[closed] it comes as no surprise at all, you see

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict Artemaeus, Atticus Vedici, Luwenna Coupe, Simon Ashlock
WHAT: an ill-used apprentice snaps and does something he'll regret
WHEN: after several weeks in captivity
WHERE: the dungeon
NOTES: Violence probably! If you want your character to be involved, send me a PM.

It's been a few weeks since Benedict's attempt to bolt, and he hasn't tried anything since then. In truth, he also isn't trying it now, since the Templars aren't his target: it's Atticus, who has done more to poison this experience than any southern Circle stooge ever could.

Their magic-blocking shackles are being transferred from their wrists to their ankles when Benedict, in a fit of terror-driven impulsiveness, casts Horror across the aisle into Atticus' cell. Why he chose this spell, even he isn't certain; why not a fireball or something suitably painful, he doesn't know. He doesn't have time to think about it, because it hardly takes a second for Benedict to be slammed against the wall by his assigned Templar, knocking the wind out of him. The shackle is replaced and his window of action is gone, and somehow he doesn't feel any better for it.

Unintentionally, the spell also infected Atticus' Templar, who is caught up by a brief but paralyzing fear.

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[paladingus]

He flinches when Wren reaches for her sword, backs hastily out of range as she begins to unsheathe it, and doesn't immediately approach again when she extends the keys. The Venatori, he thinks, can take their combined impatience and shove it.

Fortunately, his reach is long, and he can swipe the proffered keys and shackles without venturing too far into blade range again. This done, he unlocks the cell, still with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this is where it all comes undone, that all of it was leading to this moment, with the senior templar incapacitated and both Venatori unshackled, capable of overpowering him easily in tandem if they want. All it would take would be one more spell from the younger one, just like the first, and then they can slaughter their way through the Gallows like abominations and flee Kirkwall with a trail of devastation in their wake...

The adrenaline of Wren's attempted attack has worn off, leaving him drained, but he's not taking chances. He gathers himself and reaches again, with every singing drop of lyrium in his blood, for a cold sheet of negation to wrap the magister in until the shackles can do the job for him. It settles around Atticus like a clinging haze, and Simon beckons him when it's safe. "No hard feelings, serah. You know how these things go." The words might ring just a bit truer if he were willing to act like Atticus merits a 'messere.'

[altusimperius]

Finally, when he sees the magical block happen, Benedict is able to breathe out. He rests his head back against the wall, still eyeing Atticus warily, but at least relatively confident he's not about to be cursed to death.
He'd get up onto his feet, but Benedict is pretty sure his legs would just shake out from under him and he's better off staying here. Out of the way. Totally innocent and nonthreatening.

[limier]

It’ll sting later: That flinch, the retreat. In the moment it’s only irritation.

Wren casts a baleful gaze back to Atticus, expression settling into something a little less shaken — and no more pleasant for it. Her head knocks into a loose nod as Simon takes the keys (his distance matters, she can’t say why that’s so); her eyes skim down to meet the magister’s hands, squinting against the bad angle, the gloom.

As though she could do anything about it.

That silvery mist may as well be relief condensed, a signal that they're one step closer to this farce's end. One step closer, and. And a great many between. Too many to count. No sense in bothering.

Wrists, she almost suggests, decides Ashlock can handle that much. No one's getting a library pass today.

"Stay down," To Benedict, now. She draws herself up as tall as she can manage, attempts poorly to turn a lean into a loom. "You and I will speak."

Later. Later, when words come a little more easily. Later, when she's not in her own bloody cell.

[minrathousian]

The fog that mutes and muffles his senses may as well have ripped away his ability to touch, to smell, to taste; for a horrific moment he wonders if this even approaches what the Tranquil experience--then squashes that thought firmly. A pathetic and irrational fear, and he won't indulge it.

"No hard feelings, serah. You know how these things go."

Laconically, "Yes, I'm certain you feel just terrible about this arrangement, don't you." Regardless, he approaches the Templar and follows him out of Benedict's cell without a backward glance. He meets Wren's gaze unflinchingly. What; does she expect an apology? He's the one with the bruised windpipe and split eyebrow.

[paladingus]

"I'll add the penance to my nightly prayers," he deadpans, securing the shackles and giving Atticus a little push to speed him into the cell next door to Benedict's. It's not a terribly forceful one. He'll consider that his show of gratitude for the magister's cooperation.

Benedict, meanwhile, has been a perfect model of obedience throughout the havoc he's caused, but considering how it started, Simon would be rather less inclined to treat him gently if he were giving the orders.

...Should he be? With Atticus secured, and Benedict at least incapable of running away without effort, Simon turns his gaze back to Wren, sizing her up with undisguised concern. He wants to think he'd be able to tell if she were fit to take charge again, wants to think it would be like flipping a switch or crossing some clear boundary line, but he doesn't know. Madness isn't always so evident in a person's eyes that he can tell when it's there or not.

After a moment's silence, he holds the key ring out to her again. He doesn't get close enough to the bars that he can't see what her hands are doing at all times.

[altusimperius]

Benedict keeps his hands up and doesn't try to stand, sufficiently cowed by the Templars. Nobody tell his mother.
He heaves a sigh of relief when Atticus finally leaves the cell, and feels just safe enough to be incredulous about the woman's assertion. "It wasn't meant to affect you," he insists, his sourness tinged by remaining fear. He glances furtively in the direction of the person it was meant to affect, but Atticus is blessedly out of his sightline.

[limier]

"Lack of control," Very little of the sort. Evidently the boy’s at least skilled — though as much might be surmised from his parentage, his placement. "My. Much better."

It’s still a touch too dull to be properly dry.

Why such animosity towards Vedici? What does he believe his position here is? Questions that will need to be asked. Atticus’ reaction isn’t so difficult to follow, infuriating as it’s been, troubling as reflection will find it. When someone’s trying to kill you, you do what you can.

(Had she been trying to kill him?)

Wren braces her hands against the bars, though whether it’s some unconscious effort to reassure Simon, or just convenient support is difficult to say. This time, when she takes the keys, she doesn’t bother to sort. The wrong one goes in the lock — then another — third try’s the charm. The jerk of her chin towards Benedict:

"Shackles, please." To Simon. Further discussion of consequence may wait until the boy can’t spook himself into a spell. "I trust you know a fitting place."

What a shit thing to say. (Had she even meant to say it?) She steps into place at the corner of the bars; backup, a familiar position, if not one she's assumed for some years.

When it comes to fine motor skills right now, Simon's evidently the leader. What a promotion. Congrats.

[minrathousian]

Thrust into a separate cage for the duration, Atticus stifles his annoyance over being manhandled and instead stands near the bars to witness what he can of what transpires next. He looks from Simon to Wren and fixes his attention on the latter, assessing her condition; her struggling brings the tiniest of satisfied smiles to the corners of his lips. Good.

[paladingus]

Well. At least Wren sounds like herself again, or close enough to be faintly reassuring. For the first time since this whole fiasco began, the tension coiling his spine like a spring begins to bleed away.

Well, I was just going to hang them from his earlobes like pretty jewelry, but now that you mention it, I suppose wrists would work...

He wouldn't have said it aloud in front of the prisoners even on a routine day, but neither would he have felt vaguely guilty for thinking it like he does now. He lets himself into Benedict's cell and indicates, with curt, silent movements, that he should present his wrists. The balance of power has almost-but-not-quite restored itself, for which he is deeply relieved.

[altusimperius]

"Not quite," Benedict grumbles, to Wren's observation, and scowls as Simon so brusquely directs him. Now that Atticus is out of view, it seems some of the boy's petulance has returned to him, which might be a relief to his parents but no doubt a reminder to everyone else why he's been smacked around in the first place.
He thrusts his hands forward, angry with himself for allowing it. But if they can silence Atticus, they can do it to him too.

[limier]

Finally. Maker. This has been a shitshow of a morning —

"Isolation," A gesture to Benedict, once chained. "I will put in the request for magebane."

What a fun letter that’s going to be to write. Particularly when the new apothecary is, rumour has it, another damn Rifter mage.

"The Magister may receive a medic here. One of the Tranquil, perhaps. Madame Marin has a fine hand at stitching."

With both secured, and knife retrieved, she folds her hands behind her back once more. A long look to Simon: It’s not that it isn’t measured, it’s just, she probably isn't using the appropriate units. Like setting a yardstick to weight.

"Find my office after."

[minrathousian]

Atticus would find the practice barbaric under any other circumstances. Right now, he derives a vindictive amount of satisfaction from knowing that Benedict will be punished for his actions.

"The Magister may receive a medic here. One of the Tranquil, perhaps."

At that he visibly starts, before biting down on the instinct to protest. No; he does have bargaining power, but not in this. Pursing his lips, he nods and says nothing else.

[paladingus]

Simon, too, finds the second command a bit more disturbing than the first. He's not a fan of any course of action that requires him to interact with one of those unfortunate monotone bastards, trying all the while to keep from staring at the scars on their foreheads. But he'll do as he's told without complaint, and if it delays him having to discuss any of the rest of it, perhaps it's not so bad after all.

"Yes, ser." A little more deference than usual, mostly for the prisoners' benefit, trying to restore the status quo like flinging a single silencing spell into the swirling Breach. Perhaps it's a hopeful enough metaphor; the Breach is, after all, gone now.

He crosses an arm over his chest in a punctuating salute, and marches Benedict off toward the further cells.

[altusimperius]

"What?" Benedict exclaims, suddenly fully back on-guard, "but it-- it wasn't for you!"
Between the magic-dampening shackles and the size difference between the Templar and himself, Benedict has no hope of preventing what's to come.
"I'm not even venatori!" he protests, "you can't do this!"
Naturally, being someone who's used to getting his way, he had hoped that Atticus might be removed, not himself. Isolation? It's common knowledge that the southerners are barbaric about mages, but Benedict never thought he'd become so intimately acquainted with one of their dungeons, least of all Kirkwall's. What is he, some pathetic Circle sheep being herded into a box?
...perhaps so. He doesn't make it easy for Simon, resisting as much as he can, his movements growing more insistent as they near his new cell. Isolation. He's never been completely alone in his life.