faderift | [open] gay baby jail 2: son of gay baby jail

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[open] gay baby jail 2: son of gay baby jail

WHO: Benedict and Approved Visitors
WHAT: Treacherous Vint in a dungeon and he's just happy to be here y'all
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: below the mage tower (I think??)
NOTES: will update as needed

It might be at any hour of the day, though likely in the daytime, when one comes to find the dungeon's current occupant.
It's bizarrely nostalgic, that he should be in the same cell, on the same magebane, as he was several years ago when he first arrived in Kirkwall, kicking and fighting and shouting to anyone who would listen that he wasn't Venatori, dragged in and abandoned by his not-Not-Venatori mentor. He'd worked his way out from that, fought tooth and nail for two years to be someone worthy of freedom, of influence.

And now he's back. There's no kicking or shouting this time, and the young man seems a decade older. When he isn't sleeping, Benedict sits quietly on the bed, back straight, staring into space; he eats what he's given, magebane and all, without complaint. He doesn't speak unless spoken to, asks for nothing, and is on the whole so utterly unlike himself that it would likely be less surprising to learn he had been swapped out with a double, the real Benedict still in Minrathous making the same mistakes and never coming back.

But he's here, it's him, and he's at the mercy of any visitors-- good-standing members of Riftwatch only, of course-- who choose to make the trip downstairs.

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"Hm." She doesn't let disappointment show on her face. She was hoping for more fear, more blind following, not zealotry. Zealotry in Tevinter. Just what the bloody place needs.

Still, there's something worth picking at, there.

"Can you tell me anything about the rebel cells? I don't imagine much, but anything will do."

A shrug. And then an idea, and she brightens a little. "Is there more blood magic than usual?"

He thinks a moment, then shakes his head. "They're trying to root them out," he says, "I know they exist, but that's about all. If I knew anything more, it would mean they were already compromised." He's hardly at the top of any list of important figures.

Eshal's second question elicits a strange reaction, Benedict's eyebrows going taut in a frown, shoulders hunching as though she's jabbed him with something sharp.
"...yes," he says faintly.

"Fair enough." And in case the man ever passes information back home, that's all she'll say of it.

She notes his discomfort, but doesn't let herself react. She could be conciliatory, kind to make him trust her, but there's no point. At least, not at this stage. And she admitted she's Qunari; she doubts he'd welcome a pat on the head.

"The blood used is mostly of elven slaves, right? That's what I always heard, but gossip in a Qunari camp is hardly going to be reliable when it comes to Tevinter."

"That's what they say."
He seems genuinely pained by the topic, a nerve touched where he thought there was no sensitivity left. "...but it's just as often a person's own blood. At least for... I don't know. Small things."

He stares at the floor. "The rest might be true. I don't know. I've never seen it. If elven slaves are used in rituals, they probably aren't the house staff."

"They're bought for that specifically?" She lets out a huff.

He's clearly bothered. She ought to figure out why that is. Now's the time for sympathy.

"What's your favorite food?"

He shrugs. It's another one of those things: he won't doubt its reality, but the intimate knowledge of it is, shall we say, above his pay grade.

Eshal's next question catches him off guard, and Benedict actually stares at her for a moment before looking away again, his eyes distant as he has to actually think about it.
"Qarinan patella," he says after a while, thoughtfully.

"Hm." And Eshal turns to leave.

She comes back, though. It takes her a while, but she does. The patella she brings, nestled in a wooden bowl wrapped in cheesecloth, has cooled, and likely isn't authentic to Benedict's fond recollections. It took her a long enough time to figure out what patella was (they called it zaabat in Kont-aar) and he's in prison; if he complains, she'll box his ears.

She slides the bowl between the bars.

"If they do anything fucked up-- torture, you know, whatever-- get word to me."

When she left, he'd thought that was that. He's dozing on his side when Eshal returns, and lifts his head with a look of quiet confusion at the bowl now sitting in front of him. Lifting the cheesecloth, he sees what it is, and-- perhaps it's just the moisture from the steam, but it looks like his eyes water.
No, it won't be the same. But nothing will, ever again.

"...why?" he breathes, looking to her with large, baffled eyes.

She chooses her words very carefully. She'd been thinking about how to answer this inevitable question on the boat ride back. "You can end up in cages like this, under the Qun."

Let him infer what he will.

She slides down the bit of wall she's leaning against, until she's sitting on the floor. Tall as she is, she's nearly at eye-level with him. More importantly, it gives a more informal demeanor to her next salvo- "Gonna ask some more questions, yeah?"

He doesn't entirely understand, but isn't about to press. A few days ago he would have wanted to know everything that would or could happen to him here, but at this point Benedict is just glad to still be alive, and not about to push his luck.

He picks up the bowl and takes a bite, closing his eyes at the relief of it. One doesn't exactly tend to eat well when one is incarcerated, and between the meager food and everything being laced with magebane, he knows a treat when he sees one.
He'd ask if there's magebane in this, but fears he already knows the answer. It's best to just assume there is.

Mouth full, he nods to Eshal, prompting her onward.

Who would you say are the unhappiest people in Tevinter, and how do we get them here? Start from the beginning, bleed downward. Why did you leave is too sore. How did you leave-- that's a start.

"You really hauled ass all the way here? On your own?"

He blinks at her, with a little shake of his head. It seems someone only related the first attempt at the story, which means it's time for the dangerous task of supplying her with the second.

"I was escorted from Minrathous to the outskirts of town," he explains, takes another bite, and pauses to chew it. "...the only part of the journey I completed alone was through Kirkwall. My escorts... roughed me up first, to make it look real."
Even after everything that's happened, that too is a sore spot: he hadn't expected that the people tasked with keeping him safe would leave him off with genuine violence, nor that they would seem to enjoy it so much. The mission was doomed from the start, his role in it obvious.

"I was meant to come straight back to the Gallows. Explain I'd been held against my will, that I'd escaped. Worm my way back into their good graces, while feeding information to Venatori agents." He sighs through his nose, looking exhausted all of a sudden.
"I couldn't do it."

Well, at least that's consistent. Disappointing, but. "Would it've been hard? To do it on your own?"

She won't ask, did you want to. It seems to obvious.

Benedict nods.

"Every way out of the city is guarded heavily. No one goes in or out without them knowing." His shoulders hunch again, and he looks a little queasily at the bowl.
"I... I tried, actually. Once." Taking a spoonful, he pauses a moment before putting it in his mouth, chewing slowly.

That lights interest in her eyes, genuine, and she lets it shine through. "How'd that go? You got rounded up, I take it."

He doesn't like the look in her eyes, but perhaps only because the response is about as admirable as the rest of his story. He nods.

"Dragged back home. They recognized me." He scowls. "I... wasn't allowed to leave the house alone afterwards."

Self-consciously, Benedict tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. There are few people in Riftwatch who fully understand his relationship to his family, most of all his mother; he's kept it that way intentionally, as being away from her for several years has made it clear to him how humiliating it actually is when he's back in her orbit, moving only at her beck and call.

He's mumbling when he adds, "...she has private guards, it was easy to enforce."

"So it's hard for-" She gestures to him- "people like you to leave. Magisters."

She rocks back a bit, staring upward, thinking. "Wonder how we could make it easier..."

"Easier if your business aligns with what they want," he points out. "I'm..." He breathes in and out, thinking back to the conversation with Yseult, "...not a good liar."

"Me neither," Eshal lies. Well. It's half a lie. Those are the lies she's best at.

"I'm only wondering... you can't be the only one who wasn't happy there. Gotta be a way out. People don't like curfews, being told where to go, they never do."

Gazing at the far wall, Benedict thinks on it. "I was isolated," he admits, "everyone around me was invested, or at least good at pretending they were. And because..."

He fights with his words for a moment, then sighs, scraping up the last of the rice. "...because they knew I wasn't entirely willing to be there, people weren't exactly forthcoming about their thoughts or plans when I was in the room." He takes the last bite and chews it morosely.

"There was mention of small rebellions, mostly among the Soporati. People against the Magisterium to begin with, commoners who resent the city falling under Corypheus' control, who don't like the way things are going. But I couldn't have got near them if I tried."

"Of course not," she says with a shrug. "I'm not asking you to do anything, don't worry. Whatever you're going to be after this, it won't be in my division."

Does he know she's head of-? Eh, why tell him.

"You've already done me a favor. That's all I need." She stands up with a grunt, and walks back to the cell bars, hand out for the bowl.

He hands her the bowl, warily optimistic.

"...you think there's going to be an 'after this?'"

"You're not dead," she says, "which automatically makes you more valuable alive." The logic of that is... fraught. It sounds better in Qunlat. "I dunno what'll be after this, mind. Don't let it go to your head." She takes the bowl.

Feeling somewhat humbled by the response, Benedict just nods and doesn't push it. He looks like he's doing a bit better after their conversation, food included, and wears an expression that's almost pleasant.

"Thank you," he says quietly, "for the food."

Eshal is already walking away, up the stairs and out. "Don't let it go to your head!"

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altusimperius - 2019-09-27 00:59 (UTC) - Expand

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