faderift | [open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

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[open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

WHO: everybody who wants
WHAT: (lukewarm) BEACH PARTY (on rubble, in harbor)
WHEN: late Justinian
WHERE: the Gallows, amidst its newly-acquired sea view
NOTES: he's trying

I. Prep

He didn't ask for help overtly, but Benedict is clearly working hard setting up the space he's designated for the company to have their beach staycation: drapings taken from his own stash and salvaged from the Gallows' erstwhile guest rooms are drawn across glyphed-in-place poles to create shade. He's hauled out a table, onto which he proceeds to place a variety of whatever canapés he could afford to procure with his own wages-- it's not a feast, all right-- and beside which he rolls two barrels of decent-ish wine.

From the baths come a stack of towels piled high in his arms, hindering his vision to such a degree that he may crash into someone not paying attention; pillows and the like come next, in armloads that take multiple trips, by the end of which he's visibly out of breath.

Lastly, it's his very own water pipe making an appearance, which he arranges amidst comfortable ground seating mimics how his room used to look: in fact, most of the accoutrements here are his personal belongings.
As such, he knows just how to set everything to create an attractive, if minimalist, space for an afternoon's leisure.

II. Party?

It may not be an all-out bash like their excursion to the sandier shores of the Waking Sea some years ago, but this, if nothing else, is an opportunity for work on the Gallows to pause in palatable increments. One can be clearing rubble or cataloguing property for the morning, then pop over for an hour of sunbathing and a glass of wine; they're all within calling out distance of the courtyard, and the party likely bleeds into the day's work in a manner somewhat more comfortable than if it were sequestered.

That said: the early summer sea water is cold, the sun is out but meek behind occasional cloud cover, and the festivities are on clean-swept stone rather than sand. The view across the water is of mainland Kirkwall, and all that that entails.
But it's none of it so bad, for anyone looking to take a break. A few musicians even show up a bit later in the afternoon, and Benedict provides a bonfire in the center of the party space as the sun goes down.

Anything brought to share is met with effusive thanks from Benedict, who ensures its appropriate placement and distribution. He doesn't spend much time relaxing himself, instead making the rounds with the air of a fussy host, where he's quick to offer refills or alternatives in libations, or diversions for unsatisfactory activities.

[make your own starters, do your thing, go hog wild-- if you have logistical questions feel free to ask on plurk or discord]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Strange has mostly sensed Benedict’s presence throughout the day as an ambient nervous buzzing in the background, the younger mage vibrating with the neurotic energy of a host orbiting all his guests and determinedly making sure that they are having A Good Time. (It’s a side of him the doctor’s never seen before. When he thinks of Benedict Artemaeus, mostly he remembers him half-drunk and languid and Cheshire cat-esque, slouching into the Sanctum kitchen at a too-late hour. A formative first impression.)

Tonight, though, it’s Strange’s turn to finally cut through some of his own highly-strung workaholicism and try to learn how to relax; so he’s by the bonfire, enjoying some wine, when he waves Benedict over. Sit down, join him. Enjoy your own party, just for a bit.

“So it’s not the Nocen Sea,” he says, “but I think you’ve done all right, all things considered.”

Benedict is waved over, easily enough, even if he doesn't sit just yet-- he does offer a pleased little smile toward Strange, accepting the compliment in his bearing if not verbally.

"Nor is it, the um," he pauses a moment to remember: "Atlantic?" He'd gone there, in Stark's world-- a laughable assortment of pasty bathers, horrific smells, and inexplicable, towering contraptions filled with what he could only guess were the screaming damned.

Edited 2024-06-22 03:04 (UTC)

“Ah, Coney Island. Freezing water and extremely aggressive waves,” Strange says, charmed at the fact that Benedict had actually visited the Atlantic. There’s a sort of wistful fondness in his voice at the recollection; if that beach is a little bit garbage, at least it’s his garbage.

“The food can be sinfully good, though, down at the boardwalk. We should introduce Thedas to amusement park snacks. Cotton candy, donuts, funnel cake.”

See, he’s doing his part for rifter diplomacy. Sort of.

"Oh..." Benedict sighs, and he comes to rest by him a moment, perching on a large chunk of debris nearby.

"Sometimes I think I dreamed how sweet things were," he admits, folding his arms around his knees, "which-- I suppose I did, but. Sugarcane. We've got to have something like it, somewhere."

He taps his mouth, narrowing his eyes. "Par Vollen?"

“It grows in warmer climates, so Par Vollen sounds right. Perhaps you could task Diplomacy with making some new mercantile friends within the Qun.” Strange’s smile is a little lopsided, looking off at the water. Trade’s fucked and probably will continue to be fucked for a while, but a man can dream.

“Which is admittedly a joke but also not entirely a joke. My own diplomatic efforts with the locals is largely focused on arguing with people about medicinal advancements, but… While your average Thedosian citizen probably won’t like to sit down for a medical lecture, people do enjoy exotic food and drink and a party. Morale.”

Vague gesture. The rubble around them.

"That's true," muses Benedict, following his gaze out toward the gloomy sea, "perhaps."

The side of his mouth twitches. "Probably just need to make sure I'm not the envoy." A sidelong glance, "our nations have a bit of a ...history."
Maker, imagine talking to a full-blown Qun-following Qunari about whether or not they have any sugar they're willing to trade.

Bemused: “A bit of one, yes. There might be limits to how far we push your diplomatic role.”

Strange takes a sip of his wine; then winces a little, realising how lukewarm it’s gotten in the summer sun, and he glances down at the cup. Like a warm beer after too many hours out on someone’s yacht, but without a convenient ice-filled cooler anywhere nearby. It sparks an offhand thought: “How are you with ice magic?”

"I can try."

Everyone learns the basic elemental spells, and just because Benedict has leaned more into the fire doesn't mean he can't cool a drink. He's pretty sure.

He extends a hand, beckoning for the cup.

It’s been long enough now that Strange has gotten better about biting back that instinctive envy over the things native mages can do that he can’t; the capabilities that he’s lost and which lie just out of his grasp, like a clumsy numbness in your nerves and your fingers slipping. Ice has remained out of his own reach.

But he hands over the cup and then pays exceedingly close attention as he always does: watching for the other mage’s gestures, the faint weight pressed on the Fade, the threads pulled, always seeking to understand.

A better understanding of Thedosian practise allows for a more educated grasp of what grooves one’s own working might slip into, de Cedoux had said. He’s been trying to learn.

There isn't much gesture to be made, a fact which is likely as maddening to Strange as it is easy for the native mage: he simply takes the cup in his hand, carefully balancing the base of it between his fingertips, and looks at it.

A glyph would be laid out on the ground, but here he's enchanting the cup itself with cold drawn out from his hand, which begins to make itself seen through little white tendrils of frost rising from where his skin meets the glass.

It's quite beautiful even in its quickness-- and it is too quick, starting out subtle and then almost immediately freezing through with an icy tink sound, which Benedict greets with a grimace and a whispered "shit".

He glances apologetically to Strange, still holding the drink.
"I can warm it back up again," he offers sheepishly, "or you can just... wait, if you like."

Strange wishes he could trap that moment in amber to examine it from all angles, tilt and back and forth and catch exactly how Benedict did that,

but instead he just reaches out, bemused, to take the frozen drink back. “Well, I’ll just wait; it’s fit for summer and better than making it too-hot. It does make me miss central air and cooling something awful, though. Does Tevinter have climate-controlled buildings?”

Retrieving the cup, he enjoys the sting of the cold on his hands even if he can’t break into the frozen wine just yet. “Like a summer popsicle. It’ll become a slushie,” he says. Does Thedas have even slushies? Maybe it’s time they did.

"It does," Benedict confirms, settling back onto his elbows and lightly crossing one leg over the other, "at least. For the wealthy." Official buildings, mansions, you know,

"it takes a lot of energy, as I'm sure you can imagine." Let's not talk about where that energy comes from!

“Mm.” A thoughtful noise, hedging. “Back home, too. You saw what it’s like on Earth, those miracles of comfort— We’re technically burning up the entire world to do it. Fossil fuels.”

Strange might marvel at the wonders of Tevinter, but he has to remind himself: there’s always a price. He glances over at the other man, fingertips drumming on the edge of the drink.

“I grill you about this a lot. Someday I’ll cut you a break and stop pestering you about the land of your birth. I just don’t know anyone else from Tevinter besides our Lady Arany.”

"The world," Benedict shrugs, "the Fade. People. Comfort has its cost." Not to get political or anything--

"it's all right," he says with a good-natured little smirk, "we're scarce here for a reason. I'm not sure even Vega would be here if she didn't have to be. I wouldn't have been, not at first."

“How did that happen, anyway?” He’s aware this might be delicate territory too — that scar on Benedict’s throat — but he still wants to ask. There’s the sense of a story lurking beneath that breezy surface, and Strange can’t resist an interesting story.

“It seems a long and unlikely road, to cross sides during a war.”

"It... was."

With the influx of Rifters, and becoming personnel officer, Benedict has had to grow more accustomed to sharing details about himself-- but somehow it never seems to get easier, always carries that feeling of standing on the edge of the cliff, unsure as to whether or not there will be a net below to catch him when he takes the dive.

"Both long and unlikely," he hedges, squinting out at the sea. "I first arrived as a prisoner, under the mentorship of someone who had aligned himself with the Venatori."

“You mentioned that the two of you had turned against the Venatori, and been punished for your trouble. Was that before or after you were taken prisoner?”

The question is more straightforward and curious than coddling. Strange might be leaning a bit on the brisk, neutral tone of voice he typically uses for a medical consultation; gently probing for details and facts, not feelings.

Sometimes coddling is nice, but it's not always what one receives, as Benedict has learned in excess; and Strange wanting to know the truth isn't a knock against him. He has a right to it, as everyone in Riftwatch does.

"After," Benedict admits, a bit furtively, "and it was... really just. Me. Atticus ingratiated himself quickly."

His lips purse into a flat line as he recalls one of the more uncomfortable times in his life.

"I resisted."

Strange checks on his frozen glass, tilting it in the firelight, and then sips some of the melted liquid.

“Resisted joining Riftwatch? What, when we have such luxuries to offer?” A vague gesture of his hand to the broken towers, the tumbledown wall. It’s a dry stab at humour despite (or perhaps exactly because of) that tension at the corners of Benedict’s mouth; an attempt to smooth the way for the rest of this story, whatever it is.

Benedict smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes-- was it even Riftwatch yet, at the time, or still a branch of the Inquisition? For related reasons, he doesn't even quite remember.

"I," he replies, a bit haltingly, "I didn't know how bad things had gotten. Up north. And down here, the... I suppose you could say the culture was different." His mouth twitches, like he's about to say more, but changes course.

"The Templars who were around then-- they were. Really Templars. They handled things like southern Templars do." Focusing very intently on one small rock by his leg, he distractedly adds, "as far as I know, anyway."

Bleak. Bleaker than he expected, perhaps; this version of Benedict is so different from the carefree version he’s used to seeing.

“And you still felt fine joining, after that?” Strange asks.

If he were a different man, he’d feel guilty for continuing to press on this wound, except that it’s granting valuable insight. Adding context to people’s reactions after Julius’ poisoning, the way he’d heard the young mage described— Noted traitorous coward and weakness of the organisation. It’s hardly the first time his loyalties have been dangerously in question.

Now he knows. He likes to know things.

Benedict shakes his head, his mouth giving a little twitch, like it might shift to a smile or a grimace but does neither.
"After-- everything with Atticus," here he unconsciously touches his neck, where the poorly healed scar lies concealed under light fabric, "I had come to trust a few members of Riftwatch, and they vouched for me. I was allowed to move about somewhat freely, as long as I was helpful. And then, when my mother bargained with Riftwatch to get me back, I thought it was over."

He gives another grim shake of his head, still staring at that rock, as though registering Stephen's presence might make him lose his nerve.

"--but she sent me right back. Punished the Templars, to keep them off me, but insisted I return to join willingly. To make my way, she said, and to learn a thing or two about the world, after I'd failed so utterly with Atticus. I,"

Maker, how long ago was this, and yet how raw it feels, how vile to say it aloud,

"I didn't know she was already aligned with the Venatori. She wanted me to write to her. About what I was doing here." He rests his face in one hand. World's Most Oblivious Spy Has Regrets

Oh. Ah. Hm.

Strange pauses; he really is tremendously bad at the whole emotional part of this. Not just your own country and mentor in bed with the enemy, but your own mother: he doesn’t have the right words to offer, and doesn’t even want to try. But what he does do is drain the rest of his now-comfortably-melted wine, refills it, and then holds the cup out to Benedict. Seems the Personnel Officer needs a drink far more than the Head Healer.

“Well, shit,” he says. He instinctively assumes Benedict must not have turned spy, because that sounds like another trip to the cells and surely they wouldn’t let him go a second time, after that —

But you know what they say about assuming. So instead he asks: “What’d you wind up doing?”

SURELY NOT

Absently, Benedict takes the wine glass and simply chills it again (ironically, the less he's paying attention to it, the more successfully he does so) and hands it back, still avoiding eye contact.

"I was angry," he admits, "I wanted to go home. But there were people here, who..." are mostly gone now, but, "...convinced me to try. To make something of it. I'd been given a chance, so I got a job as the chamberlain, started sort of-- almost-- fitting in. I stopped writing letters home, hadn't done one in over a year when I got a message from Mother."

The small muscles in his face twitch: this is clearly not a pleasant memory.

"She had," he begins, with the air of knowing full well how this sentence will be perceived, "...sold... someone very important to me.
I had to return to Tevinter and speak to her to find out where they'd been sent. To whom. --and I brought a friend with me, who was interested in helping freed slaves. My intention was to purchase the slave from her new master, then bring her back south, but I was stupid. It was a trap."

Another little twitch, and the rapid blinking that accompanies twinges of old pain, his lip curling as he holds back a stronger emotion.

"I mean-- the others made it back. It worked, in a way. I still have no idea where they ended up, where she's living now. My friend was a rifter, and she's -- gone."
In the way that only rifters can be.

"--but I stayed behind, with my mother. I was. Weak, I thought she'd been hurt." That look again, like there's a needle being slowly inserted into his arm, and he's just trying not to notice it.
"She... held me there, for a time. Made herself clearer, what she wanted. And then sent me back here again."

They really don’t fill you in on the deep lore when you saunter in as a rifter, brand-new and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Benedict had been an easy enough thing to overlook, just another figure in the backdrop of Riftwatch, not knowing the full scope of it. It was a scab that Strange picked at sometimes out of curiosity, wondering how do the Tevenes feel over on this side of the war, but he’d never truly had to reckon with the damage done.

Made herself clearer feels like a euphemism, feels like skipping over the pertinent ugly details. Strange should know; he tends to do the same, with big glaring omissions of the things he doesn’t want to discuss. So he doesn’t press on that part.

“And then?”

[open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

@ benedict; party party

he did not care for coney island

my lol

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potential wrap or yrs to wrap?