[open] mortal kings are ruling castles

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: miscellaneous open prompts
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: the Gallows
NOTES: ya boyyy got his magic back (sort of)

I. Benedict's Hookah Room for Degenerate Hedonists

Most nights, the hookah is lit in its tower room (more easily now that someone can conjure flame again) and the scented smoke sifts from the open window into the crisp autumn air. It seems like he and Athessa just set it up yesterday, but over the weeks there has amassed a healthy population of cushions, rugs, and blankets cast off from every corner of the keep, which now make for a plush if stuffy little nest of creature comforts.
Anyone who happens upon it, or has been told of its existence and wants to partake, will often find him sprawled across a few pillows, sometimes with sketches strewn about, sometimes just gazing at nothing.


II. He's a Magic Man

It wasn't immediate, but after finally, finally being freed of the influence of magebane, Benedict's magic has gradually begun to return.

He uses it sparingly, mostly in the mornings before he goes into Byerly's office to work for the day, perhaps choosing the early hour to inhibit any judgment or interruption from offended parties; and it's the basics he's drilling in the sparring pitch, generating pithy flames and the beginnings of barriers, simply stretching the muscles again after a year of not having access to them.


III. Murally We Roll Along

Progress continues on the dining hall mural, with the lot of it stenciled in charcoal and beginning to be filled in with colored pigment.
High up on his scaffolding, he takes the occasional smoke break and sits with his skinny legs draped over the side, watching the room below.


IV. Wildcard

Come at me. I love you

Comments

[altusimperius]

"Well-- yes, but," he stammers, unsure of how exactly to explain this in a way that won't make her instantly hate him (why does he care about that? wonders never cease), "I can't really do it right now. Or I-- I shouldn't."

He shrugs helplessly. "If I leave the Gallows I'll have to take more magebane, so unless there's a demon here you want to fight I won't be of much use to you."

He pauses, and with some exasperation, adds "and I shouldn't do it anyway!"

[poleaxed]

That gets a frown from her. So he buggered it up with the people in change, and he's only allowed to use magic in the gallows. There goes her idea.

She sighs and slumps back against the bannister behind her, pulling off the vambrace around one arm. The green glow emanating from it is instantly recognizable. "'Cos I need to scrap with some bloody demons to get a handle on this bollocks-" she taps the shard in her arm- "and I could use a proper mage. But it's a non-starter for you, innit?"

[altusimperius]

"Oh."
There's a click of recognition in his mind when Benedict sees the shard, and after a moment, he removes the glove that covers his own matching one.

"If mages could solve this, I think we'd have done it already," he says sheepishly, flexing his fingers over the green glow.

[poleaxed]

"Huh," she murmurs, "twins."

She puts the vambrace back on.

"Didn't think you could fix it, like," she clarifies, "just trying to get a proper mob together so I can get some practice in, closing rifts. I worked with mages before, y'know, fighting."

A moment of reflection, or maybe nostalgia.

"They were all cunts. But you're alright."

[altusimperius]

He smiles a little at that. Twins.

"Oh. People do try to do that." He puts his own glove back on, now that they're finished sharing.

"How'd you work with them?" A thought occurs to him. "...were you a Templar?"

[poleaxed]

The very thought gets a loud, braying laugh, utterly surprised. "Maker! Me taking vows. Fuck, I'd just as soon top myself."

She shakes her head. "Mercenary. Apostates, Dalish, runaways... especially after the war, mages needed something to do, but all they were good at was making a pillock explode."

[altusimperius]

He grins when she laughs, but it dwindles quickly when she describes who she was killing.
Maybe... not the best thing to bring up to Colin, but he'll just set that aside for later.

"Got it." Then, as if both of them need the reassurance, "I only came south a few years ago."

[poleaxed]

A hell of a misunderstanding, if there ever was one. Jone would never be a Templar, she'd just as soon off herself. The people she describes are people she worked with, who she helped kill things together with.

But it's not like she's prone to speaking clearly, or clarifying.

"You a Vint, then? The accent..." She wiggles her fingers, like it's borderline and not obvious. To be fair, she's only heard a Tevene accent maybe twice in her life? To her, it's ambiguous at best.

[altusimperius]

He nods, watching her warily. It's another detail that can be a sticking point for some.

[poleaxed]

"Huh," she says, relaxed. "If you were a slaver, they wouldn't let you in here, would they?"

That's the big sticking point, really. Jone is no crusader for justice, but what little blood of hers beats with a love of Andraste requires a minimal effort put toward caring about shackles and chains.

[altusimperius]

He looks a little surprised.

"Oh. Uh. Probably not."

Self-consciously, he tucks his hair behind his ear.

"My mother is a Magister. ...but we're not in touch, at the moment."

[poleaxed]

Very casually, "it's kinda like being pregnant, kid, you are or you ain't."

[altusimperius]

"Well I mean." Slaver has its own definition, doesn't it?

"I've never bought or sold slaves." He scratches the back of his neck. "...helping free one was sort of what ended up getting me in trouble."

[poleaxed]

"Then you ain't." She spreads her arms, as though to hug, but doesn't move an inch toward him. "Congratulations. Welcome to the bloody South. Fulla savages, we are. Love to have ya."

Her arms go back to their previous position, and she moves her polearm so the pointed end almost grazes her brow. "Jone, by the way. Of Denerim, to be proper."

[altusimperius]

He smiles amusedly, with a sarcastic "thanks." He's been here for several years, but a welcome's never too late.

"I'm Benedict." He pointedly leaves off 'of House Artemaeus', finding it somewhat irrelevant these days.

[poleaxed]

She picks up her poleaxe one handed-- somewhat impressive given the length of the thing, and the obvious weight on the metal business end-- and pokes Benedict's shoulder with the blunt end. "You lemme know if you ever run into trouble, yeah?"

She sets the weapon down.

"Seeing as you can't do magic in this fuckin' place. Got into a row with bloody watchmen over drinks. Scraps everywhere, here."

Or maybe it's just you, Jone.

[altusimperius]

"Thanks." He's oddly touched.

"...I'd say the same, but it kind of sounds like you go looking for it."

[poleaxed]

With the sort of blunt-headed pride associated with Fereldans: "When you win 'em all, why wouldn't you?"

[altusimperius]

Frankly, "I wouldn't know."

[poleaxed]

When they were little, before Bede started throwing fireballs, they'd fight. Both of them, they were the same size, but different in stature. Jone threw herself into everything, and the bruises became muscles eventually, the fear became confidence, the sorrow became rage. And Bede never quite caught up, so she used her fists while he used his brain.

They should have diversified, but they were twelve, mud covered little idiots.

She knows better now. Prodding him with the blunt end of the haft again, she says, "make a fist."

[altusimperius]

"Ow," he grunts, and then, because he's got nothing better to do, balls up his fingers and holds up his fist. It's loose and weak and his thumb is in the wrong place, but he's humoring her for now.

[poleaxed]

She tsks and reaches out to wrap her big hands around his. With no gauntlets on, they're just a mass of calluses and scars. "Like this. Otherwise, you'll break your thumb punching something. Practice getting it like that every time. Two days, we'll start proper sparring."

[altusimperius]

"Uh," he stammers, caught off-guard, "we will?"

[poleaxed]

Jone speaks with the confidence of one accustomed to getting their way not through birth, or luck, or hard work, but raw bloody-mindedness. "Oh," she says, "we will."

And she keeps her word. The whole 'wake at the crack of dawn' thing is a crock of shit made up by farmers, though, and Jone's not the type. The early morning's passed, but it's still plainly morning when she gets up, grabs the scrawny little thing called Benedict, and begins walking toward the training grounds. She grabs some bread and cheese on the way, for after.

She doesn't want to see him hurl in the yard, it's just unseemly.

[altusimperius]

Having gainful employment means Benedict is, at least, used to getting up in the morning, but he's a rather finicky type with a very specific routine, and that routine does not involve being hauled out of bed half-dressed by a loose acquaintance.

He yelps in overstated horror as he's picked up like nothing, trying to wriggle free as anyone would in a similar situation, though as he catches sight of his captor's hair he's able to begin sleepily putting the pieces together.

"No wait," he gasps, kicking and clawing for purchase, "I'm not ready!"

Maker, at least he's wearing pants.