faderift | [open-ish] I am the wheel

Entry tags:

[open-ish] I am the wheel

WHO: Benedict Artemaeus and his many friends and admirers
WHAT: catch-all
WHEN: Solace
WHERE: around the Gallows
NOTES: HMU if you want a closed prompt, wildcards also welcome

I. Diplomacy office (open to first taker only please)

It's sweltering at the top of the central-- only-- tower, but nonetheless Benedict is there to dig through the files he himself organized over the past however many years, possessed by some spirit of Diligence (not actually, don't worry) to overhaul the whole system once he found what he was initially looking for.

A mug of forgotten coffee sits on the desk that used to be his, and he himself sits on the floor, cigarette in mouth as he leafs through some folio or another, sorting its contents into new piles.

II. Birthday Boy (ota)

The heat has temporarily broken for the evening, with a lovely little breeze slipping into the Gallows over the harbor. Benedict has parked himself out on the makeshift beach where he'd hosted the party, resting across a blanket and some pillows, with a bottle of wine and his water pipe to accompany him. It's a familiar sight for late July: a small party thrown for himself, to which anyone who feels like stopping by is invited and offered a drink and a toke.

He rests back on his elbows over a pillow, the pipe's hose pressed thoughtfully between his lips as he looks out at the sea, the picture of quiet serenity.

for Clarisse

It's midday, and the tower is quiet, with everyone heads down over their respective tasks; but if Clarisse is concentrating, this is likely interrupted by the little rap on her doorframe as Benedict pokes his head around. Neighbors.

"I'm making coffee," he sleepily announces, "want any?"

for Caius

The person in Caius' tent is not the person he met up in Tevinter, though that should hardly be a surprise, considering how the mission resolved; Benedict still, uncannily, maintains all of Fausta's mannerisms, even if he's not required to play-act anymore.

"I tried to snatch the best-smelling one," he informs Caius as he shows him to the tent, "which isn't saying a lot, but. We do what we can."
Batting the flap open reveals that he's done his best to make it homey, with an assortment of pillows and throws and tapestries that all seem to convene around his beloved water pipe, currently sitting dormant. A smoky, strong but not unpleasant aroma lingers within the space, suggesting that it was used recently-- but at least not inside, or they'd be suffocating.

for Abby

The Noose is moderately busy for a weeknight, but not so packed as to be suffocating. It's not unusual to find Benedict there, tucked comfortably against one of the walls with a mug of wine as he works or draws or just people watches-- it's safe to say he hasn't gone on one of his little dockside excursions since before the Envy Demon Incident, as much as he may want to. If nothing else, security is key, and getting too drunk is antithetical to that.

When he sees Abby's familiar face, he meets her eyes with a playful little quirk of his mouth and a nudge of his head. Sit with me?

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Trying not to watch him too fixedly, as it would make most people uncomfortable (and Vlast is a little more intense than Most People), Benedict observes out of his periphery, his eyebrows giving a little jump at the sight of the sparks.

Intriguing.

"It feels good," he explains, languidly extending one hand to request the hose, his eyes flitting over Vlast's face, "if you do it enough. It makes your mind and body relax."

Vlast hands it back to him, skepticism written across his face.

"I'm fairly certain what smoke does to humans," he says. "Are you quite certain it's not just the asphyxiation that's addling your mind...?"

A little laugh, punctuated by a long inhale from the hose. Benedict lets his head fall back a little afterward, blowing a delicate stream of smoke from his mouth as he looks up at the sky.

"Quite certain," he confirms, "it's what's in the smoke. It's not like you're walking up to a campfire and inhaling."

(Vlast has none of Benedict's hang-ups on adhering to social mores and indulging his own curiosity, and so he watches the man smoke. Sorry about that.)

The explanation that there is something actually in the smoke hadn't occurred to him. His scrutiny turns from Benedict to the water pipe, his brow furrowing in thought.

"What's in it then...?"

If he's aware he's being watched so carefully, it only reflects as a positive. With a wry smile at Vlast, Benedict hands back the hose, should he want it again.

"Mostly elfroot," he explains, "a medicinal herb used for dulling pain. But the herbalist I patronize makes a special blend that really pops."

With a lazy grin, he brushes a tendril of hair out of his face-- the smoke is already taking effect, it would seem--

"He won't tell me what the secret ingredient is, but I've stopped caring."

Vlast's brow seems to have a perpetual furrow in it now, his eyes once again fixed on the water pipe.

"Like... fireworks...?"

He hadn't tasted anything explosive within the smoke. It could just be another figure of speech that has, yet again, sailed over his head.

(He's getting used to that.)

"You're very trusting of a supplier who could easily use this to poison you."

Vlast takes another drag, quite unconcerned with poisoning himself before handing it back.

"In your mind," Benedict asserts, smiling up at the sky. Fireworks in your mind, to be clear.

"I've been going to him for years," he adds languidly, "he wouldn't fuck over a regular like that, at least if he values his business."

He takes another long, deep drag, limply grasping the hose as he blows the smoke out again.
The sun is beginning to set, a cool, humid breeze cutting the heat from off the harbor.

Does he value his life even more? How hard would it be for a Venatori agent to sneak into Kirkwall and threaten him?

He doesn't speak the thought aloud. If Benedict hasn't considered the risks, then it's on his own head, and he doubts the man is that stupid.

"I've eaten mushrooms that had such an effect," he says, thoughtful. "I was rolling around in the dunes for hours. I didn't know the sky could be such colours that far south."

"Ooh."

Never mind that Benedict is a bit of a nihilist when it comes to Venatori Trying To Kill Him; he has a long and storied past from which he has seemingly learned very little, but perhaps the effect is by design.

Perhaps it isn't, but Vlast isn't going to find out in the moment.

"Fascinating," Benedict breathes, his eyes widening, "was this before you came through the rift?" Because if not, hit a bitch up.

"Before," he says with a shrug. "Mushrooms don't usually wander so far from the Maguuma jungle - perhaps they stumbled through one the Asuran gates."

He leans back into one of the cushions, the smoke already taking some of the constant tension out of his body.

"Maybe one will wander through a rift, and you can have your fill."

"Mm," Bene intones appreciatively, only realizing after a moment or so that there was something in Vlast's phrasing--

"wander?" he repeats, angling his head toward the Qunari-- or whatever he is-- "like-- ...like walk around?"

"Yes."

The inquiry gets another sigh.

"I suppose that is another difference between our worlds, then. Perhaps there are less mobile mushrooms here with similar effects."

Benedict stares at him for a long, considering moment, in which he takes a pull from the pipe and exhales it gently, the smoke wafting up through his vision.

Then he starts to snicker, which turns rapidly into full-bodied laughter as he slumps onto his back, flinging his wrist limply over his eyes. Walking mushrooms! That you eat!

Vlast watches the whole display, incredulous.

"Did the smoke addle you? Should I call a healer?"

He scans the shore for any familiar faces who might be able to help Benedict with whatever fit he's having.

Laughter remains ever-perplexing to the Rifter.

As tends to be the way of things in such a state, the questioning only makes Benedict laugh harder. He rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in his arms to muffle the sounds of his mirth. He shakes his head-- he doesn't need a healer-- but is too helpless to explain further.

Vlast hovers over Benedict, split between concern and exasperation. He diligently resists the urge to pick the human up by the collar of his shirt and shaking him back to his senses.

(He's being so brave about it too.)

When Benedict's mirth eventually subsides, Vlast is giving him a flat, judgmental stare.

"Are you done?"

Angling his head to peek at Vlast from behind his arm, Benedict offers an angelic smile and a little nod. He is absolutely going to start laughing again if anything triggers it, but for now, Vlast is safe.

Something about the smile makes Vlast's shoulders jump and his pulse quicken. Looking away, he quickly blames the smoke addling his own mind because he is, in no way, shape, or form equipped to deal the cocktail of mortal hormones that came with this new body.

"I thought you might have lost your mind. Surely mushrooms aren't that amusing."

It’s a look with which Benedict is familiar, and in his addled state he struggles not to meet his natural impulse head on.

They’re out in public, for one thing, but Vlast is also a bit skittish—- prone to anger, even—- and as thrilling as that would be to prod, perhaps this is neither the place or the time.

Pity.

“What’s the matter?” Bene asks languidly, propping his cheek on one hand. He knows damn well what the matter is, but is offering an out (or an in, frankly).

"Nothing. I have work to do," he growls out through clenched teeth and clambers to his feet. Vlast does what he normally does when encountering something deeply, disconcertingly unfamiliar welling inside him; he withdraws to find answers.

As he turns on his heel, Vlast pauses mid-step.

"I wish you well on your name-day. ...And thank you; for the smoke."

It had done wonders in dulling the constant pain at his side.

Ah, well.

"My pleasure," Benedict calls after him, his smile lingering all the same.

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[open-ish] I am the wheel

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