[closed] good ideas forever

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict and Marcoulf
WHAT: a vint sneaks out to acquire a rift shard, is followed by a grumpy beardman
WHEN: post-satinalia, pre-modplot
WHERE: near Kirkwall
NOTES: If you want in on this in some capacity hmu!

It took some sneaking around, inspecting the rift map under the guise of using it for some of his Tevinter-related work, but Benedict has found one and steeled himself to finally make it happen.
He'd bring D'Artagnan, if he could find him anywhere; that's the only person who could be trusted, especially to help him close the thing again, or to help protect him from the demons. Mother had said that for the sake of his own safety, for the purpose of continuing his family's powerful standing, he must be completely identical to his body double.
Which means... he has to get one. An anchor.

But if anyone knows why, they'll take issue, try to stop him, condescend to him, and he already knows it's a bad idea. But with Minrathous under occupation and the stakes higher than they've ever been, there's no doubt in Benedict's mind that it's now or never.

So it's in the middle of the night that he meets a ferryman, pre-bribed to take him to a beach on the Wounded Coast, where a rift has been spotted. It's fairly small, and not near to any settlements, which means it's likely to be low-priority and, hopefully, unguarded by anyone but... well. Demons.
He'll deal with that as he gets to it.

Comments

[esquive]

Quick as thinking, Marcoulf is after him. The Tevinter's legs are longer though - that Marcoulf was able to drag him around at all is quiet testament to the swordsman's wiry strength -, and with that lead he'll be at the beach and the boat waiting in the surf before him.

But let no one say Marcoulf isn't as tenacious as a particularly annoying terrier. He snarls after Benedict, pursuing him to the cliffs with his sword still drawn (in case of demons. Really).

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Tall, yes, but Benedict has been a princeling for too long: he lacks athleticism, and can only thank his lucky stars for the sudden decline in terrain as he reaches the pathway down to the beach. He can then curse them, however, for how the darkness and the shifting of the sand cause him to stumble and crash downward with a startled cry, rolling a few feet and landing hard against a rock.

He can hear Marcoulf approaching, though, and that in itself is enough to convince him not to stop here. Using the rock as leverage, sand flying as he kicks into it, he scrambles again for the boat.

[esquive]

The cold reality is this: that if the only person involved in Benedict escaping pursuit was Benedict, that might still be enough for the younger man to slip free of Marcoulf. Unfortunately, there's the question of the man waiting in the boat and the fact that the boat itself has been hauled up onto the rocks and sand of the beach to keep from being battered to and for in the surf while lying in wait for a return that might take-- minutes? hours? Never underestimate a Kirkwall boatman's ability to make his job easier.

So the boat's beached. Running it out will take precious seconds. Even if Benedict beats him over the gunwale, Marcoulf is quick enough that he'll be canonballing into the boat right after him.

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"No! NO, get--" Benedict is on the floor of the boat, and now so is Marcoulf, and the boatman is neither amused nor in any mood to deal with two noodles fighting in his craft.

"None of that! Get out!" he barks, and, removing a cudgel from his belt, begins to swing it at both combatants, not intending to stop until they're both gone.

A broken cry like a wounded puppy signals that Benedict has received a wallop, and is now as intent on scrambling back out of the boat as he is getting away from Marcoulf.

[esquive]

It's a brief mess of elbows and sharp knees, flailing obtuse shapes in the moonlit dark. The yelp, comically loud though it is, doesn't do much to loosen Marcoulf's vice grip on Benedict's-- wherever. He hasn't been choosy in the struggle, which could translate to a shirt collar or an armpit or a handful of hair. Neither does the solid whack from the cudgel that strikes him on the back of his shoulder either, though that at least has Marcoulf rounding with a snarl on the boatman.

--And gets smacked in his upraised arm for it. That does make him recoil, pain pulsing up through the half healed old wound in his arm and turning the man's already wan face going ghost white. He releases Benedict with a croaking sound.

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At a certain point Benedict was banking on Marcoulf's grip to keep his balance, and with that now gone, he topples backwards out of the boat and lands with a violent splash and a yip (it's cold) in the shallows.
"You-- bastard," he gasps, sloshing now for the other boat in hopes he can get to it before Marcoulf, but it's hard to take proper steps when one is wearing a mage robe and that robe is now absolutely sodden.

Like he'd even know how to row it.

[esquive]

"For--Maker's--" is followed by a very strong curse word in Orlesian from the bottom of the boat as Marcoulf makes to fend off the boatman's assault. Benedict's dubious attempt at escape is momentarily forgotten in favor of not being beaten. which more or less culminates in a certain degree of flailing and defensive kicking before he rolls out of the boat and into the mud and small stones and salt surf of the beach.

So if nothing else, they're now both bruised and soaking wet as he resumes pursuit. And here, he's much faster without silly robes to drag him down. In which case: forget the sword. He tackles Benedict from behind, dragging him down into the shallow winter cold water. Quick as blinking, he has a knife to the younger man's throat and a knee in the center of his back.

He pants out another Orlesian swear word. Then, exasperated: "Are you finished?"

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"The void with you," grumbles the ferryman, and he pushes off the instant Marcoulf leaves his boat. He was paid in advance for this, and he's not about to stick around and get et by demons or whatever other fuckery is about to go down.

A nonverbal wail is Benedict's protest as he's tackled, one which peters out into a fearful whine when he realizes the position he's in. Not all that long ago he'd have spun up something about massive amounts of money in exchange for not killing him, but seeing as he hasn't heard from his parents since Minrathous was taken, and this isn't the first time his throat's been on the business end of a blade, he plays it safe by saying nothing at all.

Instead, dripping and shivering and miserable, he nods mutely.

[esquive]

Good, he thinks. Because he doesn't know what he'd do otherwise except make a fool of himself. From where he has Benedict pinned, the sending crystal on its leather line has slipped free of his shirt's neckline and swings with residual energy now between them as if to say, de Ricart, you fool, coming out here all alone. And for what?

One hand keeps the knife to the younger man's neck. He stuffs the crystal away with the other.

"Put your hands up. Let me see--" Some fresh cut of surf catches them, bitter cold. Marcoulf flinches. Impatiently: "What did you do to them? At the rift. Where were trying to send your demons?"

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Eyeing the crystal nervously, Benedict deliberates on asking if it's activated: is he about to out himself to the entire Inquisition, or just to this one scrubby Orlesian?
Because, truth be told, he's not in the mood to take any more chances. He puts up his hands as instructed, the left one now glittering and popping with the eerie green of the rift, and it's all he can do to keep from curling it to his chest in pain again.

Marcoulf's question catches him by surprise, however, and Bene narrows his eyes, not sure he heard him. "Send--" he stammers, "--what?"

[esquive]

The surf is cold, the night bitter about them. The knife pricks sharper at the back of the younger man's neck. Don't be dense, says the sharp edge. Say the truth or he'll gut you here on this beach and let the horrible dark sea have you.

"The Rift. Why were you there? Who told you to come?"

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A thin whine escapes in place of a word as the blade of the knife makes itself known, and Benedict tenses his back, trying to hold his posture as is despite the freezing cold.

"No-- nobody," he whimpers, "I wanted to see one." This isn't a total falsehood, although only if by 'see' he meant 'receive the power of'.

[esquive]

"Don't you bullshit me, boy," Marcoulf snaps. The knife doesn't turn, but his grip on Benedict's collar does: putting tension there, his knuckles a hard line against his spine. "You tell me, and I'll let you live long enough to drag you before the Commander."

And if he doesn't? Well.

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"No," Benedict half-sobs, terror piercing through him at the thought of, once again, being thrown in a cage like an animal. It's almost enough to want to die right here and now, but some sense of self-preservation kicks in first.

"My mother," he gasps, recognizing in the back of his mind that he may someday pay for this treachery. "She wants me to-- to have a shard, to-- look like someone." Not that the someone is still here, but that's not a fact of which he's yet aware.

[esquive]

"Like who? For what reason?" Maybe a better question, though one the Inquisition likely already knows full well: "What's your mother's name?"

Another slap of bitter water finds them. The adrenaline is starting to go now, leaving just cutting cold surf and a sharpening evening wind to match it. But Marcoulf's hands are at least steady. He gives Benedict a good shake by the collar of his robes.

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"My-- bodyguard," Benedict gasps, jolting as the wave hits. "So he'd-- pass for me, and vice versa." He's gripping Marcoulf's shirt, if only to keep his own head above water. "Calpurnia," he continues, "--Artemaeus, not-- not the Calpernia who serves Corypheus!" Probably an important detail.