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faderift2022-10-11 10:53 am
altusimperius) wrote in faderift2022-10-11 10:53 am
Entry tags:
[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.
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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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."
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That piques his interest, and Benedict pauses to look at Clarisse. "Gods, plural?"
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Fuckton is a very specific term of measurement.
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"How does one have a connection with them?" he asks idly, content to go down this particular avenue of conversation. "Worship? Sacrifice?"
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"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.
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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?"
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"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."
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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?"
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"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.
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"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.
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"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.
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Perhaps he's just being humble, but there's a dry uncertainty about his answer.
"I'm a mage, anyway."
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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.
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At least dancing badly won't burn a building down, in a perfect world.
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"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.
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He thinks on it for a moment, and winces slightly. "Trap someone in a waking nightmare of their own devising?"
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"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.
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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.