[CLOSED]

[esquive]

WHO: Character(s) Marcoulf and Benedict
WHAT: C is for casual extortion.
WHEN: Now
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: n/a, will add if necessary

[It's difficult to say when exactly it begins and at first it could be construed purely as coincidence, but at some point a paticular narrow man begins to make regular appearances on the margins of a certain chamberlain's work. He happens to be assisting some girl from the laundry bringing up fresh linens to a room being remade for a new guest; he is conveniently stationed at the bottom of some stairwell well frequented in the business of running the Gallows day to day; and so on.

Today, Marcoulf is sitting in the shade of some narrow side courtyard that Benedict happens to be passing through. He has his legs stretched out before him and a handkerchief with a half eaten heel of bread inside it spread on the bench beside him to suggest his time here may simply be some idle moment taken between work. He isn't following anyone; he certainly isn't a spy. But Marcoulf does look up when Benedict passes into the yard and nothing on his narrow face indicates he's at all surprised to see him there.]

Comments

[altusimperius]

The pattern has hardly escaped Benedict's notice, but neither is he wont to give in to paranoia-- so he's seen That Face here and there, that doesn't mean anything, not necessarily. He sees the faces of people he doesn't like all the time.
But after a while it starts to become too frequent, too planned. And being no longer in possession of a body double (the bastard fell back through a rift, or went wherever he went, at the worst possible time), confrontation has become considerably riskier.

So, feeling a chill down his spine at the sight of Marcoulf once again, Benedict meets his eyes momentarily and then quickens his pace.

[esquive]

Marcoulf studies his progress across the length of the narrow courtyard without moving from the slash of shadow cast by the high wall and the late afternoon sun. It's only when Benedict is very nearly free of the place that he pipes up cheerfully after him: "I have something to ask you. Come here, won't you?"

[altusimperius]

Against his better judgment, Benedict slows to a stop. He turns slowly, chewing his lip, and eyes Marcoulf with all the suspicion that... to be fair, is likely due.

"You can ask me from there," he says, trying to sound resolute.

[esquive]

Fair enough. He might do the same, were he stupid enough to find himself in the Tevinter's position.

"I believe you'd prefer me not to shout it. But I suppose I can."

His ankles have hooked now, one over the other, and his off hand is tucked idly into the crooked band of his sword belt. He seems perfectly content to wait.

[altusimperius]

On..... second thought.

Glancing quickly to anyone around (one elvhen maid who looks between them and quickly leaves, clearly wanting no part of this shit), Benedict slowly, stiffly walks back toward Marcoulf until he's about a foot away.

"What," he says, sullen but anxious.

[esquive]

He doesn't move much, save to tip his head against some errant glare of sunlight. After a measuring moment, with the quiet of the insulated courtyard descending about them, Marcoulf says, "I would like to know what friends you have here. Ones of means, whether they're with the Inquisition or a guest you've attended to."

[altusimperius]

"...of means?"

Benedict's eyes narrow. Something's afoot, and though he isn't sure what, he doesn't like the energy he's feeling from Marcoulf.
"And why would you want to know that, you ferret-faced peasant?"

[esquive]

The easy line of his crossed ankles ans the casual angle of his arm across his middle don't shift whatsoever, but for a split second something in his already narrow face thins further. He has to fight down the urge to clip back with something something sharp in return. Strange, I can think of no reason--

Only he can. And if the Vint's to be any use to him, he may as well have some answer.

"I'm of a mind to find some work."

[altusimperius]

"Then you might consult one of the many wealthy Orlesians," comes Benedict's snide reply, as he grows bolder and more comfortable with the conversation's turn. Was he afraid of this man? Pathetic.
"The Inquisition is lousy with them."

[esquive]

How narrow is it possible for a man's face to get? Behind the wire of its ginger beard, Marcoulf's must be trying for some record. "I would prefer," --oh that Orlesian accent is in every one of his syllables, isn't it?-- "not to work for them."

Patience, he thinks. "Now listen, be civil or I'll forget my manners just the same. You see to the Inquisition's fine guests and their needs, do you not?"

[altusimperius]

"Civil," Benedict repeats with a snort, "whatever you're playing at, I won't be intimidated by it." Tossing his head, he turns to walk away again. "My guests have no need for the likes of you."

[esquive]

He unlinks his ankles and sits forward then - straightening from that disaffected slouch and out of the heavy shade bisecting the courtyard wall.

"Wait. You can be dealt in."

This he says quickly, as abrupt an attempt to stop Benedict as grabbing him by the arm might be. Marcoulf clarifies only, and is stilted and annoyed by the insistent timbre of his own voice: "Your guests must ask you for little errands or hint at things they might need. If the work is suitable for me and you were to pass it my way, in return I could give you a portion of my payment."

[altusimperius]

Benedict does pause again, but his patience is dwindling. Is this all it was about, being followed around with that awful shrewd little face staring him down all the while? The man who held a knife to his throat is now begging him for job opportunities, and it's stopped being funny.

Bene turns with a scowl. "What makes you think I would want your money," he snaps, "or anything else, for that matter? Why don't you go back to whatever hole you crawled out of, and leave me alone?"

[esquive]

For a split second, Marcoulf looks struck dumb - somehow so bewildered by the question that it's as if at first no part of it registers whatsoever. And then he sharpens. There's no significant change in either the lines of his face, the hand placed there idly at his swordbelt, but at once the man on the bench has gone very still and very intent. The temperature of the open air courtyard drops like a stone.

"If you like. I believe Commander Coupe usually has plenty of work at hand."

You idiot, he thinks. You want him to keep his mouth shut. Just take the money as a bonus and be happy he hasn't ratted you out all these weeks since. Just-- cooperate.

[altusimperius]

In some subjects, Benedict is a quick study. In others, he's disastrously obtuse, and even after all the experience he already has with people trying to assassinate him, and threatening him with violence and/or more assassination attempts, he still has to walk all the way into the trap before looking around and seeing the bars.

To be fair, Marcoulf has been very polite about it. It's only when the word 'Coupe' leaves his lips that Benedict feels like his insides have been doused with cold water, and he stands there in dumb, almost tragic affront.
He stares at Marcoulf, momentarily tongue-tied. Now that he knows what this is really about, and what it was always about, which he suspected and then ignored, it's a lot more difficult to fling insults.

[esquive]

There.

The stricken look on the younger man's face eases the strangling panic that had closed its hand around his throat. The buzzing thoughtlessness drains out of him like water from a broken cup, and it leaves behind a sure sense of the courtyard's paving stones under his boot soles. All right. Getting somewhere now.

Marcoulf dusts his hand dismissively against his knee, then moves to fold the handkerchief back around the half eaten heel of bread.

"I've some business this afternoon and can't be here long."

[altusimperius]

There's little chance of Benedict leaving now, as much as he wants to. "Why--" he says after a moment, and halts, looking very much as though he's doing his best to suss this out despite the fear choking his thoughts.

"--why would you give me a cut? Of earnings?"

Perhaps it's a stupid question, but the Artemaeus in him is scrambling to figure out what's being gained at his expense. Or. ...at his gain?

[esquive]

Because money ought to be persuasive. It usually is, isn't it? It's a rare problem - at least when it comes to people - that can't be solved with either a sharp edge or a little coin. In this instance, the former gets him nothing but trouble. So, so, so--

(Because it's the first thing that had come to mind.)

He tucks the handkerchief into his pocket. "Feel free to refuse it if the question concerns you so much."

[altusimperius]

More than anything, it's confusion now that fuels Benedict's anxiety. How can a request so banal be so threatening, and yet...?

Pressing a knuckle to his mouth, Bene shakes his head and gives a little shrug that he wishes were dismissive but is a little too tense. No need to refuse, not that he wants any of this.

[esquive]

"Good. Keep me in mind then."

He could stay. Press the point. He should - when should he expect to hear of something? Make some last threat for if nothing is fed his way in a timely manner. But he finds himself abruptly disinterested in sticking around, a nervous energy scratching back up through him over such a question with no obvious answer outside of his own stupidity. So instead Marcoulf rolls up on to his feet, gives Benedict a tip of the head that translates roughly to 'This has been fun,' and then slips from the courtyard so he can kick himself in private.