faderift | [closedish]

"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."

"How mysterious," Benedict remarks, without even trying to disguise his smirk; those particular contexts are exactly the ones he's referring to, of course, and if he were more self-aware in general he might realize at this moment that that's the only version of Allumin he's seen.

Oh well, there's ample time to get to know him.

"Not that he isn't also a bit of a shrinking violet," Bene continues with a little wave of his hand, "but that goes away easily enough."

"...Indeed." It's hard to say, with Diabhall's droning monotone, whether or not the word feels more or less unamused than any others.

But Benedict may as well be waving a flag that states exactly what he's driving at with his own words, or, as they case may well be, exactly who drove at Benedict. And so the elf stares him down for a long moment, the only hint of any reaction at all the slow drumming of his fingertips on the tabletop while he considers how to reply. He's not upset, really. Not with what he knows.

But stranger in a strange land and all. This young man isn't impressing him with his behavior, but there's no need for him to be surly in return. (It's clear he doesn't know Allumin that well anyway, not REALLY, not like he - oh, useless thoughts)

"Again...rather depends on the situation, but true enough, that does sound like him." Turning his eyes down to assemble another bite of food, his tone remains just as dry, just as level -

"I still have a scar or two, in fact. But nothing I didn't request."

A little laugh, and Benedict is still all pomp and smugness-- until Diabhall's meaning finally hits him, and over the course of about five seconds, his smirk slowly dissolves into something rather more uncertain.

"...scars?"

Without missing a beat, Diabhall looks back up from his bite of food, chewing and swallowing politely before speaking. The smugness appears to have faded somewhat. Interesting.

"Yes, scars. Nothing anyone will see in polite company, mind. It's as you said - he's only a shrinking violet for so long." A sip of water, expression still stone in spite of the nature of what he's saying - he brushes a stray lock of long white hair over his shoulder, freeing it from his robe collar and (perhaps with subconscious intention) granting just the tiniest peek of black leather just beneath the edge of the fabric, taut around his throat.

"But again - nothing I didn't request. My tolerance for such things is, I am told, a bit extreme."

A long silence falls between them, the wheels turning in Benedict's mind as he stares at Diabhall, considering his words.

Finally, he responds with an inconclusive "...huh."

In response, at first, Diabhall simply nods.

There is a long moment before he replies aloud, a lightness cast over that chilly and droning tone.

"Did I misread your meaning? Apologies. You seem nervous at the thought of Allumin in that particular light."

"Oh. Uh... no."

As in, no, he didn't misread his meaning, though that's all Benedict is willing to divulge at the moment; whatever his thoughts on Allumin in any particular light, he's keeping to himself.

"Ah. Very well, then."

And regardless of where the conversation had gone, the elf pivots from it with no more trouble on his face than if he had been talking about the recent weather.

"Suffice it to say, it really was a surprise to find him here. The both of us were at my estate before waking here."

"Huh," intoned again, Benedict tilting his head.

"It's not unheard of for two people from the same place to show up," he muses, "but you being actually together at the time... what were you doing?"
Perhaps the knowledge will shed a little insight on how Rifters work. Or, just as likely, it'll make everything more confusing.

A brief drumming of the fingers as Diabhall checks and double-checks his memory before speaking - searching for anything that he may deem key, before finally electing to simply tell the whole of it.

"He and a handful of his fellow adventurers were escaping assassination, and found themselves on my doorstep. I brought them in, let them tell me what was happening - and it was more than evident that they needed rest before anything more could be discussed or done. I settled them in guest rooms, then returned to work for a little while before I took to rest myself."

Realizing something, he opens his little book, flipping back diagrams and strange notes to jot the thought down. "I wonder if the delay between his going to rest and my own accounts for the gap between our arrival here. Perhaps some manner of time dilation."

"Assassination?"

Bene's eyebrows rise, and he's intrigued indeed. "So if you went back, right now, you'd still be dealing with an assassin?"

"Yes."

There is a subtle shift to Diabhall's tone at this - something approaching concerned, protective even. His face, however, remains relatively unchanged, eyes sliding back towards Benedict. "Probably. The assassin was sent away for now, but I imagine he will be back. He seems to have it out for our number in general - and I think Allumin may have drawn his ire by fighting back."

Benedict's brow furrows.

"Why was he trying to kill you?"

This seems important.

All right - how to put this succinctly?

"...We are part of a...for lack of a better term, a destined group. The assassin is a member of the opposing force, wishing to stop us from gathering."

Diabhall sighs a little. There's no way to put all this that doesn't sound unbelievable to the people here, really.

A small laugh escapes before Benedict can stop it, but he curls his hand over his mouth in case that will somehow make it not have happened.

"Um," he mumbles, "destined for what?"

[closedish]

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