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I haven't heard from my family since we left Minrathous. [It comes out defensive, even if he doesn't mean it that way.]
...my discretion is yours.
[At least until something comes along to fuck it up, but no need to count dragons before they hatch.]
...my discretion is yours.
[At least until something comes along to fuck it up, but no need to count dragons before they hatch.]
I've got my own plans.
[One can almost hear the hair toss, the prickliness in his voice, so quick to rise despite having no real reason to be angry.]
[One can almost hear the hair toss, the prickliness in his voice, so quick to rise despite having no real reason to be angry.]
Whatever sort of life it is that Atticus Vedici enjoys at remote Skyhold, it's doubtful news of it has journeyed back to Kirkwall. The specifics of it hardly matter, in any case; he has been provided a looser leash, but a cage is still a cage, and it is not freedom. The chains of policy and procedure still bind him, and not for the first time since he was subjected to the base indignity of a phylactery, Atticus has come to view his gamble with bitterness.
Thus, in dreams, he subverts his imprisonment, and spins nightmares for his jailers like silk.
But that dark impulse is not what brings him to the outskirts of Benedict's sleeping mind. As he lingers amid nebulous shape and shadow and observes the boy in his dreams, he devotes only some passing thought to his motivations. Is it curiosity alone? Boredom? Sentimentality?
(With Atticus? Who fucking knows.)
Thus, in dreams, he subverts his imprisonment, and spins nightmares for his jailers like silk.
But that dark impulse is not what brings him to the outskirts of Benedict's sleeping mind. As he lingers amid nebulous shape and shadow and observes the boy in his dreams, he devotes only some passing thought to his motivations. Is it curiosity alone? Boredom? Sentimentality?
(With Atticus? Who fucking knows.)
He picked a good time to visit, or possibly the worst time, depending. The setting is Benedict's childhood bedroom, with a gentle storm rolling outside and a very un-childlike scene transpiring on the bed: Benedict's hands are tied together and to the bedpost with colorful ribbons while someone lies between his legs, administering cheerfully to his nether region with their mouth.
Their face changes intermittently, sometimes an elf, sometimes not, but always a man, and Benedict moans softly and writhes with all the unabashed enjoyment of someone who is likely feeling the results on more than just the imaginary plane.
Their face changes intermittently, sometimes an elf, sometimes not, but always a man, and Benedict moans softly and writhes with all the unabashed enjoyment of someone who is likely feeling the results on more than just the imaginary plane.
The carnal tableau is as uninteresting to Atticus here as it would have been in the physical world, save to inspire the same, dull sort of distaste in him that he has always felt when confronted with any overt display of sexuality. Like blood magic, it is self-indulgent to the point of mindless excess--though, unlike blood magic, it at least provides the ancillary benefit of balancing the humors.
He doesn't interrupt Benedict--not directly. Instead, he crosses the room absently towards one of the shuttered windows and yanks back the curtains. In dreams, the act amplifies the sudden flash of lightning and ensuing clap of thunder that follows; the rain picks up in earnest, lashing itself against the glass with fury enough to leave suspicious, claw-like scratches rather than rivulets of water.
"You always were a tedious disappointment."
He doesn't interrupt Benedict--not directly. Instead, he crosses the room absently towards one of the shuttered windows and yanks back the curtains. In dreams, the act amplifies the sudden flash of lightning and ensuing clap of thunder that follows; the rain picks up in earnest, lashing itself against the glass with fury enough to leave suspicious, claw-like scratches rather than rivulets of water.
"You always were a tedious disappointment."
The lightning startles him as intended, and everything changes very quickly, but not dramatically. Looking around, Benedict gasps deeply when his gaze lands on Atticus-- it's a face he hasn't seen in some time, and which has never been welcome. Abruptly he becomes aware that the person below his waist is Octavius, whose attentions he now desperately wishes would cease. Tugging at the ribbons, he finds that they've become rusty chains, which pinch his wrists familiarly, calling to mind what he was forced to wear in Kirkwall's dungeon.
"Oh no," he whimpers, glancing frantically from Octavius to Atticus, "no no no--"
"Oh no," he whimpers, glancing frantically from Octavius to Atticus, "no no no--"
Octavius' face is--unexpected. Atticus stares back at his son, whose startled expression must be a mirror of Benedict's own; it's intolerable, watching him debase himself like this, even knowing that his presence at all is the work of Benedict's imagining.
It is undoubtedly a projection of his own will that has Octavius remove himself from the bed with more dignity and composure than the boy likely possesses in life. Atticus wills him to dress himself with his back turned, then turns an incising stare on Benedict where he remains pathetically chained. He raises his eyebrows, unsympathetic. "No?" he repeats, slowly approaching the bedside, and if behind him the rain hurls itself with even more terrifying intensity against the glass, Atticus doesn't bother to temper it. The howl of the wind sounds more like a pained moan.
He leans in and seizes hold of the chain still attached to the bed frame. "This is a cage of your own making. Why protest against it now?"
(He's speaking to himself more than he realizes--Benedict is just an effective lightning rod.)
It is undoubtedly a projection of his own will that has Octavius remove himself from the bed with more dignity and composure than the boy likely possesses in life. Atticus wills him to dress himself with his back turned, then turns an incising stare on Benedict where he remains pathetically chained. He raises his eyebrows, unsympathetic. "No?" he repeats, slowly approaching the bedside, and if behind him the rain hurls itself with even more terrifying intensity against the glass, Atticus doesn't bother to temper it. The howl of the wind sounds more like a pained moan.
He leans in and seizes hold of the chain still attached to the bed frame. "This is a cage of your own making. Why protest against it now?"
(He's speaking to himself more than he realizes--Benedict is just an effective lightning rod.)
In theory, Benedict could will all of this back to how it was; but one of them is a somniari, and the other is not. He's at the mercy of the stronger influence, and thus he remains naked and chained, now without Octavius or anything distracting him from the monster in the room.
Needless to say, any enjoyment he was feeling-- or showing-- has effectively vanished.
"I did what I had to," he frantically insists, giving a fruitless tug at his bonds, "I couldn't spend my life in a cell!"
Needless to say, any enjoyment he was feeling-- or showing-- has effectively vanished.
"I did what I had to," he frantically insists, giving a fruitless tug at his bonds, "I couldn't spend my life in a cell!"
[ When Benedict — at some point, presumably — wakes, he'll find that he's received a terribly mysterious written invitation to meet with the dwarven owner of an extensive private library. A stranger (terrible, mysterious) may already be waiting.
Benedict doesn't have to actually accept the invitation. Not intentionally. Should he ignore or otherwise attempt to circumvent its summons, a chain of coincidences (terrible, mysterious, you get it by now) and suspiciously well-timed accidents will load the dice to get him there roughly on time.
The invitation is beautifully calligraphed, and requests that Benedict’s inestimable expertise be lent to reviewing the accuracy of translated diary pages, said to have been written by a Tevene scholar known for his studies of dragons. This is true: The diary pages are almost certainly authentic. They are also almost certainly lewd fanfiction about dragon furries.
It’s quite a nice library, though the collection is focused exclusively upon bizarre erotica. Their host will "accidentally" lock them in for an hour, but not before providing wine and cheese.
OOC Note: Val is played by Cee. Feel free to play out a thread, handwave things, or ignore it entirely, but check with each other first! ❤ ]
Benedict doesn't have to actually accept the invitation. Not intentionally. Should he ignore or otherwise attempt to circumvent its summons, a chain of coincidences (terrible, mysterious, you get it by now) and suspiciously well-timed accidents will load the dice to get him there roughly on time.
The invitation is beautifully calligraphed, and requests that Benedict’s inestimable expertise be lent to reviewing the accuracy of translated diary pages, said to have been written by a Tevene scholar known for his studies of dragons. This is true: The diary pages are almost certainly authentic. They are also almost certainly lewd fanfiction about dragon furries.
It’s quite a nice library, though the collection is focused exclusively upon bizarre erotica. Their host will "accidentally" lock them in for an hour, but not before providing wine and cheese.
OOC Note: Val is played by Cee. Feel free to play out a thread, handwave things, or ignore it entirely, but check with each other first! ❤ ]
[ Hours after Benedict had come to him Hanzo has him still, but the time has been spent idly. The other man had been weak from the dragons, broken from the ache, and all Hanzo could do was pick him up and lift him into his bed, waiting. Over time his eyes had slipped closed, Kenji and Tomo hovering as a kind of guard as he dozed.
Waking now is slow and uneasy and Hanzo has to stop himself moving too much. Benedict is in his arms how, his own wrapped around him as he keeps him right against his chest, fingers brushing idly where they lay. He’d be embarrassed if he cared enough, but he’s had his share of drunken nights and. Well. Benedict might be more embarrassed.
Huffing a soft noise against his neck, Hanzo waits. ]
Waking now is slow and uneasy and Hanzo has to stop himself moving too much. Benedict is in his arms how, his own wrapped around him as he keeps him right against his chest, fingers brushing idly where they lay. He’d be embarrassed if he cared enough, but he’s had his share of drunken nights and. Well. Benedict might be more embarrassed.
Huffing a soft noise against his neck, Hanzo waits. ]
[It's been the sleep of the exhausted and miserable, longer than a nap has any right to be, yet something direly needed. The sun is nearly down when his eyes finally open again, an ache in the core of his body causing him to curl inward-- and then he notices the arm around him.
It's nothing to panic over, not yet; he rolls onto his back with a sleepy sigh and is only a little perplexed to see Hanzo there.]
It's nothing to panic over, not yet; he rolls onto his back with a sleepy sigh and is only a little perplexed to see Hanzo there.]
[ It’s easy to feel as Benedict comes to, the shift of his body as he wakes up and realises where he is. For a long moment Hanzo just waits to see what he’s going to do, to see if he’s going to flee or make himself comfortable, hovering just a little before he breathes out. He’s sure Benedict can feel some of the tension relaxing from the body behind him as Hanzo holds him just a little tighter.
He’s too tired for an argument right now. ]
Don’t move too much. It will hurt.
He’s too tired for an argument right now. ]
Don’t move too much. It will hurt.
[Trying to lift his head is all the proof that Bene needs, and he lays it back again with a wince, pressing a hand over his abdomen. Being held thus is strange, but it's nice, especially when one is feeling as weak as he is, and another long sigh is indication enough that he has no intention of going anywhere.]
When did I fall asleep, [he murmurs, not entirely bothered by whatever the answer is.]
When did I fall asleep, [he murmurs, not entirely bothered by whatever the answer is.]
[ That is acceptable as far as Hanzo is concerned. He holds onto Benedict because he sees no reason to let go - the embrace is nice and he’s dozy, half-asleep and prepared in case the other man decides to run. It’s odd, considering, to feel this comfortable, but he simply hums against him before he replies. ]
Not long after. The effect of the dragons can be exhausting. [ Hanzo does have some regrets. He knows Benedict wished to be hurt, but in his anger... ] It will take time.
Not long after. The effect of the dragons can be exhausting. [ Hanzo does have some regrets. He knows Benedict wished to be hurt, but in his anger... ] It will take time.
Mm.
[Hanzo's arm over him puts pressure where he wishes it wouldn't, so Benedict puts his hand over it, gently guiding it upward to lay over his sternum instead of his middle.]
My mother wrote to me at last, [he murmurs, perhaps on the edge of explaining his strange outburst.]
[Hanzo's arm over him puts pressure where he wishes it wouldn't, so Benedict puts his hand over it, gently guiding it upward to lay over his sternum instead of his middle.]
My mother wrote to me at last, [he murmurs, perhaps on the edge of explaining his strange outburst.]
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