[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]

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?"

[altusimperius]

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?"

[altusimperius]

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.

[altusimperius]

"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.

[altusimperius]

"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.