[open]

[doneisdone]

WHO: Teren, Barrow, and Benedict, and YOU
WHAT: catch-all
WHEN: Haring
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: shirtless dilf enclosed

Teren

She crashed a dragon into a tower. And though she lived, Teren was flung from the beast and came to land somewhere in the rubble below, where an aptly remembered healing potion was enough to keep her from expiring on the spot, but moving her body in any meaningful way has been a struggle since then.
Incredibly fortunate to have had no significant internal damage (at least that the potion didn't handle), and with any broken bones splinted and healing, Teren is simply far too sore to move from her bed. After all her big talk about the Wardens not getting into any situations that couldn't be solved without Anders or Inessa...
...here she is.
A captive audience, if perhaps not a happy one.

Barrow

The air is brisk, the day is fine, and Barrow is swinging a hammer around in the sparring range. He's been learning to use it since first arriving in Kirkwall, rather liking the idea more than the usual boring old sword and shield, but having never had the opportunity to play with one until now.
He cuts quite a figure in doing so, and should be approached with caution unless alerted first. He's also only wearing a shirt about half the time, since even in the Haring chill, physical exertion takes its toll.

Benedict

I. (open) There's a certain anxious industriousness to Benedict these days, and if the growing pile of writing-filled parchment he keeps carefully resting on the bench is any indication, he's got a project.
He's also made some pretty decent headway with in weaving a screen for the window with straw from the cell floor, which both prevents the cold wind from coming in and bathes the little room in a pleasant sepia light. It's clearly the work of an amateur, but one can almost mark how much his skill has improved from the start to where his progress currently lies.

He can often be found working on either project, or perhaps painting or reading, swathed in both of his blankets for warmth and powered by nervous energy.

II. (one thread please, first come first serve) On the night of the strange dreams that grip the denizens of Riftwatch, there comes a cry of abject panic from Benedict's cell, followed by the sounds of someone in terrible emotional distress.

Comments

teren u idiot

[gentlecountry]

Barty had been introduced to death early. It was a farmer's nature to be a killer, as much as a nurterer, and practicality demand a young boy learn to take part; a deepstalker never did anyone good outside of a stew, after all. That hadn't changed, as he'd grown, only the 'stalkers had gotten taller, and meaner, and eventually gone about in armor. Becoming a Warden, living as long as he had, he'd watched a lot of friends die.

That's the part you don't get rid of. The high moment of triumph, the terrible speed of the fall, the abruptness of its stop. He's not ashamed to admit to that kind of fear; the one that seizes you by the eyeballs and forces you to look, wringing great ugly tears out of you for rage and horror and uncertainty's sake.

"Well, now I'm nots the sorts of man who gets much happiness outs of a good old-fashioned told'ja so," Barty begins, when he's laid out the appropriate luncheon, such as it is with supply lines as fucked as they inevitably are in these scenarios. What they do have is wine, and he pours Teren a generous glass, handing it over, "But facts being what they are, I believe all the telling-sos just so happens to be in your own courts, today."

[doneisdone]

If looks could kill, Barty would be a pile of ashes on the ground. At the best of times Teren doesn't like to be lectured, and now, when she is physically unable to walk away from it, she has even less patience for nagging but also zero defense against it.
So all she can do is look.

Narrowing her eyes, she takes the glass of wine and painstakingly works her way up to a sitting position, which, as sore as she is, takes a great deal of effort. Then she takes a sip, letting her eyes close for a moment.
It's nice.

"Dragon died," she announces, this apparently being her last word on the matter. You should see the other guy.

[gentlecountry]

"Oh yes, and that's alrights then. We'll puts it on your cairn; The dragon died," He tops her up with wine, not quite frowning, but rather not-smiling in a way that was more about pain than calm, "I daresays it mights even matter. Afters all, you're much mores concerned for the wellsfare of dragons and other folks. Them beings the more importants considerations, afters all. Ain't that right?"

[heorte]

"I heard it was something to see," Ellis says from the doorway. "What you did with the dragon."

At the very least, Ellis isn't inclined to bring up what Teren had cautioned them against. He isn't sure he should be here in the first place, but he's brought a bottle of strong wine and is more than prepared to leave.

But it felt as if he should at least look in on Teren. Whatever arrangement she and Alistair had struck, it had left her as the most senior among them. This was the best way Ellis knew to show respect, even knowing that he was certainly not the person Teren would like to see.

[doneisdone]

Angling her head toward the voice, Teren gives a little grunt as she sees who it is, her expression nearly forming into a smirk. Ah, it's this one.

"I imagine it was," she replies, beckoning him forward with one spindly finger, since booze is the only way she can enjoy herself while bedridden and bored out of her mind. "It would seem you made it out of the fray in one piece."

[heorte]

"Aye, mostly one piece."

No lost limbs, and whatever was left had been sewn back up neatly. As she beckons, he approaches, gingerly takes the seat at her bedside.

"That new healer, the Chantry sister, sorted out the worst of it."

Not that his injuries could compare to Teren's. She'd dropped out of they sky onto a dragon. Ellis doesn't need specifics to know that Teren was lucky to be laid up, rather than dead. He starts working open the bottle.

"How long until you're allowed up?"

Bene the First

[keenly]

“Whenever you finish that,” Colin says, approaching while Benedict is weaving, “you might paint it.”

He carries with him the bucket, soap, and towel he always brings when he visits. Just to make sure Benedict bathes at all.

“You look like you’ve been put to some work.”

[altusimperius]

"Probably will," Benedict replies with a little smile, glancing over his shoulder at the approaching Colin. Seeing what his friend carries, he rises, stretching his legs behind him like a sleepy but interested cat, and has come to the bars to take the bath paraphernalia when he's struck by something.

He gives Colin an odd look, furrows his brow, glances down at himself, and back up at Colin. "You were there," he says awkwardly, before he can figure out what he means by that.

[keenly]

"Which time?" Colin vividly remembers at least two instances Benedict could be referring to. Well. One more vividly than the other. He unfolds the blanket he brought and begins to pin it up across the cell bars.

benedict, i;

[sarcophage]

Leander is there, slim in the shadow of a structural pillar, watching, quiet. He was first irritated by the way Benedict's return was handled, then curious what would happen to him. Curious, still, what will become of him in time.

Before he came in—before he'd even made the decision to come in—he saw Colin leave with cleansing implements in hand. And now this: the boy allowed to amuse himself with colours. This isn't a prison, it's a nursery. A playpen for a weakling child.

Silently, he walks into view and waits for the captive to notice he's there.

[altusimperius]

With blankets thrown over himself to ward off the chill from his drying hair, Benedict has gone back to work after Colin's departure. He's sitting on the floor and using the bench as a desk, writing on parchment that will contribute to the slowly growing pile.

He doesn't notice Leander at first, but hardship has heightened his senses. He can feel that someone is looking at him, and he goes very still, glancing abruptly toward the hallway through the bars to find that he was correct.
The sight of Leander puts him instantly on his guard, and he simply waits for the man to announce his purpose or leave.

[sarcophage]

And that's when the attack comes, not from the front, but from the side—

No, it's only him. Just Leander, pale and trim, clean shaven—looking quite young for it—and dressed neatly as ever. One arm across his belly, his cocked wrist a cradle for an elbow, fingers along his jaw, elegant at rest. Though he does not smile, neither is there any hostility in his posture. He simply is. (The way the sea is, or the desert. The sun. A mountain. Enduring and indifferent.)

Should he catch Benedict's gaze, he holds it steady for a time, then looks around the modest footprint of his cage. A visible inhale, a vague twitch of the lips—looking like he might say something—

He doesn't. Cuts his eyes sideways to Benedict, instead, seeming expectant.

benedict i.

[sulahnan]

She doesn't visit right away, or even the day after their shared dream. No, it takes a good two-and-a-half days of once again eschewing sleep for her to decide that maybe, just maybe, she should pay Benedict a visit.

Even then, she hesitates just out of sight, arms crossed over her chest as much to self-soothe as to ward off the cold. With how the sound of footsteps carries through the dungeons, and with the visible wisps of breath hanging in the air, he'd probably be able to tell she was there anyway, so she finally rounds the corner to come face-to-face with Benedict's cell.

[altusimperius]

By now he's figured out that the dreams were more than that; if Colin was actually there, that means Athessa was too, and Benedict has been dreading an encounter with her since then.
He can't always identify footsteps, but he just has a feeling when it's Athessa, and turns to look over his shoulder from his work to see that he's correct. Already mortified, he hazards a sheepish smile, his face going a bit red. oh hey

[sulahnan]

"I see you've been keeping busy," she says, both in reference to the weaving and painting, and to whatever work it is that Flint and the others may have given him.

teren!!

[byblow]

He brought food, for what it’s worth: chunks of fruit-sweetened bread, nuts, dried and salted sliced vegetables. He didn’t come here just to sit beside her bed and bother her. But—

“What’s your favorite animal?”

She can’t get away.

[doneisdone]

Teren is not in nearly as bad of shape as one might assume for being as injured as she is, in part because she's incredibly fucking smug about it.
But even so there's a flash of irritation when Alistair comes in with a stupid question, a warning glance that suggests she can get out of bed and kick his ass whenever she pleases, but it won't be fun for anyone.

"Boots," she says flatly, waiting for the trick.

also benedict!!! (i)

[cozen]

“I know people who would pay good money for the dungeon art of a Tevinter prisoner,” Bastien says before anything else. He’s caught Benedict painting—charming—but he doesn’t get a good look just yet. He’s juggling too much.

He has a lute gripped by the neck and tucked under one arm, a book in his other hand and a bundle held in the crook of his elbow, and he’s hooking his foot around the leg of a nearby stool to drag it in front of the cell door with a series of one-footed sideways hops that are intentionally (and maybe comically, he hopes) inefficient.

“Not that you should sell it to them,” he adds between hops. “They are assholes.”

[altusimperius]

Benedict is curled up on the floor under his bench, the very picture of a wretch who's given up on life. And while he hasn't entirely, perhaps, he doesn't look very excited to see a visitor, when anyone at this point could be coming here to tell him he's being executed for theft in addition to everyone else.

He angles his head to look wearily at Bastien, the rest of him snuggled tightly into the blankets he's allowed. He doesn't seem to find the joke very funny, but he may just not be in the mood.

the day after their last thread

[keenly]

Colin trots down the stairs for his daily visit to the prisoner. This time, he brought some local missives and news to read aloud. He leans against the cell door and taps the bars.

"Morning."

[altusimperius]

By the looks of Benedict, there's been a visible backslide in his mood and bearing; he's just curled up in a ball of blankets on the floor, lying under the bench to block the wind, staring listlessly at the far wall. When Colin appears he moves his head to look at him, but doesn't seem like he has the wherewithal to greet him back, let alone get up. Something has happened.

benedict 2 give me this distressed prison man

[okayimin]

Dreaming is strange and Sawbones decides she dislikes it immensely. So the best course of action is to make sure she doesn't go back to sleep for a bit. Which is easy enough, there's plenty to do, but then there's also what sounds like screams coming from the fucking dungeon.

She's down the stairs and snapping at any attendant guard to let her through now before she really has time to put much thought to the action. There's an old terror at the sight of stone and bars, memories of the nights she spent in the deshyr's dungeons that threaten to choke her.

Sawbones pushes it all aside and goes to the man instead, voice crisp and clear, "Are you hurt?"

Distress Prison Man ACTIVATE

[altusimperius]

He's gripping the bars of the window, the screen pushed aside so he can gulp at the fresh air above, his body still shaking with terror and cold.
There's a puddle of vomit just outside the bars where he had the foresight to push his head out first, but Benedict hardly appears to be in any better shape than before as Sister Sawbones gets his attention. He turns quickly to look at her, wild-eyed.

"They made--" he stammers, "I'm--"
He can't make sense of what he's trying to say, because clearly it isn't true if he's feeling emotion to this extent.
"They made me Tranquil," he continues, in half a sob, still clearly coming back to himself from what can only be described as a panic attack.

Benedict, I-ish

[esquive]

There is a closed door in a stone wall. Set against the wall, tending what can only be described as his post per his assignment, is a narrow man with a scraggly ginger beard and a bright silvered sword at his hip. He is leaning against the wall, kept to such an angle that it would be difficult to be seen by the captive inside the cell through the narrow slot in the very closed door.

Marcoulf has an hour left on his rotation. It's fine.

[altusimperius]

Between the grinding boredom and the persistent cold, time moves very slowly down here. Benedict is going about his usual routine, which is to say, rotating between sleeping, spending time on his project for Flint, painting, reading one of the same three books, looking out the window, or pacing; and it's on that last activity that he catches sight of a familiar ginger head.
He pauses, leaning against the bars of his cell, craning his neck to see if it is in fact Marcoulf.

He doesn't call out to him. He knows better. But it's been a while, and he's a bit surprised to see him.