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Society galas in Minrathous are almost always thrown for the express purpose of political maneuvering and shady double-dealing. Atticus has managed to remain on the periphery of Tevinter's Great Game, which has required a certain amount of political maneuvering of his own; it takes work to remain so purposefully neutral and respectable amongst all quarters--though he does find that having all of one's colleagues suspect him of his father's murder helps.
Tonight he is accompanied by his wife, Ophelia, and their teenage son, Octavius. Ophelia is as poised and elegant as the wife of a magister ought to be; Octavius can't quite wrest his eyes away from the canapés, but that's to be expected of a boy his age.
Atticus pays him little attention. He's here to bear witness to some exquisite bit of political subterfuge executed by the Artemaeus family, and to provide a bit of subtle back-up if required.
Tonight he is accompanied by his wife, Ophelia, and their teenage son, Octavius. Ophelia is as poised and elegant as the wife of a magister ought to be; Octavius can't quite wrest his eyes away from the canapés, but that's to be expected of a boy his age.
Atticus pays him little attention. He's here to bear witness to some exquisite bit of political subterfuge executed by the Artemaeus family, and to provide a bit of subtle back-up if required.
As can be generally assumed, Benedict is bored out of his mind. Even being fawned over endlessly by his many potential matches gets tedious, and he has rather unceremoniously broken away from one such conversation, turning around and waving her off mid-sentence so he can go acquire more wine.
It's now that he catches sight of his soon-to-be mentor, and strolls over to him, languidly swishing the wine in his goblet and offering a lazy smile. He's tipsy and not especially concerned about showing it.
"Evening," he greets, his eyes flitting over the magister's family, "have you come to watch the slaughter?" By this of course he means his parents' constant posturing, asserting themselves as the region's dominant family, not that anyone really doubts it.
It's now that he catches sight of his soon-to-be mentor, and strolls over to him, languidly swishing the wine in his goblet and offering a lazy smile. He's tipsy and not especially concerned about showing it.
"Evening," he greets, his eyes flitting over the magister's family, "have you come to watch the slaughter?" By this of course he means his parents' constant posturing, asserting themselves as the region's dominant family, not that anyone really doubts it.
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 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.
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.
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."
"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."
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."
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.
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.
It takes the boy a moment to recognize the tonal shift, and his smile drifts away, his expression becoming slightly wary. "...what?"
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."
He takes a fortifying sip of his wine.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
[ Beleth does not particularly want to meet with Benedict in his gross cell, so he gets to have a field trip to the garden, accompanied by some Templar or another. I don't know which one. Maybe it's Ser Gareth, who's been a bit grumpy since he found out there is now two mages with his name running around here.
In any case, there are two chairs and a little side table with a tea set awaiting him, with Beleth sitting in one of the chairs. She gestures to the chair, a polite smile on her face. ]
Benedict Artemaeus, correct? Would you like some tea?
In any case, there are two chairs and a little side table with a tea set awaiting him, with Beleth sitting in one of the chairs. She gestures to the chair, a polite smile on her face. ]
Benedict Artemaeus, correct? Would you like some tea?
[Ser Gareth is a grumpy gus. He's been getting disrespected all over lately, and today is no exception, because Benedict is about as respectful as a wet cat. At least he's learned not to talk much as he's herded from the dungeon to the garden, a place he's really come to dread now that it seems to represent being given brief and unpleasant doses of freedom just long enough to remind him that he can't have it.
He slumps into the chair across from her, the Templar's hand on his shoulder to keep him there. It's not a secret that he's rude to elves, and nobody needs this going south.]
Correct, [he says drearily, and gives a slumping shrug to her question. Tea. What a stupid thing to want, nowadays.]
He slumps into the chair across from her, the Templar's hand on his shoulder to keep him there. It's not a secret that he's rude to elves, and nobody needs this going south.]
Correct, [he says drearily, and gives a slumping shrug to her question. Tea. What a stupid thing to want, nowadays.]
[ She's heard...a number of unpleasant things about Benedict. And they're probably all completely true. But with him just sitting in front of her, looking depressingly...resigned. It's hard not to feel bad for him--particularly in light of what she's learned from Atticus and Petrana. ]
It's nice to finally meet you. I am Beleth Ashara, Scoutmaster of the Inquisition.
[ She gives him a polite nod, then gestures to Ser Gareth, and then the tea. Nothing happens. She gestures again, a little more intensely, with a pointed look. Eventually, the ever downtrodden Ser Gareth moves to reluctantly poor the tea for them, giving Beleth a withering look. She'd be worried about him talking to his superiors, if she didn't fucking hate the Seekers.
So, she hands the cup of tea off to Benedict, completely ignoring Ser Gareth and the looks he was giving her. ]
You know, you came up in conversation when we were questioning your mentor. He's a bit of an ass, isn't he?
It's nice to finally meet you. I am Beleth Ashara, Scoutmaster of the Inquisition.
[ She gives him a polite nod, then gestures to Ser Gareth, and then the tea. Nothing happens. She gestures again, a little more intensely, with a pointed look. Eventually, the ever downtrodden Ser Gareth moves to reluctantly poor the tea for them, giving Beleth a withering look. She'd be worried about him talking to his superiors, if she didn't fucking hate the Seekers.
So, she hands the cup of tea off to Benedict, completely ignoring Ser Gareth and the looks he was giving her. ]
You know, you came up in conversation when we were questioning your mentor. He's a bit of an ass, isn't he?
[Benedict has lost weight since his arrival, and is unusually sensitive to the chill in the air. He holds his arms defensively around himself, staring dully at the elf, barely glancing to the Templar and then the tea.]
Is it magebane, [he asks, deadpan.] I've had it already today. [Sometimes they don't pay attention, and he gets it twice, and spends the day almost too sluggish to move.]
Is it magebane, [he asks, deadpan.] I've had it already today. [Sometimes they don't pay attention, and he gets it twice, and spends the day almost too sluggish to move.]
What? [ She furrows her brows, and quickly shakes her head. ] No, it's just mint, with some elfroot. [ She takes a sip of her own tea, like that would do anything to her, if it was magebane. ]
...Are you cold? Do you want a...coat, or a sweater...?
[ This isn't going as expected. She was supposed to have a meaningful chat, and now she's just fretting over him. But. This is really sad. ]
...Are you cold? Do you want a...coat, or a sweater...?
[ This isn't going as expected. She was supposed to have a meaningful chat, and now she's just fretting over him. But. This is really sad. ]
[He looks down at it disinterestedly, but picks up the tea and inhales the steam nonetheless. It's good to smell something nice, even if it's just water.]
Yes. [Might as well be honest, no beating around the bush here. It's rare enough that his requests are heeded, if someone is asking a direct question he might as well take the opportunity.]
Yes. [Might as well be honest, no beating around the bush here. It's rare enough that his requests are heeded, if someone is asking a direct question he might as well take the opportunity.]
[ Well, she can't fault him for honesty. The only tricky part is that she can't send Ser Gareth off for a coat or sweater, and leave her alone with Benedict--even if he looks pathetic enough at this point that she's pretty sure he's not much of a threat. So, instead, she pulls out her crystal, muttering into it, than stashing it away again.
Having accomplished that, she turns to Benedict, and smiles. ]
So, I've heard that you've been speaking to one of my scouts, Kithan Gandir. I hope that he's been treating you well?
[ And Kostos, but she's not going to bother asking how that went. She can only imagine. ]
Having accomplished that, she turns to Benedict, and smiles. ]
So, I've heard that you've been speaking to one of my scouts, Kithan Gandir. I hope that he's been treating you well?
[ And Kostos, but she's not going to bother asking how that went. She can only imagine. ]
[Watching the crystal with narrowed eyes, Benedict seems perplexed by it. Completely ignoring Beleth's question, he nods toward it.]
What's that?
What's that?
[ Beleth blinks, looking a little surprised, but obligingly draws out the crystal again, holding it up for him to see. ]
It's a sending crystal. You can use it to speak to others who also have crystals--for example, I just asked one of my scouts to fetch you something warm. They're very useful. A stash of them had been found deep within Skyhold, I'm told...?
It's a sending crystal. You can use it to speak to others who also have crystals--for example, I just asked one of my scouts to fetch you something warm. They're very useful. A stash of them had been found deep within Skyhold, I'm told...?
[Benedict is incredulous, vaguely interested, but he has larger concerns.]
That sounds fake, [he decides, perhaps just to be contrary.]
That sounds fake, [he decides, perhaps just to be contrary.]
[ Beleth blinks at him, then shrugs, unconcerned. ]
Well, you're welcome to believe whatever you want.
[ It's not like he's going to be getting one anytime soon anyway, so. Whether or not he believes it doesn't exactly affect anything.
In the meantime, a scout--some scout or another, maybe there's a Scout Gareth to complete the trifecta--comes up to Beleth with a sweater, and leaves. She promptly hands it over Benedict. It's no fashion statement, but it's sturdy and fairly comfortable, and most importantly: warm. ]
Let me know if that fits.
Well, you're welcome to believe whatever you want.
[ It's not like he's going to be getting one anytime soon anyway, so. Whether or not he believes it doesn't exactly affect anything.
In the meantime, a scout--some scout or another, maybe there's a Scout Gareth to complete the trifecta--comes up to Beleth with a sweater, and leaves. She promptly hands it over Benedict. It's no fashion statement, but it's sturdy and fairly comfortable, and most importantly: warm. ]
Let me know if that fits.
[That suits him fine. Benedict watches her dully until the scout appears, wrinkles his nose at the sweater, and then puts it on anyway. This is a far removal from how he'd react to something so garish at home, but... well, he's far removed from home.]
It fits, [he says defeatedly.]
It fits, [he says defeatedly.]
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