faderift | MOD PLOT: SHOULD GLORY COME AT SUCH A PRICE, Part I

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MOD PLOT: SHOULD GLORY COME AT SUCH A PRICE, Part I

WHO: The Inquisition's Minrathous delegation
WHAT: A diplomatic visit to Tevinter's capital
WHEN: Mid Solace
WHERE: Minrathous, Tevinter
NOTES: Slavery cw. OOC post here.

I. SWEET DIGS

The Archon's palace is a vast complex at the northeast of the island, buildings of stark black and white stone drawn straight up out of the ground and shaped by magic alone. Ringed by a wall of the same, it is made up of the palace proper and dozens of outbuildings, stables, barracks, baths, gardens, and the like. The Inquisition delegation is housed in the guest quarters, a single long hall in one wing of the palace. They are not its only occupants: special emissaries from the Anderfels occupy several rooms at one end of the hall, and other visitors are scattered throughout—trade envoys, out-of-town courtiers, relatives and guests of the Archon. There is also a veritable army of staff, constantly fetching, carrying, cleaning. Skyhold will have sent stern reminders for the Division Heads to pass down to the rest of the party: assume you are being watched at all times and mind your tongue accordingly.

The areas of the palace open to foreign visitors are somewhat limited: aside from the Archon's personal apartments, several wings apparently house massive bureaucracy behind the throne, and guests are not permitted without an appointment and an escort. The library and hall of treasures are free to be wandered, though they are carefully guarded against theft or vandalism, and the gardens are lovely and imposing testaments to the wonders magic can wring from nature.

II. GUIDED TOUR

The delegation's first day in Minrathous is fully booked, beginning with a guided tour after breakfast. The tour focuses on the nicer parts of the city and is led by a friendly elven mage, Caeso, who works for the Archon—someone is trying to make a point, perhaps, about how high elves can rise, as long as they're the right sort.

Minrathous is ancient, and it shows, with not even the care and pride Tevinter has in its heritage able to stave off signs of wear. The buildings are enormous and dark, made largely out of black stone and metals, but they indicate a majestic history more than a majestic present. There are also signs of magic, everywhere. The foundations of many buildings seem to have been pulled up straight from the earth, rather than built on top of it, and towers and bridges that should have collapsed ages ago are permanently enchanted to defy gravity. While he doesn't take them inside any of the buildings, Caeso points out the Argent Spire, the headquarters of the Imperial Chantry and Divine; the Minrathous Circle, the oldest in Thedas; and the Ambassadoria, where dwarven ambassadors work underground to preserve their castes. Then he guides them through a colorful central market where they're able to have lunch around a fountain and enjoy open displays of magic and enchanted objects by street performers and merchants. He's happy to answer basic questions about the city and Tevinter in general, and after lunch provides everyone with maps that are, possibly, designed for tourists who aren't particularly trusted (or aren't believed to be particularly bright). They only show significant landmarks and the streets required to reach them from the palace.

III. FANCY PARTY

That afternoon, everyone is due back in time to dress up, fix their hair, fix other people's hair as needed, and sit down for dinner with the Archon—distant, at the end of the table, and quiet—as well as a number of members of the Magisterium and other notable figures, with an over-the-top sixteen course meal served by a quiet, respectful staff that may be slaves or may be servants. Afterwards, and after a break to allow a little bit of digestion, the entire group migrates to join even more guests for an evening of music, dancing, and mingling in a ballroom adorned with floating lights.

The locals will shy away from discussing anything too sensitive, like Corypheus' origins or Tevinter religion and politics, but they'll be happy to discuss history and to ask questions of the delegation. A southerner is as rare a sight for them here are a Tevinter is in the south.

IV. FREE TIME

Under the Archon's protection as long as they remain his guests, and despite what the maps they're given might suggest, the delegation has been given more or less free rein in the capital, with only sensitive areas of the palace, naval yards, and the Circle and Spire off-limits for casual visits. Minrathous is a city like any other: tightly-packed buildings, bustling streets, opulent theaters and rundown shops, markets selling vegetables and flowers and fabrics, cafés packed with students arguing politics or beleaguered bureaucrats taking tea, pristine gardens filled with elaborate topiary, or small squares of green tucked between buildings, flowering vines draped down their walls. Of course it's also like nothing they've ever seen further south: street performers here make common use of magic, not just breathing fire but shaping it into a flock of birds or a dragon in flight. Slave markets are kept to the outskirts of the city but those near the docklands are vast and busy. In the harbor, among the forest of masts of trading vessels from every corner of Thedas, sits the Imperial Navy, four ships always on guard at the broad mouth of the harbor, a reminder that this is a nation at war.

Outside of specific missions, everyone is free to wander the city and explore, though they are given strict instructions to stay out of trouble—no matter what. They are also asked to keep their eyes and ears open as they do, to mingle and talk with anyone who seems willing, and to keep watch for anything unique on sale in the markets. Rare books, unknown potions, unusual enchanted objects should all be purchased if spotted: this may be the Inquisition's only opportunity to get its hands on the wealth of magical and historical knowledge hoarded by Tevinter (and reimbursements will be offered, within reason).

Potential agents are another invaluable commodity, and the delegation is charged with taking note of anyone who seems sympathetic to the Inquisition's cause and bringing their names and information to the attention of the Scoutmaster and her aides. Those capable of carefully sussing out the depth of that interest are to do so, but given the delicacy of the situation everyone should proceed with the utmost caution, and under no circumstances is any non-member of the Inquisition—no matter how friendly—to be trusted.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Honestly, James had had it covered up for the majority of the time he was there - not because he knew what the brand meant but that it embarrassed him. Reminded him all too sharply of the situation where he had no power whatsoever. Watching people he cared about get hurt, or killed, while he was helpless to do anything...

Either way, he had only unwrapped his hands to wash them, which was when the group of guards started to yell at him in Tevene. He gestured to his tunic - Inquisition on it in bold green and gold - but to no avail. He was tossed into a cell in his plainsclothes, his armor and weapons stripped from him. He had no idea what was happening, and could only hope that another Inquisition member had seen him.

He did not want to die in Tevinter. Not like this. He didn't yell, he didn't shout, he didn't make a fuss. He just ... sat back in his cell and prayed. Which kept the guards from coming in to harass him, for the simple reason of the aura of Holy Power he was giving off, even without all his items.

Simon knows well enough that whatever the brand might mean, it's not something that ought to see the light of day on Tevinter soil. Myr's worried warnings had confirmed that, regardless of how successful he'd been in gathering the details. Simon doesn't take his gauntlets off, indoors or out.

It doesn't do him any good, in the end. Gauntlets can be forcibly removed, weapons wrestled away, hands tied, diplomatic insignia sneeringly ignored--and when he realizes that it offers no protection at all, he begs Myr to stand down, to leave altogether if he can, while he still can. The kind of brand that's sealed Simon's fate just now would surely be even more eagerly applied to an elf.

He's tossed unceremoniously into the cell beside James, whereupon he takes it on himself to make fuss enough for the both of them. The Maker might or might not deign to intervene, but Simon would sooner demand to speak with someone who can explain the charges laid against them.

And to his credit, Myr had stood down immediately when Simon pled with him, much as it tore at his heart not to do something, anything to stop what was happening--

But that might have caused an Incident even worse than the one already unfolding.

As it is that incident is one he couldn't simply walk away from, either; no, once he'd mastered himself enough not to do something utterly stupid, he'd asked--politely as you please--to be taken along to the city dungeon. Had half-entertained the mad idea of demanding he be taken into custody, too, should they turn that request down--

But much as the guards laughed, they hadn't denied him (a fanatically loyal elven "servant" wasn't an unknown thing in Tevinter), and so here he is waiting at the guard station at the front of the dungeon, fingers wrapped white-knuckled around his staff, as efforts are made to contact the templars' owner concerning the fugitive slaves.

He suspects he knows already who that might be. And he is not in the least happy about it.

Edited 2018-07-22 17:15 (UTC)

As far as anyone can tell, the outlook is grim: the prisoners are to be put to death with all the others of their mark at dawn, in the same sort of casual culling one might expect to find at a slaughterhouse. There are more cells than there are criminals, so finding an open-and-closed case like this one is easy on everyone involved.
Except the prisoners, but nobody's asking them.

Hours pass, and though Simon and James (and Myr) were informed that their owner was being contacted, that was the end of it. Death is, apparently, certain-- at least until someone unexpected, or perhaps very expected, arrives at the guard station and says in a low, sullen voice that he's here for the prisoners of House Artemaeus.
He tries not to notice Myr, or to be noticed by him, inevitable though that may be. He speaks only to the guard, even ignoring Hanzo's stoic presence, as glad as he is for it.

An official seal is flashed for identification, and they're all escorted down to where the prisoners are held. Benedict's steps seem to get slower and slower, his reluctance increasing with every inch they draw nearer to the cell.

oh hi

The guards had been quite clear, in rather broken Common, about what would happen to them if their owner did not come to claim them. Considering that James thought that all the slavers were quite dead? He had a grim supposition that they were going to have to fight their way out. That was, until, the guards came down in something of a hussle to present themselves at the front of the prison doors.

He arches both eyebrows at Simon, but stands up, and moves to the front of the bars where he sees ...

Ah.

Suddenly, a lot of pieces fell into place. A fractured puzzle that suddenly made a cold, cold rage slip into his stomach. It was only with the restraint of a seasoned Knight Commander that he managed not to lunge at Bene. Instead, with all the predatory grace of an imprisoned lion, he casually leaned against the wall next to the door, and drawled at Bene and Hanzo.

"Hello ... Masters."

It is neither the first nor the last time that Simon has wanted to launch himself at Benedict in turn and slam his head against the nearest solid surface, but it is, to date, the hardest it's ever been to resist doing precisely that.

But hours of silent and fatalistic prayer have left him just calm enough to realize that it isn't worth jeopardizing this sudden salvation. All the preparation to meet his Maker without expecting to be afforded the chance to say goodbye to anyone, not even the lover sitting just outside the prison door, not family or friend, not Cade or Nari or anyone else who might miss him--all the silent beseeching of forgiveness for his sins committed in the Maker's name and in his own--and it's all over, rendered irrelevant, just like that.

There will be time for rage and righteous punishment later. Right now, it's being shoved out of the way by blessed relief. This is a reprieve, isn't it? If the little fuck has bothered to show, it means the execution has been stayed, doesn't it? Simon grips onto the bars, tensed and waiting for the guards to be given the word.

Simon and James weren't alone in their prayers--though Myr's had taken an altogether more condemnatory cast at first: Maker in Your wrath wipe this stinking pit of hell--this abattoir of your loyal children--from Thedas' face; cut off these monsters root and branch to wander the Void forever--

Though he's quick to repent of it when the first surge of helpless fury passes; if the trespass against the Golden City wasn't enough to warrant Minrathous' death in empyreal fire, one more injustice and any amount of agonized pleading wouldn't tip the balance. Better to ask for something in reach of practicality: A softening of Benedict's heart or steel in his spine, whatever it took to get him to the dungeon to undo what his cowardice had wrought. (If they'd been told. If they'd been fucking told straight out, this wouldn't have happened, all their hopes wouldn't be hanging on a single spoiled Vint brat who thought he could hide from his problems. But none of them, apparently, needed to know.)

He's still there, still in the same seat, when Benedict arrives, sending crystal on its lanyard strung between his fingers in a cat's cradle he's been taking apart and reforming for hours as he prays. One call would bring the Inquisition into it and yet-- They'd been told not to get taken like this, that there'd be no intervention for their foolishness lest it destroy everything the Inquisition hoped to build here. So he hadn't, even as the hours ticked by and fury gave way to despair, to wondering if he'd placed faith once again in someone who'd never intended to keep it--

But here is that faith restored, at least briefly, at the sound of Benedict's sullen voice. Without speaking, Myr rises from where he's seated, tucks the crystal away and takes up his staff and falls in a step behind Benedict and Hanzo and the guards. Renascent fury robs him of anything to say to the Tevinters, even to James or Simon as they're let out of the cells and turned over to Benedict's "care"; actions will need to suffice to express his emotions on the matter. Thus: Stony silence up until Simon's released, and then Myr steps forward, reaches out, catches at the larger man's arm and pulls him into a rib-bending embrace. Thank you, o Creating Glory, o Redeeming Lady.

It might be mistaken as merely friendly, if they don't let it go on too long.

Fortunately for them, it is a reprieve. Benedict doesn't look any happier to be here than they are, though one might argue he is in considerably better shape emotionally, which is what enables him to nod to the guard with the keys and gesture to the door.
"Are you sure, my lord?" asks the guard, taking note of how the prisoners are looking at their savior, but Benedict nods and, with a dry throat, replies: "they know what will happen if they're seen attacking an Altus." He looks directly into the eyes of both Templars as he says this, both a warning and a plea. If they make a scene, he'll regret it, but not half so much as they will.

With that, they're released. Visibly uncomfortable as he watches the tight embrace between Myr and Simon, Bene nonetheless holds out his hand to stop the guard from separating them, though he does ultimately interrupt the moment with a brusque "come on then." A furtive glance to Hanzo, and he turns to leave, stalking ahead of the group to give himself just enough distance to scheme properly. They won't attack him in the street, if they value their lives, so the logical thing would be to keep them in public and ensure they never get him alone.
On the other hand, there's a massive scandal resting on a knife's edge, one which could put his family in the Inquisition's sights, ruin his prospects, and disgrace his name among two of the greatest powers currently in the world. He has to prevent it. They must come to an accord.

For this reason, with his stomach ever-tightening and feeling so far up his throat it'll start coming out of his mouth, Benedict leads the party to his personal chambers in the Archon's palace. He'd never be so brazen as to bring them home, where his mother could get involved; and so he leads them in and closes the door behind him, realizing to his dismay that D'Artagnan is still here.

Well, so be it.

Turning from the door to face the room's occupants, he slowly lifts his hand as if to shield himself. "Hear me out," he says, the request leaving him as substantially more whimper-like than he intended.

Edited 2018-07-28 21:45 (UTC)

James doesn't say a word. He does not say a word while he Very Firmly requests all of his belongings back. He does not say a word as he straps himself back into his armor, putting his sword on his hip and his shield on his back. He does not say a word while they follow Benedict and Hanzo out of the prison itself, nor does he make a scene in the streets. He knows what it will cost the Inquistion if he does anything more than follow behind.

He says nothing when they are lead to Bene's personal rooms - where ... Bene's twin is? Honestly at this point he has no interest in figuring out a mystery. All of this, from the kidnapping to the branding, to him losing his mind for a few precious hours in the deserts of Tevinter? All of it? It was this simpering little fool's fault.

Yet in Tevinter, this simpering fool was protected by the Archon himself. So instead of wrapping his hands around Bene's neck and squeezing until his eyeballs popped out of his skull, James did the next best thing. He went to the young man's personal liquor cabinet, found the most expensive bottle of wine, took out three glasses and poured a full measure into all of them. One he took over to Simon and gently wrapped the other man's hands around, because the mage looked like he needed it. One went into Simon's hand.

James kept the third, and the bottle, as he went to drop himself on the most Comfortable Piece Of Furniture that Bene had in this place, and drawled with the right amount of Free Marcher arrogance.

"I am all ears ... Master."

Then he was just going to stare at Bene expectantly while he took a long sip of this very good, very expensive wine.

D'Artagnan has been back in the room for a while. He'd been surprised to find it empty, and somewhat concerned about what Benedict might be getting up to without him. When he hears the door open, he's facing the window, and he turns wearing a dry look, and a wardrobe of Benedict's clothes.

"There you are. Do you always have this much trouble with women, or --"

He breaks off, when a cadre of others pile into the room afterwards. There's immediate tension in the air, and he instantly realises this is something important, despite not having any idea what it is. What he sees is that there's significant anger in Benedict's direction, so he's quick to move up beside him.

"What's going on?" he says, quietly. The question is to Benedict, but his eyes are on the others. And why in God's name are they calling him Master?

Simon is not calling him Master, and is far from inclined towards sarcasm at present. He will wonder despairingly, at a more opportune moment, who the hell D'Artagnan is and why they now have to contend with two of this little beast, but this is not the time for that either. The wineglass that has been pressed upon him is quickly set aside.

"Hear you out?" He would laugh, if he could. "Hear you out? Bit late for that, isn't it? The time to hear you out would have been before your neglect nearly sent us to the fuckin' gallows, you craven little cunt." Bene has the dubious honor of being the first person Simon has ever used that epithet on in his life.

"I would have liked to hear you out before I signed up for this mission with a death warrant on my hand that I knew nothing about. Who else knew about this?"

The mage looks like he can use a drink (and to be fully honest before the Maker and all mortalkind, could use a drink), but damned if he'll take one. Myr frowns as the glass is pushed into his hands, derailed momentarily from piling on to Benedict with the templars--takes a sniff of its contents, frowns deeper, and nudges Simon gently with an elbow. Take this from him, please? They'll only be the worse if he has to fumble around an unfamiliar room to find a place to get rid of it.

At least it gives him time to think, reason, let his fury cool to something cold and crystalline. (Lets him consider how he's been rewarded for saving Benedict's life--even if those circumstances weren't Benedict's fault, even if the Vint's an idiot kid in over his head in a situation he'd never asked for. The resentment flares a moment, slips away; there wasn't a choice. Even if it's come to this.)

"Yes," he adds to Simon's words, "who else knew besides Messere Shimada?"

Holding out a hand to still D'Artagnan, Benedict sends him a warning glance before looking back to James-- James, who is raiding his wine, using his good crystal, draping himself across chairs like he owns the place; this, the Templar who tapped his forehead and threatened Tranquility--
Loathing rises in him like acid, his lip curling as he watches the Templar do as he pleases. But then Simon starts harping, and Benedict's attention is drawn.
"I had nothing to do with the ambush," he hisses, hand shaking as it continues to press against the door behind him, "I didn't ask for this any more than you did-- and I don't know, Ashlock, why do you fucking think I didn't approach you?" He waves his hand in a mockery of casual conversation: "After all, you have such a splendid record of believing me about these things--"

Clenching his fist, he lowers both balled hands to his sides. "You two," he growls, "caged and tormented me. A misfortune befell you that I neglected: then, I saved you from the gallows." He very pointedly does not look at either Hanzo or D'Artagnan, perhaps out of pride, not wanting to revisit that ugly time or hear any questions about it.

"If anything, you owe me."

You ought to thank the wine, and the comfortable chair. Thank Hanzo, thank your twin. For in that moment if there were none of these things, Benedict, then there would be a sword going down your throat and out the other side for the epic amount of bullshit in which you are trying to spew at the two men whose lives you nearly ended with your cowardice, in front of the loyal Inquisition members whose cause you nearly dragged down into the mud.

James's expression says all these things, as he calmly has another sip of wine, and then delicately puts the glass down before rising to his feet.

With the same level of self-control he has shown this entire time, he speaks softly and intently, "Artemaeus, when we first had the misfortune of meeting you, you were the student of an infamous Venatori. Instead of waiting for us to sort out that you were not a threat - you let loose a spell that nearly got Ashlock killed, and nearly made Ser Coupe a murderer of her own man. We put you in solitary, and I will admit we threatened you, but we never laid a finger on you except when you were a danger to others. Then ... from the advice of a better, more compassionate person than I - " and pain crosses his face as he thinks of the late Kit, "I released you in his hope that you would flourish more outside of a cell, with trust and appreciation for what you could bring to the table."

He puts his hands behind his back, so he doesn't throttle Benedict within an inch of his life, "In return, your mother planned a heinous revenge on your would-be tormentors. She had us ambushed, beaten savagely, kidnapped, and then branded ... with your house brand. Knowing that if we were ever to return to Tevinter, we would be considered missing property and executed. An act that was two months or more ago. For bruising your ... ego."

One corner of his mouth twisted, "So in conclusion, we do not owe you shit." A pause while he stares Benedict down, "Now please, answer Ashlock and Shivana's question. Outside of the individuals in this room - who knew about these brands?"

Edited 2018-08-01 14:34 (UTC)

D'Artagnan's eyes flick between each of these men, watching them as they talk, watching Benedict go on the defensive while James calmly, carefully maintains his temper. At the horrifying news that these men have been branded as slaves, despite being members of the Inquisition, he physically pales and stares at Benedict. He wants to hear a denial, but the moment he opens his mouth to ask for one, he stops. He doesn't need to ask if it's true. Why would they lie about something so obvious, something so easily verified?

"I knew nothing of it until this moment." He looks first at James, and then at Simon, too. If he'd known, he would have acted on it by now. He could throttle Benedict himself for keeping him in the dark.

That will do no good. Whatever has passed between them all has passed already. Not every wrong can be righted, but the right thing has to be done now. He turns to Benedict, eyebrows lifted.

"For God's sake, answer them, and don't make this worse than it already is."

Hanzo has rested silently throughout the entire encounter - he was not there to speak, to vocalise, to implicate himself. He knows the dangers of admitting his true name and heritage in the midst of a prison in Tevinter. Though his exile was self-given, self-enforced, if whispers of the Magister of the House of Shimada returning began to spread throughout the country his family would be upon him like leeches, dangerous and threatening, risking his very life for uttering something as simple as his name.

That is not something he could allow.

He waits until they're in privacy to speak, his eyes glancing around the room as each man hisses and curses and jeers in turn. He has no patience for any of them, for any of their behaviour, and his frustration is clear in the tension in his face and the clench of his jaw. There are so many other things he could be doing, spending his hours at home burrowing in nostalgia and happiness, as though he is permitted to stay here forever. That is not the case, however, and he holds up a hand to silence the room.

His voice is low, quiet, dangerous. Authoritative.

"I knew. I was on the mission, I knew the meaning of such marks and I investigated. It was my duty." There's no point mentioning that it was a duty given to him by Wren, that he had informed her of it. "I have spent the time since then investigating means of solving the situation before it ended in your deaths without risking the lives of myself or Benedict. The treatment of Tevinter mages in the Inquisition has not always been... The best. I wished to solve this matter before more trouble could arise."

But then, of course, the fools all decided to travel to Tevinter before Hanzo could speak to Benedict's mother, before he could put in place any plan to have his family implicated.

"You are lucky to be alive after being caught. In that, you owe him thanks," and it comes out cooly; clearly, Hanzo is just as frustrated by Benedict as the others are, even if he might not be as crass about it. "But the fact remains that it was not his doing. It was not his fault. The blame does not lie at his feet."

Unfortunately, honour is what binds Hanzo on his quest for redemption; he cannot lie. Benedict can be blamed for secrecy, as much as he can, but the blame for the plot, the brands, the suffering? That is not his. He remembers the look of horror and fear painting the man's face... No. He cannot be blamed for this.

At least someone has memory enough to bring up the horrors that happened in that cell. At least someone remembers that Benedict had flung the first spell. Simon has no knowledge of what had ever transpired between James and Benedict in private, but to be told now that he's the one who owes Benedict anything nearly chokes him silent. The Vints can be expected to close ranks and protect their own, of course, but the audacity--

"Let's do the math here, friendo," he hisses, rounding on Hanzo. "My involvement with him has damn near gotten me killed twice now. You weren't there when I was fighting for my life against the other templar he drove mad with horror magic. And for my part, I saved his fucking life when assassins decided they wanted him dead. And now he has the gall--the absolute fucking gall--to make you a mouthpiece to tell me I'm the one who owes him? You, who couldn't be arsed to give any of us the slightest heads-up because...what? It would've made the precious little prince here a wee bit uncomfortable? It might have taken time out of your busy brooding schedule?"

"If anything, you owe me." "In that, you owe him thanks."

Myr's done his damnedest to bite his tongue through all of this but even his patience has its limits, and Hanzo's explanation pushes right the hell past them.

Twice. Twice this sneering Vint serpent had lied to his face and given him assurance that the situation would be safely handled before it endangered someone. (His fault for not pushing harder--for trusting too fucking easily as he always did. But how could he do otherwise?) And now his only explanation for it--investigating means of solving the situation--has all the mealy-mouthed air of an apprentice excusing a late assignment. I was working on it, I really was, well, that didn't get it fucking done, now did it, and Simon had nearly been led to the gibbet for it. The Inquisition might've lost two of its loyal soldiers in catering to Benedict's fears, because the person who'd taken it on himself to fix the situation couldn't be arsed to come up with an interim solution while solving the matter without risk to himself.

It makes Myr want to set something on fire.

"Maker's balls, man! You could've told Ser Coupe to bar them from Tevinter without revealing a damned thing!" He doesn't regret the outburst on uttering it but surely does his own tone--a mage without control is a danger--and takes a deep and hasty breath to cool his anger. It's a little better on continuing: "They'd neither of them have been caught if you'd spoken--either of you--and it's a perversion of justice to say they owe you anything for fixing a situation your inaction put them in.

"I'll grant Benedict's got damned good reasons to be afraid given the Inquisition thought him Venatori to start and his slimy fucking mentor did nothing to fix that--but you're no prisoner of war, Shimada; who stole your spine?"

Edited 2018-08-06 05:34 (UTC)

There's a shift here, at the apex of Benedict's tension; D'Artagnan, the man he hired as a bodyguard, is a hair's breadth from turning on him, Hanzo has leapt to his defense, and Myr, of all people, is.... not only angrier than most have ever seen him, but unexpectedly still, somehow, almost on Bene's side. If one squints.
It gives him pause, his explanation dying on his lips as Hanzo takes over for him, though he locks eyes with D'Artagnan briefly: this discussion will have to come later, assuming they both live that long.

Between the Templars raging back at him, Hanzo's contribution, and Myr's outburst, Bene senses he's lost control of the situation. He falls silent, staring at the blind elf who, for whatever ridiculous reason, continues to have his back.
Kit comes to mind. Something uncomfortable clicks into place. Benedict rests his back against the door, pensive, momentarily tuning out the confrontation.

D'Artagnan holds back a frustrated sigh. Backed into a corner, Benedict is retreating. Whatever answer James and Simon want, they won't get it like this. The bottom line is that enough people knew about this to stop it getting this far if they'd wanted to, and that they had not is a failure and a crime, no matter who had started the enmity between them. From what he can see, what had happened to Benedict was also a crime, yet it had been answered without true justice, without due process, and caused more trouble for everyone.
This has to stop. He steps squarely in front of Benedict, putting himself between him, James and Myr.

"This will solve nothing." His voice stays calm and, with any luck, reasonable. He's navigating waters that he never expected to swim in, and he'll have that out with Benedict later, but a cooler head has to prevail for now. "Your capture should have been prevented. This never should have happened. Now we must ensure it does not happen twice. Can magic remove these brands?"

That's an open question to the room. He knows Benedict is a mage; he can't speak for any of the others, and he'll take an answer from anywhere.

Edited 2018-08-06 13:17 (UTC)

"Perhaps you should speak with your precious Ser Coupe on this matter," Hanzo says, voice steeled and dangerous, low in the face of insult and anger. "Because she is not as innocent as you seem to profess her to be."

He lifts his head, glaring at them all. They are like children, he thinks, all of them, messy children who speak to him as though he is not their elder, their senior, worth respect. He might have abandoned his post, he might have given up his ranks and titles, but his pride had not died with it. His anger is flush on his face and his eyes are narrowed and dark, his hands clenched tight.

"Do you think her ignorant of the meaning of your brands? Do you think she knew nothing of what they meant? Do you think that she did not ask someone to investigate their meaning for her?"

Hanzo had promised that no Templars would find out what Benedict's mother had done; he had not promised that he would not return to Coupe, the person who had tasked him with discovering the truth he had already known.

"She has known since I told her, weeks before now. I informed her that the brands were slave markings, that the matter should be handled diplomatically. She did not protect you. I spoke. I voiced. I informed. Do not stand before me and claim that I am to blame for this when I have done my duty, you ignorant cur. You know nothing of me or why I stand here - cease your talking."

"I see ... so the answer to that is, Ser Wren Coupe is the only other person who knew about that. Thank you, Serah Shimada." James's tone simply held onto the note of, Now was that so hard? He shifted his gaze back to Bene then, green eyes narrowing slightly.

Then he exhaled, letting those eyes close as he refocused his anger once more to calmness once more. Focusing himself into a solid place.

"We need these brands off, and we need them off as soon as possible. Otherwise we are going to keep running into this problem again and again." He finally said, opening his eyes. "If you do not know how to remove them, gentlemen, then for the safety of our mission here, find us someone who can."

He looked over at Ashlock, "Until then, you and I are not leaving the Archon's palace. Our lives are in danger as long as we are in Tevinter. Something I look forward to speaking to Ser Coupe about, once we return to Kirkwall."

Another exhale, rubbing a hand through greying hair, before he looked back at Benedict. "This needs to stop. All of this. I don't like you - I am not entirely certain how many of us in this room can say that they do - but for the sake of the organization that we all serve? This ends now. We do not have time for this sort of ... petty bullshittery anymore. From any of us, on any level. I include myself in this."

He set his gaze on everyone, making sure his tone was emphatic for Myr, "Agreed?"

It doesn't take eyes for Myr to know when he's pricked a man's pride, even when it's not so staring obvious as Hanzo makes it. (He didn't think Coupe innocent of this. Shimada had implied as much when they spoke before--but he'd trusted, despite the feeling in his gut, despite his own helpless anger at the situation, that something would be done. Someone would act, someone would recognize the bounds of duty required telling Simon and James the true risk they ran--

But no one had. It settles like ice in his stomach.)

Yet--despite the insults larding it, Hanzo's response is sufficient to hamstring Myr's anger. It may still be so much excuse-making--the man's proven himself facile with the truth before--but he believes the fury in the words, and moreover knows exactly what it is to have done one's duty in trust to someone who didn't deserve it.

How well.

Damned little he can do about it, though, and no point in continuing the argument. Especially not with Simon gone shock-silent beside him in a way that makes his heart ache-- (Worse than being left behind as a liability--at least that implied Philomela still cared about his survival.) He reaches out to touch his lover's arm, briefly, drawing strength and offering it as Norrington bulls in to settle the issue.

Or try. No telling how Benedict might take it, though Myr's got his guesses. "Understood, Messere Shimada--Ser Norrington," he says, quiet and even. (Swallow the anger, forget about it, you've been told to by a templar.) "You're right we have larger problems now.

"Speaking from my limited knowledge of healing magic--unless there's some spell Tevinter's magisters have for removing the brands when they transfer their--" The word property lingers on his tongue, a bit of politesse for the Archon's palace, and he decides abruptly he doesn't want to be polite, "slaves between houses, there's not a spell that can easily remove them. A spirit healer might be able to tell you otherwise."

Benedict almost looks like he's about to agree with D'Artagnan, and then Hanzo spews... just... everything, everywhere. Looking at him in utter disbelief, Bene quickly comes to realize that this is much worse than he'd thought: he had trusted Hanzo, Hanzo who had said he wouldn't speak to any Templars, and now it turns out that Coupe has known this entire time.

But he'll deal with that momentarily. For now, it almost looks like he's off the hook. There's something actionable that can be done, possibly even by him.

"I'll look into it," he says quickly, forcing some poise back into his tone and posture, stepping away from the door and glancing fleetingly at both James and Simon before looking past them once more. "I'll-- don't-- bring it to Coupe."
There's no way that the situation exploding beyond this room won't implicate him, and in doing so ruin all his hard work at making nice with the Inquisition.

"What will it take," he asks, brusquely but with a slight quaver in his voice, "for this to end here, right now?" If removing the brands is all they want, he'll find a way. Otherwise, there's money, and lots of it.

Have you ever seen a predator turn slowly towards prey that has just made a noise at them from behind? That sort of, 'Oh well look at the idiot who just made himself a target for food'. That is the way James turns to look at Benedict, who just ... after everything else, just tried to bribe himself, Myr and Simon into silence to protect himself from his own stupidity.

Even after how his twin and Hanzo had, essentially, put it all out on the line for him. Pull the anger up and away, and here was Benedict, shoving his face right back down into the flames of James's rage.

So he hopes that Everyone In This Room appreciates that the only words that come out of his mouth right now are a sharp, and cold, "Nothing. There is nothing that will make this end for you in a peaceful, brush it under the carpet way. I cannot speak for Ashlock, but while I am willing to put this aside for the greater good, right now?" He lifts his chin, green eyes cold and hard as a winter's sea. "Be well assured, if you ever do anything like this again, there will be a reckoning."

III

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