faderift | [ may catchall ]

"On what?"

Benedict, clean-shaven as ever (he has the advantage of a house to stay in for as long as his hosts will have him), is perhaps only just now realizing that Isaac is back.
He's still in the process of gaining back some of his baseline mass, his clothes hanging off him a little too loosely, but he's up and about and walking the Gallows to, it would seem, pitch in where he can. Including shaving assistance.

"You've already gone too far for mutton chops."

"Pity. There's such a monopoly upon mustaches," Does he know where Benedict's been? No. But Rutyer has long kept him close. "You might consider it, you know. Neither of us is getting younger."

Baby face only plays so long. A loopy gesture with the razor:

"Sit, I've a true question of you."

And a knife. So, you know.

"I'd rather die," says Benedict breezily; he's only just recently had far more hair on his face than he's ever wanted, and one might rest assured it's never coming back.

Intrigued by the invitation, he picks his way to a the most cushioned seat he can find (is it Isaac's bedroll? if that's what's available) and folds his legs primly.

"A true question," he intones, a touch playfully. What could be truer than facial aesthetics?

"Your education,"

However abruptly interrupted. If he's never much regarded Benedict's spellwork, well, the man's not possessed. Under his circumstance, that's a victory.

"What form did it take?" Isaac's considered it some years, had asked Kostos then: What have you heard of Tevene abominations - "Prior to your apprenticeship, during."

“Oh.”
How boring, says the initial twitch of his eyebrows, but a briefly apologetic duck of the head suggests there’s some maturity to be found here after all.

“Private tutelage,” he says with a little shrug, “my mother wanted particular control over my education.”

"What did she hope for you?"

Nothing, he trusts, that's not been thoroughly dashed. Isaac's familiar with the woman's shadow, the absurd impression of their shared nightmare. Fear, then. Fear and control. Not so different (not so useful).

Belated, explains:

"There was substantial variation between Southern Circles. Method, aims; to each its own little kingdom - but I'm aware the Imperium more different still."

In method, in aims.

“What you’d expect of a Magister to be. As skilled in politics and intrigue as he is in Entropic magic, or. Well. Blood magic, I supposed I would have learned eventually.”

His posture tightens: this isn’t his favorite topic, but he endures it for the sake of transparency.

“I blew it all off. A privilege not afforded to most southern Circle mages, as I understand it.”

"No," He agrees, though he's met mages enough without ambition, interest. A pang for Joselyn - but even Joselyn had been Harrowed. "I doubt we'd have held on this long, were it so."

An old hunch, that. Strange that the South has been able to match Tevinter at all. From a certain, numerical view, perhaps mages wasted of an early death are even trade for mages of discipline. The Circles are the Chantry's to direct, only until they are a nation's.

"Does it ever trouble you? That lack."

A nod, shifting toward somber: one couldn't be as close to Colin as he was without knowing to a startling degree just exactly how things have gone for Southern mages. A younger, stupid version of him might have made a crack about it, but this version has seen what happens, has gone to war.

"All the time," he admits, darting his eyes to Isaac's in sheepish admission before he averts them again, carefully tucking a strand of sleek black hair behind his ear. "I suppose I thought I'd never really need it. Wasn't interested in it. It's..."

His mouth twists awkwardly with the admission, "...it's hard to find a willing sparring partner, if you're going to learn it correctly." Not that willingness was ever really considered, where he came up.

"--but yes, I regret not paying attention." His brow knits prettily-- perhaps he's doubting the wisdom of showing such candor-- but it's too late now, as it's too late for many things. "If I've learned anything from living down south, it's that an unskilled mage might as well be a dead one."

"Then you aren’t unskilled," Untrained, unpracticed, certainly. Not dead. Raw enough in talent. Isaac debates a moment, finally working soap into skin. The razor glints. "You know that I’ve some facility with the school."

He does not, precisely, advertise this. That Benedict has seen him cast is inconvenient, and easily blamed upon the peculiarities of dream. But,

"It would require focus," (But he’s a sap. But he’s thinking of his girl.) "And a degree of trust that I’ll grant has never precisely blossomed between us."

Blade scrapes cheek. Isaac finds his eyes in the mirror: The offer stands plain - if coated in absurd, white suds.

Edited 2024-05-07 06:45 (UTC)

A twinge of surprise as Benedict blinks at him, glances away, glances back. He had no expectation of the conversation going this route, but it's not completely unwelcome, considering what he's just revealed.

He draws himself up a little, straightening his back-- he's not a petulant schoolboy anymore.

"I'd be a fool to turn you down," he admits with just a touch of unease, but meets Isaac's eyes again with a nod. He himself had argued with Byerly about the implications of the dream, had insisted that this or that betrayal wasn't written in stone.

"Where would we practice?"

"The basement," When the towers are cleared. "The Gallows are reinforced, discreet,"

And bluntly thematic. If there’s anywhere one might conjure terror -

"Give some thought to what you’d see us pursue. Spells you’ve had difficulty of, or difficulty controlling. Power is easier to grasp than precision." Power's there already, more will come. Momentum collects. "Should we find your talents bend elsewhere,"

A shrug.

"Every Enchanter here has taught. We're far past the point that Riftwatch may fret of arming you."

Edited 2024-05-09 06:09 (UTC)

Even the suggestion of it has the color draining from Benedict's face, and he looks for a moment like he wants to protest-- he hasn't been down there since, well, you know, and coming off from such a recent stint in yet another dungeon has his stomach doing flips--

but this is important, and Isaac is right. Practicing the less palatable spells out in the open isn't an ideal look, and, well, people scream sometimes. Why does he want to do this, again?

He nods, jaw clenched, visibly anxious but pushing through. "I'm a bit better versed in my Spirit training," he admits, "but that's best used to stall and redirect."

Edited (buzz buzz) 2024-05-09 18:00 (UTC)

"Averesch is the better expert," And - he suspects - disinclined to take a student. "But the practices are, mn. Known to harmonize. You'll get a deal of work in dispelling."

Benedict looks nervous: If Isaac isn't in the business of reassurance, well -

"Tell someone you trust," He'd sooner a mage. Doubts that; Benedict hasn't endeared himself to their motley extremists. Perhaps time to amend that, they can't afford a loose end forever. "I'd sooner no one descend howling corruption."

Not that Benedict wouldn't have some interest in studying with Averesch, but Isaac is almost certainly correct in his assumption (for this and other reasons). Ah, well.

"I will," he agrees, and after a pause, decides: "Abby." He trusts Bastien and Byerly with his life, of course, but both tend to get a little twitchy around discussions of magic. Abby is sturdy, present. Can kick a guy's ass if things get out of hand.

"That'll do."

One of the Infirmary assistants. He isn't overly familiar, but she strikes a deal easier to manage than Rutyer. (And it may be framed as a snub - pleasant ammunition, should he ever take issue.)

"Now truly," Half his face is shaved. He's already decided. "Beard, or no beard?"

It's difficult not to smile when the decision has already been made-- Benedict gives in, the tension of their previous discussion snapping in the face of something outright silly.

"Keep it like that," he says, fighting to keep a straight face.

[ may catchall ]

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