CLOSED | the perfect stormrider.

[poleaxed]

WHO: Erik Stephens, Gabranth, Diana, Benedict, Edgard, Tiffany, Dick & Jone.
WHAT: The Gang Fights A Dragon.
WHEN: Cloudreach.
WHERE: The Thenuviet estate on the Exalted Planes.
NOTES: if something looks wonky or is misspelled, please know I’m typing this on mobile & have mercy.

GETTING THERE isn’t a short journey, and they’re hardly traveling in comfort. Most of the horses are carrying equipment, armor, weaponry, and anything else those volunteered for this expedition thought to include. And there’s camping equiptment. Anyone who said the travel overland involved staying at inns was lying. Inns are notoriously stuffed with murderers, anyway.

Every night, there’s a campfire and food. Sometimes it’s fresh caught, but if it is, Jone certainly didn’t catch it. Just as likely that it’s rations, salt pork and jerky and whatever dried fruits and nuts Riftwatch can spare.

There’s a STOP AT A BATHHOUSE in the town near the Thenuviet estate, however. It’s stupid, they’re just going to dirty themselves up later, but presentation is important to these people.

Surely all of you brought fancy dress and masks, because IT’S TIME TO SCHMOOZE. There’s a small party of Orlesians dressed to their finest, having a cozy little soirée on the edge of a cliff. Literally on the edge. Don’t indulge too much in the fine wines and cheeses, because there’s a dragon waiting, but for now? It’s never a bad idea to look good in front of rich people of influence. At least, not these days.

Eventually, it’s time to move forward, which means PREPARING FOR BATTLE. Climbing down the cliff is easy stuff, if you’re good with rope or have basic upper body strength. But now is probably the time to set up any traps, get in good positions... because it’s not long before the party on the cliff above begins to cheer.

...Because a few dead swine are unceremoniously kicked off the cliff to fall into the ravine now filled with you and yours.

The cheers from the cliff face only increase as loud thrashing, howling sounds start and become increasingly closer. How long have they been feeding the dragon like this?

But then it’s DRAGON KILLING TIME. You probably know how that goes. Stormriders are huge, dark scaled, and shoot thunder instead of fire. This one is angry you’ve interrupted lunch time.

AFTERWARD, it’s time to heal, take a breath, poke around the dragon bits for fancy heirlooms, and climb back up that cliff.

Comments

[altusimperius]

I. Road Trip

Anyone who anticipated that Benedict would be a big whiny nuisance while trekking overland was... mistaken, actually-- he's not enjoying himself, per se, but he's done this enough times that, at this point, he's just glad to be in the right company for it (and the right clothing).
He keeps quiet most of the time, but alert, his gaze wandering the horizon or the trees. When they camp, he's pensive and polite enough, spending a fair amount of time just staring up at the night sky when he isn't helping set things up.

And in the mornings, he takes charge of the coffee-making.

II. Splish Splash

The lengths to which this individual will go to preserve his appearance, given the tools, are truly astounding: the bathhouse doesn't provide absolutely everything he'd need, but Benedict certainly goes about the process of exfoliating, washing, washing again, rinsing, shaving (more than his face), moisturizing, and preening with all the enthusiasm of someone who has not been able to do this properly for a long while and is certain to make it count.

"Don't rush me," he's quick to snip at anyone trying to hurry him along, "and if you really wanted to pull this off, you'd do the same."

III. Boozing and Schmoozing

Regardless of what some might say, Benedict does have quite a lot of natural charisma; it just reserves itself for occasions like these, when he's primped and pressed and has a glass of wine in his hand. Although he can't wear his wardrobe of choice, which would involve the finest silk brocade Minrathous has to offer, he's doing his best with what he has, and has caught the eye of more than one of the younger partygoers.

Whether he's tittering foppishly over some young baron's joke or patiently enduring conversation with a pretty marquesse, it's going to be quite difficult to pull him away.

[I will tag out for fite threads & aftermath :U]

III- go to bed cinderella

[archademode]

Difficult for some.

For Gabranth, the fete can only be described as a miserable affair filled with music and the sound of laughter— and the overpowering scent of wine lingering on the wind. Jone may have been insistent on the benefit of granting Benedict free rein in regards to matters of diplomacy, but the hour draws late, and soon enough they’ve an obligation to meet, or all of this will have been for nothing.

And Benedict will not drink himself into a stupor beforehand, nor rest through the deed itself.

“Lord Artemaeus,” His advance is audible amongst silks and soft lace: the heavy clatter of armored footfalls meant for giving chase, rather than delicate exchanges. His visage does not fit, his presence an intrusion. A hound amongst nightingales.

“It is time to depart.”

[altusimperius]

The intrusion merits an audible gasp from those in the circle of conversation, and Benedict, recognizing the voice, gives a little sigh through his nose and looks over his shoulder at Gabranth.

"I'm in the middle of something," he says, exasperated, "it can wait a few minutes."

When he turns back to the others, he shakes his head with a little roll of his eyes. "Bodyguard," he explains, rather than get into it fully.

[archademode]

Bodyguard, he says, and though there's a touch of truth in it even by Gabranth's own admittance, the dismissive nature of Benedict's entire exchange acts as something of a pulled trigger in that moment: like gripping a squalling pup by its scruff, heavy fingers latch themselves onto the back of Benedict's finely-sewn collar, so firm in their grasp that it threatens seamwork as he turns.

And pulls.

"It cannot."

[altusimperius]

A loud gasp leaves Benedict as he's suddenly dragged off-balance, his glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the ground, its contents splashing over the shoes of himself and the nearest partygoer.

"Gabranth-- no--" he stammers, reaching up above his head to claw helplessly at the gauntlet gripping him, his heels digging into the ground as best they can.

The whispering has already begun, and this is already a catastrophe.

II as promised

[muckspout]

Edgard rolls his eyes massively and holds up his hands.

"I'll do what I do best, you do yours." He huffs annoyed. "But, we can't be here forever."

Edgard looks around in horror at this too clean and astringent place.

[altusimperius]

Before they left, there were several nights of icing out as they slept in their adjacent beds. Now, traveling with a group, it's actually somewhat easier for Benedict and Edgard to avoid one another, but one snippy comment invariably merits one in return.

"Yes, go ahead and ooze on into the soiree, that'll leave a good impression," Benedict mumbles, carefully applying some kind of cream under his eyes.

[clawings]

Erik has been looking at various items on display that are for hair... not, he suspects, for his exact texture but it never hurts to look anyway. He's kept his eyes down as Benedict and Edgard bicker but he does let out a small sigh. "You could use a bath, friend," is directed at Edgard, "or these people and their sensibilities are gonna be wasted talkin' shit about you."

Benedict gets a glance too. "And you've been in here like an hour already."

[muckspout]

Edgard shoots a glare at Erik and huffs in offense.

"Not too terribly concerned what a bunch of rich people have to say about me."

He shudders a little.

"Just fine the way I am. Don't need to constantly rub soaps and creams and braid hair and make myself smell like--" He waves his hands in front of his face.

ii

[fairforce]

Tiffany's nose wrinkles a little. "Am I not doing enough? I thought I was."

Which she means, genuinely. Now she's second-guessing her efforts, which are certainly more minimal when compared to Benedict's preparations. Exfoliating, check. Bathing, check. A wash in hot water is nothing to be wasted, and Tiffany does like to look pretty--who doesn't? Good breeding gives her a natural advantage there.

Now she leans forward to look at her face in one of the bathhouse mirrors. The haze of steam on its surface gives her a dreamy look.

"What would you suggest?"

[altusimperius]

This is, quite frankly, the shit Benedict lives for. His eyes brighten when Tiffany asks, and he sidles over to stand beside her and appraise her reflection.

"Do you ever paint your eyes?" he asks pleasantly, "not that you need it, but it'd give them a little pop."

[fairforce]

"No."

She leans a little closer still to the mirror, looking into her own eyes. She shifts her glace over to Benedict, meeting his gaze in the reflection with a rueful smile.

"That is, sometimes they've been painted for me, but I don't make a practice of it. What color do you think? I know what color gowns to choose, to suit me--but would that be the same?"

[altusimperius]

He couldn't be more enthusiastic. "What's the gown you're wearing to the soiree? We can use that to pick."

IV. Aftermath

[altusimperius]

The dragon is dead, nobody died (except her)((RIP)) and Benedict managed to get through the whole thing without completely panicking, even offering some actual assistance. It's easy forget he's a veteran, having been run through at the Battle of Ghislain, which at least he has managed to avoid this time.

He'd be proud, if he didn't feel like a top-tier piece of excrement; after watching the death-adjacent antics of three people who have gone out of their way to express their care for him, all three of whom he's treated rather shamefully over the course of the journey and even before.

Mind roiling, he separates himself from the victors to take a seat on a nearby rock to catch his breath and wait. In particular, he's waiting for his and Gabranth's most recent exchange to catch up to him, and knows already it's not going to be pretty.

Where's a sword to run a man through when he needs it?

F for dragon

[archademode]

'I'm stuck waiting for your bloody disappointment. Try'n be kind, when it lands. To our Ben, especially.'

Kind was never the word for Gabranth. Not for his deeds, not for his purpose— not for the death that ended him or the shadow of his old, forgotten life. There are only two in the world he once called his own that share his blood, and his brother was the only one who knew enough of mercy to wear it openly.

Benedict had done as he needed to. He'd acted, without need for absolute force to be set upon him, and more importantly, he'd stayed true to the only order Gabranth had given him. He'd kept her safe, as much as anyone could manage. It does, despite everything, count.

But between them, it resolves nothing.

His armor is scorched from spent ozone, an obvious heaviness to his stride across his left leg where adrenaline hasn't entirely dulled sensation: and yet at a glance, he looks entirely unharmed thanks to that all-encompassing visage. No blood— if he'd even sustained any deeper damage— visible against a color so intentionally dark, clearly meant to serve that exact purpose. He walks as tall as ever towards Benedict's location...

...and then past it entirely.

[poleaxed]

Jone is a bit behind Gabranth, and not so keen to ignore a nice rock to sit on. She's been waving at the crowd up the cliff, trying to look like the blood definitely, obviously coloring her armor isn't at all hers.

In truth? She can feel something torn in her shoulder, but it doesn't feel right to be ruinous. She's pretty sure it stopped bleeding.

She sits next to Ben, and watches Gabranth's cape flutter behind him.

"His loss," Jone says, pulling out an oilskin. It contains water, warmed by the fight, but still a welcome comfort. She hands it off to Ben once she's had a bit for herself. "I reckon you did better than I, me first time."

[altusimperius]

Feeling his heart squeeze as Gabranth strides past, Benedict almost doesn't take the water from Jone. It's only when he realizes how thirsty he is that he grudgingly does, with a muttered 'thanks', and takes a drink from it.

"My job was easier than yours," he admits after a moment, handing the oilskin back. Somebody's in a Sulk.

wildcard, fight me.

[poleaxed]

After she's been healed up, after her armor's been packed away, after they're on the road again, she maneuvers a bit closer to Benedict on the path they tread. It's downhill, and the pack-horse behind her seems content to follow her lead.

She needs to check on some things.

"Oi, lad," she says, voice as gentle as it gets, which effectively means raspy. "How you been sleeping, in the great bloody outdoors?"

has there not been enough violence

[altusimperius]

Though he's never an exceptionally loud or effusive person, Benedict has been downright taciturn, quietly and avoidantly going about his business apart from the rest of the group, answering in monosyllabic grunts and otherwise avoiding conversation.

It's likely obvious to anyone who knows him even a little bit that he's completely up in his own head, barely able to focus on anything but his ruminating long enough to speak a sentence, but he's self-sufficient enough in packing up his things and getting himself on the way when they set off again.

Even then, he walks by himself, a figurative raincloud hovering over him with every step.
Jone's appearance at his side changes none of this, but when he murmurs a "fine," he sounds almost apologetic.

[poleaxed]

Jone pats his head, idle and thoughtless. "Good," she says.

She doesn't give a wank how he's sleeping, why would she? It's what he does when he's awake that needs watching.

"Need a favor," she says, "advice, like."

[altusimperius]

Now that has his attention.

Focusing on her, Benedict raises his eyebrows in silent query. What the fuck advice could she possibly need from him?

[muckspout]

On the way home, they stop to rest in the same town the bathhouse is in. (Much to Edgard's relief, they do not go back to the bathhouse.) Edgard finds Benedict sitting, staring off into space.

Edgard sits next to him. "You alright?" He says.

[altusimperius]

It takes Benedict a moment to answer. When he does, it’s in the form of a quiet nod at the ground, rather than engage Edgard directly.

[muckspout]

Silence descends. Edgard doesn't immediately respond and the two sit there for a moment.

After a sigh, Edgard smacks him on the arm. (Its friendly.)

"You did well."

[altusimperius]

Though Benedict flinches, it's more from surprise than anything like pain.

"...thanks."

He glances at Edgard out of the corner of his eye, offering the faintest of smiles. It's difficult, going through this with each of them, but he can't be too certain.

"You too."