faderift | [open]

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The name means less than nothing to her, though even if it did, that wouldn't especially change things.

"I'm Sister Sara. Now, lean over a bit, I'm going to check your forehead." Delusion was one of the rarer symptoms of Lyrium poisoning, but after the night she's had, Sawbones isn't especially in the mood to argue what is and isn't real.

Hesitantly, he scoots off the bench to come sit on the floor beside her, with only the bars between them, as that'll make it easier than trying to lean over. A blanket is tugged around his shoulders, as he can't seem to stop shivering.

His forehead is a normal temperature, at least for someone who's always a little cold these days.

Her hand is more than small enough to slip through the bars, settling on his forehead. No surprise that he's not marked as a Tranquil, but that's not what she's doing anyway.

"You're not feverish," she tells him, moving her hand to his chin to gently grasp it and study his eyes. His pupils look normal enough, for a human, "Do you hear any ringing? Is there any pain in your head or fingers?"

He nods, and though he flinches when she holds his face, Benedict meets her eyes. Clarity is slowly returning to him, with the realization that he isn't Tranquil, that he isn't about to be, and that although he is in a cell, it's the one he's been in for months.

He shakes his head to her questions, and though his face is still streaked with moisture, he lowers it briefly to wipe the back of his hand over his cheeks and eyes.

And this is the tricky part about working with Topsiders. When a Duster or Carta thug looks at you with hazy eyes, it means something real bad. When a surfacer does it... Sometimes it just means they're still half asleep. The clarity is still preferable to whatever sat behind his eyes moment ago so she rocks back on her heels, satisfied.

"One of those blasted illusions again, I take it. Dreams," her voice drips with an unusual amount of disdain, as though the whole of the surface world has disappointed her for it's involvement. And frankly, it has. "Bunch of Fade-y nonsense. You know where you are, yes?"

"A dream," Benedict echoes faintly, and nods, folding his arms tightly around himself. "...a dream." His stomach is still lurching, but there's nothing left in it to purge.
"I'm in the dungeon," he replies, with a hint of defeat. "I haven't-- I haven't dreamed like that in--" He shakes his head a tiny bit, as if trying to control what he's about to say next, but decides to do it. "...maybe someone forgot the magebane."

"Well, you're not to have it now," Sawbones says immediately, "I doubt you'll keep it down and I'll not have one of mine being dosed without my approval." Because of course he was her patient now.

"Do you recall when your last dose was?"

He shakes his head.
"It's put in my food," he explains, a little surprised that she doesn't know that-- and equally surprised that she thinks it's something he actually wants, and not just an aspect of his internment.

"...I'm one of yours?"

"Sloppy." Sawbones shakes her head in disgust. How was one meant to assure proper dosing without administering directly? She had figured it was the alternative presented to him, but it does occur to her now that perhaps Riftwatch is less inclined to the Carta's more aggressive techniques of handling difficult prisoners.

That would explain why the boy seems to have use of his hands still, anyway. Her hands settle on her hips as she frowns at him, "What, they got a medic in attendance down here? Because I sure as pit didn't see anyone coming over when you were screaming. If they can't be assed to do the job right, then you're my patient now."

Benedict looks at her blankly, struck dumb by the thought that there would be a medic down here. Isn't it somewhat the point, that he's meant to rot until, maybe, they decide he can stop?
He shakes his head.

"Got a complaint?" Her expression quirks a little. Given he's not chained down or anything, she figures he's one of the less egregious offenders. It's still strange, keeping a whole person down here to waste resources on.

Is he still dreaming? Something about this women's highly assertive demeanor tells him he isn't.
"Um..." he muses, thrown off-guard, "...I'm cold?"

"Fancy so," she says, eyes sweeping over the contents of his cell, not a difficult task for a dwarf even in the dark. It's both the most underfurnished and overfurnished one she's ever seen. Who gives a prisoner worth keeping alive an easel and not a proper bed?

"Well, I can scrounge you up a cloak at best for the moment. I've a crop of births threatening to occur in a very short window and you'll hold up better to the chill than an infant. What are they feeding you?"

He nods, glad for another way to bundle up in addition to the two blankets he already wears around his shoulders most of the time.

"...food," he replies, uncertain of how best to describe it. Nothing worth complaining about, it's not like they'll be bringing him steak down here. "Dosed with magebane." Is it pathetic, that he's abetting in his own handicap? Or perhaps honorable. He genuinely doesn't know.

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