastien doesn’t trust him not to fumble a lie.

Anyway, it is very unlikely anyone will miss them, and doubly unlikely someone who misses them will see them on Benedict. Maker bless the eluvian network for allowing easy geographical dispersement of crimes.

“I’ll let you get back to work.”

From:

Somehow the reassurance only increases Benedict's doubts, and his face falls a little further-- he's going to wear them, obviously, but perhaps at his own risk. He'll never look gift earrings in the. Posts?

He's inspecting them again when Bastien turns to go, but attempts to still him with a furtive "wait."
It's awkward, and he has that very particular Inconvenienced Nobility look about him, like he's about to do something he doesn't want to but knows he should.

"I'm sorry," he adds, trying not to look away, "for what I said." About Rat Red, of course.

From:

cozen

Bastien waits, vague smile unaltered until Benedict apologizes. Then it widens and he shakes his head.

“It’s alright,” he says. “It’s true.”

Another thing that is sooooo fine.

“I can bring her along when I come to the Gallows tomorrow if you want an office dog for a couple of hours.”

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That smile is almost more unnerving than if he'd gotten mad. Alarm bells are sounding in Benedict's brain, but to speak on them would be far worse than to let them be-- he's not prepared for that conversation, and may never be.

"...all right," he accepts, gently skating past that answer, because, in truth, "I'd like that."

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cozen

"So would she," is, at least, a little wry — a touch of regret that his dog would prefer someone else's company — but in a friendly way.

It's paired with a tentative step back from the door. Now can he go? Yes? Great.

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