OPEN: Kirkwail

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Ghosts
WHEN: Wintermarch 20
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC post. More content warnings than you can shake a stick at, probably, including allusions to slavery and violence in the body of the log post. Please use appropriate warnings in the subject lines for your own threads.

The storm sweeps in like an assassin: unexpected, in the dark, and throwing sharp pricks of sleet at exposed eyes and noses with expert aim and enough force to almost draw blood if the angle is right. Half an hour after the clouds crest the cliffs is all it takes for the city to retract indoors and huddle around fireplaces, settling in for a long night that will, unforeseen, turn into a long two days.

The Gallows, too, is pelted with ice; the walls of the cliffs and the fortress protect much of it from the worst of the wind, but when it can find a path over or through the walls, it slams through windows or doors to scatter papers and snuff out fires.

In the dark, in the rain, hurrying between towers or already accustomed to jumping firelight casting strange shadows and the wind howling like a wounded animal, people might be forgiven if they don't notice at first. But there's a hanging in the courtyard, a dozen translucent wisps of bodies dangling from the idea of nooses, and there's a girl's voice in the basement of the templar tower screaming for her mother, and there's a ghostly man in the library holding the blade of a knife to his palm and whispering this is it, this is it—or maybe there isn't, actually, when you lift your head to pay closer attention.

But as the night wears on they multiply, and they brighten, and even if you haven't noticed them, they begin to notice you.

Comments

[dirth]

Tilting his head, Solas glances over and watches the younger man, curious for a moment. He's clearly Tevinter - enough time spent with Dorian Pavus would make anyone an expert in spotting that type - and for a moment he's loathe to give anything away. For now, however, there is little that he can do with the admission and Solas allows himself the quiet confidence to admit his talent.

"Rift magic," he says.

[altusimperius]

Of course.

If one can use other aspects of the Fade, hell, even one's own blood, why should these rifts be any different? And yet there isn't one nearby, as far as Bene knows; does that mean they're... sort of everywhere?
His left hand twinges, and he tucks it under his right, still not prepared to reveal his acquisition to anyone.

"...can anyone do it?" he asks, after a moment. By 'anyone' he means mages, of course, but they're all who really matter anyway.

[dirth]

Solas can admit to a particular talent in this area and a level of skill that, perhaps, no one else might be able to meet nor manage - being the person that moulded and made what Rift magic uses does give a certain advantage. If he's surprised by Benedict's question he doesn't show it on his face, resting his hands on his staff and tilting his head, as if curious more than anything else.

He is curious - and thoughtful.

"With the right teacher."

[altusimperius]

Being cryptic suits no one when there's work to be done, as Benedict sees it: it can be nice for flirting, but otherwise useless.
"Is that you?" he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching into a little smirk.

[dirth]

It's not something he's been asked recently; Solas has taught people about the Veil and the Fade, but he's never been asked to teach his specialisation. He pauses, thoughtful, before he turns his head and looks to the side.

"For some people, perhaps. I am not always the best tutor."

[altusimperius]

There it is.

"Can you teach me?" Bene asks, casting his gaze to the dome shimmering around them with so much more strength than a standard barrier. The battle at Ghislain left him feeling helpless: he never wants to feel that way again, and that means taking his education into his own hands.

[dirth]

Solas watches, lifting his eyebrow and letting his eyes rake over Benedict for a moment. Tevinter, clearly, but at least open to new ideas, which makes a difference; it's enough that it makes Solas not want to reject it outright. Passing his staff from one hand to another, he considers before he speaks.

"Why?"

[altusimperius]

"Because," Bene says quietly, clearing his throat, "I haven't properly learned any school of magic yet. My tutor left me here to rot in the dungeon after teaching me nothing, and I want to be valuable." He glances at the barrier again.
"And I have a shard." Solas is the first person, other than Marcoulf, who has come to know this-- Bene tugs his glove off to show him. "I want to learn to use it. Properly."

[dirth]

"A shard does mean you are any more or less deserving of tutelage." But Solas watches Benedict for a moment, taking it in. It must be something new - he had no knowledge of Benedict having a shard before this, and he is aware of most people - before he shakes his head and breathes out. "I will consider it."

[altusimperius]

That alone seems enough to placate the boy, at least for now. He's halfway through a smirk when a ghost with a sword throws himself at the barrier, dissipating, but not in enough time to keep Benedict from gasping and flinching away.