faderift | CLOSED | the perfect stormrider.

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CLOSED | the perfect stormrider.

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.

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Huh. His expression says he’s never thought about it like that before.

“Why not ask one of the wealthy Orlesians in Riftwatch? Maybe Madame d’Asgard would need you.”

She likes hiring people for sketchy shit, he knows from experience.

Jone's immediate flinch may answer that. She likes to think she covers it nicely, but who fucking knows these days. "I've lived in me patron's pocket before, mate, it's naught I'd like to do again."

“...sorry.” Benedict’s smile is sheepish.

“Tell me about the ones you’re considering.”

"Not your fault, mate," Jone says with forced ease. "Don't ever fall in love with Orlesians."

Moving swiftly on!

"Lord Thenuviet hisself, who has no interest in women but does like a good bloodbath. I don't think I'd have to do much to keep him happy, aside from keep winning, which..." She frowns a bit, "getting a bit on in years, me. Then there's his sister, who likes me well enough and I reckon is only doing this to get one over on her brother. Trying to figure which one has less family squabbling, you know?"

“You know,” Bene muses, his spirits raising bit by bit, “you could probably get the most out of one by letting them know the other wants you too.”

"Play 'em off each other?" She sounds impressed, and then skeptical. "I'll be honest, mate, I don't think I'm clever enough."

He shrugs.
“I don’t think I would be either,” he gently admits, “it’s just a thought.”

She pats his shoulder, "appreciate the thought."

It's always novel when someone assumes her to have, oh, average intelligence, much less the amount found in players of the Game.

"Don't think the sister has any interest in me, truly," Jone says, "but that might be good. Might mean she'd just sign me bills and fuck off."

Edited (a wyrd) 2021-04-13 11:52 (UTC)

"Ideal, I suppose," Bene muses, having never had a patron or any need for one-- though now that he's a typical working man without access to his parents' riches, maybe that's not such a bad idea.

But, first things first.

"Thanks, um." He looks down at his feet as they walk, suddenly shy, "for asking me."
It doesn't take a lot of social cleverness to see right through that to 'thanks for talking to me at all when I'm feeling vulnerable', but sentimentality isn't the strong suit of either of them.

She pats his shoulder once again. "Looked like you needed to have your mind on something daft. Lucky me, always ready for pointless conversation."

He smiles faintly, bumping his shoulder against hers, some of the tension seeping out of him.

"I suppose I thought you'd all be through with me now."

"You really shouldn't underestimate how bloody stubborn I am, lad," she says, laughter slight in the back of her throat. "You could get rid of me, but you'd have to really put in an effort. None of this accident nonsense."

The smile grows, self-conscious though it may be.
"Well, I don't want to get rid of you." He squares his shoulders, feeling as though he's treading carefully, afraid to dip his feet too deeply into whatever emotional vulnerability is lurking beneath them.

"...I'm afraid Gabranth--" he begins, and cuts himself off, shaking his head at the ground.
"...I don't want to get rid of him either."

"Gabranth..." Jone frowns, sighs, tries to decide what to say. She still doesn't trust Benedict not to open his gob to anyone he deems interesting, including Gabranth, so she has to craft her words without actually confiding anything.

Diplomacy ain't no joke.

"You know all the stories you grew up on? True knights and beautiful princesses?" A moment, wait, "well, we grew up on those in Ferelden, at least."

"I did too," Benedict says with a nod, "well-- sort of. Sometimes." When his nanny could sneak them in between the usual tales of superpowered mages.

"...he's a proper knight. Not like a Templar." Which, if anyone asks, are Shit Knights.

"Mm, he is," Jone says, maybe a little too quickly. "His whole world is like that, proper knights and all. Try and be your best for him, and you won't lose him."

And then she pokes his shoulder, a bit hard. "And when you can't be your best, explain why and sodding apologize. Nobody's perfect, but the real twats are the ones who hurt folk without a thought."

"Ow," he breathes, clapping a hand to the spot to rub where she poked him, "I know."
There's a bit of a sulk lingering there in the set of his brow, but it's still too soon after his dressing-down for a proper attitude.

"I'll try."

"That's a good lad," she says, feeling as though she may be giving him too much credit, but... there's only so much she can do for a person, and Benedict's well past the point of being a child. If she ever thought about it, she'd be angry-- why does he get so many second chances when she never got any?

But that's the way of it, so she endures. And it's easier, when people smile and laugh. "Thank you for coming on this trip with us, lad," she says, "even if you didn't want to."

If ever she were to voice that anger, she might find that he feels similarly; there's a source for all the guilt suddenly welling in him, and a not insignificant amount of it can be chalked up to that lag.

"I'm glad I did," he says quietly, relaxing again, "...I'm glad you asked me." At the moment, all he wants to do is go smoke himself into a blissful sleep, but there's a long foot journey ahead of them and that's not going to happen anytime soon.
"...it's nice to get out of the Gallows, sometimes."

She laughs. "Remember that, next time you're scared. That it were good. That everybody lived. That's me big advice, one fighter to another."

Bene nods, smiling a bit more in response to Jone's laugh. It's a good feeling, and it's begun to seep a little deeper into the anxiety gripping him.

He's silent for a few moments, as they walk. But then, with trepidation, "...can I ask a favor?"

"You can try," Jone says, voice sly. She thinks better of it almost immediately. "I'll do what I can, but I haven't much influence, truly."

He laughs weakly; it's hardly anything so lofty.

"Can you just..." He's speaking entirely to his shoes at this point, "...can you hug me again?"

Jone grabs him, hands around his chest, and uses considerable strength to spin him around as she holds him near in a bone crushing embrace. It's meant to be the most embarrassing thing possible; he can take it.

It's funny, and a little alarming, so he laughs again; but he also reciprocates, putting his arms around Jone's back with a grip as needy and childlike as... well, as he feels.
Far from embarrassed, Benedict feels a wash of relief and gratitude as he rests his head against Jone's shoulder. It's amazing, the difference a little physical touch can make.

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poleaxed - 2021-04-13 19:37 (UTC) - Expand

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