[closed] tiptoe through the tulips

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict, Wren, James, Simon, Hanzo, some new friends
WHAT: The time has finally come to return Benedict to his people. Something maybe goes a little bit wrong.
WHEN: Early Bloomingtide
WHERE: southern Tevinter
NOTES: Warnings for violence.

Three Templars, a magister's son, and a Shimada cross the border from Hasmal to the Tevinter Imperium: it sounds like a joke, and in many ways it probably is, but to Benedict it just seems like overkill.
His mother requested the Templars, ostensibly for protection against the southern apostates driven mad by their little war; Hanzo, a man whose name he recognizes but is too young to properly remember, presumably tagged along for the practical benefits of visiting Minrathous without the Inquisition's grandeur.

Magister Calpurnia Artemaeus awaits them at the family home, and all they have to do is get there. Surely the nightmare will soon be over.

Comments

Re: IV. Heroic Rescue

[judgemewhole]

James had had ...some gruel and some water, but only because after he raged himself into passing out, his particular 'tattooing' had gone rather peacefully for the slavers. His skin still burned, and he knew from the amount of dirt and grime, it was going to be infected.

A grim satisfaction from that - he'd soon lose all value to these bastards. The sound of hooves made him turn his head, but nothing more. Right now, he was just waiting for the next level of horrors to begin.

[limier]

The hours begin to blur.

Parched throats, a cramped — everything. The pounding in her head and hand won’t recede any time soon. At a certain point the water had been worth giving in for. It’s an assessment she’d be more prepared to revisit with any hope of backing it up.

There’s silence, at least, or what passes for it. There’s no need to justify the route, to defend poor decisions, to fret after Simon’s shoulder, to try vainly to soothe whatever Norrington’s gone off about in his own head. The impossibility of giving a shit is almost freeing, if you ignore that it's painfully, acutely lost.

Two days ago, thinking was a lifeline, a rope to pull out of this fucking mess. It’s lost its sheen. What this might mean. Days without lyrium, weeks without words, years without,

Well. Easier: Just don’t think. A scope narrowed to that directly before her eyes. The side of the cart, glances of desert receding. The flicker of steel too far from reach.

(It’s a good sword. You try not to get attached, but it’s a good sword. A pity.)

Hoofbeats mean people, and people this North of the border don’t need to mean anything at all. But. Think, listen. Watch how their guard reacts. The archer, the fat man. The woman with the knife, the mage. The small one. The bored one. All bored enough by now, and will that last?

Probably Simon doesn't need or appreciate an elbow to his ribs. He's getting it all the same. You awake bro.

[eruit]

Back on the horse - he should be thankful that he has been treated at least a little better than the others, but he cannot find the strength for that level of positive feeling as it stands. The disconnect between himself and his spirits is vivid and he fears, more and more as the minutes go by, that someone will notice the nature of his bow, that someone will discern the two spirits entwined together, curling around one another in the shape of the wood, and consider what power lies there.

He will not allow his spirits to be poisoned. He would die first - and that could well be the plan.

Hanzo does not hold much in the way of hope when he hears the sound of hooves in the distance, shifting his head and feeling tension twist in his stomach. At best it will be a distraction and he gears himself up for it, ready to do whatever he can to try and free himself of his bindings and crawl to the weapons - if he gets the chance. There is no guarantee the first step of his plan will be a success.

[altusimperius]

A nervous murmur ripples over the slavers, and they begin to slow, checking their cargo, drawing swords, preparing for the worst-- and then the leader is aflame. He and his horse both scream, the former falling off gracelessly and the latter darting away, bucking wildly as it rids itself of the fire and is lucky enough to succeed.
At this point, all becomes chaos. A shout of alarm, more flames, this time a wall that obstructs their path, several riders galloping by to slash the throats of the party's captors, unison gurgles of alarm before they fall thrashing to the ground. The big man is among them, his blood spurting over the Templars as he falls, casting them one last look of bewilderment and terror before he collapses below the cart to die.

Within minutes it's over, an armed guard circling the wagons and remaining horses, and two of them part to admit a grandly-dressed, olive-skinned woman with gleaming black hair and a look of pleased arrogance that they've all seen before.

"Mmrrhrr??" Benedict wails through his gag, and she dismounts quickly, her men following suit to finish off the slavers and free the captives. When all is said and done, Bene hugs her tightly, his hands shaking, weeping into her robe, and she pats his back lightly with a look of vaguely disgusted affection. Careful dear, you smell like shit.

[limier]

Chaos.

When the ropes are cut, she braces heavy against a guardsman’s shoulder to stand. Livid blisters etch across into view (an eye? a boat?), as she unravels the small agony of limbs blocked too long in place. The nudge of a boot to the big man's side. Gone. Would’ve preferred one alive — they might’ve learned something —

Sorry, love. Maybe it made prey a little less likely to run, to fight. Maybe it let him sleep better at night. Maybe it just takes a certain sort of person to smile as they go about their small evils. She isn’t so out of her skull as to ignore the parallels.

Nor what this might mean. Benedict sobs, and clings, and this hardly guarantees their deliverance. That deal had been brokered under markedly different terms, from a position of leverage. No one here's a friend, even an ally. To vanish into this desert would be the easiest thing,

She summons moisture into a cracked, leaden tongue; wills a bruised back to straighten. Doesn't move to collect a weapon (What good would it even do? They’re more badly outmatched than before). A glance confirms Shimada’s not himself on fire; she gestures to the others, unhelpfully vague. Can’t even say what she means by it. Come with me? Stay? Be respectful? Be ready — ready for what?

It doesn’t cut an imposing figure, the way her shoulders refuse to quite unlock, one knee dragging out of step. She waits at a wary distance, until Calpernia looks to remove herself from the reunion. Wren lifts her voice in what’s meant to sound like business and in practice sounds like I have a pre-existing throat condition and just spent two days dehydrated in a cart:

"Magister Artemaeus."

Who else.

[judgemewhole]

Freedom. It's an odd word, coming from a place where they apparently have stepped right out of the frying pan and into the fire. The rope slackens, and he bites down on his upper lip to not scream in pain as he moves his too-stiff body. He eyes the mark on his wrist -- then huffs out a noise.

Marvelous, he does need to get this treated before he loses a hand. Before they all do.

He pointedly ignores the mother-son reunion, grunts at Wren, then walks across the way to pick up his sword and grab the scabbard. Blade now on hip, he walks over to the corpses, kicks over the mage, and then goes digging around in the mage's robes until he finds his rings of Ice, a gift from Vivienne.

After that? He goes to check on Dauntless. They at least fed and watered the animal, which is a relief. He strokes and soothes the horse, who has been on edge the entire time. Finally able to get into his saddlebags, he takes out healing potions. Puts one in Simon's hand, in Hanzo's. Keeps one for Benedict as a show of good faith as he steps finally over to Wren's side and pushes a potion into her hand.

Then he goes back to Simon, to look over his wounds.

[eruit]

As soon as he is freed from his bindings Hanzo is moving, ignoring anyone that approaches him, making a quick hop with what little energy he has up into the pushcart holding their weaponry. He reaches for his Storm Bow, wrapping his fingers around the finely crafted wood and lifting it from the bundle it was thrown into, stroking his palm against the shape of the curve. Slipping off the edge of the cart, he settles down beside it and closes his eyes.

A little out of sight, though certainly not out of mind, he focusses on the bow and the spirits bound to it; the two spirits of honour respond quietly, as they have done for the last ten years or so, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Unharmed, unpoisoned, unpolluted - no more so than they had been by being wrapped around his life for so long, at least. While he meditates on his weapon it glows a very gentle, very soft blue, hidden behind the cart, but Hanzo says nothing that might bring attention to it.

Finally, he pushes himself to his feet and steps back around in time for him to accept the potion that James offers, though he doesn't drink it. He slips it into a pouch at his side and reaches to take his quiver back before he focusses on cleaning himself up, rearming himself and making himself appear a little less like a prisoner and more like the Magister he had once been.

[paladingus]

Simon hasn't yet been so long without lyrium to lack the wherewithal to realize that the chaos is working at least nominally in their favor--but it's been long enough that his head is throbbing nearly as hard as the wounds in his arm and thigh, the untreated brand on his hand, and what little water he's had feels like none at all. Perversely, the thought that keeps cycling through his dizzy and pounding mind is that the rescue doesn't need to be so Maker-forsaken loud.

His arm doesn't want to move, when he's finally untied. It would, he knows, if he pushed it--if he tried--but he can't bear to, when all the pain tolerance he can summon is dedicated right now to remaining upright and steady on the wounded leg and trying to ignore the brand altogether. "No, thank you," he murmurs to James, disinclined to be touched where it hurts or have to shift anything around for examination, but glad enough for the potion.

He watches the little gathering of Artemaei with narrowed eyes as he sips on it. Between slavery and being dependent upon the kindness of the woman who spawned Benedict, he's not sure he wouldn't prefer the former.

[altusimperius]

When she hears her name, the Magister turns to see who spoke it, and on Wren lands a patient, vaguely derisive smile that purports to be friendly. Now that they're meeting his mother, Benedict's origins are clear, though she holds herself with the grace of someone who has been working hard at Tevinter's local brand of The Game for decades.
"Such dreadful misfortune," she says with a sympathetic click of her tongue, "had I known slavers would pose such a threat, I'd have sent an escort. Is there anyone in need of medicine?"
The words are kind enough, but there's almost a smirk behind them. Only suckers get caught by slavers, you suckers.
"Master Shimada, I wasn't aware you'd be coming along. Shall I send word to your family?"

Benedict stands closely behind her, very much resembling a small child clinging to his mother's skirts. So much fear and death, the burning and screaming and writhing, the uncertainty; it's over now, but he wants to vomit and never stop. He wants her to turn back and take him home and forget about all of them, all of this.

[eruit]

There's some rather choice words that Hanzo is sure he could say in response, but he bites his tongue. He's aware enough of his own position - disgraced Magister, escapee of Tevinter, having fled and left his honour and some of his dignity behind - to do what he can to make sure he is not placed in any more trouble than he already finds himself in. Having Storm Bow back makes him feel more confident, at least, but the clear link between himself and Tevinter has, perhaps, not been made so obvious.

He could have gotten away with the illusion of being Soporati, at a stretch, but this other Magister recognising his family proves just where his strengths lie. It might have been a decade, but a mage is a mage.

"That will not be necessary." Hanzo lifts himself, standing as tall as he can manage. It's not very tall. "They were not aware of my arrival and will not be concerned either way."

[limier]

Hanzo may be aware of his own position —

Wren, rather less. Curious. To be recognize upon sight by an old-blood Magister; family spoken of as peers. What is it that they call it? Altus?

A thread to pull at another time. They’ve priorities.

"Arrow-shot." The tip of her chin towards Simon. It’s easier to trade pride when it isn't her own. She slips the potion into pocket without pausing, brushes Norrington off with a hand upon shoulder to indicate: "Infection."

What little eye she’s had of his brand looks rank.

"We dread less for your arrival," It’s dry, but mostly just because her mouth is. Everything is. They’re in a desert. "I did not think us so near Minrathous."

Or on the route Calpernia had chosen to survey. It isn’t exactly a shock to imagine that their tracks have been followed. The boy would bear a close watch, as soon as might be afforded.

And none of that fucking matters now, does it. She hopes her face looks smooth, expressionless; mostly it just looks tired.

"If your own men do not want," They all look pretty healthy from where she's standing. Alas. "We might proceed."

[judgemewhole]

Norrington, for his part, honestly would rather die from infection than have a Magister administer 'medicine' to him. He's tense, as weary and sick as he is from his exertions. Hanzo gets a quick side-glance -- well suddenly things made slightly more sense. Otherwise, Norrington puts the man out of his mind as he steps away from Wren and allows her to handle the 'Diplomacy Bits'. Simon didn't need care - or want it. Benedictus, thank the bloody Maker, was just hiding away.

So James did the one thing he wanted to do. He moved back to his horse, making sure Dauntless was prepared for travel. The sooner they were done with this nonsense, the better.

He had a lot to drink away, after all.

[altusimperius]

"Near Minrathous? No. But I had hoped to meet you partway, as I've had a change of heart." Calpurnia smiles radiantly, though something in her deep brown eyes remains cold. "Captain, give them our extra supplies. I must have a word with my son."

She steers Benedict by the shoulders and walks him toward her horse, where, upon observation, he doesn't seem consoled or even mildly comforted by anything being discussed. If not so shellshocked, he might even be overtly upset, but all the boy can really do is nod and listen, watching his mother's face with an expression best described as sick with dread.
In the meantime, supplies are passed out: food, salves for the wounded, fresh bandages, and full waterskins.

It's a good twenty minutes later when Calpurnia, apparently finished with the conversation, pats Benedict on the shoulder and mounts her horse again. "Safe travels," she calls to the party, and she and her entourage leave again with little ceremony.
Standing there looking like he's about to faint, Benedict can only stare at the ground as he mutters, "we're going back."

[paladingus]

"--Are you fucking kidding me?"

Simon has been uncharacteristically quiet throughout this entire ordeal, even when not forcibly gagged, but this seems to be the breaking point.

"Maker's sack, all that and we canny even get rid of you? I was shot twice and branded for nothing?"

[limier]

Her fingers press to a temple, come away to snap irritated toward Benedict. If she disagrees with Simon's assessment —

Well. Do any of them?

"Details." Curt. They can't assume they aren't still being watched. "If you please."