"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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."
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?"
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.
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."
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."
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.
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.
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.)
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."
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?
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.
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.
"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.
"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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"There is more than writing letters, obviously." Just, you know. Start small.
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"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.
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"What did you do up north?"
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(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?"
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"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.
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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.
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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.
real lol @ drawings of hunks
"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?
it's a tough job but someone has to do it
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."
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"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.
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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.
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"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."
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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."
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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?"
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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.
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"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.)
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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."
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Would that shock him? Maybe. But maybe not. After all, they're both standing here aren't they?
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"He stayed with the Inquisition. We became Riftwatch not long after, but he went to Skyhold. Where, hopefully, he will remain."
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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?
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"I'm, ah, not in touch with my family at present," he hedges, feeling that's probably explanation enough.
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"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.
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yes,
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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.
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If the Magisterium don't know where he stands by now, they probably never will.
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I thought I replied to this like fifty years ago
relatable tho
Re: relatable tho
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