[open]

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: just a January catch-all!
WHEN: Wintermarch
WHERE: DUNGEON
NOTES: a new year begins in gay baby jail

[Starters in the comments, please feel free to make your own!]

Comments

[altusimperius]

It takes Benedict a moment to search through his memory for the right one, but then a slow smirk crosses his lips.

"It does," he admits, "...and he does that."

[skulltasm]

"YES! VINDICATION! NOW, DON'T GET USED TO BEING REWARDED FOR AGREEING WITH ME, BUT I'M FEELING GENEROUS TODAY SO:"
He adopts the likeness of Thranduil, mustache perfectly placed and a very snooty expression on his elvish features.

"Has anyone seen my hairbrush? I must brush my silky flaxen locks one hundred times each morning and night. Also my limbs are very long and I move soooo gracefully. I don't eat, drink, piss, fart, or shit because I am ethereal."

[altusimperius]

The smile broadens, but without too much enthusiasm. Being rewarded for anything is generally not part of his experience down here, and having it pushed in his face like so is a bit of a mood killer.

"Spot on," he says anyway, shivering and readjusting the blankets again.
It'd be nice to be just a skull, perhaps, with no flesh to get cold.

[skulltasm]

Aaaaand it's gone. Back to the old skull in a jar, plus mustache. For a few silent moments he bobs gently, buoyed by his own ectoplasm or whatever that is.

"WELL THIS IS DULL."

[altusimperius]

"Sorry."

Benedict actually kind of sounds like he means it-- there's a self-consciousness to it, an awareness that he's not much fun to hang around, even for a skull in a jar.

"I could read to you," he says idly, after a moment, "seeing as we're both stuck here, there's not a lot else in the way of entertainment."

[skulltasm]

Honestly, what's the point of keeping a boy in the dungeon if he's not being actively tortured? This passive torture nonsense is so, so, so, soooo boring.
"WHAT'VE YOU GOT? WHAT SORT OF THING DO THEY EVEN ALLOW DOWN HERE? THE DAILY DUNGEON? SUMS FOR DUMMIES? THE HISTORY OF PAPER?"

[altusimperius]

"The Word and Challenge of the Chant," Benedict says dully, without even having to look at it. "...and a book of jokes." None of them are especially funny now that he's read it for what has felt like six hundred times.

[skulltasm]

"PHOAH. AND HERE I THOUGHT THEY WERE JUST LETTING YOU ROT. THE WORD AND CHALLENGE OF THE CHANT?! THAT SOUNDS LIKE TORTURE."

And any jokes that come from a book can hardly be any good.

"HOW ABOUT SOME GOOD OLD FASHIONED RIDDLES, EH?"
Quite needlessly, Skull ahems and ahuhs to clear a throat he doesn't have, then recites:

I've measured it from side to side,
'Tis three feet long and two feet wide.
It is of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air."

[altusimperius]

This elicits a little smile. Benedict can't exactly disagree with that assessment, even if he's thankful for something to put his eyes on. But then, Skull is proceeding, and he makes a mental scramble to catch the whole riddle before it's done.

He thinks it over for a moment, then tugs out a piece of parchment from the pile, and picks up the remaining nib of one of the pigments Athessa gave him. "Can you repeat it?"
He'll have to stare at it for a while.

just pretend that i'm not fucking with formatting

[skulltasm]

He does so, in Flint's dulcet tones:

"I've measured it from side to side,
'Tis three feet long and two feet wide.
It is of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air."

For effect, sure, but also because Flint's voice is much clearer than Skull's scratchy, nasal drawl. So clear, in fact, that the voice echoes off the walls of the dungeon.

He turns side to side like a child in a swivel seat and waits a moment before speaking again, back to normal.

"DO LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU'VE FINISHED. OR IF YOU NEED A HINT."

[altusimperius]

Benedict nods, writing it down. And then he looks at it. For a while.
He sits there in silence, shivering, staring at the parchment, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Not a map," he mutters into the blanket, "...or an eyeball."

[skulltasm]

"AN EYEBALL THREE FEET LONG AND TWO WIDE WOULD BE QUITE A SIGHT."

[altusimperius]

Bene chuckles a little.
"Wouldn't it?"

He keeps staring at the riddle.

[skulltasm]

And skull keeps staring at Bene.

[altusimperius]

Several more minutes pass, and Benedict sighs, sitting back.

"I need a hint."

[skulltasm]

"IT IS A CIRCLE, BUT NOT A SPHERE. ITS WIDTH IS ITS HEIGHT, BUT ONLY WHAT'S ABOVE GROUND.

[altusimperius]

Bene lets his head rest back against the wall, and he stares at the ceiling in thought for a while.

Then, "it's got to be manmade, to be a perfect circle. ...a sundial?" He winces. That's probably not it.

[skulltasm]

"THERE A LOT OF SUNDIALS WITH HIDDEN DEPTHS UNDERGROUND WHERE YOU COME FROM?"

[altusimperius]

"...no," Bene admits, chastened.

"Are the measurements meant to be literal? Three feet by two feet, or is that... a trick?"

[skulltasm]

"WELL, YOU'D HAVE TO CHECK WITH THE CHAP THAT THOUGHT UP THIS RIDDLE, BUT I EXPECT IT WAS LITERAL."

[altusimperius]

"All right," he muses, "that's something." He leans forward over the riddle, and then, in the interest of continued fidgeting, rolls onto his back to plant the soles of his bare feet on the wall, holding the parchment above him.

"I've measured it from side to side," he reads, "'tis three feet long and two feet wide. It is of compass small, and bare to thirsty suns and parching air."

He stares at it for several moments, then lowers his hands and lets the parchment come to settle on his face.

"A circular grave?" he asks, slightly muffled, clearly losing heart.

[skulltasm]

WELL, I SUPPOSE MANY HAVE BECOME GRAVES, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER.

Perhaps he should've started with a riddle for children. Skull bobs gently in his jar, two illusory googly eyes appearing in his eye sockets. Paired with the mustache, it's very funny. Not that Benedict is looking, of course.

[altusimperius]

Benedict doesn't move, the parchment remaining over his face like a little blanket.

"A well?" he asks, "but what does that have to do with a compass." He's getting frustrated.

[skulltasm]

AND HERE I THOUGHT YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE A VINT. OF COMPASS SMALL, NOT A COMPASS. FROM THE OLD TEVENE: COMPASSUS, MEANING A CIRCUIT OR CIRCLE.

[altusimperius]

"Oh."

He purses his lips.

"...is it a well then?" Turning his head to look at the skull, the parchment floats off.