[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

[cozen]

That look makes him noticeably pause, balanced still on one foot with his other ankle caught around the stool's leg. His expression slides into something a little sheepish. More sober. He stops hopping and moves the stool the rest of the way with one sweeping drag, like a normal person.

"Bad day?"

Probably no such thing as a good day, down here, but some might be worse than others.

"I brought you another book," he says, lifting it as best he can with his arms still full. "You will have to trade me for the other one, but I thought you might be tired of it by now."

[altusimperius]

Benedict takes a long look at the new book, then, after taking some time to consider, slowly sits up with a sigh and a little nod. He reaches for the other book, which is in good condition considering where it's been, and hands it forward with his gaze downward.

He's nervous to speak; Bastien has been kind, but too many people know too many variations on the truth about him, these days. Nonetheless, he offers a polite "thank you."

[cozen]

“You are welcome,” Bastien says—at first attempting to navigate a way to take the book from Benedict while still holding everything else, but he gives up on that quickly and sets everything down beside the stool, except the new book, which he trades for the old one without checking for damage or anything. It seems fine.

Still, he stands there for a moment holding it, looking at Benedict instead.

“I thought I would keep you company for a while,” he says, eventually. “It was a mistake for me to come see you, probably, the first time—now I know that you are a nice young man who likes books, it is much harder not to think about you down here by yourself. I could not do it. If I do not talk to someone for a day, I start talking to the furniture instead. I would have named the piss bucket by now.”

[altusimperius]

A nice young man who likes books. If only that were the extent of it-- Benedict smirks faintly, unable to help finding that amusing in an ironic kind of way.
"I can go a while," he admits, drawing up his knees and tucking a strand of lank black hair behind one ear, "...but... visitors can be nice." He's not ashamed to admit that. "Your name is..."

He hesitates, trying to remember. "...Bertrand?" He's seen him before, a thousand years ago it seems.

[cozen]

His laugh is quiet, short, and startled, more delighted than insulted. Bertrand. Amazing.

"Bastien," he corrects, and tags on, "de Royeaux," even though there are at least two dozen other Bastiens de Royeaux it fails to differentiate him from at all. He sits down on the stool, which is very short, meant more for helping to reach things than for use as a chair. "I used to be a musician, and then I was a printer, and now I am a diplomat."

Diplomat he says with a bit of emphasis and an eyebrow raise that clearly indicates he still feels like he's playing dress-up, with a title like that, even for a tiny ragtag organization like this.

"Did you like the book? I was told I could only give you serious ones, so, ah—"

So the new one he's delivered, which he's gesturing to through the bars to complete the thought, is The Word and Challenge of the Chant. But Byerly might be down, at some point, with something a bit lighter.

[altusimperius]

"Bastien," Benedict repeats, actually looking a little embarrassed for the misstep. He takes the new book and looks it over, not betraying any particular emotion on his face, though he at least doesn't look unhappy.

"I did," he says, and though there are fewer things he'd rather read about than the Chant, especially as interpreted by Southerners, literally anything is better than staring at the wall.
"I'm surprised you're allowed."