open | i thought i found it

[byblow]

WHO: Alistair, Bastien, Kostos, and whoever wants to deal with them.
WHAT: Open/catch-all.
WHEN: Justinian
WHERE: Mostly Kirkwall
NOTES: hmu @ circuitry if you need to talk about something or want to plan something that doesn’t fit here! or just wildcard me without warning. and brackets are aces if that’s your preference.

–ALISTAIR→

i. project sashamiri offices

He hasn’t been gone all that long, in the scheme of things, but there are still reports to catch up on before Alistair can confidently spot himself into the reorganized effort to Make Corypheus Cut It Out.

He hates sitting and reading. It’s one of his least favorite things. Walking and reading is better. Sitting and not reading is fine. But this? Disgusting. The fact that he’s doing it anyway is proof that he cares a whole, whole lot about saving the world, even if he says things like, “Do you think it’s too late to make everyone call him Sethius instead? I think that would be better for morale.” He mimes a crier. “Orlais menaced by Seth.”

ii. eyrie

“Well, who cares what you think?” Alistair is asking one of the griffons—one that’s taken his offered strip of meat and retreated, leaving him alone with his arms crossed. He wouldn’t be fussing if he didn’t think he was alone with them, but their tussling and occasional screeches mask approaching footsteps. “You’re just an enormous bird. You eat hair.”

But he still wants one of them to like him. Just one. It doesn’t matter which.

–BASTIEN→

i. mage tower dining hall

Only the kitchen in the Templar Tower has a staff and food to serve, which is probably why Bastien has never seen anyone actually eat in the dining hall in the Mage Tower, and why he feels justified in completely rearranging it without asking anybody else what they think.

Or, he did feel justified, before it gave way to feeling tired. He’s moved all of the chairs but only about a third of the heavy wooden tables to the edges of the room, and turned most of the relocated onto their sides. But that was all his relatively meager muscle mass could handle. The tables have won. The tables were always fated to win.

Now he’s lying on his back on one of them, legs dangling, staring at the ceiling, with his lute held loose on his chest while he plucks out a messy sketch of a melody, able to be gracious in defeat if it means he doesn’t have to move for a while.

ii. practice range

Depending on how much someone knows about this and that, a couple things might be apparent.

The first is that Bastien has done this before. Good form—comfortably textbook, learned from someone who knew what they were doing—though he seems to be reminding himself of before each shot, like a child straining to recite a poem accurately.

The second is that he probably used to be better at it: he regards the arrows that land in the mid- and inner rings with the subdued satisfaction of a man whose expectations have just barely been met, not one who’s thrilled to have discovered how to hit the target at all, and when one arcs wild he drops his bow arm to his side and gives his eyes a frustrated, accusatory rub, like they’re to blame.

–KOSTOS→

i. wounded coast

If there were suspicious men along the coast, speaking a language that was definitely Tevinter (the Kirkwall guard who reported them had never heard Tevinter spoken before) and doing something that was definitely blood magic (she also couldn’t say what blood magic looked like, other than bloody), they’re gone by now, and the only signs of their potential existence are identical to the signs of standard-grade travelers stopping to butcher and cook a tusket.

That might have been fine. Better to be sure, and better that they be the ones making sure instead of a wet-eared local guard, and Kostos—crouching to poke around the campsite with a stick—is keeping the tusks, for his trouble.

Might have been fine, again, but for the storm clouds that have blustered in like they were late for a meeting. The first rain drops make him lift his head just in time for a lightning strike, not more than a few miles away, and a snarl of thunder.

“Fucking—” he says, suddenly reminded why he hates nature, and as the rain picks up he shrinks into his shoulders like a harassed cat. It doesn’t help.

ii. training grounds

The training dummy doesn’t deserve to die. But Kostos has been having a bad month/year/life, and trying to knock the shit out of the dummy with a staff has mainly served to highlight how much less useful and interesting that is than having the shit knocked out of him by Nell. Which brings him around to the important point of fuck Nell.

So that’s why, if someone wanders in, he’s standing there shirtless and a little sweaty, leaning on a training staff, and watching with dispassionate interest as four wisps circle wildly around the dummy—they’re having fun—and pelt it with ice and fire. It’s slow going, each pair counteracting the efforts of the other. The winners get a field trip and the losers go back to the Fade, however, so they’re putting their tiny wisp backs into it.

iii. lowtown

His month/year/life gets worse.

Down an alley most people know better than to traverse, with people most people know better than to bother, Kostos is currently sitting on the ground. He’s at an odd angle, because one of the dwarves flanking him is standing heavily on his right hand. The other has a handful of his shirt at the shoulder, and a third has a knife angled against his clavicle.

He doesn’t intend to lose any digits or eyes or ear lobes here. He let his nose be bloodied. And his lip. And his wrenched shoulder, fine, they could have that one too. But if it comes to genuine maiming, he’ll resort to magic—maybe. If he’s quick enough. Currently he’s attempting to call a bluff, and if he were a good gambler, he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.

“What do you think we could get if we sell him for parts?” Knife Dwarf asks, and Stomp Dwarf says, “Less than he owes, but more than nothing.”

Witty one-liners aren’t really Kostos’ thing, but neither is pleading, so he just grits his teeth.

Comments

[exequy]

“Great,” Stomp Dwarf says, “Riftwatch,” and returns his attention to Kostos. “If you have it—“

The skepticism could only be heavier with air quotes. Prior to all of this, when he was still standing up and not bleeding but had become aware of the possibility both of those conditions would be short term, Kostos had tried that line, and now he’s about to regret it. He knows. He’s already trying to think about the new plan before it’s announced.

“—then why don’t you go get it, and your friend can keep us company while we wait for you to come back.”

Kostos turns his head the very small amount required to look at Benedict. Not much is happening on the surface of that look. It’s just a scowl.

“We aren’t friends,” he says, so everyone is aware, especially Benedict, “but if that doesn’t matter, then—“

“Shut up,” Knife Dwarf says. To him, to Stomp Dwarf. The plan has gotten away from her, when she’s clearly meant to be the leader, and she tugs her colleague in by the collar to murmur in his ear.

There’s still a third one, less distracted, holding him by the shirt, so Kostos can’t mouth anything at Benedict or do anything elaborately communicative with his face in the meantime. He tries raising his eyebrows instead, briefly, like a shrug.

[altusimperius]

Benedict has already begun to think about something else: namely, how awful it would be to see someone get stabbed to death in an alley-- how crude, how common-- but then Kostos looks at him, and he gives him a blithe little smile, and then realizes they were talking about him.

"...wait, what," he says, blinking a few times and looking between each of the participants.

[exequy]

Kostos mouths something, but with too much subtlety, without actually moving his lips very much, so that it could be any number of one-syllable responses—and, anyway, Knife Dwarf has reached a conclusion herself, and she turns on Benedict with a smile.

She isn't very good at intimidating smiles. Too much intimidating, not enough smile.

"You're going to stay here with us," she says, "while your friend fetches what he owes us. Don't worry." What is there to worry about. "We're good company."

[altusimperius]

Benedict takes a step back, glancing from the dwarf to Kostos, the reality of the situation slowly dawning on him like a melting ice cube. Oh, this... this isn't good.

"I'd rather not," he says, politely enough, looking once more to Kostos as though for guidance. One of his hands curls at his side: he's thinking of casting something.

[exequy]

One of the dwarves laughs, a restrained heh heh, like Benedict told a joke that he appreciates in spite of the situation, while the one with the knife smiles a little wider. "I like that game," she says. "Would You Rather. 'Would you rather sit down and behave, or have your nose cut off?' We can play while we wait."

Kostos, who has the beginning of a plan—one where no one gets hurt, not even Benedict—and who also sees that hand curl the way that the dwarves can't, wouldn't, when they don't know that either of the men they're dealing with are mages, says, "Benedict. Don't."

Unfortunately, without the mage context, the most logical conclusion isn't that he's telling his unarmed beanpole colleague to please not hurt the three armed and leather-armored thugs who have already beaten the shit out of him. The most logical conclusion is that he's telling him not to take the deal, maybe to make a run for it, and Knife Dwarf leaves Kostos in the capable hands of her two lackeys to block the only potential avenue for escape instead.

[altusimperius]

On the one hand, maybe he should listen to Kostos. Benedict meets his eyes, acknowledges the plea, considers it. He's trying to help, after all, and part of him wants to believe that his help is something that people want; that they wouldn't leave him to die at the first opportunity.

But he's been almost killed too many times. And Kostos, despite being technically an ally, has never been anything but rude and dismissive. How pathetic would it be to say, yes, go get the money that probably doesn't exist, I'll stay here and take the heat for you, to someone who's shown no previous indication that he cares whether Benedict lives or dies?

Still making eye contact with Kostos, his curled hand gives a little jerk, and he casts Sleep on the knife dwarf.

[exequy]

She drops like a rock.

And, like, it could be worse. She could be dead.

But the other two still make sounds of outrage and surprise, moving away from him—which is a plus, too—to draw their own weapons. Which is not a plus. His hand free from beneath the dwarf's boot, Kostos flexes it once to make sure no part of it is broken, briefly weighs the pros and cons of casting something himself, decides it's still a terrible idea, and rolls up onto his feet just long enough to dive at one of the dwarves before he has a knife loose.

"Stop," he says, uselessly, "just fucking—"

He gets elbowed in the mouth, for his trouble, and starts bleeding immediately where his tooth cuts through the inside of his lip.

[altusimperius]

His confidence bolstered by the success of the spell, Benedict's fingers curl again as he looks toward the dwarves by Kostos. Both hands thrust forward as he casts Horror, this time with the patience and concentration he had lacked when he did the same to the Templars in the dungeon.
Unfortunately, Kostos being in close proximity means he's in the line of fire as well.

But there's nothing wrong with that, Benedict thinks-- a little humility couldn't hurt him.

[exequy]

The humility he hasn’t already acquired from being beaten in an alley by three people who would have to stand on each other’s shoulders to look him in the eye will have to wait—but the dwarves do pause their weapon extraction to begin screaming and punching at something only they can see. For however long that will last, given their resistance. The sleeping leader is already beginning to twitch.

“Fuck,” Kostos says, and stops to spit blood on the ground, and climbs back to his feet. A lot of things hurt very much, but that will have to wait. A moment to evaluate the situation. Sixty percent Benedict’s fault, if he’s murdered, but Kostos is the one who said his name, so now—

Maybe it’s only fifty percent Benedict’s fault.

“Go,” he says, voice raised over the dwarves’ hysterical gibbering but tone flat and a little distant, because it feels a bit like wrapping a broken vase with a bandage. “Run. Get out of here.” It’s what he’d wanted in the first place, and the second place, and all places except for the moment he thought their clever plan might mean they might let go of him long enough for him to grab the kid and make a run for it. Now—staggering a little while he tries to pick up a dropped knife, putting a hand on a wall for support—he’s realizing that probably wouldn’t have worked.

Ugh.

He throws the knife down the alleyway, to clatter into the dark where it won’t easily be recovered, mostly out of spite.

[altusimperius]

"And waste all my spellwork," Benedict replies, a little amused, a little snide. Rolling his eyes at the sight of Kostos floundering, he comes toward him-- giving one of the dwarves a kick as he does-- and pats his shoulder to indicate he'll offer support.
He's insufferably smug, of course, but does at least genuinely seem to want them both to live.

Fortunately there's no way any of this can go wrong.

[exequy]

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Kostos says.

He should probably be at least a little grateful. Alas.

“You can’t—they don’t just go away. They work for someone else, they—Maker.” One of them has elevated to shrieking. It is a matter of very minimal time before someone comes to investigate the noise. “They were only trying to scare me. Now they’ll be back with magebane or a fucking Templar. You need to go.”

They both need to go, actually, but he’s injured and angry and stubborn and still stuck on the idea that he can handle this.

[altusimperius]

"You want to be left here so they can finish you off when they come to their senses?" Benedict snaps, "what do you think I'm going to say to Riftwatch then, I saw the uglier Averesch being pinned down by a pack of dwarves and I left him there? Use your brain, you fighty bastard."
He gestures widely toward the mouth of the alley, indicating that they should both leave. "Come on. They'll think it was a nightmare. No harm done."

[exequy]

No one would blame you, he doesn’t say, because he’s busy spitting more blood, but he does manage to squeeze in a scowl over the uglier Averesch.

“They saw you fucking casting,” he says, but he’s pushing off the wall and finding his center of gravity. It’s an uncomfortably manual process, at the moment. Still: a sign he intends to go along with the whole leaving idea. “And I said your name. Fuck.”

[altusimperius]

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Benedict replies, a bit cagily, in his Deferring a Problem to Future Me voice. Then,

"--just take my fucking arm," he scoffs, thrusting it toward Kostos without touching him yet, and rolling his eyes in frustration. "Maker, you'd think I'm poison."