faderift | [closedish]

Diabhall, it must be admitted, is himself not one for socializing when he can make the choice not to. The dining hall is crowded for his tastes, and he immediately reels, searching for a corner where he might find some relative peace.

Luckily for him, there is someone reading quietly over on the fringes - and with his sketchbook under his own arm, he figures perhaps that might suit. Crossing the room with his meal, he feels...overstimulated, yes, that's it, overstimulated by the throngs of loud, chattering people. By the time he takes a seat nearby Benedict, he lets out a breath he isn't sure why he had been holding, brows furrowing a little in confusion at himself.

More anomalies. He really does need to see someone about potential brain damage.

It's rare that people just come over and sit down, with the exception of a few-- Benedict isn't a pariah, necessarily, but saying he's unpopular is something of an understatement.

So it's with a raised brow that he lifts his head to look at the newcomer, and clocks that he hasn't seen him before.
He offers a little grunt in greeting.

It takes the greeting a moment to reach Diabhall, lost in his own thoughts - and then a moment longer to realize he is being addressed. He shakes himself a little, giving a curt little nod in return.

"...I beg your pardon. I hope you don't mind my sitting here."

If Benedict has a reputation, he more than certainly doesn't know what it is. He saw a quiet man with a book, and that's where his thought had begun and ended.

"Oh. ...no." Giving a little shrug, Benedict takes a bite of his meal and considers the stranger for a moment before glancing toward his shard and giving a little nod.

"Rifter?"

"Even without the Anchor I'm certain it must be obvious," he returns, tone detached. Now that he has regained the composure that he most certainly did not lose in any way, he is strangely stoic, resting his hands lightly atop the black leather sketchbook he sets upon the table.

"Diabhall Minett. A relatively recent transplant."

Calmly, he tears off a bit of bread from his own meal, nibbling delicately. Manners.

"To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" Spoken as if he only has the vaguest comprehension of what pleasure even means.

"Benedict," he replies, leaving off his surname for now, figuring it rarely does him any favors. Even Rifters will know better, eventually.

"I'm, um," it feels strange introducing himself this way, yet helpful at the same time: "assistant to the head of diplomacy."

"Mm." The sound is short and small, acknowledgement and acceptance. He does not press for surname - not everyone has one, after all, and even those who do have a right to introduce themselves as they see fit.

The second bit, however, gets him to take a little more notice, head tilting in curiousity despite his expression remaining unchanged.

"Are you? Interesting. I threw myself in with Research to begin, but I have had conversations that have indicated Diplomacy may also have suited my nature."

Based on the man's affect, Benedict finds the second statement somewhat hard to believe.

"How so?" Maybe he's secretly a talented orator.

"I am practiced." The answer is without hesitation - he brushes the disbelief off like rainwater. "Over two hundred years of being the foremost architect on my continent and of nobility may have something to do with it."

He takes a moment to sip from his water before adding, calmly, "Beyond that, I have an incredibly long fuse at social events. I do not get angry."

He doesn't seem to smile, either.

"Huh."

Two hundred years, which means he's on the older side of things-- that's explanation enough, and yet.

"Nobility doesn't mean someone's good at diplomacy," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a little smirk. How topical.

Diabhall marks the smirk with a quirk of his brow.

"Of course. But standing about at social and business gatherings while people attempt to court you for funding, lectures, or work will certainly be of assistance."

Chilly as his tone is, he doesn't take offense. If anything, this only underlines the choice he has already made.

He shrugs.

"Still, I am a stranger in a strange land here. Far be it from me to presume anything. I'm certain the Assistant To The Head Of Diplomacy should know better than I."

"All right," Bene concedes, figuring sure, why not-- but then Diabhall's last statement garners him a funny look, like it's not entirely clear whether or not that was an insult.

"...well you don't have to be that way," he replies, teetering on the edge of affront.

A blink of red-pink eyes.

"What way?" There is no hint of tease in his tone - perhaps a splash of genuine confusion, even. He seems to take a beat to retrace his words.

"Ah. I see how that may have seemed. I was stating fact. I do not make habit of passing judgement and insulting men I have only just met. My apologies." His tone is still dry and droning, face betraying no real emotion.

"I only meant that you hold your station for a reason, I expect. And thus your opinion is one I ought to respect."

Clearly all the time he spends around Byerly has Benedict too willing to raise his hackles over perceived jibes-- or unperceived ones-- but maybe everyone isn't like that.

Or maybe they are. But hostility never did anyone any favors.

"I see," he says simply, watching Diabhall's face with an air of mistrust, and concludes that it is better not to tell him how or why he acquired his position.

Perhaps it had been just a bit of a jab, he reflects at the mistrust. But if so, it was needless. It isn't as if his pride could have been hurt.

He shakes the branch of conversation away, opening his sketchbook to a fresh page (and flipping past both recreations of structures in the Gallows and a late-night sketch of a familiar young elf with long, braided hair) to take up his charcoal.

He starts to sketch out the corner of the dining hall, replicating the brickwork and beams.

"So then, what do you do here, beyond title? I am still learning how Riftwatch really works." He doesn't look up, tone arched.

"I assist the ambassador."

Spoken a bit sulkily, with the vague feeling that he's being judged and not knowing on what.

"Take notes, keep track of maps, gatherings, people who matter. Answer correspondence." It's not the most glamorous work, but it's better than what he was doing before.

"Important work."

There's no irony in the statement - Diabhall glances up, nodding approvingly to punctuate his statement. "Oftentimes the assistant's work is what everything else is pinned on, in the end. Particularly where diplomacy and correspondence are concerned."

It's unclear to the elf why this man is suddenly taking tones with him this way - but he opts to pay it little mind, and this shift in conversation is his stilted, chilly attempt at a peace offering.

"Back from whence I came, I had occasional assistants and interns. Their work was invaluable. I should be so lucky as to be able to provide that to someone else now."

"Hm."

It's a sound of assent, but still doubtful if not outright hostile. It's easy to fall into the assumption that he's talking down about assistants, but Benedict is also forced to remember the way he used to talk about servants. ...and... possibly still does, but that's neither here nor there.

"Well. If you're interested in Diplomacy, I can introduce you to Byerly." Who will no doubt love him,.

It would be fair enough to assume that Diabhall's arch tone carried some sort of patronization - not that long ago, he wasn't precisely known for being caring of his own servants and interns. Making an effort to mitigate his natural coldness is a relatively recent change for him.

Still, he means what he says, and he does not flinch in the face of hostility.

"I may take you up on that sometime," he muses, pausing momentarily to take a bite of bread and cheese. Not much of an appetite. "But upon reflection, I think for now I may remain with Research to see if my initial impulse was correct. Besides - one of my old interns is in the division. Someone I know being about may help me find my footing."

"An intern?"

Benedict tilts his head, raising an eyebrow-- since when do Rifters arrive in groups?

"Who's that?"

"Indeed. Imagine my surprise, finding someone I knew at all, let alone someone who has worked for and with me."

He takes a sip of water before replying, tilting his head a little.

"Allumin Etsija. Perhaps you know him?"

That stops Benedict right in his tracks. He pauses with a cup half-lifted to his own mouth, a widening of his eyes prelude to the shit-eating smirk that crosses his face.

"Oh, I know him."

Well.

That is a reaction, isn't it?

His own face remains as neutral as ever, save for one raised eyebrow. "Oh, do you?"

"We've met."

He's still playing coy-- it's rude to kiss and tell, after all.

"He's a friendly one."

The other eyebrow goes up at this.

Diabhall has known Allumin for a long time - longer than Allumin's own memory of himself - and he imagines this must be what it feels like to the younger elf when people try to say nice things about Diabhall to him that aren't quite the whole truth.

"Friendly? Hm. I don't know many who would say that of him, precisely. Polite, certainly. Cordial when needs arise, perhaps. But not friendly." He turns his attention briefly to his plate once more, arranging some cheese with a bite of bread before looking back up, a bit of scrutiny in his stare.

"...Beyond particular contexts, mind you."

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