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.
"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."
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.
"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."
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?"
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?"
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.
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?"
“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.”
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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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"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.
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"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.
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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."
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Benedict leans forward slightly, prompting him on and ignoring the second question, for the moment.
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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?"
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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?"
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"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.
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"Then you have no intention to return home once this is all finished, I take it?"
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“I’ll go back if to do so doesn’t mean being a prisoner or dead.”
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I thought I replied to this like fifty years ago
relatable tho
Re: relatable tho
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