[open] the way it feels to be just anyone

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: catch-all
WHEN: Bloomingtide
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: will give warnings as needed. hit me up if you want a starter!

I. The Library

Performing his chamberlain duties in the daytime and studying magic in the evenings doesn't leave Benedict a lot of time for leisure, and in fact the hours he would have spent drinking or playing cards are now occupied in the little office he sets up every night at one of the library tables. It's here that he writes letters, several scrolls weighted down in front of him which list Tevinter's major families and their relations, spread all across the country and ripe for persuasion.

Sometimes he can be found writing fervently, a cup of tea sitting untouched and forgotten beside his scribbling quill; more than once he's fallen asleep there, his face smudged with ink as it rests atop the desk.

II. The Gallows Courtyard

On the rare occasion that he's out of real work to do, Benedict can sometimes be found sitting on the steps of the tower with his parchment board and a quill or stick of charcoal, idly drawing the surrounding architecture. The sketches are loose, but hone in with great detail on things like the flourish in a column or a specific pattern of tilework; he shows little interest in the denizens going about their day, and in fact makes a little face of irritation if ever someone steps in the way.

III. Wildcard

do ur worst



for Solas

With the warming weather, Benedict has felt more comfortable taking his magical studies outside to practice in the open. Well, semi-open-- still afraid of being heckled at the proper training grounds, he opts instead for the herb garden in the evenings, where he can take his time and maintain a relatively low level of anxiety.

The barrier is something he mastered ages ago, but Benedict's skill in it has weakened with his resolve; he can't seem to keep it going under duress, which has led him to try a visibly stronger method: the Rift barrier, as he saw Solas conjure when Kirkwall was besieged by ghosts.
Benedict is able to draw a brief form: a slab, part of a wall, which remains for several seconds and then disintegrates, much to his aggravation.

If he can't make a simple barrier work, no matter its material, he can't protect himself.


for Kitty

It's been more than a few days, but the Inquisition is like that: people get busy and stay busy, with less time than they hoped for side projects. So it's more like several weeks later when Benedict next visits Kitty in the library, walking in with his posture straight and his eyes bright, hopeful.

"Any luck?"


for Marcoulf

There's been no reason to talk to the little ferret-face, save perhaps for a gnawing conscience that rears its head every time Benedict remembers that awful night and the subsequent conversations. Perhaps he was too unkind to him-- perhaps he's afraid of Marcoulf still, even after everything. But he can't have this nonsense hanging over his head, not when anxieties are at an all-time high and the whole world seems unbalanced.

So he approaches Marcoulf one night, sauntering up next to him and leaning against a nearby pillar, where he lights a cigarette and just... stands there. One of them will speak first. Maybe.

Comments

[altusimperius]

Swabbing enough of the salve onto the wound that it's thinly covered, Benedict then sets down the rag and picks up a bandage, beginning to wrap it with the careful competence of someone who has done this before, but not too often.

"There," he grunts, tying it off, "unless you want me to kiss it better."

[esquive]

He draws the hand back promptly, examining the wrap of the bandage and its tie. He must find it-- satisfactory. After a moment, he fetches the glove from his pocket and carefully works his hand back into it.

"It's fine."

[altusimperius]

There. Good deed of the day done. Benedict nods and rises from the table, glancing back at the mirror one last time and then picking up the candle to bring it back to the doorway, assuming of course that Marcoulf comes with him. He stops there, waiting for the Orlesian to walk out first so he can blow out the light.

[esquive]

It takes him a few moments to work the glove back on. From there--

"Why are you here? With the Inquisition."

He hasn't risen, sitting there at the table still in the darkness of the clinic with the candle having been drawn away. He's looking at Benedict from that shadow, the exact lines of his expression difficult to judge there. But there's no heat in the timbre of his voice. It's just a series of questions.

"Did your mother tell you to do this too?"

[altusimperius]

Benedict stops and turns, looking at him with an air of confusion that doesn't quite verge into shiftiness. He continues to hold the candle by the door.

"No, actually." He hesitates: the story isn't a pleasant one, less so to remember than to tell.

"I was apprenticed to a Magister who took me south with a small entourage of researchers, studying the rifts. We were just west of Minanter when we were captured by an Inquisition force, and sent here for questioning."

He sighs through his teeth, some of the spark seeming to go out of his eyes. "...I found out when we got here, of course. That they were Venatori."

[esquive]

"And your master," he asks from the dark. "What did they do to him?"

[altusimperius]

A small, irritable shake of the head.

"He snaked his way out of captivity. Agreed to help the Inquisition and went to Skyhold, leaving me here to rot." Benedict's posture has tensed considerably, and it's clear that there remains some unresolved tension on the matter, whether between him and his mentor or simply within himself.

"...d'you fancy a proper smoke," he says wearily, angling his head toward the darkness. Why not, after all? Neither one of them has any social engagements, tonight or ever. In this light, it's not hard to see what they have in common.

[esquive]

The offer lingers there in the candlelight, tangling in something sharp and uneven in his chest. There's a certain sting in all kinds of being abandoned, he thinks, and it seems strangely recognizable to him in every shape.

(Say no. Go back to those shared quarters and go to sleep. You have work to be done come morning, and will the day after it, and the day after, and again and again until he dies or the Inquisition finishes its work. And isn't that good?)

Marcoulf scrubs his face with his off hand.

"All right," he says, rising from the table. He slinks to meet Benedict at the door.

[altusimperius]

Not even bothering to smile, Benedict lets him out, snuffs the candle, and closes the door behind him before leading the way to his quarters. It's up in the old mage tower, ironically enough, and though the room is the same size as anyone else's in that particular hall, the decor suggests an eye for luxury and color.

Drapings hang over the walls, all the furniture and textiles clearly imported from the north, a little taste of home in the unhospitable Free Marches: but most importantly, up on one table sits a hookah accompanied by a little hand-carved wooden box of appropriately-sized coals.

Leaving the door open for Marcoulf, Benedict kicks around a few throw pillows on the floor, arranging them such that he can set the pipe down between them. Before he even begins to prepare it, however, he goes to the window and cracks it open with a little smirk-- no need to suffocate themselves.

[esquive]

The winding trek up through the tower allows plenty of time for some sense of self preservation to have found him if it had any intention of doing so. But instead, here he is standing just inside the narrow room with the door shut behind him as the Vint goes about his strange business. He's still standing there, eyeing the upright - what? It looks like a great water pitcher someone became confused while making - , when Benedict turns back from the window.

"What is it?"

[altusimperius]

Coming back from the window, Benedict smiles in that confident, vaguely snobby way that comes so easily to him. "It's a sort of pipe," he explains, picking up a pitcher of water so he can begin to prepare it, crouched on the ground where he talks.
"It's smoother than smoking something rolled up, and more of a..." He thinks a moment, standing, then goes to a chest of his belongings to remove a second hose. "...a group activity. You know, I've never had a reason to attach this."

He bends again to do so, then places a coal, lighting it with his finger as he's done before and blowing lightly on it, directing the heat. Once satisfied with its behavior, he sits back on a pillow and takes one of the hoses, beginning to puff a bit oddly on it as he watches the pipe.
After an interminable period of this, he finally inhales deeply, blows the smoke out through his nose, and beckons Marcoulf to sit on the other pillow.

"Now it's ready."

[esquive]

There's perfectly good furniture in the room worth sitting on, he doesn't say. Instead, he unclips the sword from his belt and carefully folds himself down onto the second pillow. The rapier, all silver and fine, gets set near to hand. His narrow legs get arranged into a semblance of comfort and then--

Then there should be questions. What are we smoking?, at the very least. Instead, Marcoulf simply unwinds the coil of cloth hose, uses his sleeve to wipe some dust from the mouthpiece, and takes his own draw from the pipe. It's all done easily enough.

On exhale, he makes a low noise - hm - and nods in what must be approval.

[altusimperius]

Furniture is for southern degenerates-- not that there isn't any in the room, obviously, but one can't lounge properly on a boring stiff wooden chair.

The smoke is fragrant and tastes lightly of cinnamon, hanging in the air around them as the pipe bubbles and the conversation stalls. Before too long, their muscles begin to relax somewhat, their thoughts drifting: they're still lucid when they need to be, but there's no hurry.

"I spent half a year in the Gallows dungeon," Benedict says after a while, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his head resting languidly on an upturned hand, "isolated and threatened with Tranquility. Then I agreed to be helpful, and they let me go."
A smirk twitches onto his face, and though it's not entirely happy, there's definitely an amusement bubbling up through the smoking of the herb. "If I could do blood magic I sure as shit wouldn't be here."

[esquive]

Somewhere in there, Marcoulf has rearranged the angles on his scarecrow limbs into something more closely resembling comfort. The smoke has, however, done very little to make him an easier partner in conversation - but at least he's listening, head cocked toward the sound of Benedict speaking as he inhales another lungful of smoke.

At length, following a deeply contemplative pause and subsequent exhale, he says: "I thought that business was standard." And-- "Does your family not keep slaves either?"

[altusimperius]

"Blood magic?" says the woefully misinformed son of a blood mage, making a little face as he shakes his head, "not if you value your reputation. The Ancient Magisters-- like Corypheus-- aren't the most stellar example for people trying to run a country now." He inhales deeply, then exhales, thinking. "Besides, it probably gets everywhere."

Directing his gaze back to Marcoulf, his head lolls slightly to one side. "...they do keep slaves though. Everyone does. Everyone who..." Catching himself before he can be too loudly offensive, he glances away, then down, mumbling "..matters, anyway."

[esquive]

Cue one knowing noise and a long sidelong look that more or less translates to, 'Naturally.' He follows it by taking an equally extended, judgemental draw of smoke through the mouthpiece.

[altusimperius]

Knowing that look well no matter who it's coming from, Benedict rolls his eyes and casually blows a breath of smoke back in Marcoulf's face. So There.

[esquive]

Huffing, he waves the smoke away with an easy turn of his hand. Tips his face away.

Anyway.

--Anyway what? Even all loose limbed and sitting on the ground, the pipe's cloth hose folded over his knee, he doesn't have much to say, does he? The room feels dense, the door thick, all of it removed somehow from the space past it in a way that isn't... it's not comforting, but it is fine. He thinks he doesn't mind the detachment of it, but it doesn't change that neither of them has much at all to say. Not really.

"It doesn't seem like you'd really need blood magic to be away from here if you felt like going."

[altusimperius]

Bene seems to mind far less that there's little to say-- in fact, rather than give an actual response to Marcoulf, he just giggles, tosses his head, and loses his balance. Slumping over, that only makes him laugh harder, but in the silent, restrained way of someone who's used to trying to be quiet.

Sitting back up being too much of an effort right now, instead he rolls onto his stomach, his face dangerously close to Marcoulf's lap, the end of the hose in his mouth and his head propped on one hand.
"I don't want to talk about that," he says, almost sweetly.

[esquive]

It's an effect somewhat ruined by the mouthpiece still in Benedict's mouth. Hard to sound like much of anything other than ridiculous around it. But, sure. He's apparently in a charitable mood, all flexing meandering points as he turns back to look at him. The lines of his face say, 'Oh, now you have opinions?' and 'Go on then.

[altusimperius]

"Not that you ever talk about anything," Bene continues, blowing the smoke out and not yet replacing the hose. "Big strong weasel man with his knives and his judging. Have you ever enjoyed anything in your life?"

He doesn't give Marcoulf time to respond. "I bet I could make you say something." Both hands are under his chin now, his feet up and crossed at the ankles like a little girl waiting for a bedtime story, his eyes fixed on Marcoulf's face.

[esquive]

Setting the mouthpiece betwen his lips, he sucks down a long breath of cool, cinnamon smoke. Yes, he's enjoyed things. But it feels like an abstract, unimportant point to contest and if he's certain of nothing else today it's that he's tired of fighting. All the want for it has drained out of him, water from a bucket with a hole punched into its side.

So instead of mounting any objections, he regards Benedict - all preening and useless coy smiles - and breathes out a lungful of smoke. "I'm don't doubt it," he says, all the connective tissue of this conservation leading in a direction he can't quite parse.

(If you care to punch him again then at least don't do it with your right hand, Marcoulf thinks dimly.)

[altusimperius]

There's just something about smoking this way that's different from tobacco: when the high kicks in, it makes one so marvelously languid, so sensitive, like the skin itself craves touch. And when one is young and full of anxiety, with few outlets for even friendly expression, let alone romantic or sexual, the effect can push a person into overdrive.

"Lean back then," Benedict instructs, giving Marcoulf a little push as he casually settles the top half of himself in the other man's lap, then begins to undo his pants with clumsy but pointed concentration.
Listen, some things get more difficult.

[esquive]

He sharpens, the shift of weight hacking abruptly through the mild haze of the smoke. All at once, his hand - not the one carefully coddled, salved and wrapped, and habitually fussed over in the long walk up from the Inquisition's would-be clinic - closes on Benedict's wrist. It's a vice grip. The line of his arm is all rigid behind it.

A series of questions: What are you doing? Do you think I'm an idiot? What's wrong with you? Only, those are all questions he's certain he knows the answer to. There's no point in asking any of them. He's a stupid boy used to the whole world being frightened of him, far from home in a place where no one seems to have the common sense to be. And, Yes, you're an idiot. There's no one who doesn't know it. And--

He forces the hand from his laces. It isn't at all physically difficult to do, and in the aftermath he's meant to say something - how bone tired he is, how he should be away, how he'd rather they never speak to each other at all actually -, and instead he simply does the work for him. Undoing his own pants and leaning back onto one elbow, Marcoulf does as told.

[altusimperius]

With a small gasp, Benedict freezes, even flinching unconsciously when Marcoulf grabs his wrist; he's in far better shape than he was the moment after he was struck, but the recent memory of it permeates the high and allows a pang of fear to rise.
But when no violence comes, he relaxes, albeit cooled on his intentions. His gaze drops-- perhaps this was a bad idea-- but when Marcoulf continues to unlace his trousers, it takes Bene somewhat by surprise. He looks up at him again, confused, a bit wary, in a way that suggests he's asking permission.