RIFTER ARRIVAL: Guardian 9:45

[faderifting]

WHO: New rifters, rescuers, and anyone else
WHAT: New arrivals are collected and transported to Kirkwall
WHEN: Mid-Guardian, 9:45
WHERE: The hills north of Starkhaven
NOTES: This log contains prompts for the ARRIVAL and RECOVERY of new rifters, as well as the subsequent QUARANTINE period. All prompts are open to anyone.

Comments

[altusimperius]

"You're not the first to be unjustly shut away in there," comes Benedict's voice, but he pulls away from the window, sensing eyes on him and realizing how much he doesn't want to be looked at. "I... caution you against pushing your luck. The window is a luxury they don't have to afford you."

Why did he come down here? Now he isn't sure-- he thought it was to gawk at the strange new Rifter, but maybe, there's the slightest chance... maybe it was to stop the wheel of history from turning all the way around again.

"Watch out for the Templars," he says, leaning with his back to the door to watch the hall, and lowering his voice, which has gone from smug and smarmy to bone-weary. "Do what they say. There'll be no quarter from them, and... your chances are better above ground."

[reshapes]

It's exactly the kind of exhaustion he'd usually ignore, for the record. What does he care about anyone's feelings, or how tired they are with their own would-be suffering? Not a scrap, thank you. What good would it do him to show any interest? None whatsoever. But usually he isn't dragging around a magic tear like a millstone around the neck, and usually his Essence is as light as air whereas now it feels like slowly solidifying concrete.

So look, maybe he has a few perfectly valid reasons for wanting to hear the kid out. They're all practically self-motivated though. Maybe he'll say something that's actually useful

"So what is it is they say you did that you didn't do, hm?" He's moved his spare hand from his side and is drumming his fingers on the cell floor now.

[altusimperius]

The prisoner's tone is grating, and Benedict wouldn't mind being done with it. Yet there's a small part of him that recognizes how hard certain people worked to get through to him when he first arrived. If they hadn't made the effort...
Maybe Kit would be proud of him now. He'll never know.

"There's a faction from my homeland, the Tevinter Imperium, that calls themselves the Venatori. They work for the Inquisition's adversary, Corypheus. My mentor was one of theirs, and he allowed us to be captured." The way he says 'mentor', it's almost a curse word: fuck Atticus, fuck everything he stood for. Stands.

"He's gone now, to Skyhold. Sweet-talked himself out like he always does, and left me here to rot. I'm not Venatori, but trying to convince them..."
He turns back around to peer inside. "Coupe, she's in charge. Get on her good side. Don't try to trick her, she won't fall for it." Glancing over his shoulder, he falls silent a moment as a guard patrols by, giving him the stinkeye.
"Maker help you if Norrington comes in, he's a maniac-- but he's got no jurisdiction if you're not a mage." A pause. "...are you?"

[reshapes]

The more things change, the more they stay the same eh?

"As a matter of fact, no. I'm not." Tak, tak, tak say the long claws at the end of his fingers against the cell floor³. He gathers he's rather the opposite of that actually - something that makes mages and non-mages alike tremble in fear. And really, that's not so different from how things usually are, though getting a magician to admit as much would be more difficult than pulling every tooth out of the head of a Marid wearing the guise of a Nile crocodile. At least here they're honest about it.

That it comes with the side effect of being uneasy about magicians and their ilk should be a real bonus, but forgive him if he doesn't have quite the right perspective to appreciate it just yet.

"I take it you are."

It's not a question. He knows how this works.

3. He really needs to stop doing this. The habit of flicking through forms on a whim may literally kill him.

[altusimperius]

Though he hears the noise, they're both fortunate that the cell is too dark for Benedict to properly see into. He does squint his eyes, but at present is willing to give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt.
"Yes," he says simply, quietly. Then, "...here."

Through the bars slips a small white hand-rolled cigarette, followed by a single match. He has little to give, but there were little things that helped Bene get through the day, when it was him in the cell.
"I'll... bring you some chalk, if you like."

[reshapes]

He doesn't move to accept either match or cigarette, though it's not like they're going anywhere. After the boy leaves, he he might get bored and roll over there and see about setting some straw on fire with the match. But for now? No, he'll stay where he is for right now.

"Is there a reason you're doing all this?"

It's a brusque, plain kind of question. Chalk? Fine, whatever. Bring him a bit of chalk. But what he really wants to know is why a stranger is here at all. It can't be as simple as being in this position once too. That's not, Bartimaeus thinks, how the world works.

[altusimperius]

It's a good question, and Benedict realizes he doesn't actually know the answer. He thinks on it a moment, looking out at the hall again.
Then, after a good long pause, he turns his head back toward the bars. "No one deserves to be forgotten," he says, with a quiet and almost shameful air. Immediately afterward, perhaps fearing he'll make an ass of himself, he steps away from the door and takes his leave.