WHO: Benedict, some other people, you?? WHAT: just a catch-all WHEN: tra-la, it's may, the lusty month of may WHERE: around and about NOTES: If you'd like something bespoke I'm happy to include it!
"I already sort of do." The kicker of it, that Entropy is a school of magic in which Benedict has already been taught, but so frequently shied away from using for obvious reasons.
"My mother wanted me to learn it. I had to practice on," slaves, "um, unwilling targets. So I stopped for a long time, after I left home." He gives a dismissive little shrug.
"But most of my spellwork is defensive, meant to confuse and delay, so it relies on someone else being there with me. Isaac offered to help, and I won't have to spar with anyone who doesn't want to."
Abby mutters, "There are willing targets?" but that's not really the point of what Benedict is saying. She folds her arms across her chest and looks at him carefully. She is putting two and two together, here.
"Is this something that you want? Because it kinda sounds like something your mom and Isaac want."
He stops, turning and folding his arms with a look back at Abby that's stubborn and, in its way, vulnerable. Invoking his mother never results in a pleasant conversation, even if it was he who did it.
"I put too much faith in defense," he mutters to the ground, "I don't want to be caught flatfooted again." He grips his thin upper arms uneasily: his clothes are still loose on him, the return to normalcy after his capture a constant but slow process.
They mirror each other standing there, staring at each other, arms folded protectively across themselves. Benedict is the first to break, his gaze darting toward the ground and Abby relents, letting go of herself, arms dropping by her sides. If he wants to do it because he wants to be able to protect himself she can't stand here and criticise him for it. She remembers what it's like to not feel safe, like anything could come along and take something (someone) away from you.
She shrugs a shoulder. "Okay. If you're sure. I can — I'll help, if I can."
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"My mother wanted me to learn it. I had to practice on," slaves, "um, unwilling targets. So I stopped for a long time, after I left home."
He gives a dismissive little shrug.
"But most of my spellwork is defensive, meant to confuse and delay, so it relies on someone else being there with me. Isaac offered to help, and I won't have to spar with anyone who doesn't want to."
no subject
"Is this something that you want? Because it kinda sounds like something your mom and Isaac want."
no subject
"I put too much faith in defense," he mutters to the ground, "I don't want to be caught flatfooted again." He grips his thin upper arms uneasily: his clothes are still loose on him, the return to normalcy after his capture a constant but slow process.
"I may as well use what I already have."
no subject
She shrugs a shoulder. "Okay. If you're sure. I can — I'll help, if I can."
no subject
"Thanks," he says, and means it, even if he's slightly regretting bringing it up.