altusimperius (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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faderift2018-09-18 03:38 pm
altusimperius) wrote in faderift2018-09-18 03:38 pm
[open] nothing can break
WHO: Benedict and yoooou
WHAT: The princess is dealing with a lot right now. Help him (or make it worse)
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: will add warnings as needed
WHAT: The princess is dealing with a lot right now. Help him (or make it worse)
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: will add warnings as needed
I. Around and About
Things are strange these days, but at least Benedict has a job. Being the chamberlain means it's his responsibility to see that guests are comfortable, which means suddenly a goodly portion of the rooms in the Gallows towers are under his care.
As few expected, he takes the job seriously. With his board and his quill he moves from room to room on a daily basis, glancing over those unoccupied and ringing for service in those that have borne guests, making sure their sheets are turned down and their curtains arranged at the most pleasing angle for their return.
He can be found pacing the halls at these times, his step brisk and his brow furrowed in concentration.
II. The Library
And then there are the times he sets aside each day to do research alone; what he's studying isn't obvious, and he's not especially forthcoming about it, but it's a fair number of medical and magical texts that he seems to pull from the stacks.
When not actively reading, sometimes he's just sitting by one of the big windows, cup of tea in hand and gaze distant.
III. Sloppy Bitch O'Clock
Perhaps the reason Bene is keeping so busy, or at least one of them, is that there have been a lot of recent events giving him feelings and problems he doesn't know how to handle. Being aloof means there isn't a lot of opportunity to work things out with friends he doesn't have, and one night something just crumbles.
He's in the Hanged Man (if you're going to do it, why not do it right), already several drinks in and draped over a chair by the fireplace, waxing poetic about how important he is in Tevinter, how he'll be a Magister someday, maybe once all this madness is worked out.
It's frankly a miracle he hasn't been shivved yet.
For Kitty
It's time to pick out new curtains for some of the guest rooms, and Benedict is in Hightown Market wearing his fancy important person clothes while inspecting the goods at a textile stand. He looks up for a moment and, catching sight of Kitty, gives a smirk and a roll of his eyes. Oh hey.
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Ugh.
[ She recognizes that dumb smirk and that smug idiot hair. The last thing she wants to do is engage with him or his haughty idiocy, unless engaging means actually hitting him in the face. But also, the last thing she wants is to seem like she's afraid of his idiot self. So she compromises: she doesn't speak to him directly, but addresses a comment to the air, saying: ]
Utterly hideous.
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It's not that bad, [he coos, directing his gaze to the fabric he's holding,] what do you know about damask anyway?
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I know that it looks like it belongs in an old lady's parlour. Are you trying to hang up curtains in an old lady's parlour?
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[He transfers the fabric from one arm to the other, holding onto it as he continues to peruse what's there. Either way, it seems this is a solid choice.]
I wouldn't expect you to recognize quality fabric either way, but the old ladies you know must be women of taste.
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No. They're insufferable. Don't you want to - you know - have the taste of a real person?
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[He smiles at her, a magnanimous and impossibly smug expression.]
Who's the real person, the one who belongs here or the one who fell out of the sky?
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Is there something you wanted, princess?
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You can't call me princess and act as though my taste doesn't matter. It's got to be one or the other. Pick.
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Why not?
[He pays the vendor, handing over some coins, and tucks the roll of fabric under his arm as he steps away from the stand.]
Your taste might matter if you weren't such a little shrew about it.
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I'm a full-sized shrew, thanks. Not some scrawny little fop like you.
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[He turns to stop walking and obstruct her path, that same smug expression tinged with mock pity.]
Your interest is touching, my dear, but I'm afraid you're not my type.
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Ew.
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[He tosses his head in just such a way that his hair will shine in the sunlight.]
No one will hold it against you.
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Sorry, I prefer guys who don't make me want to vomit. It's this weird thing I've got where I find someone who's completely morally bankrupt to be sort of unappealing. So weird.
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Morally bankrupt? [The smile dwindles.]
...what do you mean?
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[ Her eyes narrow suspiciously. Is he trying to trick her? Or does he genuinely not remember? ]
I've said all this to you before, haven't I. You're complicit - have been complicit - in a system that abuses and exploits others. Someone like that doesn't deserve a how-d'you-do, never mind someone like me having a crush on 'em.
[ Kitty "small ego" Jones ]
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You don't understand, they're-- [Not so much offended, he seems confused.] --they're slaves, they don't care. It's just how things are.
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[ She looks like she believes that about as much as she believes that the sky is purple. But his expression seems so baffled - not haughty, just genuinely confused - that she swallows down her insults and instead endeavors to explain. Sort of. It's a hell of a place to have this conversation, admittedly, in the middle of the street. ]
According to who, exactly? 'Cause I doubt you've ever heard that from a slave's mouth when there wasn't someone standing behind 'em with a whip. Tell me, great magister, if you were kept in chains, and told what to do - told to lift heavy rocks and shovel shit and shine someone else's boots - and if you didn't, you got beaten or killed - if you had no right to stay with the people you loved, if they could just be sent away from you and you had no control over it - would you care?
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The discussion is clearly making him a bit uncomfortable, but only because, if it were true, it would be terrible. But the same rules can't apply.]
That's--... that'd be different. [He furrows his brow. Defensively,] They seem happy enough.
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'Course they do. That's part of their job. If they made a lot of noise to you about being miserable, they'd be whipped for that. Because they were upsetting your delicate constitution. Haven't you ever thought about this before? Like, really thought about it?
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[The thought of such a thing befalling Micaela is too awful to bear. But the power of the thought grows, niggles at him, creates a tightness in his chest that verges on painful. What if?]
It's not true, [he says, faintly.] They're... they're born that way, it's just... how they are.
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[ That's said quite firmly, without the slightest hint of doubt. She was certain of this to begin with; her certainty is only reinforced by his visible weakening. ]
If they were born that way, then why are people captured and sold into it? Surely if they were just born to be slaves, they wouldn't put up a fight. And in your history, there have been people who've stood up against it, haven't there. Why would they resist if they were just born to it?
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He's certain he'll be sick. And he needs this girl to stop talking, right now, because he can't listen to it anymore.]
I'm-- [he stammers,] ...going, [and he pushes past her to be on his way, walking quickly and desperately willing her not to follow.]
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Going where? Going to ask someone you've abused what their life is like? Or going to pretend you never heard anything at all?
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