"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.
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.
"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."
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."
"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.
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.
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And any jokes that come from a book can hardly be any good.
Quite needlessly, Skull ahems and ahuhs to clear a throat he doesn't have, then recites:
'Tis three feet long and two feet wide.
It is of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air."
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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
'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.
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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."
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"Wouldn't it?"
He keeps staring at the riddle.
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"I need a hint."
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Then, "it's got to be manmade, to be a perfect circle. ...a sundial?" He winces. That's probably not it.
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"Are the measurements meant to be literal? Three feet by two feet, or is that... a trick?"
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"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.
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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.
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"A well?" he asks, "but what does that have to do with a compass." He's getting frustrated.
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He purses his lips.
"...is it a well then?" Turning his head to look at the skull, the parchment floats off.
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He doubts it as soon as he says it.
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A few long moments later: "a coin?"
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Who gives a hoot whether the snakes are offended, anyway? Hearing Benedict's weird ideas is quite entertaining.
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"Sorry, snakes. Sure."
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