Toodleroodle von Skroodledoodler (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doneisdone) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2019-12-06 03:49 pm
doneisdone) wrote in faderift2019-12-06 03:49 pm
[open]
WHO: Teren, Barrow, and Benedict, and YOU
WHAT: catch-all
WHEN: Haring
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: shirtless dilf enclosed
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.
no subject
The answer comes with a complete lack of change in his manner, Leander wielding bladed words with the same placid composure as he would present an open hand.
"He was looking for something of yours. When I politely declined to give it to him, he left peaceably enough—and then, some days later, Athessa snatched that same item from my hand." He's watching the prisoner carefully. Every movement, every breath and blink and twitch. "You know which item that was, don't you."
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But then Leander continues, and Benedict's caution gives way to surprise. And horror.
"She what," he says in a small voice, giving the visitor his full attention for the first time. "What??"
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Anyway,
"Snatched it from my hand," he repeats, same speed, same timbre, "and threw it off the battlements. And then she fled. An unusual coincidence, I thought, and quite a strange thing to do. What do you think, Benedict? Have you any clue why she'd have thought that was a good idea?"
no subject
"I-- I don't," he says, fumbling for words, "I didn't know she--"
Colin. Colin must have told her, because he was angry. But Benedict resists the urge to immediately spout his name and implicate him.
Yseult had told him he isn't a good liar, and she was right. He's not even good at lying by omission.
"...I didn't know she knew about it," he says at last. As for why she'd throw it off the battlements, he can only imagine.
no subject
A long pause, the gathering of a contemplative brow; perhaps he's considering whether or not he believes it. (He does. This boy couldn't lie his way out of his own bedroll.)
"Curious." Wrist still cocked by his shoulder, thumb moving against fingers. "Ah, well. I suppose the Scoutmaster will figure it out—I informed her, of course, since Athessa's assigned to her division."
—Mostly because he's interested to see whether anything will come of it at all. Is there any limit to how much internal lawlessness this organization will tolerate? It doesn't seem like there is.
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Still, she has gone out of her way to show him kindness.
Going quiet, Benedict gives a slow nod, staring at the floor in front of him. He can't intervene-- shouldn't-- too much, shouldn't incriminate himself or anyone else, but now it gnaws at him that this is a situation at all. Nothing can just be cut and dry.
"Why did you buy it?" he asks quietly after a moment, looking back up to Leander. "You knew it was mine."
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"I saw it at the auction, thought it was lovely, and decided I'd like to have it."
For the first while, he'd just look at the case, the engraving, run the pads of his fingers over the surface to learn the topography by touch. Building the association between sense and memory. Fingers on carved wood, fingers prying at a jaw. Regular use of the item came later, and with it came an idea. That's often how pleasing ideas come to him: gradually, unfolding as the thought becomes familiar, as each repeated handling wears loose a new thread.
"And then, I decided I ought to hold it for you instead. Use it as it was intended to be used, of course, and then clean it up, and return it to its owner to welcome him back to the world—should he ever be allowed back into it. As a gesture of goodwill. And now," the hand by his shoulder moves to indicate futility in a vague, disappointed fashion.
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He is also, after all, not exactly known for his powers of resistance against those who would manipulate him; it's the whole reason he's here, and though somewhat aware of it, being eager to please those who have otherwise little use for him is an unfortunate aspect of his personality.
He sinks against the bench, crestfallen. It's no longer as much about the box itself as it is about the stupidity of it all, how an object so precious to him has now, apparently, been destroyed, and for no reason. He closes his eyes in a deep sigh. Exhausted.
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The sea. The desert.
He simply is.
And here, a sigh: something he can relate to.
His mouth affects something like a smile.
"It's stupid, isn't it?"
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It twists him inside, that he knew so little-- consistently knows so little-- and wonders when anyone had planned to tell him.
"Well," he says in a low voice, "thanks for letting me know."
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Not to him personally, nor even morally, but to Riftwatch on the whole, perhaps. That its agents are willing to steal from their own to cheer up a turncoat criminal, and not even under coercion—it speaks of a dangerous naïveté at best, a liability he's glad to expose.
This is where he lives, too, after all.
"When you speak to either of them, you might suggest they make reparations for the theft. I did pay for the item. Legally, it belongs to me." Now turning to leave, "And should the case be recovered," the tide moves, wood floats, mages have their ways, "I'd like to have it back. They needn't worry about any repairs—I'm a restorer, after all." And he's on his way out. "I hope you'll show me your work one day. Take care, Benedict."
no subject