faderift | [open] mortal kings are ruling castles

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.

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?"

He wrinkles his nose.

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

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."

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.

"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?"

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??

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

"Run?"

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.

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.

"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?"

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.

"Sure, whatever that is." Jone shrugs. Teacher of the year award, here she comes. "You'd have to use momentum, though, know what I'm saying? Come at me with my feet planted-"

She takes a stance, low center of gravity, unmoving, an imaginary sword in her hand.

"-like this, I'm not going anywhere. But if I'm runnin' at ya..."

Please, pick up what she's putting down here, kid.

He may be picking it up in his mind, but Benedict continues to look lost and uncertain, glancing from her feet to her face.

"Do you want me to--...?" Right now?</i?

"I mean, sure. Why not. I'll have to have some momentum to make it work, though."

She starts stepping back, so she can run at him.

"Try'n roll for me, and keep your body low. You're try'n to trip me, like."

"Roll?"

He hesitates, his eyes going big. "Like on the ground?" He doesn't move.

That's dirty.

"If you could roll up walls, we wouldn't be here. Ready, now!"

And she starts rushing toward him.

"NoaaAAH," comes Bene's articulate reply, and he tries to do several things at once: dodge, run towards her, run away, and cover his face. He's going to get knocked on his ass.

They're both going to get knocked on their ass, because Jone has decided this much effort won't be a failure. It doesn't matter if she loses on purpose. Who fucking cares about what's true? Fucking infants?

So she sees the absolute flailing mess he's making of himself, and pushes him down far enough for her to 'trip', landing fully on her face for effect. Definitely bleeding from a reopened wound on her scalp and some nose reconfigurement, she sits up, smiling through blood.

"You did it!" She offers him a thumbs up for his 'efforts'.

Benedict, a fucking infant, cares about what's true, but he at least waits to care about it after Jone has already 'tripped' over him and they are both on the ground.

"No I didn't," he sulks, remaining here for a moment, "you pushed me down."
This is a WASTE of TIME.

She rolls her eyes. "My fucking face is broken. I pushed you down, but you rolled right."

She gets up slowly, as though this is not minor pain that barely registers anymore. "Fffuck, this'll look ugly in the morning."

"Don't patronize me. You broke your own face."

He folds his arms, sitting in the dirt a little bit longer, because the sooner he stands up, the sooner she's going to make him do something else.

"What fucking idiot would break their own face," Jone says, before spitting out a gob of blood. "Andraste's cunt. Ugh. Gonna fix this. Good job on your first day. Get back to you with next steps, yeah?"

She starts to go before he has time to agree. Or do the other thing.

[open] mortal kings are ruling castles

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