Quarantine has been a particular kind of Hell for Vlast that he cannot adequately describe. Trapped in this strange body, trapped behind these crumbling walls, trapped in this bizarre world... to say he has the stirrings of cabin fever might be an understatement.
It is lucky for him that his quarantine will end in a week. It is luckier for him that the training grounds are intact enough that he can go there to blow off some steam. He might actually explode otherwise.
The greatsword he's selected to hack away at a training dummy (which has seen better days) is heavily blunted, with countless nicks and patches of rust. The sword's cutting days are long behind it, and now it exists to simply give the unskilled a feel for its weight. Given how awkward and graceless Vlast's inexpert swings are, it seems the lesson is slow to take. The blows land arrhythmically, especially when he misses his mark.
It carries on like that for a long time (whatever his lack of skill, he certainly doesn't lack stamina), until he is left panting and sweating and glaring down at the sword as if it were at fault for him not knowing what he's doing.
At some point, alerted to the presence of a new Rifter that he hasn't already inducted into the organization while being mimicked by an Envy demon, Benedict makes his way over to where Vlast has found an intact training dummy. He waits until there's a lull in activity (rather than invite a decapitation onto himself-- some people are jumpy), then gently clears his throat, standing behind the newcomer and just out of striking range.
He's clearly a proud young man, straight-backed and shiny-haired despite the recent desolation of the Gallows, but there's a marked thinness to him, like he's lost a lot of weight recently (that he couldn't afford to lose, per se). He gives a little wave of greeting.
Vlast doesn't easily endear himself to others - the way his lip remains curled in a snarl as he glances up at the pointed cough should make it clear as to why.
The smiling and waving is perplexing enough for the sneer to fade into a puzzled glance over a shoulder, looking for the actual person the thin human is waving to. When there is, in fact, no one else about, Vlast lowers the blade and warily approaches.
"...What needs lifting...?" he asks with resigned expectancy.
There's a sense of appraisal from the man when Vlast turns: the lip curl, the horns, the, you know, overall bearing of disdain and violence.
"Mm?" Benedict intones, forgetting himself-- then returns to business once again, straightening, "nothing."
He inclines his head in a respectful nod. "I'm Benedict, the Personnel Officer here, at Riftwatch. And although I've been," a slightly awkward pause, "indisposed of late, and-- well. You know,"
he gestures around at the decimated Gallows,
"...I'd be remiss if I didn't try to help you find your place here."
The Qunari doesn't spare the wreckage a glance. He is intimately familiar with such decimation even if he hadn't spent the last few weeks hauling rubble around.
But it's still a more comfortable topic for him than his 'place' in Riftwatch. Or anywhere, for that matter.
(So, so many things that once seemed certain, brought into question.)
But that is not why Benedict is here, and Vlast doubts he would care for his speculations about this war he's just been dropped in the middle of.
"Very well," he says, "but it may be some time I am of any use. Death has... diminished me."
Death. He's one of those, Benedict thinks but doesn't say, wondering wordlessly what he looked like before if this is the diminished version.
"What would you say you're good at?" he asks, holding up a little book with a pencil poised to take notes, "combat?" He nods toward the training dummy.
The loss of three appendages has been a blow to say the least. He thinks he's been handling the change rather well, considering.
He's not even going to touch upon his magic until he's had a chance to see how that's changed. ...In private, away from the prying eyes of those who'd see him caged, or worse.
"I will have to re-learn some things. Adapt. But I am not unused to battle. Forces was recommended to me, but I was told they presently lack leadership."
"Well," noncommittal, "yes." It might just be a trick of the light, but he seems almost cheerful about this fact-- nothing to do with the division itself, of course, but there's no way Vlast would know that.
"I can give you an idea of the other divisions' duties, and you can see if they'd suit you better," he offers, coming to lean pleasantly against the dummy, "but if your heart's set on Forces, I won't stand in your way."
The almost-cheery expression, fortunately, flies right over Vlast's head, insofar as much as he can't recognize it for anything but something uncanny.
It earns a puzzled lift of his brow as he leans on the training sword, but little else.
"My heart is set on nothing for the time being. Though you may wish to save your breath on diplomacy - I've neither the talent nor patience for such matters."
A diplomat with a penchant for snapping and growling at potential ambassadors would probably be a Bad Call.
"I cannot say for certain on research," he replies honestly, though he doesn't see fit to elaborate. On one hand, he's very well educated, but that comes of having a prescient mother, a small army of Exalted at his beck and call, and access to the Eye of the North, before Jormag had their little hissy fit.
"My disposition may leave me ill-suited for espionage - "
It's not like a Qunari blends in this far south.
"- though I may have skills that others in the division may find useful."
Clearly he's never heard of The Iron Bull, if he doubts a Qunari's capacity for spying; but Benedict isn't here to pressure anyone into anything.
"You could give it a trial run," he offers with a little shrug, "go on a mission as a scout, gather reconnaissance however you prefer. If that doesn't suit you, you can always swap to Forces."
He hasn't heard of the Iron Bull, it's true. He only has the most surface level understanding of Qunari so far and any contemporary people of note are well outside his current radar.
He's working on it though.
"That sounds..."
Reasonable? Like a good plan?
"...agreeable enough. You serve in Diplomacy, yes?"
The scratch of a pen, the appraising look - a muscle twitches at the corner of Vlast's eye before his upper lip curls as he turns his head away and an exasperated sound escapes him.
He expects that this will go the same way as most of his other inquiries have gone, but he asks anyway.
"How do you find it? This place? This organization?"
"It has its ups and downs," he replies, tapping the end of his pencil on the page, "it can take some getting used to, if you've got a difficult personality," not implying anything in particular, "but if you give it your best you'll have the easiest time. Everyone at least agrees on the common goal."
"The cause is noble enough," he says with a nod. Now that he's aware of the extent of the threat Corypheus poses is evident to him, he can't understand how he's managed to garner the support he has.
"Are there often internal conflicts over methodology?"
He doesn't mean to snap this time, he really doesn't. But Vlast is a creature used to certainty and those three words have been coming out of him like a mantra for the past few weeks, and they have grown increasingly bitter in his mouth.
He takes a deep, steadying breath and exhales a low, guttural growl.
Patience is not one of his virtues.
"I am used to working... alone. I would not know what to look for in such a place to have a preference."
A little blink of surprise, and Benedict almost steps backward, but certainly isn't deterred from the conversation; if anything, he's more intrigued than before.
He pauses a moment, letting Vlast collect himself and offer a proper answer, then tips his head in a conciliatory manner.
"Better to stick with Forces for now, then," he concludes, "it's fairly straightforward if you're familiar with combat." Which, he gathers, this person is.
Vlast's frown only deepens. Once upon a time, not so long ago, any hint of those noises would send the Exalted scattering and they were fairly sturdy compared to this scrawny fellow.
Vlast chalks it up to how far he really has fallen and nothing more.
"Agreed," he says, and Benedict finally gets an appraising look of his own.
"Do they starve you? Because you are from Tevinter?"
None of these words mean anything to Benedict, but that little cat-smile reappears when the word ‘humans’ contains such disdain; it wouldn’t be all that strange coming from a Qunari, really, even if he knows that isn’t actually the case.
“Fine,” he says primly, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear, “I was captured by a demon who stole my likeness and posed as me for two months while I wasted away in the dungeon with the others, where they stashed us.”
A derisive little sniff. One would think him an aristocrat grousing about a disappointing trip to the seaside. “There wasn’t much to eat there.”
"Demons," he practically hisses. He may have said 'human's with a hard 'h', but there is nothing but pure contempt in how he spits out 'demons'.
"Damned parasites."
If there is one thing that isn't alien to Vlast, it's the presence of demons, feasting on mortal misery. An unfortunate commonality between both Tyria and Thedas.
Still, there's some relief the little diplomat isn't being maltreated for his origins.
"You are lucky to still be standing. Help yourself to whatever portion of rations I'm entitled to if it will help you recover. I'm well enough to hunt my own food."
And it would be good practice in the long run. He needs to get used to weapons.
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[open] With Training Wheels On (Gallows)
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He's clearly a proud young man, straight-backed and shiny-haired despite the recent desolation of the Gallows, but there's a marked thinness to him, like he's lost a lot of weight recently (that he couldn't afford to lose, per se).
He gives a little wave of greeting.
no subject
The smiling and waving is perplexing enough for the sneer to fade into a puzzled glance over a shoulder, looking for the actual person the thin human is waving to. When there is, in fact, no one else about, Vlast lowers the blade and warily approaches.
"...What needs lifting...?" he asks with resigned expectancy.
no subject
"Mm?" Benedict intones, forgetting himself-- then returns to business once again, straightening, "nothing."
He inclines his head in a respectful nod. "I'm Benedict, the Personnel Officer here, at Riftwatch. And although I've been," a slightly awkward pause, "indisposed of late, and-- well. You know,"
he gestures around at the decimated Gallows,
"...I'd be remiss if I didn't try to help you find your place here."
no subject
But it's still a more comfortable topic for him than his 'place' in Riftwatch. Or anywhere, for that matter.
(So, so many things that once seemed certain, brought into question.)
But that is not why Benedict is here, and Vlast doubts he would care for his speculations about this war he's just been dropped in the middle of.
"Very well," he says, "but it may be some time I am of any use. Death has... diminished me."
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"What would you say you're good at?" he asks, holding up a little book with a pencil poised to take notes, "combat?" He nods toward the training dummy.
no subject
The loss of three appendages has been a blow to say the least. He thinks he's been handling the change rather well, considering.
He's not even going to touch upon his magic until he's had a chance to see how that's changed. ...In private, away from the prying eyes of those who'd see him caged, or worse.
"I will have to re-learn some things. Adapt. But I am not unused to battle. Forces was recommended to me, but I was told they presently lack leadership."
no subject
"I can give you an idea of the other divisions' duties, and you can see if they'd suit you better," he offers, coming to lean pleasantly against the dummy, "but if your heart's set on Forces, I won't stand in your way."
no subject
It earns a puzzled lift of his brow as he leans on the training sword, but little else.
"My heart is set on nothing for the time being. Though you may wish to save your breath on diplomacy - I've neither the talent nor patience for such matters."
A diplomat with a penchant for snapping and growling at potential ambassadors would probably be a Bad Call.
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"Other options are Research or Scouting," he lists off, "how are you at espionage? Or, you know. Studying, working through problems." Nerd stuff.
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"My disposition may leave me ill-suited for espionage - "
It's not like a Qunari blends in this far south.
"- though I may have skills that others in the division may find useful."
Once again, he does not elaborate.
"I do not know yet."
no subject
"You could give it a trial run," he offers with a little shrug, "go on a mission as a scout, gather reconnaissance however you prefer. If that doesn't suit you, you can always swap to Forces."
no subject
He's working on it though.
"That sounds..."
Reasonable? Like a good plan?
"...agreeable enough. You serve in Diplomacy, yes?"
no subject
no subject
He expects that this will go the same way as most of his other inquiries have gone, but he asks anyway.
"How do you find it? This place? This organization?"
no subject
"It has its ups and downs," he replies, tapping the end of his pencil on the page, "it can take some getting used to, if you've got a difficult personality," not implying anything in particular, "but if you give it your best you'll have the easiest time. Everyone at least agrees on the common goal."
no subject
"Are there often internal conflicts over methodology?"
no subject
long pause,
"...suppose so, yes." A mealy-mouthed little smile. "Is there a methodology that you prefer? Or which concerns you?"
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He doesn't mean to snap this time, he really doesn't. But Vlast is a creature used to certainty and those three words have been coming out of him like a mantra for the past few weeks, and they have grown increasingly bitter in his mouth.
He takes a deep, steadying breath and exhales a low, guttural growl.
Patience is not one of his virtues.
"I am used to working... alone. I would not know what to look for in such a place to have a preference."
no subject
He pauses a moment, letting Vlast collect himself and offer a proper answer, then tips his head in a conciliatory manner.
"Better to stick with Forces for now, then," he concludes, "it's fairly straightforward if you're familiar with combat." Which, he gathers, this person is.
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Vlast chalks it up to how far he really has fallen and nothing more.
"Agreed," he says, and Benedict finally gets an appraising look of his own.
"Do they starve you? Because you are from Tevinter?"
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"I," he begins to say, and decides that this Rifter doesn't actually need all the gory details, "have been ill." Sure. "Nobody's starving anyone."
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He cuts himself off, stops himself from saying mortals. The distinction is rather moot given the changes he's undergone.
" - humans. If it is none of my business, then simply say."
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“Fine,” he says primly, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear, “I was captured by a demon who stole my likeness and posed as me for two months while I wasted away in the dungeon with the others, where they stashed us.”
A derisive little sniff. One would think him an aristocrat grousing about a disappointing trip to the seaside.
“There wasn’t much to eat there.”
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"Damned parasites."
If there is one thing that isn't alien to Vlast, it's the presence of demons, feasting on mortal misery. An unfortunate commonality between both Tyria and Thedas.
Still, there's some relief the little diplomat isn't being maltreated for his origins.
"You are lucky to still be standing. Help yourself to whatever portion of rations I'm entitled to if it will help you recover. I'm well enough to hunt my own food."
And it would be good practice in the long run. He needs to get used to weapons.
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