Having noted Benedict's approach, Atticus turns away from him and goes about refilling his goblet of wine. This wouldn't be perceived as a slight; he's been introduced to his future protégé already (enough to know that fortifying his flagging patience with alcohol is prerequisite for dealing with him).
It's his wife who greets Benedict first, granting him a clear smile that manages to be genuine without quite reaching her eyes. "I didn't realize this was going to be that kind of party. I hope we aren't distracting you from your guests." Her eyes travel past Benedict to the slighted young woman who fumes at the back of his head, looking a hair's breadth away from throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the gala.
"I'll dance with her," Octavius hopefully volunteers.
"You will not," Atticus counters. While his son scowls, the magister turns back to greet his latest apprentice properly, inclining his head in a nod. "Good evening, Benedict."
"It's always that kind of party," Benedict replies with a derisive laugh, taking a sip from his wine and looking around. "I don't need distraction, I need them to stop talking to me." With his free hand he pushes his hair back, lovingly coiffed and shiny as polished onyx. "Good luck with that," he says to Octavius, pointedly taking in his clothing and grooming choices, though he doesn't comment. ...verbally, anyway.
Under Benedict's vivisecting stare, Tavi self-consciously straightens his robes. His parents wouldn't have let him into the gala without ensuring his look was on pointe; still, he can barely be more than thirteen or fourteen, and his life in Qarinus has insulated him from much of what society in Minrathous has to offer. Namely, viper-like company like Benedict's.
Graceful, Ophelia rests a hand against her son's shoulder. Her gaze on Benedict grows crystalline and cold, but her smile doesn't fade. Still, one might suggest not provoking her temper; she will be the lady of the house when Benedict has occasion to visit Qarinus with his new mentor.
Atticus's eyes are well beyond the exchange, instead following Calpurnia as she makes her poised, shark-like progress through the room. She has a target in her sights; Atticus just can't discern who it is yet. "I wasn't clear," he begins in a deceptively mild tone of voice, "who our hosts were this evening."
"I gave you the invitation," Ophelia notes quietly. "Didn't you read it?"
In response, Atticus drains a liberal amount of wine from his goblet. Clearly not.
If Benedict notices Ophelia's stare, he doesn't show it beyond smiling blithely back at her-- he's probably too buzzed to notice even the minute social cues he'd normally see and ignore anyway. "Magister Pavus," he replies easily, "trying to wiggle his way back into favor now that Dorian's gone turncoat." Swish swish goes his wine. "I hear it's not the only thing he's tried to turn, if you catch my meaning."
Atticus barely disguises the look of distaste on his face--not that he brooks any moral objection to Magister Pavus' choice to do what he will with his wayward son, but to leverage blood magic to do so put a foul taste in his mouth. He briefly considers the extent to which he'd be willing to interfere with Octavius' life to prevent him from engaging in similar behavior, and decide very little. Drawing undue attention to the aberration only enhances the scandal.
And blood magic is, for his own reasons, an unacceptable avenue to pursue.
"I believe I do, Master Aremaeus," Ophelia replies genially and takes a small sip from her wine.
The party continues on for some time; Ophelia makes the rounds to those of her colleagues and acquaintances who are present, with Tavi tagging along beside her putting his best foot forward so as to not shame his mother, or his ever distant, somewhat frightening father. Atticus joins them for a time, then withdraws to one of the ornamental bookshelves lining the walls of the main gala hall. The titles are all the trite nonsense you'd expect to find at an event like this.
At some point, he determines that if he doesn't speak more than a few sentences to Benedict this whole evening, he'll end up slighting the boy and inviting irksome scandal into his life. So he approaches Benedict again, at whatever cluster of people he's joined, and waits until an appropriate moment to speak to him.
"I understand you're to be joining our household before the end of the season."
Benedict is at a point where he's unlikely to perceive any slights subtler than a slap in the face. When Atticus finds him again, he's in a group of young men around his own age, propped languidly against a pillar and maintaining relative silence while they discuss and dissect the female partygoers. When addressed from his other side, Benedict seems almost glad for the distraction, and turns toward Atticus with a smile that pretends to be polite but is in fact mostly drunk and ingratiating. "You understand right," he all but slurs, lifting his glass as though in a toast, "I hope your staff is prepared to meet my mother's standards."
"I hope your staff is prepared to meet my mother's standards."
This stupid boy could beggar all of Orlais with his near-sighted capacity for self-indulgence. Atticus can barely stomach it, and so decides not to. For the moment.
"Our staff? ...Oh," he begins, his thin eyebrows climbing quite high on his forehead. He does a good job of performing 'mild, chagrined shock' even though no part of him feels it. "Oh, I thought you had been informed about the living arrangements of my apprentices." His eyebrows draw together into a deep furrow and he shakes his head, murmuring another, troubled, 'oh dear' under his breath.
The look Atticus gives Benedict is the closest approximation that he can conjure to pitying. "Our staff don't service the apprentices' barracks." Yes, barracks--you heard that right, Benedict. Dormitory living--you, and perhaps twelve other snivelling spoilt wretches just like you, washing your own clothes, making your own beds, perhaps even boiling your own water for a cup of tea. Here it is, the edge of civilization--you've reached it.
He goes on with an idle gesture of his wine glass. "I think you will enjoy the apprentices' lodge. It's charmingly rustic, complete with a view of the lake. The bath house is but a short walk down hill."
Benedict's smile falters further, and it's totally gone when he fixes Atticus with an incredulous, affronted stare. "You're joking," he replies, an edge of panic in his voice, and then casts his eyes about for wherever his parents are sinking their talons at the moment. He'll find them, they'll fix it.
Feigning confusion, Atticus replies quietly with, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
Before Benedict can sputter additional protests at him, Atticus makes his apologies and abandons his latest protégé to his despair, joining Ophelia on one of the many elaborate balconies overlooking the city of Minrathous. She gives him a suspicious look that he patently ignores, instead collecting a new glass of wine from a passing tray.
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It's his wife who greets Benedict first, granting him a clear smile that manages to be genuine without quite reaching her eyes. "I didn't realize this was going to be that kind of party. I hope we aren't distracting you from your guests." Her eyes travel past Benedict to the slighted young woman who fumes at the back of his head, looking a hair's breadth away from throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the gala.
"I'll dance with her," Octavius hopefully volunteers.
"You will not," Atticus counters. While his son scowls, the magister turns back to greet his latest apprentice properly, inclining his head in a nod. "Good evening, Benedict."
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With his free hand he pushes his hair back, lovingly coiffed and shiny as polished onyx. "Good luck with that," he says to Octavius, pointedly taking in his clothing and grooming choices, though he doesn't comment. ...verbally, anyway.
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Graceful, Ophelia rests a hand against her son's shoulder. Her gaze on Benedict grows crystalline and cold, but her smile doesn't fade. Still, one might suggest not provoking her temper; she will be the lady of the house when Benedict has occasion to visit Qarinus with his new mentor.
Atticus's eyes are well beyond the exchange, instead following Calpurnia as she makes her poised, shark-like progress through the room. She has a target in her sights; Atticus just can't discern who it is yet. "I wasn't clear," he begins in a deceptively mild tone of voice, "who our hosts were this evening."
"I gave you the invitation," Ophelia notes quietly. "Didn't you read it?"
In response, Atticus drains a liberal amount of wine from his goblet. Clearly not.
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"Magister Pavus," he replies easily, "trying to wiggle his way back into favor now that Dorian's gone turncoat." Swish swish goes his wine. "I hear it's not the only thing he's tried to turn, if you catch my meaning."
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And blood magic is, for his own reasons, an unacceptable avenue to pursue.
"I believe I do, Master Aremaeus," Ophelia replies genially and takes a small sip from her wine.
The party continues on for some time; Ophelia makes the rounds to those of her colleagues and acquaintances who are present, with Tavi tagging along beside her putting his best foot forward so as to not shame his mother, or his ever distant, somewhat frightening father. Atticus joins them for a time, then withdraws to one of the ornamental bookshelves lining the walls of the main gala hall. The titles are all the trite nonsense you'd expect to find at an event like this.
At some point, he determines that if he doesn't speak more than a few sentences to Benedict this whole evening, he'll end up slighting the boy and inviting irksome scandal into his life. So he approaches Benedict again, at whatever cluster of people he's joined, and waits until an appropriate moment to speak to him.
"I understand you're to be joining our household before the end of the season."
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When addressed from his other side, Benedict seems almost glad for the distraction, and turns toward Atticus with a smile that pretends to be polite but is in fact mostly drunk and ingratiating.
"You understand right," he all but slurs, lifting his glass as though in a toast, "I hope your staff is prepared to meet my mother's standards."
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This stupid boy could beggar all of Orlais with his near-sighted capacity for self-indulgence. Atticus can barely stomach it, and so decides not to. For the moment.
"Our staff? ...Oh," he begins, his thin eyebrows climbing quite high on his forehead. He does a good job of performing 'mild, chagrined shock' even though no part of him feels it. "Oh, I thought you had been informed about the living arrangements of my apprentices." His eyebrows draw together into a deep furrow and he shakes his head, murmuring another, troubled, 'oh dear' under his breath.
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He goes on with an idle gesture of his wine glass. "I think you will enjoy the apprentices' lodge. It's charmingly rustic, complete with a view of the lake. The bath house is but a short walk down hill."
He takes a fortifying sip of his wine.
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"You're joking," he replies, an edge of panic in his voice, and then casts his eyes about for wherever his parents are sinking their talons at the moment. He'll find them, they'll fix it.
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Before Benedict can sputter additional protests at him, Atticus makes his apologies and abandons his latest protégé to his despair, joining Ophelia on one of the many elaborate balconies overlooking the city of Minrathous. She gives him a suspicious look that he patently ignores, instead collecting a new glass of wine from a passing tray.