[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]

"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.

[poleaxed]

"A fight could happen at any time," Jone says without a grain of seriousness. "Always be on edge. OooOOooooh."

She plops him down on the training grounds, waiting a bit for him to get his bearings, before tossing him a spare shirt. She's only dressed in pants and a loose shirt as well, so they're roughly even.

[altusimperius]

Sitting despondently on the ground, Benedict picks up the shirt and sniffs it.
He makes a face.

[poleaxed]

"I mean, you could flex for the crowd." She sits on a nearby bench with one arm out, gesturing at the few people practicing this early.

[altusimperius]

"Flex what," he mutters sulkily, and, after a moment's deliberation, decides to put the shirt on.
Although it's long enough for his torso, it's far too big for him, and he looks down at it with an air of defeat. This is his life now.

[poleaxed]

This is your life now.

Hunched over in her seat, she nibbles on some of the bread, and watches him. "So if you had to give me a whack, like, how'd you go about it?"

[altusimperius]

He wrinkles his nose.

"I wouldn't," he snips, "you're a woman."

[poleaxed]

Jone holds one hand out, and in an open palmed punch, hits him hard in the shoulder, with the intention of knocking him arse over tit.

From a mouth half full of bread, "wrong answer."

[altusimperius]

It works, a yelp of surprise on impact accompanied by a wince when he lands back on his tailbone.

"I wouldn't because I know you'd kill me," he amends, checking over himself to make sure nothing's bleeding or broken. Which... of course it isn't.

[poleaxed]

"You were close," Jone says, thinking about it. She stands, walking around him. "You shouldn't hit a Lady in broad daylight. Get you into heaps of trouble, all for nothing. Never try'n fuck a Lady you hit, by the way, it always ends with 'em calling you their Da's name in bed."

Jone, that was one time.

"But I'm not a Lady. Like you said, I'm a woman. And if I wanted to kill you, I'd just kick you to death. And you can't use magic. What would you do?"

[altusimperius]

That particular mental image yields a brief but meaningful thousand-yard stare; as if he'd fuck a woman of his own volition anyway, not that she needs to know that.

"..I'd," he says helplessly, stumbling back to his feet and trying to focus on Jone as she walks around, "...punch you in the chest?"

Women don't have any instant kill zones, do they??

[poleaxed]

Promising start. She nods, accepting it. "You punch me. I'm bigger'n you. What'd you do next?"

[altusimperius]

"Run?"

[poleaxed]

She rolls her eyes. "Good answer again, but pretend you're walled in. Nowhere left to go. Very spooky, no magic, running around with a giant dog lord out for blood. Punched the bitch in the stomach, that's a good start. Where'd your wit go?"

She leans forward on her toes, looming over him. It's a hint. I am very tall.

[altusimperius]

This is difficult to the point of seeming impossible, for someone who's never had any inclination toward actual violence in his life. He looks her up and down, frazzled.

"Shins?" he tries, motioning with his foot like it's a kick.

[poleaxed]

"Exactly." She reaches down to pat his arms. "You're smaller'n most blokes who'll ever try'n fight you. So use that. Topple 'em over. Dodge. Sneak around. See what I'm saying?"

[altusimperius]

He nods, gaining at least some reassurance from how helpful and not overtly threatening she's being.

"Sort of like," he muses, "...it's how I'd use a Mind Blast." Just a shove, nothing too exciting.