[closedish]

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict & a handful of starters
WHAT: just a slutty little lad living his slutty little life
WHEN: what month is this anyway. Kingsway
WHERE: around the Gallows
NOTES: starters in comments, holler at me on plurk or discord if you'd like one

Comments

[archademode]

“I expect much from you because I believe you are capable of much. Pride will always dwell in your successes, yet know you already the shape of my approval.”

Stern. Harsh as cold wind. Unmoving and unbreakable, both— that is the form it takes. The form it always must take. Gabranth is not his brother. Much as he has tried to walk in the shadow of that memory, he cannot make it so.

“How do you imagine it ought be, if what I offer dissatisfies.”

[altusimperius]

"I... suppose I don't know."

Benedict seems to wilt as he stands there, chewing the inside of his cheek. It's not like Gabranth is going to envelop him in a hug or give him a lolly for doing something right; it occurs to him that he doesn't necessarily know what a normal level of approval looks like, apart from just. Neutrality.

But there is one sticking point, as ashamed as he is to admit it:

"...not pouring my wine out, maybe."

[archademode]

“Fine.”

Gabranth concedes, albeit with a harshness in his tone that speaks of something stern and stubborn. A point of contention already argued over: the nature of his actions at the time— his motivations for taking the course that he did.

But not every lesson can be learned by tugging by the nose. Something Gabranth himself has come to terms with.

He is, to his credit, trying.

“Next time I shall demand you spill it yourself. Does this suit?”

[altusimperius]

It takes all of Benedict's self-control to not roll his eyes, instead keeping them fixed on Gabranth's.

"Maybe let me show you," he says irritably, "that one glass of celebratory wine doesn't make an idiot of most people."

He gives a sneer of distaste, but forces himself to say anyway: "and I can limit it to one glass. If you're that worried."

[archademode]

It’s the final addition that seems to appease him, where the tight-knit edges of his brow line might suggest he’s fully entrenched in his own ironclad ways, the sharpness of those creases ebb then. Calm.

Calmer.

“One glass. And only in trusted company.”

[altusimperius]

"Only in trusted company," Benedict repeats, seeing the reason in it easily enough. A smile ghosts onto the corner of his mouth, a hopeful look in his eyes as he watches Gabranth's expression, sees the tension easing.

Maybe it'll be all right.

"...what're you up to now?"

[archademode]

A single nod serves as contented acquiescence between them. A pact sealed, in essence, and when Gabranth moves it is with a gesture for Benedict to follow along at his side.

"I intend to train with my newly acquired courser." If one could call a dracolisk the equivalent of a warhorse which, apparently, Gabranth does. "Come. It should know your scent sooner rather than later."

[altusimperius]

"A courser," Bene intones, and walks along at his side with a newly-regained spring in his step, just happy to be included. "What kind?"

[archademode]

“Unique.” Gabranth says. A descriptor soon emphasized when they reach the stables and he clicks his tongue, prompting a bestial, dry hiss from the back of one stall as a gold and black speckled dracolisk steps snorting out of the shade.

One gauntleted hand mutedly scrubs beneath its chin, the animal clicking long fangs together.

Big dragonhorse.

“His name is Maric.”

[altusimperius]

Although Benedict has seen a dracolisk before, he has never been this close to one. He seems reluctant to come within biting range, standing carefully back behind Gabranth's shoulder as he watches it in nervous fascination.

"Like King Maric?" he asks uncertainly.

[archademode]

“Indeed,” he agrees nigh instantly, distraction painted throughout his features as he keeps the whole of his gaze trained on the animal at his side. “For it was Jone who named him.”

Yet after a moment one open, gauntleted palm extends itself in Benedict’s direction, an invitation waiting to be taken.

“Come here. He'll not hurt you.”

[altusimperius]

It says a lot about Benedict's level of trust in Gabranth that he actually takes the invitation, stepping gingerly forward to hold up his hand as he would meeting a horse or a dog, heart pounding.

He could lose a hand this way. But Gabranth wouldn't put him in harm's way intentionally, surely.

[archademode]

Surely.

And sure enough, when Maric tips his oversized head forward, it’s only to bump the cold front of his muzzle against the flat of Benedict’s palm, nostrils flaring. Like any tame animal accustomed to bridling, riding and general human attention, there’s only one thing he’s actively searching for.

A treat.

“Is it not an impressive beast?” Gabranth asks almost flatly, the question itself betraying a clearer sense of admiration for the animal, rather than all his typical disdain.

Better than a horse.

[altusimperius]

"I've heard that grown men will wet themselves to be charged down by one," Bene says with a smirk, still a little uncertain, though he gives the creature a tentative little scratch right on the top of its snout.