"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.
sweet. Benedict's smile blooms into a larger one, warm and curious and a little amused-- oh, you gonna go hunting in Lowtown?-- and he shakes his head.
"There's enough for everyone," he assures Vlast, folding his arms with the book in one hand, apparently finished writing in it. "You've got experience with demons?"
Tilting his head with clear interest-- ever since he saw some of the Rifters' worlds, it's been an experiment in learning about all the different ways people can exist--
"A broad question with no simple answer. I might as well ask you what kind of place Thedas is, for all the good it will do. But..."
He hesitates for a moment, his sharp features softening only briefly.
"...Tyria is beautiful. The finest jewels would weep with envy, for they could never compare to the vibrancy of the Crystal Desert, or Maguuma Jungle. It is a pity there is no way to return - our worlds could benefit from contact with each other."
Benedict opens his mouth as though to disagree, and closes it again, a flash of emotion crossing his eyes that he does well to conceal after the fact.
"...we were able to visit some of the Rifter worlds, once," he pivots, "maybe I'll see it someday." And maybe you'll vanish into the ether and nobody will know if you're dead or blinked from existence or just went home.
"Maybe," he agrees. Humans crossed the Mists into Tyria from... somewhere, and he's found himself in this strange land. Ways exist, surely. Finding them, traveling them safely... that is another matter altogether.
"You may find it preferable - there are far fewer taboos on magic for starters."
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"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."
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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."
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"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."
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He's working on it though.
"That sounds..."
Reasonable? Like a good plan?
"...agreeable enough. You serve in Diplomacy, yes?"
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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?"
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"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."
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"Are there often internal conflicts over methodology?"
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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."
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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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sweet. Benedict's smile blooms into a larger one, warm and curious and a little amused-- oh, you gonna go hunting in Lowtown?-- and he shakes his head.
"There's enough for everyone," he assures Vlast, folding his arms with the book in one hand, apparently finished writing in it.
"You've got experience with demons?"
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"Yes. In my world, anyway. But from what I've read, demons in Tyria are not so different than those in Thedas."
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Tilting his head with clear interest-- ever since he saw some of the Rifters' worlds, it's been an experiment in learning about all the different ways people can exist--
"what kind of place is Tyria?"
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He hesitates for a moment, his sharp features softening only briefly.
"...Tyria is beautiful. The finest jewels would weep with envy, for they could never compare to the vibrancy of the Crystal Desert, or Maguuma Jungle. It is a pity there is no way to return - our worlds could benefit from contact with each other."
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"...we were able to visit some of the Rifter worlds, once," he pivots, "maybe I'll see it someday." And maybe you'll vanish into the ether and nobody will know if you're dead or blinked from existence or just went home.
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"You may find it preferable - there are far fewer taboos on magic for starters."
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"People use it more openly?" he asks, with an intrigued little tilt of his head.
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