faderift | [open] watching paint dry

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: Working on the dining hall mural, smoking elfroot, making himself useful one small task at a time
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: mostly the dining hall, sometimes other places
NOTES: ART

I. Style Taste Class

Already something of a serious person by nature, Benedict has never been more invested in a project than he is in his newly-appointed task of livening up the dining hall-- even his work as a chamberlain was more detached than this, what with him making stylistic decisions but not personally implementing any of them.

He's requested a little scaffold be set up so he can get above the large tower doorframes, and he can be found there at all hours that he isn't in Byerly's office, which is to say, in the mornings and late at night. When he sleeps is unclear, but based on the bags under his eyes, that doesn't come often.

But he seems cheerful enough, for who he is, and is usually open to conversation with diners and passersby as his painstaking design begins to take shape*.

*it's an approximation obviously

II. Recreation Station

When not at work either for Byerly or on his Masterpiece, Bene can be found lounging with his semi-erstwhile hookah in a spare room of the mage tower, having amassed a small number of battered and disused pillows and blankets to make the place homier.
His presence there is usually indicated by the smell of scented smoke, much like his former neighbors would be used to when he still had a room of his own, but fortunately he keeps the window open to let things vent properly.

III. Wildcard

The usual stuff is happening! Make your own prompt or hit me up for one.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Oh." He looks up and around, to where the stenciling has already begun to spread.

"Over the arches, at least." He gestures to them as he talks. "And the crossbeams. ...you know. Following the existing lines."

"I see."

She studies the doorway for a long moment, squinting slightly. Clearly she is listening quite closely despite the early hour and the slow devouring of her boiled egg and is here reserving a moment to be critical of the work being done.

As a representative of Base Operations, one must be vigilant about questions of quality.

Evidently however she finds nothing to protest over and after a moment of squinting must admit simply, "It's rather nice. I was unaware you were any kind of artist."

Already bristling as he anticipates further commentary, Benedict abruptly relaxes when it actually arrives. He looks over his shoulder at the progress, then back at Wisteria, effectively disarmed.

"...thank you." Neither was anyone else, until recently, but he can at least pretend to own it.

"You're most welcome."

She stuffs the rest of the egg into her mouth.

"I should say, though, that I hope this isn't a strictly Tevene-inspired design. It might reflect poorly on us should visitors inquire. Not that I anticipate many of them will know the first thing about decorating styles in Tevinter, of course. But I suppose one must never be too careful."

"Well," he says, adjusting the band holding his hair back, "it's not uncommon to see this sort of thing in most of the north. Antiva, Rivain-- it's just more Tevene because... I am."

A little shrug follows, and he leaves his hair alone.

"Well yes. Everyone knows that," she says, shifting gears so she might spread some measure of fruit jam onto her waiting slab of toast.

"But I suppose if there is precedent in Rivain and so on that there is little harm in it."

"That's how I figured. It's hardly unique to Tevinter."

It takes all of his restraint not to snip at her about it, but a large part of personal growth is exhibiting self-control, so he heroically manages.

"Remind me of your name?" he asks after a short pause, in which he's returned to work.

It is only by merit of it being early in the morning and that she is occupied by the question of jam that the question doesn't make her frown slightly. Luckily, both those things are contributing factors and so she may reply with some standard level of good will as she slathers preserves onto her toast.

"Wysteria Poppell, of Research Division. I also assist the Seneschal from time to time."

"Nice to meet you," spoken casually, pleasantly, without turning around. They may have met before, but never in a one-on-one capacity.

"I knew your voice was familiar."

"A pleasure," is automatic good cheer; all bets are off as to how much she actually means it though this is little to no sign of malice when she continues with, "Your reputation, of course, somewhat precedes you."

With a crunch and crackle, she takes a generous bite of her toast.

"Of course."

A furtive glance back over his shoulder.

"Nice to see it didn't stop you talking to me, at least."

A pause follows, given her occupation with the toast. Once she is free to reply, however:

"I can only assume that if there were a pressing reason not to, you would have been executed already and the subject would never have any reason to be raised."

He manages to stifle the shudder this time, but there is a pause. Then,

"yes. Probably."

The quirk of her eyebrows says something along the lines of 'Just so.' "It is my understanding that Riftwatch is rather a permissive organization."

Wysteria takes another crackling bite of toast.

The opportunity is there to snip at her, to tell her how wrong she is about him or just make his case, but that all gets rather exhausting to everyone involved.

"I suppose so," Benedict says measuredly, politely, and he turns to look at Wysteria again.
"Does that bother you?"

"Not at all. I imagine if it weren't that myself and others like me—Rifters, I mean—might have some difficulty. Doomed to a life confined to the Gallows or kept in a sealed room on account of our suspect relationship to the Fade, and so on and so forth. At the very least, I imagine we would have rather fewer... let us say legally grey individuals in our ranks, which presently make up nearly half of our active force, and so Riftwatch would hardly exist at all if it bad no capacity for such flexibility."

She pauses, takes a breath as if she might continue (for this has all been said in a single relentless exhale), and then instead she takes another petite chomp from her breakfast.

Ah, a Rifter.
It's not that easy to tell, anymore, who came in through a rift and who simply has an anchor-- especially when he himself has one.

"That's true," he concedes, relaxing ever so slightly, though he still bears himself with humility as he continues to address her face to face.
"I'm... quite thankful for it, for obvious reasons."

"Yes, I should think so."

Her laugh is bright like a tinkling bell, as if very impressed by her own wit and charm. Afterwards, she resumes crunching through the toast and downs it with a drink from her cup. From the general shuffling of belongings and minor clink and clatter of silverware, it seems her breakfast is coming to its natural conclusion.

Benedict smirks in response to her laughter, charmed by it despite his standoffishness-- as someone who also tends, or at least tended, to find himself very clever, it's a compulsion to which he can relate.

"Well. Enjoy," he says with a wry little nod, noting that she's wrapping things up.

"The day? I mean to." A series of papers are being stuffed into a little satchel, her plate and utensils all stacked into a neat order the better by which to whisk them away as she rises from her seat and smoothing navigates the question of removing herself from the bench without too much rearrangement of her skirts.

But here, with her things in hand, she pauses and actually looks at him, then past him to the work of the wall. She gestures with the empty plate toward the endeavor.

"Best of luck with it. I'll inform the Seneschal that it's coming along nicely. He is quite adamant about having the place set back to rights and will be relieved to hear progress is being made in some quarter."

That's reassuring. Benedict casts her a genuine smile, with a gracious little nod, and doesn't keep her any longer.

[open] watching paint dry

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