faderift | [open] far from my mother's home

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: October catch-all
WHEN: throughout Harvestmere
WHERE: Kirkwall dungeon/gay baby jail
NOTES: will add if necessary

For Riftwatch members in good standing, there's a built-in captive audience residing in a cell below the Kirkwall mage tower. One barred window peeks out onto the dreary courtyard, and on the opposite wall an interior door opens onto a dark, torchlit hallway, a bench placed on the wall facing in for the comfort of guests and interrogators.

Inside the cell, every day is the same. Sometimes Benedict is sleeping on the little bed supported by chains from the wall, sometimes he's pacing, sometimes he's standing on his toes to rest his chin on the windowsill, hands gripping the bars to keep himself upright, starved for any form of stimulation whatsoever.

Increasingly, he can be found sitting or lying on the floor of his cell, staring at the ceiling or fiddling with the straw scattered on the floor, bending and twisting it in such a way that, on closer inspection, he might be trying to figure out how to weave it.

Visitors will find him quite receptive, even excited to see them. Unless they're Flint.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Are you familiar with it?" John's tone is exceedingly patient. "I'd be curious to know if you heard any discussion about happenings there, while you were visiting your home."

John has been careful to measure his expectations. If Benedict heard anything, it likely won't be specific. But rumors are better than silence, and it would be foolish not to at least raise the topic with Benedict.

After all, what else is Benedict doing right now?

He has to think about it, in part because under no circumstances did he expect to be asked about this particular topic. Benedict's eyes go distant as he narrows them in thought.

"My father deals in textiles," he muses, "he's lost shipments around Nascere before, expensive ones. It's swarming with pirates." Pausing, he scratches at the stubble that's begun to poke in on his cheek.
"I don't know. There's a Magister who owns it, I think, but I've only ever heard that it's a route to be avoided."

"I was hoping for something more current," John prods patiently.

It is strange to hear Benedict repeat back what had once been all John knew of Nascere. Somewhere to go to achieve a very specific goal, that's all John had considered it to be. Now, it's somehow become a place that he would very much like to make into a home. What shape that takes is still beyond him.

And if their efforts on the island have been stymied, then what does it matter? There are a handful of very specific things about that place that make it worthwhile in John's opinion.

The prodding yields little; Benedict shrugs helplessly. He's never had a reason to care directly about Nascere, and it was hardly at the forefront of his mind during his stint in Minrathous.

"I don't know what to tell you," he says quietly.

"That's a shame."

John's tone doesn't waver; the mildness of the reply covers over the immediate frustration and disappointment burning in his chest.

But what use is it to press further? At the moment, John must be content with what little Benedict has been able to offer. However useless he may be in this moment, there's no telling what he may be in the future.

"No idea how long they're intending on leaving you down here?"

Probably still useless, if popular opinion is to be believed.

Breaking his gaze with John, Benedict looks down and shakes his head. No idea, not about to ask and risk extending it, or worse, truncating it with an execution.

"Don't look like that. If they haven't killed you by now, they likely never will."

It's a rough sort of comfort. John can't really offer anything else. He certainly isn't going to risk himself to get this man out of a cell when he's already proven himself a bad bet.

"Are you allowed books?"

They don't have to drag him to the block and hack his head off for him to die in captivity, but that's not a train of thought Benedict especially wants to follow at the moment.
He just looks up and shakes his head with a little sigh.

"Nothing," he replies, as to what he's allowed: and it takes all his restraint not to beg and plead for help in rescinding that rule, in alleviating some of the crushing, mind-shattering boredom he's been weathering since it became clear he wasn't going to be executed.
It's in his eyes, but he doesn't let himself say it.

"Mm. That's unfortunate."

Just the sympathy Benedict probably wanted to hear. It's useful to know, and the emotion behind it is noted, but John doesn't quite know that it's worth doing something about just yet. He gets to his feet, shifting his crutch under his arm.

"Keep your chin up. I'll drop in again."

Maybe. John needs to think on this for a time, consider whether or not it's worth the gamble and how to approach it. Before he leaves, he digs the small bottle of wine he'd purchased at the market and offers it across the bars.

"Toss this out the window when you're done, and you didn't get it from me."

However ingenuine it may turn out to be, Benedict seems to appreciate the sympathy. And when the wine bottle is offered through the bars, he looks like he may just cry.
He takes it carefully, as if he can't quite believe this is happening, and looks down at it.

Then, sheepishly: "...can you open it..?"

As if he'd have a corkscrew in here.

"Certainly."

Though opening it turns out to be John using his dagger to wedge the cork into the bottle. It's the best he can do.

"Try not to swallow any cork," he advises as he passes it back. "Though I can tell you personally a little cork isn't going to mar the taste."

This means it won't keep, but... well, looking a gift horse in the mouth, or a gift wine bottle, isn't something Benedict is in the mood to do. He smiles faintly and nods his thanks, taking it back.
With one drink, his eyes close and he sighs ub contentment. He's always liked wine, and this is an unexpected treat in a time of absolute drudgery.

"You didn't get that from me," John reminds him as he puts his dagger away. And then he turns and makes his way up and out of the jail entirely. Enjoy the wine, Benedict.

[open] far from my mother's home

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