faderift | [open] I can't pretend that I'm concrete

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: a tired fuckboy makes poor but at least non-treasonous choices
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Some self-sabotagey behavior, will warn as needed.

As the months of nightmares drag on, even overusing the hookah isn't enough to return Benedict to any semblance of decent sleep or proper sanity. He realizes, now more than ever, that he's lonely; strangely, it's the most he's felt it since he lived in Minrathous, when he had everything a spoiled boy could want and no one to share it with.

I. Near nightly, he takes the ferry over to Kirkwall to rove the streets of Lowtown and drink his way around, spending most evenings sitting silently tucked away at a table, watching the increasingly cranky pub patrons, none of whom have been sleeping well. His aims aren't necessarily innocent: periodically he'll catch the eye of a handsome stranger and beckon him with a gaze, hoping for a distraction, a burst of dopamine, and the eventual relief of sleep.
It's not impossible that said handsome stranger is someone he's seen around in the Gallows, and at times he might even be drunk enough that they're not a stranger at all.

II. Sometimes the fishing yields a catch, and more often than not it's handled in this or that dark deserted alley, made known to passersby only through the occasional panting gasp or quiet moan. It's not uncommon to see him sitting nearby afterwards, smoking and scuffed up, his eyes rimmed red from fatigue and possibly pain.
It also occasionally happens that he's still here in the morning, dozing on a crate, burned-out cigarette in hand and pockets empty. He knows better than to bring too much coin with him, at least.

III. Most nights, he catches the ferry back and crawls into bed before the hour can grow too unMakerly. There are times, however, when he just barely misses it, or didn't even try, and at these times he'll sit and sip at a bottle of wine, watching the water or the night's other denizens, until it starts running again and he can go back to get some sleep before the day begins properly. He has yet to be late to work, especially by Byerly's standards-- if he slithers in before noon, he still considers it a victory.

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Her eyes flick to the empty bottle as he sets it down, but... fair enough. Man, Clarisse would've grabbed a bottle too, had she known she'd be stuck here all night.

She nods, a little surprised that he recognizes her. "Clarisse. I'm in Forces."

"Benedict." He gives a little wave without moving from his seat, but the temptation is there to go find more refreshment. "Diplomacy clerk. I work for Byerly."
He gazes out at the harbor for a while, letting his mind wander, before idly asking: "you a Rifter?"

Diplomacy is not Clarisse's thing. Most of her appearances at war council meetings back home consisted of saying shit like "just attack already" while everyone else argued politics and strategy. Still, it has its place... she guesses.

"I am. Is that a problem?" Every time somebody asks her that, she can't help feeling like she's being blamed for something she had nothing to do with. Not that this guy's implying that, but it's hard to relax when the word Rifter sounds like a curse depending on who's saying it.

Though he looks slightly taken aback by the pointedness of the question, it doesn't stall Benedict for long, and he gives a tired little smirk as he shrugs one shoulder.
"Nah." He walks in silence a moment before adding, "Rifters' perspectives tend to be different." It's a good thing, really.

Clarisse scoffs, but not meanly. She guesses that would be true.

"Yeah, well, I'll be here offering a different perspective all night." Until she gets bored and wanders back into town, that is.

Well this could be fun, at least for a while.

"Have you got magic in your world?"

"Yeah. Some."

Not everybody can access it, but then again that's pretty similar to how things are here.

"You've gotta have some kind of connection to the gods to use it, though."

"Gods?"

That piques his interest, and Benedict pauses to look at Clarisse. "Gods, plural?"

"So many gods," Clarisse tells him, sounding tired. "Twelve major ones, and a fuckton of minor gods and goddesses too."

Fuckton is a very specific term of measurement.

Like the Dalish, Benedict muses, or even like his own ancient ancestors. How quaint.

"How does one have a connection with them?" he asks idly, content to go down this particular avenue of conversation. "Worship? Sacrifice?"

She shrugs.

"My dad's one of them." Said bluntly. "They like to hook up with mortals. But, yeah, we do the worship and sacrifice thing, too." Clarisse still offers up some of her food, even though she knows it's not really going anywhere.

"Wait. What?"

She has his full attention now, and he looks up at Clarisse with his eyes shining and impressed. "How does that work? That your father's a god?"

Huh. Interesting.

"He can make himself look like a man when he feels like it," she says after a moment. Truth is, she's never seen his actual form—it would blast her to ashes if she looked at it. And also, his human form is scary enough, thanks. "He saw my mom, liked her. Nine months later I came along."

"Huh."
It's not that it's that hard to imagine a god becoming corporeal and lying with some random person, it just seems like something out of a story, not half so commonplace as Clarisse appears to think it is.

"So that makes you a demigod. What does that mean? Can you like," he pauses, trying to get the phrasing right. "Smite people?"

I wish, Clarisse thinks, because wouldn't that be so convenient? Then again, it for sure would've led to a ton of unnecessary smiting when she was younger and less able to keep her temper under control. And, let's be real, probably still to this day.

"I can do some magic," but she's not gonna tell him about the fact that she used to be able to summon the dead, since that's apparently a weird subject around here? "And I'm strong and fast and just basically amazing." So humble, too.

Well magic's not that impressive, sheesh.

"Better than nothing." Bene seems to at least partially lose interest again, digging around in the pocket of his cloak for a cigarette, which he lights by snapping his finger.

"My mother's a powerful mage. Not a god, though who knows how things could go." Corypheus has been able to position himself as one, after all.

Clarisse watches him light the cigarette with a raised eyebrow. Cute trick.

"Does that make you a powerful mage too?" She's not even being snarky (well, a little, but she's mostly curious). Look, she doesn't really get how it works here.

"Ideally."

Perhaps he's just being humble, but there's a dry uncertainty about his answer.

"I'm a mage, anyway."

"Is that something you need to study, or what?"

Her own magic isn't exactly like that. A lot of it was just there from the very beginning, even if she had no idea that's what it was. And studying is boring as shit, so she's glad for that.

"Well, yes." He shrugs a shoulder. "But it's innate, too. Something you're born with, but you have to hone it like any other skill. Like... a language. Or dancing."

At least dancing badly won't burn a building down, in a perfect world.

She makes a face, something akin to grudging respect.

"So what's the coolest thing you can do?" Maybe not the wisest thing to ask someone who just finished off a bottle of booze, but... oh well.

"Oh. Uh..."

He thinks on it for a moment, and winces slightly. "Trap someone in a waking nightmare of their own devising?"

Huh. She frowns.

"That's fucked up."

When she was younger she probably would've said it sounded cool. But she's seen what happens to people when they get trapped in a nightmare and they can't come out of it, so her opinion has changed somewhat.

"...yeah."

He looks a little apologetic for having said it, but it really is one of the more powerful spells he knows.

"I don't, uh. Use it much." Just in case that was in question.

[open] I can't pretend that I'm concrete

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