[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

[esquive]

After a few quiet minutes, Marcoulf moves on to the nails of his other hand. He's more delicate with this one - a little more painstaking - and to distract himself from the effort, he says, "Stop staring at me. Your eyes will fall out of your skull," without looking up.

[altusimperius]

"No they won't," comes a reply more tired than petulant, and Benedict sighs.
"Must've drawn the short straw, to be down here."

[esquive]

A hum, which neither confirms or denies much of anything. Short straw implies he had any choice, unlucky or otherwise, in the matter whatsoever instead of simply being directed to go do something.

(It occurs to him now as he is standing here scraping dirt from his nails and being Perfectly Comfortable, Really that he might have feigned illness or simply asked Anna to do the work on his behalf. Yet here he is, having not realized either of those reasonable options until far too late.)

He scrubs out under his last nail, then tucks the little knife back into his boot.

[altusimperius]

"So," comes a mild tone-- now that they're talking, why not keep going-- "how've you been?"

[esquive]

There is a crack in the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. Marcoulf, with his back flat against his side of the dreary passage, gives it a serious round of study rather than the Vint any kind of answer. That should be reported to Base Operations to be filled and reinforced.

"Better than you, it appears."

[altusimperius]

"True enough."

He's behaved himself so well, but there's just something about Marcoulf that tugs at him, makes him want to stir the pot. Perhaps it's the aloofness, the arrogance of this quiet, ugly man who nonetheless keeps showing up back in his periphery despite making it clear how despised he is.

"Nice of you to visit me," Benedict says, before he can stop himself. He knows exactly what he's doing.

[esquive]

Maker, save the world from stupid young men.

"Considerate of you to make yourself so readily available to Riftwatch."

[altusimperius]

"Wasn't it?"
The snark thins a little as Benedict sighs, resting back against the wall.

"I didn't ever intend to leave for good, you know."

[esquive]

There is nothing about the remark worth replying to. Did he not? That sounds like no part of his own business. Better, Marcoulf thinks, to keep quiet. If the mage is allowed to talk, maybe he will say something worth reporting. It's a shame the Qun woman disappeared in Nevarra; it was pleasant to have someone in the Division offices who knew how to reward decent work.

"The dungeon? Had you asked before leaving, I'm sure someone would have happily placed you here."

Hm. Close enough.

[altusimperius]

A little snort follows. Oh, very funny, Marcoulf.

"That's quite a lofty judgment from someone who's had his dick in my mouth," he says idly.

[esquive]

Usually, a flat look and the easy hook of his wrist over the pommel of his sword would suffice for an answer. But he has made a point of standing tucked away from the mage's easy sight line, and so (blandly)—

"I'm fairly certain that makes me overqualified to judge."

[altusimperius]

"Does it?"
Benedict leans his head back, smirking at the ceiling.

"Overqualified isn't a word I'd use to describe you for anything."