[open] I feel calamity whisper

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict & you
WHAT: livin' that wartime life back on the home front
WHEN: Solace, over the course of the modplot
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: feel free to request specific prompts if what's here doesn't suit you!

I. Diplomacy office

Receiving, sorting, answering correspondence; following up on important dates, of which there are seemingly countless these days; making and delivering coffee; taking dictation, recording meetings, making lists; cross-referencing names and locations as requested, labeling markers on a map; there's hardly time to breathe.
It's been some days now since Benedict has had a proper sleep or sit-down, spending his days and nights scrambling after Byerly, seeing to the many minuscule needs of a Diplomacy office when its Forces and Scouting counterparts have fallen off the face of the world.
He doesn't begrudge Byerly-- in fact, for the first time since starting to work for him, Benedict is as quick to snap to his needs as a seasoned valet.
When not hunched over his desk in the office itself, he can frequently be found scurrying to and fro with this or that missive, list, or directive, if not just the latest pot of coffee.

He'll stop for a few moments to chat, but only if it's important.

Ia. for Byerly

With the Diplomacy office's activity having thinned out for the day, the room looks like a hurricane hit it-- this likely includes its denizens, although one of them has stepped out to retrieve more coffee, despite the darkened sky and the guttering candles.
It's an automatic motion, setting the cup on Byerly's desk, but Benedict actually looks at him for the first time in a while, and furrows his brow.

"...how long have you been here, today?"



II. The Off Hours

Going to bed just isn't cutting it anymore. Benedict can lie facedown on his mattress for the hours he's able to take to himself, but amidst the racing thoughts and the day's anxieties, sleep just isn't happening.

It's at these times that he drags himself out of bed and ascends the tower to the room where his hookah lives, long abandoned by either Athessa or Colin, but he can't let himself think about that. He smokes, and lies there staring at the ceiling, and sometimes he sleeps.

After a while, he can be found there nearly every night, either unconscious or trying to be amidst the haze of elfroot smoke.


III. Wildcard

Comments

ii. off hours

[kantikoy]

The stairs creak; it's very late, or perhaps just edging on early, and Adrasteia has come up because she'd come across the room some weeks ago and decided to bring whatever otherwise unusable scraps of elfroot to be used by whomever frequents the room.

She'd expected it to be empty; she's not exactly shocked to find it isn't. Stressful times, and all of that.

Still, she doesn't want to startle him too badly, and so the elf raps quietly on the doorframe to announce her arrival.

[altusimperius]

The smoke has long dissipated, Benedict lying prone and snoozing on a pile of pillows with the hose still clutched in his hand, though he jolts awake gently at the sound of the knock. He focuses blearily on the figure in the doorframe, rubbing at his eyes and rather expecting to be called off to some duty or another.

[kantikoy]

"Sorry," Adrasteia whispers, both in consideration of the hour and because her voice is shot, also. She gestures at the hookah with one hand, the other pulling out a pouch from the inner pockets of her robes. "Do you mind?"

Seemed a better idea to ask him from here than to get too close and startle him into maybe breaking something. Like himself, or the hookah.

[altusimperius]

He doesn't seem inclined to break either, still too tired (and possibly too stoned) to do much more than lift his head. Following her gaze, Benedict looks from Adrasteia to the hookah and back, then gives a little nod of assent.

He stifles a yawn with the back of his hand.

[bouchonne]

"Today," says Byerly, taking the coffee, "is a dreadfully relative term, isn't it?"

He doesn't look his dapper self - his eyes are red-rimmed, the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw and neck. He has the faint jitter of someone who isn't just using coffee to stay awake, though it's clear enough he knows how to hold his stimulants, as his behavior hasn't crossed over into erratic. It's funny how much he likely looks like the man that Benedict first met, rather than the more respectable figure he's been cutting lately.

"Did you ever hear the one about the man who always promised to pay his debts tomorrow?"

[altusimperius]

"They caught up with him and he died," Benedict sighs, "somehow. I've heard a few versions."
Glancing over the mess that is Byerly's desk, he shakes his head.

"If you don't rest soon, you're going to start writing nonsense. If you haven't already."

[bouchonne]

"Oh, I've been doing that for months," he says, and then laughs a laugh that's just a little edgy. Then he sighs, and rubs his eyes.

And then he asks, suddenly - "If they catch up with you. What will happen?"

[altusimperius]

The directness of the question sends a chill down Benedict's spine, even if he can't entirely place why.

"They-- my creditors?" He forces a smile, we're joking here, and he can only hope Byerly is too out of it to really want to have This Conversation.

ii.

[cozen]

The hookah lives on Bastien's floor. Athessa used to live on Bastien's floor, too, and whoever the hookah belongs to, she's the one he associates with the smell of smoke wafting out from under that door.

More awake he would know better. But he's tired, too, and spending most of his scattered nights in the Gallows sleeping in the Jeshavis office, so the first night he returns to his own room and catches the scent—he hopes.

He opens the door without knocking, looks at Benedict there alone, and says, "Oh."

There's no disappointment on his face. He controls it better than that, all the time, even exhausted, without having to try. But he does lean against the door frame in a way that one could argue is defeated.

[altusimperius]

It's never been unusual for Bastien to pop in and say hello while Athessa was here, so Benedict isn't surprised by his appearance any more than he would be by Vanadi's or any of her other attachments.

He feels that 'oh' in his chest, however, and quirks a sympathetic little smile, lifting the hose slightly to waggle it at Bastien, enticing him inside if he should want to partake.

[cozen]

His pause is very short, but it is a pause—a pause while the two wolves inside him, one a rule-abiding suck-up square and the other an easily-tempted knave, gnash their teeth at each other for a moment.

Then Bastien steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He’s taking the hose, sitting down. But his inhale isn’t as deep as it looks. (Losing less of his mind than a target, while appearing to keep up, was an important skill.)

How are you? would be a stupid question. Instead, while he hands the hose back: “This sucks.”

[altusimperius]

A single nod punctuates the sentiment as Bene takes the hose, drawing from it as deeply as he dares and then passing it back as he lets his head drop back onto one of the pillows.

"Peace and quiet are proving more and more difficult to find," he muses in weary calm; present company excluded, of course, as Bastien is not known to be any manner of disruptor.

for Edgard

[altusimperius]

It's one of those nights where Benedict is trying to sleep in his own bed, and utterly failing; he came in late, flopped down, and has done nothing but continue flopping since then, with the restless air of someone who cannot seem to force his eyes to remain closed.

It's probably not that distracting for most, but if Edgard in the adjacent bed has woken up for any reason, Benedict's thrashing will not make it any easier to fall back unconscious.

[muckspout]

With every flop, Edgard sighs pointedly and his sighs get louder until he pulls off his socks, rolls the up and throws them at Benedict.

"Be still!" He says sternly. "Please!"

[altusimperius]

With a little gasp as he's stricken by socks, Benedict raises his head to look over at Edgard.

"Sorry," he whispers, "am I--" And then stills himself, because he is quite obviously keeping him awake.

[muckspout]

"Yes." He says grumpily from under a blanket. "You are."

He then rolls over. A full minute's silence passes and then Edgard sighs, resigned and flops over to face Benedict.

"Something wrong?"

for Gabranth

[altusimperius]

A certain contingent of Riftwatch mission-goers is due back today, and Benedict is waiting for one of them in particular.
Figuring he'll grant some time for bathing and rest, it's later that evening that he's parked himself in the dining hall, bent over some manner of diplomacy busywork that needs getting done, passing the time until Gabranth arrives.

crawls out from under the weight of my inbox

[archademode]

The war front is done— at least to some manner of satisfaction. Riftwatch's presence thins out of necessity, the matter of recovery vital for much of its assets.

In truth, it does make sense, shifting to an alternating pattern of assignments and deployments. Better to ensure they do not overextend, and tax themselves beyond repair.

Gabranth finds him in short order, one hand fitted listlessly across the pommel of his sword. Relaxed.

"Lord Artemaeus."

[altusimperius]

Lifting his head, Benedict smiles mutedly; everyone is tired, everyone is busy, and although he's quite glad to see Gabranth, he doesn't want to frighten him off with a barrage of questions or nagging concerns.

"You're back," is all he says instead, and motions for him to sit down.

for Cassius

[altusimperius]

It's early morning, and the emissaries from Riftwatch have loaded back into their carriage to make the long trek back home to Kirkwall. The trip has been a whole lot of nothing, save for the parties and the desperate, fruitless wheedling for information, which has resulted in probably the most anticlimactic journey home Benedict has ever experienced.

It's not actually that bad-- he's been able to sleep properly, at least-- but it's difficult not to feel as though this their own personal failure.

"Why come," he echoes in a mutter once the carriage starts moving, letting his forehead thunk against the windowframe. It's pre-dawn yet, the world bathed in blue-grey mist.

[satinet]

It is early morning.

It is in fact far too early in the morning for Enchanter Black's tastes, and he has already positioned himself into one of the carriage's corners and shut his eyes in the apparent hope that he might be well rid of it for at least a few hours more. One of them neither considers himself a failure or particularly well rested, thank you.

He strictly does not open his eyes to say,

"Come now, Benedict. I refuse to believe that was the worst party you've ever attended. You've been with Riftwatch for some time, haven't you?"

He's seen the party planning budget for the Gallows. It's hardly expansive.

[altusimperius]

Angling his head to eye Cassius through half-lidded slits, Benedict sizes him up. It's hard to say whether he makes a better Seneschal than Salvio, or just a bad one in the opposite direction.
What does a Seneschal even do, anyway.

"Much worse," he grudgingly replies, "but closer to home, at least." A pause, then, he has to ask-- "you get that we failed, don't you?"

Towards the end of this shit

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly is asleep at his desk, a half-written letter under his curled hand. This is a sleep of impossibly deep exhaustion, one that's motionless, almost breathless; he doesn't stir or react to sound or motion, just stays there, flat on his face.

The letter is in code, but the keys to the cypher are still sitting before him. If one were to take that cypher to decode the message - which, if one were a member of the diplomacy division, one might be well-positioned to do, as Byerly often has his division use similar types of codes - one might read the following:

Report: Solace 20
Operative: Ponticello

Circumstances worsen. Some hope comes from Vael's advance, but our lines are weak and the Free Marches imperiled. Refugees likely to begin moving South soon. I intend to send refugee ships to West Hill. The greatest danger comes from the reckless foolhardiness the Rifters and researchers have shown in their development of technologies; in the event of evacuation, a contingent will need to stay behind to destroy all

And there it ends, where Byerly apparently couldn't hold his head up any longer. ]

[altusimperius]

[A peace has settled over the office, relief finding its way into Benedict's mind as Byerly finally sleeps, and does so in a way that is likely to actually refresh him. The man has been unnaturally alert and for far too long-- it's nice to know he's not going to keel over from a heart attack, especially considering they've made it through all of this without Benedict being fired or retroactively executed.

He's doing his best to organize all their documents, taking Byerly's incapacitated state as an excuse to clean up his desk a little bit, maybe put things in neat little piles to surprise him when he wakes up; and normally he wouldn't look twice at what the Ambassador is writing, but the code and its cipher are right there. Perhaps he can finish it off, if it's time sensitive.

A cursory glance at the first two lines reveals a word he doesn't recognize, and that alone gives him pause; his first instinct is to walk away, to return to his desk and pretend he didn't see it.

But he did.

He goes downstairs to have dinner and ponder the issue, then returns afterward to check on Byerly, and, finding him still sleeping, can't resist the pull of his curiosity.
Returning to stand behind the Ambassador, he peers over his shoulder to puzzle together a few more words: they're innocuous enough, nothing everyone doesn't already know, and that makes it all the more strange-- almost as though a coded message is being sent to someone entirely removed from Riftwatch.

After going through what he can make out of the letter using only his mind and eyes, Benedict shakes his head and returns to his desk to eat while he works. And he waits, some deep down part of him not wanting to leave Byerly alone here until he's fully conscious.]

[bouchonne]

[ By wakes by degrees, hot and grimy and unsatisfied by that sleep. He swallows hard, trying to clear the dryness from his mouth - no success. Tries again. Shakes his head, and lifts it -

Finds his correspondence to his spymaster here, out in the open, on his desk. For anyone to find.

Shit.

It's telling that the first thing By does, even before taking stock of his surroundings, is to go to conceal that letter. To slide it under other papers, to close his book of cyphers. And only then does he lift his head - and he meets Benedict's eyes, and the tension on his face is plain. ]