faderift | [closedish]

It's the beginning of the workday still, and Benedict is slightly late coming up to the Diplomacy office.
Not only is he slightly late but he looks dazed and ruffled with an unmistakeable hickey blooming on his neck, barely seeming to see Byerly as he nods hello on his way to plop down at his desk. Then he stares at the surface of it for a few moments, processing.

He has forgotten Byerly's coffee.

The tourney was a small success, and it has done nothing if not endear Benedict further to Jone. He continues to spend every morning on the training pitch, if not working with her directly, then at least visible to her: making the effort. But on the flipside, there's someone he's been avoiding, whose opinion matters just as much; once again he's kicked himself straight in the mouth, but his memories of the incident and what he said to Gabranth are a bit foggy from their being tempered by adrenaline and however little wine he'd had.

Benedict has gotten increasingly good about facing his problems, but some of them, the Gabranth-shaped ones, are still a little too intimidating.
So it is that he doesn't even see him again until a chance encounter in the hallway, when Bene turns the corner and sees Gabranth approaching from the opposite direction. It's too late to flee, he's no doubt already been clocked, and... well, he's trying not to do that sort of thing anymore.

So he stops, and he waits.

The shift from summer into autumn has meant the evenings are darker and chillier, and there's less daylight for sparring or practicing magic out on the pitch. At least, that's the excuse Benedict makes to himself for why he's not casting, instead just sitting on a crate and staring contemplatively at a sparring dummy.

His hands are folded in his lap, his expression distant and tense, the light from a nearby sconce flickering against his increasingly shadowy form. Clearly, there's much to think about.

"A copper for your thoughts?"

Comes a familiar voice from an equally familiar elf, who had paused to watch Benedict before she realized that he was so lost in thought that he was unlikely to notice her without announcement.

"I understand if inflation has brought things up to a silver."

The dining hall is crowded and full of chatter, it being the usual supping time for Riftwatchers who keep normal daylight hours. Benedict is one of them (much to his initial chagrin), but is not involved in any socializing, instead having scooted off toward the wall where he eats in silence, smokes, and reads a book.

It used to bother him, the not fitting in, as much as it was and continues to be his own fault. But he seems content at the moment, having settled into a quiet routine of keeping his own company.

A quick gasp of surprise and Benedict turns to see her, abruptly aware that he has no idea how long he's been sitting here.

"Uh--" he stammers, trying to center his thoughts, and finally lands on gesturing to the dummy. "Sorry, did you need this?" As soon as he says it, he realizes that's entirely not the concern, but.
Too late now.

"No," she says kindly, "not even a little bit. You just seemed... rather preoccupied. Is everything alright?"

Adrasteia knows there's a war on, and that Benedict's immediate supervisor is a complicated man at best, decidedly difficult at worst. There's any number of things that could be true, here, but she'd be a very different person if she didn't express her concern over a person she knows.

"Oh. Just." He thinks a moment, looking back at the dummy, deliberating on whether or not to tell the truth-- and ultimately, he decides perhaps he should.

"...thought I'd do some spell practice." Which clearly has not happened yet, and probably won't.

She raises her eyebrows at that, but nods. "I imagine the kind of spells you do are difficult to practice upon something that isn't alive." As good as the dummies are, they can't say 'ouch' for one thing.

She's not sure that answers her question of 'is everything alright', actually, but she's not going to press him into a corner about it just yet.

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.

Byerly usually grunts a greeting at Benedict when he comes in. Today, though, he stares at him expectantly. And stares. And stares. And stares.

It takes an excruciatingly long time for Benedict to leave his own head long enough to notice Byerly's gaze. And then he gives a little start, blinking owlishly at him.
"What?"

"...yeah."

That's half of it. The other half, naturally, being that practicing them on an alive thing that doesn't or can't consent to the discomfort is, how shall we put it, Highly Unethical; a fact he wouldn't have cared about before recently.

"It's hard to tell when they're working," he admits, glumly resting his chin in his hand, "...it's not like healing."

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.

It’s been some days. Weeks even, maybe, and they’ve never discussed it. Benedict has barely looked Edgard in the eye since the day he quit the room so abruptly, and has tried to ensure that they’re not both awake in the dormitory at the same time.

But tonight, he miscalculates. He’s unlacing his boots on his bed when Edgard walks past, and he casts a guilty glance up into his face.

"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.

"I believe," By answers, folding his hands primly together, "that there is something missing."

This is met with a blank stare, after which follows a furtive glancing around as Benedict takes stock of the room; fortunately for both of them, it doesn't take him too long to catch Byerly's meaning.
With a loud gasp, Benedict lurches out of his chair and absconds from the room.

He returns some fifteen minutes later, a mug in one hand and the carafe in the other.
"Sorry sorry sorry," he mutters, handing the former to Byerly and refreshing a heat glyph on a side table on which to set the other.

The frown turns into a smile - though one of rather condescending amusement. Still, it's a signal enough that By isn't in a bad mood, delayed coffee aside.

"How seriously you take your duties," he says wryly. "I'm not about to remove your hand for your crime here."

"I know," Bene says sheepishly, looking back at Byerly from the side table, "sorry anyway. Won't happen again."

He drops back into his desk and takes a moment to push the hair back out of his face, as if only just now waking up for the first time.

"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.

[closedish]

BYERLY

GABRANTH

ADRASTEIA

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DIABHALL

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EDGARD

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