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

[muckspout]

Edgard folds his arms in front of him and grimaces. He answers cooly.

"Alright. Fine. It's sorted." He seems determined to leave it at that. But then--

"What did this one do? Fold something incorrectly?"

[altusimperius]

“No—“

Benedict stops with a hard sigh out his nose, glaring at Edgard.

“I’m dealing with it. Leave me alone.”

[muckspout]

Edgard meets Benedict's sigh with a sharp one of his own and throws his arms in the air in defeat.

"Leaving you alone."

He finds the nearest rock and sits down on it pointedly facing away from Benedict.

[archademode]

It would be difficult to miss, the sounds of irritation emanating from somewhere over his plated shoulder— his own focus set on tending to the edge of his blade, as once they return to the gathered assembly on the cliffs above, he doubts he’ll have time left to devote to anything else.

And he hears it, just there. The sound of a temper sparked, overtaking guilt or solemnity, or whatever it was that Benedict had held in his stare when he’d met Gabranth’s own for the briefest of seconds. Before Gabranth left him as he was.

This time, he does not.

“Lord Artemaeus.”

That tone. Ever that tone.

[altusimperius]

A tensing of the shoulders, and Benedict turns from Edgard to meet Gabranth's approach, immediately feeling as though he's lost control of the situation once again. The slimy part of him, which he's been doing his best to tamp down, wants to call for Jone and take shelter behind her.

But he resists. He stands back-straight and focused to meet Gabranth, figuring if any of this is to be resolved, it's now or never.

[archademode]

It's Edgard (back turned, shoulders hunched, his moment of victory likely soured by that brief, impatient encounter) who earns Gabranth's attention first, that helmet's empty-socketed stare lingering on him in a way that might seem entirely intentional. There’s something to be said about it, how a man treats those who risk their lives for him.

He looks to Benedict next. Finds his back rigid, his shoulders taut, no shield thrust between them as a barrier for what he no doubt already knows will find him. For what Gabranth himself has to say.

“Some time ago I was warned you would disappoint me,” that this world and its people— for all their flaws— would bring nothing more than disillusionment. “I denied that prediction. I believed it misguided. Untrue.”

What he knows he need not mention in the wake of this admission is the party: the febrile aftermath of it, the transgression that followed. How deeply he was proven wrong, and how that moment had stung for more than just the shame of lost pride.

[altusimperius]

If there were any wind left in Benedict's sails, Gabranth's words effectively suck the rest of it out. He looks appropriately deflated, his shoulders stooped and his face drawn into a miserable frown-- if Edgard hadn't gotten in the way and distracted him, this could be a lot more graceful than it is.

And something about Edgard and Jone bearing witness to this makes it worse, but so be it.

Slowly, Benedict raises his eyes to look into the sockets of Gabranth's helmet. He knows what's coming next.

[archademode]

Silence holds for a moment, another, and then—

“You did well in the fight.”

It’s not gentle, carries nothing of the way that Jone had spoken in soft sympathy or brought his head down to her shoulder. It isn’t sharp as a blade, or harsh as an unintended exchange between feuding friends.

It is, however, painted in stoicism that stands as nothing more than entirely, undeniably sincere. What he says, he says with no embellishments. No flattery. Ever the mouthpiece for the world as he sees it.

For what he believes, more than anything else.

[poleaxed]

From the sidelines with Edgard, Jone shouts, "get on with it, Ben!"

She gives Edgard an expression, combined with open palms, that attempts to convey, can you believe this shit?

[altusimperius]

"..thanks," Benedict is in the middle of saying, when Jone cuts through the word and he flinches in response.
But then, he clears his throat. "...I'm sorry." His voice is low but sincere, his demeanor uncharacteristically humble, like he can't quite bring himself to look back at Gabranth's face, such that it is.
"For what I did. ...and for lying about not being able to come here." His voice is pitched a little more loudly on this confession, no doubt so Edgard can hear it too.

[archademode]

It’s such a loud thing, the sound of silence when Gabranth takes his time mulling over what he’s been told. This, doubly so, as there’s a revelation to be found in Benedict’s admission that he’d also lied.

“...do you understand why I asked you to leave the fete?”

[muckspout]

Edgard quickly scoots around on his rock to face the others, clearly astonished. He elbows Jone good-naturedly in response to her expression.

He laughs a little to himself and then leans his head onto one hand, rapt with attention.

[poleaxed]

Jone's expression, palms still open, suggests she's taking full credit for this, nodding to accept. The only reason she isn't gently clapping Benedict's performance is because she imagines it would spook Gabranth.

[altusimperius]

"...yes."

It might have been a little less sullen of an answer if Edgard weren't making that face, and Jone weren't making that face, and Benedict cuts his gaze to them, no doubt willing them to disappear.

[archademode]

The audience likely isn’t helping draw Benedict any closer to a feeling of relief or resolution— but perhaps it’s better that they’re there to witness it: the whole of a would-be Magister’s efforts to be anything else than that.

Gabranth’s posture shifts, his arms folding. Even without a face to offer in guidance, he looks expectant.

Go on, then, Benedict. Tell him.

[altusimperius]

Oh, this sucks. It's hard not to look at the peanut gallery, and Benedict feels his posture contracting even further as he remains on the spot, rather wishing he could vanish himself and reappear some miles away.

"I was drinking too much," he grumbles, the words barely audible.

[muckspout]

"Speak up, not sure anyone can hear you."

Edgard is trying hard to keep his face stony, but he is really enjoying this. Benedict apologizing and remorseful for his actions is like Satinalia come early.

Edgard puts a hand to his ear and leans forward.

[altusimperius]

"Shut up," Bene hisses.

[muckspout]

"Will if you speak louder." Edgard points out, reasonably.

[poleaxed]

Jone, letting this all take place, feels a bit like a referee. She pats Edgard's shoulder, hushing him gently. She wants to see this, too.

[archademode]

"Endure it." Gabranth barks sternly, with a tilt of his head towards the pair of spectators not far from their side, as if interjected commentary were a painful scrape to be ignored.

"I wanted you prepared. To know what might come, and to be steeled against the losses that would transpire should the unthinkable take shape."

They are, after all, in a world filled with volatile rifts— with demons, with deep earthen peril lingering somewhere beneath their heels. What could be done if the earth split, or the sky shattered, or their enemies set upon them in the heat of battle? Far too little, he imagines.

"You dismissed me. You insulted me, well before we left, though I wonder if you yourself are yet aware of that fact."

[altusimperius]

Another glare at Edgard turns into an imploring look at Jone, but it's clear enough Benedict is on his own here. Enduring. And it's awful, in ways for which he doesn't even entirely have the words: but then, as with before, there is a part of him that recognizes his full capacity to simply walk away, and the fact that he doesn't want to is its own dilemma. He finds, to his agony, that he very much cares what everyone present thinks of him.

So he listens quietly, teeth gritted, the unpleasantness of it written on his terrible-at-lying visage, but there's regret there. And when Gabranth alludes to a previous injury, there's a twitch in Benedict's brow as it knits together. He doesn't remember, or was never aware.

[muckspout]

Edgard initially frowning at first Jone's and then Gabranth's scolding, feels his entertainment drain as he sees Benedict standing there, struggling, clearly upset at this information.

Edgard knows what it is to realize you've messed up without meaning it. He doesn't say a word, but inhales sharply.

He hugs his arms around his body and slouches down, fingers tapping his elbows, fidgety with discomfort on Benedict's behalf.

[poleaxed]

Jone, always a physical person but especially so after killing a dragon, wraps an arm across the dirty expanse of Edgard's shoulders, her head falling someplace near his. She's not sure what's going through Ed's mind, but he doesn't need whatever punishment he's found for himself, not like Ben does.

[archademode]

“The past remains the past.” Hypocritical for him to say, perhaps, but in this matter it remains the resolute, undeniable bottom line.

To have his concern dismissed before masked nobility, to be barked at and prodded— to watch Benedict tremble before something greater than himself, and choose to stand against it for the sake of keeping those invested in him safe. For keeping all present safe, in fact. Nothing is absolute, there is no definitive sin that sends scales toppling. Gabranth himself learned that much long, long ago.

A misstep can always be corrected, no matter how grievous.

“Consider my disappointment forestalled, for however long you choose it to last.”

A beat, before he adds in turning away once more:

“I accept your apology.”