faderift | [open] when you talk to me I'll hear you out

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{ myrobalan shivana }

[open] when you talk to me I'll hear you out

WHO: Benedict, anyone who isn't on the Rivain trip and/or banned from visiting the dungeons
WHAT: Bene's out of solitary and ready for friendly visitors!
WHEN: vaguely during the current plot, but kind of whenever
WHERE: the Gallows dungeon
NOTES: There will always be a Templar guard present, so murder attempts will unfortunately be thwarted.

Benedict has been once again granted the basic human dignity of being able to see and hear what's going on around him, at least as long as it's within the walls of the Gallows dungeon. It's a place built for mages, and the shackles he still wears keep his magic muted alongside the magebane that keeps him lethargic and unable to cast.
Sharp objects are out of the question, so his normally pristine lower face is stubbled in a way that would look quite ruggedly handsome on someone less haughty and miserable. And he's been wearing the same prison shift he was put in after his clothes finally became too unbearable, which is an insult in itself. Unlike Atticus, he no longer goes to the library, or outside at all, unless for a very good reason decided by someone other than himself.

He's still not a pleasant conversation partner, but Benedict is here and at the disposal of any visitors who might want to see the less cordial captive Vint.

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"So they really did separate the two of you."

As if Benedict needed any further trouble in his life, he's got a visitor in the form of a blind elf. Myr halts outside the other mage's cell, head cocked a little to one side as he studies Bene with his remaining senses. The look on his face is intent as a hawk considering some morsel of prey; when his curiosity's not blunted by his usual good humor, it can be...disquieting.

Bene is easily disquieted these days, and he was actually napping before Myr's voice cut through to wake him up. He sits up with a jolt, and when the first thing he sees is a pale weird little dude with no eyes standing over him, it's not a good feeling.
"What do you want," he asks, rubbing his forearm across his eyes and propping himself up on one arm, trying to appear unbothered.

...Ah.

He'd been asleep--if the tone of his voice is anything to go on, and the sounds of someone shifting on a cot.

Myr feels the briefest twinge of guilt; it has the effect of softening his expression to something less intense. Not friendly by a fair margin, but not so hostile, either. "A few questions answered, if you've got time for them." If he can be polite to Benedict's terrifying master, he can damn well manage the same for the apprentice, whose only crime--beyond being Venatori--appears to be perpetual surliness.

"Answered?" Benedict repeats, rubbing his eyes and then stretching out his arms, languid as a cat. "What are you talking about?" That's not as bad as he'd feared. Clearly this uppity elf is putting him on, but he'll humor him.

Haelan doesn't much like the sound of Dungeons. He's never actually been in a dungeon, the closest he's been is one of the Guardhouses in Hightown after they caught him sniffing around one of the fancy manors. They'd not thrown him in a cell, but if one of the Chantry sisters hadn't come down to fetch him (and box his ear) then he probably would have been thrown in a dungeon until they could work out a better punishment for him.

The Inquisition's dungeon was the old Templar dungeon- damp and dark and dank, the steps down to it foreboding. It wasn't the sort of place he wanted to visit at any time, less so when carrying a heavy bucket full of what was apparently dinner for the prisoners down there. It looked like gruel but smelt like feet, so who knew what they'd actually put in it.

He almost spills it on his shoes, trying to juggle both the bucket and knocking on the dungeon door, but he manages it, and one of the guards lets him in, and the smell is even worse.

"Er... I brought lunch?" He says, but the guards clearly aren't about to dish it out. Not when they're in the middle of a game of Wicked Grace. Playing mother wasn't what Haelan had expected to do either, but when a ladle is pushed into his hand, he supposes he doesn't have an option.

He approaches a cell, trying not to get too close. There are Magisters down here, or so he's heard, and blood mages and crazed Templars and pirates and murders, and all of them would probably like to kill him, just for something to do. Which doesn't help him keep his voice steady as he peers into the darkness of the cell.

"Bowl?" He asks, trying to carry the heavy bucket and the ladle, and try and spot the prisoner's plate.

There are in fact magisters down here, or at least a magister and a magister-in-training, separated due to some previous drama and very much unimpressed with their hosts.

Benedict is a hallway down from Atticus, who still gets to see the sky sometimes, because apparently being a monster doesn't preclude one from certain privileges. For this reason, Bene's in a near constant sulk, and Haelan isn't excluded from it when he arrives with food.

"Who are you," Benedict demands, guardedly, "what is that. I've never seen you." Probably just another servant, but one can never be too careful.

Edited 2017-09-20 17:06 (UTC)

Magister-in-training or magister with all the bells and whistles doesn't much matter to Haelan. Magister's eat people. They steal babies and mash them in big pots to get the blood out of them. He's heard about Magisters.

He's not expecting to be spoken to, and the suggest words make him jump back a little, the gruel splashing about in the bucket.

The guards look over, but clearly their game is far more interesting. Besides, the Magister is securely tied up, right? They know that. Haelan knows that. It's probably fine.

"No one, Messere." The boy says, "I'm not anyone." Even tied up, he doesn't fancy letting a Vint know who he is. They can probably put some spell on you just by knowing your name.

"It's lunch, Messere. I don't know what's in it. The cooks told me to bring it down for you." He pauses, glances down, and stirs the gruel with the ladle. "I think it's got... vegetables in it?"

It's all probably true, but mainly because Bene would eat anything right now, baby or not. At least... anything but gruel, which he has to eat or that Templar will come in and threaten him again.

He at least appreciates the honorific, and though he squints at Haelan, Benedict reaches forward to take the bowl. "Disgusting," he observes without emotion, "if you're no one, surely you can do better than this."

Haelan isn't great at being meek or subservient. It's okay for him to say he isn't anyone, but it's another thing entirely for anyone else to confirm it. Especially not some guy in a dirty smock eating gruel down here.

"I don't cook it, serah, I just brought it down here. You don't have to eat it." He says, cocking an eyebrow.

"I ate stuff like this when I was a kid. It isn't going to kill you. You'll just wish it will."

Inclined to raise his eyebrows incredulously when the servant talks back, Benedict curls his lip at the boy.
"Well if you're just here to moralize at me," he drawls, "I'm not that hungry." He's been warned about this before, but the only thing Benedict has left is the last shred of his pride.

"Sounds like someone has to help you with your morals, serah." Haelan replies, and reaches out to take the bowl back.

"I'm sorry you aren't hungry. Maybe they'll send you the steak down tomorrow?"

You can't force people to be nice, after all. Most rich folk aren't, you have to accept it. Anyway, that was probably nice, for a Vint. Haelan still has the right number of limbs after all.

Edited 2017-09-20 21:29 (UTC)

"Hopefully they'll send someone else with it," Benedict calls loftily after him, feeling a quiet surge of adrenaline. He doesn't get to be in control much anymore, but periodically he manages to snatch some back in small ways. It makes him feel like himself again.

Haelan snorts, but he's learnt his lesson. No talking with the prisoners. Even chained up, they're going to kick you in the ego.

But at least, Haelan thinks, he gets to go outside once he's finished down here.

"My own curiosity, messere," Myr replies, even and with a note of sardonic humor. "We in Research have been told you're a resource for us, and I'm not one to pass up an opportunity like that."

He folds his hands around his staff and leans on it casually. "Just what are you studying under Magister Vedici?"

"You've been told wrong," Bene sneers back, folding his arms. He doesn't have to tell anyone anything, and it's not like it'll make a difference in getting him out of here.
"Carpentry," he decides, with an insufferable smirk-- and though Myr can't see it, no doubt it's in Bene's voice.

It takes Myr a moment to process that.

Then one corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. "So d'you prefer working in softwood or hardwood?"

And just like that, the lie falls in on itself. "What?" Benedict asks, incredulous. There are different kinds of wood? That's stupid.

If you're going to go absurd with Myr, you go hard or you go home.

"Not that far along in your studies, eh?" His amusement's genuine, without an edge to it. "Or is Magister Vedici that bad of an instructor? I wouldn't've pegged him as a tradesman, myself."

Now that Bene can tell the joke's been turned back on him, he doesn't like it anymore. "Oh shut up," he mutters, halfway between sulky and disgusted. "He's a shit instructor, and I don't need some eyeless knife-ear coming in and making demands." Seeing as Benedict still has eyes, he rolls them.

My, isn't this familiar?

From the shadows, a regal, resplendent man pulls up a stool and helps himself to a languid seat. He gives the impression of a predatory feline, with the way he crosses a leg over his knee, and the way his lean hand drums idly and pensively against his jaw. He studies Benedict through the bars, harkening back to their rather uncomfortable exchange with Atticus Vedici in the Gallows library.

"I'll start basic," the Dragon begins somewhat caustically -- as if he is ever the sort of individual to cave to something as unnecessary as small talk. "How do you feel?"

The question is always the same, but these visits keep getting more nerve wracking with each new guest.
"What do you want?" Bene demands, guarded, not about to answer any questions until he has more context.

"Obviously, and as I already said," drawls the Dragon irritably as he readjusts and straddles the stool, "to know how you feel." He threads his fingers together and nets them beneath his smooth-shaven chin, bending forward as he speaks. "Benedict, was it? Well, don't tell me you're fine, because any common idiot can see you're not. Don't hold back. Be specific."

There's a smack of caginess to his impatient demand, like there certainly must be an ulterior motive behind it, but not one he is ready to share.

The Dragon's demeanor only rankles Benedict, and he sneers back, "I'm doing great, thanks for asking. The gruel was really top-notch this morning."

"You're eminently stellar at following directions, aren't you?" the Dragon cannot help but snort. "It certainly isn't your charming wit that got you pulled out of solitary." Though if it were him holding Benedict captive, he probably would have released him from confinement sooner, perhaps given him some allowances to lift his spirits. From the start he had the distinct impression that Benedict was just a pawn in the grand scheme of whatever plan his Master yanked him into, and perhaps a touch of gluttonous buttering would fatten his sensibilities to more open chatter.

"Very well, since you apparently require me to hold your hand through this line of questioning, you can tell me all about the effects of the Magebane they forced down your throat later," he skims over offhandedly. Not even a beat passes before he rapidly continues with, "For now, let's talk about how you're faring without your Magister holding your leash."

"Who disliked you enough to stick you with him?" There's a note of weird sympathy in Myr's tone; the slur apparently bounced off him completely.

No doubt it would; Benedict has a reputation for being loose-lipped when he is in his cups, but at present he's too miserable to give more than the bare minimum.
"My leash?" he snarls, eyes flashing with incredulity, "my Magister? He has no real power over me, and any that he did have was granted by the grace of my house." The very idea seems to repulse him. "He can rot here for all I care."

Benedict is tone-deaf to any sympathy, currently acting on defense regardless of the question's tone. "He was supposed to be tutoring me in spirit magic," he says with a curl of his lip, "and was, apparently, the most competent candidate available. And now we see how that turned out."

Edited 2017-09-28 06:45 (UTC)

There's many ways to keep someone talking, and Myr's not averse to playing on resentment to that end. "So we do; he's made a fucking hash of any tutoring he was meant to do. Is spirit the school you're most inclined to, or just popular in Tevinter these days?" Wouldn't be the first time some poor apprentice got pigeonholed into a magic they didn't want to study.

Though that didn't usually land the unfortunate sod in jail.

Better off without the Magister, it seems. That is plenty of an answer for Sarkan.

"So why did you follow him and allow that impression, if he disgusts you that much?" the Dragon parries back briskly. "You're proud of your magic in the Tevinter Imperium. Certainly you could have found someone slightly more palatable and compatible than Atticus Vedici."

"My whole family practices it," Benedict points out, "even if I wanted to study something else, I wouldn't have." His mother, incidentally, is known to be quite the persuasive sort. Perhaps it's not all natural charisma.

Still bristling, Benedict sneers at the question. "It wasn't up to me," he mutters, "my parents chose him." Doesn't this idiot know how apprenticeships work? "None of us could predicted the choice would be this poor."

"What would they have done, if you'd refused?" Myr settles into a more comfortable hipshot lean against his staff; it's of a casual piece with the curiosity in his tone. "And if they're all students of it, why have you study under Vedici in the first place?" He doesn't know from Tevinter nobility but in the academic sense--half-remembered ideas of political alliances and how they're maintained float to mind--but this would seem to make the folly of the whole system evident.

Ah, parental arrangements. It is not unlike arranged marriages, in a twisted way, Sarkan supposes.

"Good," he says sharply. "You're better off without him stalking over your shoulder. I assume he is the one to get you into this mess?" All said with a sweep of his gloved hand referring to the prison at large. Of course he's fishing for information; did Atticus allow himself to get scooped up by the Inquisition, or was it all purely coincidence and bad luck that they ended up here together?

"I don't know, because I didn't," Bene scoffs with a shrug, but seems caught slightly off-guard by Myr's next question. It clearly causes him some insecurity, based on how he folds his arms and pretends he isn't upset about it. "They have too many responsibilities," he explains, likely in the same words his parents used, "in the magisterium. Neither one could spare the time."
Wrinkling his nose, he scowls at the ground. "...anyway, only lowborns teach their own children. That's what tutors are for."

Benedict is startled, if not by Sarkan's question, than by the fact that he seems to be... on the same side? That's new.
"...yes," he answers hesitantly, anticipating a trap but not knowing what form it'll take. But to be fair, yes, Atticus is basically to blame for everything.

"I thought so," Sarkan says, his tone recalling the image of a smug, self-important house cat. He straightens in his stool and folds his arms across his breast.

"So now comes the question of how you will spend your time here now that you're stuck, and whether you will choose to be productive or defiant." Highly matter-of-fact. Definitely not compassionate. His face remains carefully and intentionally expressionless. "I advise you not to be an arrogant idiot, in your position. Did the guards let you to write a letter to your family?"

He can't see Bene's defensive posturing, but he can hear the shift of weight and the slide of skin against fabric, and make an inference or two. "So they farmed you out," he says, thoughtful, and that weird sympathy's back. ~~Feeling sorry for an altus brat over parental abandonment? Perish the thought.~~ "And you didn't have any say in it at all?"

What a fun way that would be to resume their argument they'd left off a month ago. Myr thinks better of it. "That's a miserable thing," he says instead. "Putting your fate in the hands of a monster. What'd he even hope to teach you, dragging you this far south?"

"My time? You mean the time that I'm spending entirely here?" Benedict folds his arms, his expression challenging Sarkan. "I don't know. They took it. Maybe it arrived, maybe it didn't, I wouldn't put anything past these charlatans."

"Farmed?" Benedict repeats, but Myr has already moved onto a topic he finds much more agreeable. "It is. It was." He sniffs haughtily. "I don't know, maybe he was trying to kill me. Maybe he wants something from my parents." He narrows his eyes. "...or maybe he wasn't thinking about it at all."

"Awfully long way to go to get you killed," Myr observes, thoughtful. "Same for getting something from your parents, so far from the Imperium. So you might be right there--he wasn't thinking." He drums his fingers against his staff, idly.

"Irresponsible of him. That the usual sort of thing he does, plunge into things without thinking?" It's an odd thought to hold about Vedici, when the man gives every impression of being in perfect control of his situation. Even as a prisoner. But there were things about him that didn't add up...

It's actually worse, to imagine that Atticus wasn't thinking, but that's the way it looks. Benedict sneers and looks down, hating the man all the more, for simply existing. For not caring.
"No," he grumbles in response, "but he wasn't thinking about me."

"Does anyone?"

It's an honest question, not cruel in tone or intent. (Even if there is a nasty little whisper of what's he so upset about, he's had everything handed to him in the back of Myr's head.)

Myr might as well have just punched him in the face. Bene stares for a moment in affronted silence, the words weaseling their way through his mind, which has become much more pliant lately, inviting all manner of doubt. No one has rescued him yet. Maybe no one will.

"...fuck off," he murmurs, almost as an afterthought, and fully without the usual venom.

...Well. That's an answer.

Myr chews at his lower lip as he considers it, then says quietly, "I'm sorry." Spoiled brat or not, a child deserved consideration from his parents--or his mentor--or someone. Trust Tevinter to screw that one up.

"Just go away," Benedict mutters, and even if Myr can't see him turn away, surely he perceives it by the change in the boy's voice. The conversation is over, whether Myr wants it to be or not.

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[open] when you talk to me I'll hear you out

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Just BEFORE embarking on the current plot

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