faderift | [open] but I'll soon find out, that's for sure

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[open] but I'll soon find out, that's for sure

WHO: Benedict, Kit, Anders, anyone else who wants to visit
WHAT: He's still in baby jail! Everything is terrible!
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: the Kirkwall dungeon
NOTES: even though his beard is gross he wears it well

It's been months now, and Benedict has lost track of time. He's aware via the draft coming in from the dungeon door, when it opens, that the weather has grown colder, and he's picked up via context in the guards' chatter that Satinalia's coming up fairly soon. That means they're well into autumn, and he's still here, and that's all he knows. If his family ever received his letter, if it was ever sent at all, he hasn't heard back and has begun to doubt he will.

Occasional card games with Kit and the books granted by generous souls only stave off boredom for so long, and Benedict has taken to long stretches of time wherein he just stares at the wall, not quite sleeping, not forcing himself to operate at full capacity. The boredom is torture in itself. That and the limited access to basic hygiene, but by now Benedict has accepted that he will smell and itch and have an awful scrubby beard and there's nothing he can do to change that.

Perhaps all this would be manageable on some level if it weren't for the magebane, which keeps him constantly drained and sluggish, and which he has no choice but to consume now that the hunger strike has long since become untenable. He's fallen into a state of dull acceptance, still sullen but with little left of the fire.

Of course it wouldn't take long to break him, before this he'd never known a day's hardship in his life. This isn't even hardship, it's just nothing. It's hard not to wonder if maybe the Tranquil have a point.

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Kostos takes a few more steps before that questions sinks all the way in, but when it does he stops and turns on his heels to face the boy head-on and look at him a bit like he's just spit on Kostos' shoes and challenged him to fight.

"If I tell anyone I lost track of you," he says, "it will because I killed you and dropped your body down a well." Sometime not long from now, Kostos will wonder why he unnerves people sometimes, and this incident will not even occur to him. "Fortunately for you, we're staying where there would be witnesses."

Bene steps back in surprise, nearly tripping over a stair in his haste, and does nothing to conceal his fear of the man now staring him down. The worst thing about threats like this is that he believes them, having no reason not to; that Knight-Commander may actually make him Tranquil, and this... whoever this is could actually kill him.
He holds up his hands in surrender, lip quivering.

Kostos gives that quivering lip precisely the look depicted in his icon—this boy is without a doubt the worst Venatori he's ever heard of—then turns and continues walking. "Keep up," he says, maybe needlessly, and a couple turns later they emerge into one of the Gallows' gardens.

It isn't unoccupied, but Kostos ignores everyone else there, and only ignores Benedict slightly less.

"Stay where I can see you," he says coming to stop at a stone slab that's already laid out with elf root and tools. A moment to later there's a bright wisp of light bobbing near his ear, making a whirring noise and apparently delighted to be here. Kostos gives it a look like a misbehaving child—though still a little kinder than the ones he's been giving Benedict—and inclines his head towards the Tevinter. "Watch him. Don't get distracted."

The chances of the wisp getting distracted are incredibly high, but for the time being it minds well enough, drift-bouncing to Benedict to make happy and very obnoxious whirring noises around his head.

The sunlight, the fresh air, the other people... none of them are reassuring anymore, now just a reminder of how very out of place Benedict is. Easily cowed, he trails after Kostos and stops only when the older man does, looking self-consciously around while wondering how many of the people here would stop someone from killing him.
And then there's a wisp, floating near and buzzing around his head. Benedict blinks at it, recognizing it for what it is, though he can't believe he's seeing it. "You talk to spirits," he observes, technically addressing Kostos, even if it's more a general statement.

Kostos makes a noise. It might mean yes. It might also mean shut the fuck up, but the possibility that that's the case is lessened somewhat when he adds, after a moment, "You can talk to it, too," sounding slightly less hostile than before. Maybe because the wisp is so happy to be here, so curious—it hovers for a moment near Benedict's ear as if trying to see inside it, then spins away toward a tree—and even if it isn't quite literally infectious, Kostos can feel it. That's the real trick.

Anyway, it doesn't stop him from slamming his knife down, making an abrupt noise to match the exasperated look he gives the little thing to send it floating guilty away from the tree and back to Benedict.

"If you aren't going to help me," he says—to the man, not the spirit, though he's still watching it to make sure it goes all the way back where it belongs—"you should do some stretches and some jumping jacks or something. You're going to lose muscle tone."

"In front of everyone?" Bene is incredulous. He doesn't have much dignity left, but he's certainly not going to squander it by jumping around like an imbecile in public.
"What are you doing?" The question is imperious but bears a reluctant curiosity. Maybe he will help him. See if he cares.

Kostos starts giving Benedict a look while he's saying in front of everyone. The look is a silent stand-in for yes, you're a Tevinter prisoner being held by the Inquisition in the Gallows, but what everyone will remember about you is certainly the jumping jacks. And then it remains in place at the next question, becoming instead a silent stand-in for what do you fucking think.

To be even more helpful, he slows down his root-dicing to a pointed crawl.

In a bind he may be, but Benedict has never performed a shred of manual labor in his life. He stands there scrutinizing Kostos' work, his eyes narrowed as though he's thinking deeply about something, perhaps how this could be classified as 'work' or how to get out of doing anything useful at all. ...and running maybe. It's not like the wisp could stop him.
"...well how would I help," he asks lamely, folding his arms. "You're just cutting them."

Now that Kostos has started playing silent charades, it's easy enough to continue, and being obnoxious back makes dealing with Benedict's obnoxiousness a little less grating. So Kostos holds up his empty hand for a moment, like wait—and then has to flick it a bit in a shooing motion, because the motion brings the wisp back over, whirring up a tizzy—and then uses it to pull a second knife off his belt and hold it up in demonstration. It's a little bigger. Better suited for stabbing people, maybe, than dicing herbs. More difficult to hide in a sleeve.

"I assume I don't need to tell you," he says, because there's no succinct and easy way to mime this out, "that if you cut anything but the roots, I'll melt your hands."

So many threats. Benedict is less hurt than he could be, if only because the wisp is distracting him again, and perhaps because he's beginning to understand that this man is just the threatening sort. He knows the type. His mother, for one.
"Fine," he sighs, and holds out his hand for the knife, "no melting necessary."

"That's what they all say," Kostos mutters, mainly to himself—and nonsensically, having never melted anyone's hands—while he flips the knife around to give it over handle-first. He slides herbs over, too, and taps an empty bowl with the handle of his own knife to indicate where they should go, and resumes dicing without further instruction. He's only quiet for a few seconds though, before he asks, in a stilted sort of I'm obligated to make small talk way, "Where in Tevinter are you from?"

Having never fought a day in his life, Bene doesn't try anything cute with the knife. Instead he just dices-- badly-- and concentrates hard on doing it less so. Manual labor is for slaves, but... well he's not going to follow that thought to its conclusion, how dismal.
"Minrathous," he replies, vaguely exasperated. He's a Magister's son, don't you know anything?

"You were born there?"

Kostos looks up. Which was a mistake. Looking up means noticing what Benedict is doing the the roots. He doesn't say anything—and won't, because he doesn't really care, diced is diced—but he does sort of stare at them, more intrigued than bothered, while the wisp wisps it way down nearer to the knife to see what is up. How can someone grow to be this old and still be so entirely useless?

Edited 2017-11-06 00:54 (UTC)

"Naturally." Not all of us can be born in a backwater has-been country that revives its dead, after all.
Benedict is about to say more when suddenly the knife falls too close to his fingertip, and it nicks him. He gives a start, stepping back to stare in silent horror at the blood that wells up and drips from his skin, looking like he's never seen something so terrifying in his life.
"Oh no," he whimpers, genuinely distressed and equally helpless. Why would he have ever learned first aid? Injuring yourself is for poors.

—so entirely useless. It's too much. Kostos was already watching him, and continues to do so, but this time—for the first time I've ever written, I think, in any tag—he laughs. Sort of. It's mostly silent, partly a couple bursts of air. But for him, that's something, and also everything. He doesn't explain himself or apologize. But the incredulous amusement on his face might get you cannot possibly be real across on its own.

This isn't funny!! Benedict looks at Kostos with horrified incredulity, and though he is as instinctively compelled as anyone to put the finger in his mouth and suck on the wound, it only lasts a few seconds and it doesn't solve the problem. "Do something!" he yelps, "help me!"

“What?” This is the best thing that’s happened to him all week. “You’re doing fine.”

"No!" Benedict cries, pressing his fingertip onto the sleeve of his filthy tunic, trying to fold it in and stop the bleeding. It's still going, and the blood blooms, its area small but bright, on the fabric. Bene's in tears by now, and though it would be easy enough to assume this is an act of some kind, one of his classic attention grabs, he seems genuinely distraught.
Rather than ask Kostos for help again, he just holds the fabric tightly around the wound and stares at the patch of red, his lip quivering.

Kostos stares at him a few seconds longer, while the tears—which are ridiculous, this man is ridiculous—seep, metaphorically, through the stone wall erected around his bleeding heart, and then he sighs. “You’re a caricature,” he says, scooping up a handful of the diced elfoot before he comes around the table to Benedict’s side, “and I’m not a healer. Squeeze the juice onto it, here. You’ll probably live.”

With the manner of a sniveling child, Benedict calms down a bit when Kostos brings him the elfroot, and he extends his free hand for a bit before unwrapping his hurt finger. He makes a face as the medicine makes contact, but the bleeding stops, and he feels he can stop holding his breath at last.
Glancing furtively at Kostos, he keeps his head low, his spirit clearly defeated for the day. "Thank you."

"I'd rather you didn't," Kostos says.

Now that the crying has stopped, he's reverted to his previous ddegree of pity: enough to have the boy out here in the first place for no reason but concern for his health, not enough to cut him any breaks in the meantime. He collects Benedict's.knife, wipes it on his sleeve and returns it to his belt, and goes back to his side of the table. That's quite enough Benedict-and-knives for one day. Or forever.

"Since you don't have any dignity left to preserve, you ought to get some exercise."

The man has a point, but Bene can dream. He looks downtrodden as he stands there, once more with nothing to do, and directs his gaze out once more at the denizens of the garden.
"But everyone can see me," he says, more concerned than whiny, holding one hand tightly in the other.

"I can assure you they don't give a damn," Kostos says, without looking up from what he's returned to dicing. It's very possible that they do give a damn, or may briefly give a damn before realizing that a Venatori doing stretches looks the same as anyone else doing stretches, but Kostos does not give a damn, and he's the important one here. Him and the wisp. It's bobbing around his head now, and when it passes by his vision he says, "Watch him," without otherwise moving at all.

It's still more than Benedict wants to do; he can stretch in his cell, thanks. "Can I walk around?" he asks, carefully. "With the... thing."

That gets Kostos to look up, at the untrustworthy Tevinter and the probably-equally untrustworthy wisp, which can only alert Kostos that Benedict is scaling a wall or stabbing someone if it hasn't first become distracted by flowers. He could send it back and try for something stronger, with more consciousness and therefore more longterm memory, but that's an awful lot of work to let an enemy prisoner have a jaunt.

So he says, "No," and returns his focus downward. "You can walk in circles, right here."

Right here is illustrated with a tight circle drawn in the air near Kostos' head. If he stops being able to hear Benedict's footsteps, it will be too far.

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altusimperius - 2017-11-13 08:43 (UTC) - Expand

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