faderift | OPEN | Messages from broken bottles fall on black sandy beaches

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OPEN | Messages from broken bottles fall on black sandy beaches

WHO: Allumin and YOU!
WHAT: A fresh new rifter arrival & Quarantine time (+ A little bit after)
WHEN: ~~Backdated to early-to-mid August (so he can partake in tourney time)~~ just the WHOLE MONTH, really
WHERE: Vinmark Mountains, Gallows
NOTES: info page here and permissions/opt-out here - some spiciness happening in the bene thread

i. Arrival / early in the month (this ended up so long, i thank anyone who reads this) - to skip dream segment, go to (@)

It would come as no surprise to Allumin that his dreams would lean the way they do considering the events leading up to sleep, and it's a welcome break from his usual nightmares. It's actually probably better it wasn't his usual nightmares that brought him here filled with black sand and being hunted, but that doesn't mean the dream doesn't give him a measure of anxiousness regardless. Instead he unfortunately gets to relive the greatest hits of his Embarrassing Moments with Diabhall Minett, famous arcane architect and long-time crush. Learning that his curiosity and attraction to the man predated his void vacation and resulting amnesia from his brother's weary sigh as they saw each other again for the first time in 13 years is part of this wonderful collection as well. Great!

There's the lovely moment where he was pranked into drinking blood from a wine glass at a masquerade party... Finding the sketch he'd done of Diabhall from a lecture at the Observatory and how it had been tucked until the rug of his room and then later hearing from Diabhall himself that he'd investigated the room after Allumin's disappearance and saw the sketch. Of course, offering the man a funnel cake after a spontaneous encounter during the attempt to liberate his falsely imprisoned friend and fumbling in such a way that Diabhall ended up wearing powdered sugar and funnel cake as a result of his clumsiness. And then… the family dinner.

His brother's offhand joke about spilling mashed potatoes all over Diabhall, who happened to be a guest at the reunion dinner with his family haunted him that whole day and he'd hoped against hope that there would be none at dinner (there were). He did not, in fact, accidentally spill anything all over the object of his attraction but the fear he'd felt was so strong that now he gets to live with his brain being like "hey, but what if you had?"

He could be having nightmares about almost being killed by a professional hitman or the newly learned implication that he's probably a living tether of the void plane to the material plane and that may end up destroying him from the inside, but no. No… It's funnel cake and mashed potatoes, and his unfortunate butterfingers dropping them as he tries to give them to Diabhall Minett…

(@) And then it's not - or it is, and isn't - as something unsettles him from outside of the dream, like waking up to a spider crawling on your arm or something akin to it. The deep roar and rumbling of heavy footsteps on the earth beneath him however is definitely not a spider, and he snaps awake on the sandy ground of somewhere completely foreign to him with a plate of mashed potatoes to one side and a funnel cake on the other.

His little drawing of Diabhall is also here, drifting on the wind in an almost lackadaisical fashion, until… it lands on the chest of the source of what pulled him out of his dream. If it were anything other than what it was, he would be grateful. Unfortunately, whatever it is is big, very intimidating, and like no demon of the seven hells he's ever seen in books. Overhead, a green glowing mass(?) of some kind shifts and crackles with energy, and if he were of a mind to simply not panic he might theorize that it was a portal responsible for bringing him wherever he is.

He is not, in fact, of another mind at the moment though, terror plain on his face as he scrambles to his feet and starts to run from the towering horned creature and the foods of his embarrassment. He tries to pat himself down as he runs (thankfully dressed but not in what he'd worn to bed…?), trying to find his wand on his person in his panic before his hand meets the bag hanging from the belts on his waist. Oh, right, in his bag! He fumbles with getting it open to reach inside and fetch it while running, made worse by the way the ground shakes under the footfalls of the demon(??) behind him, the pain in his left hand (which has some Concerns of their own he can't think about right now), and enough sand to make traction on the more solid ground underneath tricky to find. After managing to get his wand out from his bag, he tries to stop and turn to cast something to distract, maybe slow the creature chasing him down for enough time he can at least find somewhere to hide until it's safe. What ends up happening is not so graceful as he'd hoped, sliding along the sand and falling over somewhat on his knees.

Oh boy, that thing is so close and so big and could probably crush him in one hand -- there's no time to scramble to his feet he thinks, so instead he just tries to cast something from his awkward and undignified position. He focuses on Snowball Swarm - maybe it would also kick up some of the sand in its flurry of snow and be enough to keep the imminent danger occupied to escape - and follows through with the incantation in Sylvan, raising his wand to gesture out in practiced fluidity the movements to cast it.

...

Nothing happens.

Oh no.

ii. Courtyard, night

[The insomnia isn't new. He's not sure if that should be a relief or not, that it's consistent and familiar or that he should be bothered that he can't sleep. But, rather than dwell on it, he decides to borrow a couple of books from the library and go out to the courtyard to read under the night sky. The cool air helps him to feel calm at least, and reading is something productive he can do with his time if he's going to be awake anyway.

He gets rather into it too, his attention fully on the book for about an hour until he hears the cracking of loose bits of rock underfoot on the stone ground of the courtyard break the silence that he had become acclimated to that everything outside himself and the book was briefly oblivion. His head snaps up in alarm at the sound, staring directly up at whoever is the source of the sound. And then he sighs, an "oh" of relief carried on it out of his lungs.]

You startled me - sorry, is it too late for me to be out here? I can go back to bed, I just couldn't sleep, so...

[ If you prefer brackets over prose or vice versa and a starter is written the opposite of your preference, please feel free to switch to that! I have no problem following suit. Also, if you'd like a custom starter please let me know! I can be reached through this journal, at

assbanditkirk, or discord at subjectredacted#6534. I had intended to also have a Training starter but this ended up longer than I planned. If you'd still like to do that though, I'd be happy to write one up for you! ]

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He relaxes a bit knowing for sure he has the right person. Allumin's hand wraps around his delicately, firm pressure solely in the press of his fingers but otherwise a gentle grip. He gives a small bow with the handshake.

"How could you tell?" It's a joke, as he catches the nod to the bit of anchor in his hand.

"I put a lot of work into blending in today." Meanwhile, the gold embroidery on the yoke of his undershirt catches the light of the morning sun. Yes, very casual, normal clothing for training in.

"I see that." It's a bit of a dig, but a gentle one-- getting this dressed up and smelling this nice to come out to the training pitch bespeaks either unshakeable confidence or a person having no intention of doing anything physical, which he himself learned the hard way.

And he has noticed the ears, but they mean a lot less to him than they might have, some years ago. Sometimes elves are tall, these days.

Returning his hand to the grip of his staff, he gives it a loose little spin.

"Have you come out here to train, or to bask in my glorious presence?

...either answer is acceptable."

If you only knew, Benedict. This isn't even his final form. If he had the same resources available here as he did before, he'd probably be even more dressed up. These are his casual clothes back home.

He does take a moment to admire the deftness with which Benedict moves his staff. Half of his gaze his awe and half of it is trying to calculate the movements and understand how to emulate them.

"And how acceptable would it be if I said both?"

Highly, judging by how Benedict seems to light up; ahh, casual flattery, has it been that long?
Noticing Allumin's gaze, he gives the staff another cursory twirl, not wanting to let go of the moment that quickly.

"Well. I won't fault you." He may be dressed in commoner's clothes-- and there's not much he can do about that-- but his hair is, at least, very shiny.

"You'll have to see about training with one of those two over there," he continues, defaulting to a more businesslike tone, gesturing across the yard to a tall redheaded woman and a heavyset older fellow, both currently occupied with their own tasks, "since. Well. ...she's training me."
Let it be said that, at the very least, he is modest enough to not claim to be an expert with a polearm.

"But once you get started, we can spar. ...or if you'd rather do something else entirely..." He looks away innocently.

He does cut an impressive figure despite his attire, or at least Allumin thinks so. And Allumin does continue to watch, perhaps with more intensity than one normally would, and his eyes go absolutely everywhere to take in Benedict's form.

Then his gaze follows over to where directed, at least taking a moment to commit to memory the people who handle training here. It does not linger there for very long though, as he returns his attention to his handsome new acquaintance shortly after.

His ears turn a bit red at the conscious acknowledgement in his own mind of Benedict's attractiveness. And he knows the implication is likely more about their particularly devious kind of magic, but it's just vague and suggestive enough to make his cool begin to unravel already.

"Well," he clears his throat, trying to get a handle on himself, "I had hoped, perhaps, um--" oh how does he say this... His hands clasp together in front of him, fidgeting as he tries to find words that sound clever. "To engage in a more, ah, bewitching? activity?"

Nailed it.

Is that slip of the blouson to reveal the golden skin of his shoulder intentional? Certainly.

It's nice to have a complexion that doesn't redden easily, he notes at the sight of Allumin's ears. This is the kind of fun he hasn't had in far too long.

"You mean cursing people?" He cants his head toward the elf, eyebrows raised. "That'll make us popular. Unless you mean each other, in which case."

For the first time, his grace gives way to a rawer expression, a twitch of anxiety or even fear.
"...no."

The blush definitely creeps its way onto Allumin's cheeks. He's all timidity and bashfulness at first, what with the awkward way he tried to be subtle about asking, but then...

He catches the change in Benedict's expression and so to does his one to a more devious and somewhat wicked one as a smile finds its way to his lips.

"Oh, what's that look for? I haven't even done anything. Yet."

That smile, as intriguing as it is unnerving, almost has Benedict blushing-- but he turns away before Allumin can notice, beginning to go through his stances while they converse.

"If your magic is anything like mine, it's not something you just practice. Not on..."
There was something he was about to say, which gives him pause, and he moves past it with a little shake of his head.
"...well not on other people."

His definition of 'people' has, perhaps, changed somewhat over the years.

Edited 2021-08-27 22:29 (UTC)

"Not with that attitude."

It's said as a joke but there's definitely something behind it that implies this guy does not have a squeaky clean slate. Paired with the slightly sinister nature of his grin from a moment before and one could begin to paint a picture that the anxious young man from the crystal communication is really only the surface level of him.

"You said we could compare notes. If you're afraid of a temporary little curse - which by the way, I wouldn't even do the worst I could, it'd be something harmless, funny at most, -" he says, which is not really a consolation after his earlier joke, "then I don't mind being on the receiving end to make my own observations and provide you with them."

"Funny?"

Turning to look back over his shoulder at Allumin, Benedict is clearly skeptical, perhaps even mildly affronted. His bearing is regal and proud, and there's a curl in his lip rather like a housecat's when it smells something unpleasant.

"I've just met you," he says primly, tossing his head to flip a few errant strands of hair out of his eyes, "I'm not going to hex you. I don't even know if you could withstand it, you're a Rifter."
Tough talk, perhaps, but there is maybe a tiny amount of validity to that.

"Well I could just make you clumsy for a moment - tame as curses go, but effective in combat. The alternative effect is if I hit you, I could make it hurt worse than just on my own strength." He casually omits the fact that it's necrotic damage which does mean mild tissue decay. But nothing that couldn't be patched up with some healing and some rest.

"And who better to test out the effect of your magic on a Rifter than an arcane scholar?"

Afraid of death in combat, but when it comes to magic and science? There is not nearly as much self-preservation in the pursuit of knowledge.

On that opinion they differ. Sensing that he's losing the upper hand, Benedict's face gives another little flicker of unease-- he's trying his best not to fully collapse and admit how he truly feels about suffering in the face of scholarly improvement, and he's trying even harder not to let even the thought process show.
His efficacy is limited.

"I," he says loftily, his low and silky tenor giving a little hitch, causing him to immediately cover it by clearing his throat, "don't want to."

He is, admittedly, a bit disappointed and it shows. He was really looking forward to the opportunity and unfortunately is having trouble reconciling with the rejection despite being fully willing to be a target in this situation.

But, then he has to remember that his most recent spell-casting experiences have been purely antagonistic combat where consent is not a concern. In education, there is still the boundary that both parties must be willing or else it's unethical. So, while downcast about it, he relents.

"Very well then." He takes in a breath, trying to appear totally fine and not sad at all about it. It's not really working, but he tries. "Well, if I haven't entirely put you off my company then I can simply admire you while you train."

His reaction is noted, at least, a stillness coming over Benedict's expression before he ducks his head in a little nod and takes a deep breath, deciding to start fresh.
"Let's go have a coffee," Bene decides instead, resting the practice staff against a bench for the next person to pick up. "You can admire me while I brew it, instead."

It's almost time for work, anyway, which means preparing coffee for Byerly and himself. And a third, perhaps.

Oh - he wasn't expecting that, but he is relieved to see it. He'd worried after making Benedict uncomfortable that perhaps he'd botched this attempt at starting, at the bare minimum, a friendly associate connection.

"That sounds lovely," he says, happy to accept the invitation. Considering the odd hours of his sleep schedule and having been up since nightfall, coffee sounds really nice about now.

Beckoning lightly, Benedict leads Allumin from the training pitch to the functioning kitchens, already steaming and full of activity for the day ahead. He cuts a path through a slew of occupied bodies, none of whom pay him any mind, as his presence in the morning has become standard.

A row of empty kettles greets them near the hearth, and Benedict selects one with 'DIPLOMACY' written neatly in wax across its metal surface. Only after he's turned to fill it from the nearby water basin, and hung it on a hook over the fire, does he turn to look at Allumin again. His expression is less smug now-- he's on the job, and no doubt hoping the newcomer will forget his reaction to the idea of magical sparring.

Without delay, he follows. He tries to keep a close pace to Benedict in passing through, but definitely has a couple moments of that wonderful phenomenon where you end up in someone else's path and when you both try to go around each other you just end up almost walking into each other again. It is enough to completely remove all traces of previous thoughts and feelings into crowd anxiety, arms tucked up near his chest as if ready to pat his chest in any sort of way that would help.

When Benedict turns to him, he happens to catch Allumin, arm up to cover his face, mid-yawn.

"Please excuse me, I haven't slept - well, I did, a bit, but I was up all night," he tries to say immediately following, in a hope that Benedict won't assume that he's bored of the company now that there won't be any sort of magic action this morning.

Of course he notices, and can't resist commenting.
"Am I boring you that much?" Benedict asks, smirking slightly as he bends to withdraw two jars of coffee beans from a shelf below the counter: one of them is labeled BYERLY, and the other is unlabeled. He begins to scoop some out from the unlabeled jar, pouring them into a hand-grinder.

"First pot's ours," he explains, "he won't be in for another hour or so anyway."

"No! No, I've just been up since sundown yesterday." For absolutely no reason at all, don't say anything.

"I had some things I needed to prepare for this morning, so." Allumin, stop talking. Shhh. He tries to swallow down the nervous over-sharing bubbling up from within him. Benedict's smirk does not help matters, making his already nervous heart flutter and a blush return to his cheeks. He tries to keep his eyes from getting lost in such a charming expression, looking downward to observe the process as he makes coffee for them, but his eyes keep wandering upward and over Benedict instead.

Stressing him out is cute, Bene decides, and there's amusement glinting in his eyes as he glances briefly at Allumin and then refocuses on grinding the coffee.

"What things?" he asks, knowing full well what, but feigning ignorance in light of wanting to hear it anyway.

"Um, ah, well, just, hm," he stammers, struggling to find some clever and subtle way around outright admitting it was all just to get ready to meet him. "Laundry?”

It's... Not wrong.

But also what normal person needs to do laundry at midnight? Instant regret, a stupid attempt at evasion.

His gaze lands on Benedict's hands and linger there, watching them work as he attends to the coffee. Maybe committing the shape and detail of them to memory, who can say?

"Strange priorities." Grind, grind, now that he's got the upper hand again, Benedict is cool as a cucumber.

"But cleanliness is important, I suppose." Satisfied by the state of the grounds, he prepares the urn and pours them onto the cloth. "Have you been to the baths yet?"
He glances up with the express purpose of catching Allumin's eye before he can look away.

"I have, yes," is already out of his mouth to calculate his response because hygiene has always been very important to him for perfectly good ~~vain~~ reasons, like common sense. Allumin's gaze breaks away from staring at Benedict's hands and up towards instinctive eye contact, where it's definitely clear when they connect that the elf is trying to play it cool and absolutely failing at it.

"Why? I thought I was --" And once again before his brain can even stop him, his hand has already clutched the collar of his own shirt to pull it open enough to perform a smell check on himself despite the fact that he spent a good hour getting clean and a good many more getting fully ready after that.

And then he freezes, absolutely caught with no way to get out of it now.

It's almost too precious, and Benedict actually laughs slightly, his power growing by the moment. This is what it used to be like, to be him.

"Because they're nice," he explains, retrieving the kettle from the fireplace so he can pour the hot water over the grounds, "not because you stink. Although--"
He cranes his neck forward to get a proper whiff, also perhaps just to invade Allumin's space a little, "is that lemon?"

It's difficult to tell whether he considers that good or bad.

Edited 2021-08-30 19:53 (UTC)

When Benedict leans in, every visible part of Allumin's skin reddens - face, ears, neck, the little peek of his clavicle, all of it. There's a small, shaky gasp as well, and the hand that had been holding the collar of his shirt is now desperately pressed against his own chest in an attempt to keep his heart inside it because it feel like it may jump out at any given moment.

"Lemon-adjacent, a-actually," he says in almost a whisper.

There's something carnal that cracks open an eye within Allumin's body at being smelled by someone, and he swallows, trying to tell it to go back to sleep.

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