[open-ish] I am the wheel

[altusimperius]

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?

Comments

[altusimperius]

"Least you've got less to guard," he reasons, idly taking a sip from his wine and giving the glass a swirl.

"You learn so much, staying across the harbor," he adds drily, "like... where to sprawl so you don't get murdered. And which pubs will kick you out when they see you're settling in for the night."

[armd]

"Yeah, I'm not really interested in learning stuff like that." ... No offense.

She brings her tankard up moodily, has a drag on it. Despite not wanting to think about what is going on in her life right now, this is a good opportunity to sort of vibe check herself. Benedict can always be counted on to be honest, anyway. "Am I being a bitch? Lately, I mean. Don't say something like 'yeah, but everybody understands why', just — for real, I wanna know."

[altusimperius]

The remark yields a little laugh, nearly self-effacing, but the conversation diverts when Abby asks such a question.

"I-- no?" He pauses, wine halfway to his mouth, with an odd expression. "You seem tired, but."
A little shrug. "And you would have good reason."

[armd]

"I am tired," she says, skims her hand over her face, rubbing at her nose. Her eyes hurt from all the sleep she isn't getting, it's like an insult sitting neatly of top of having to feel like this, day in and out. You also seem like you're dealing with this badly.

That's not what Benedict said, but it's close enough.

She's grinding her tankard into the table, staring at it. More words come up suddenly. "It doesn't feel like a good reason."

[altusimperius]

Unsure of how to answer that, Benedict shrugs helplessly. Who decides what reasons are good, anyway?

“It happens enough,” he says solemnly, “it’s… hard to distinguish it from death.” They’ve seen so much of both, but at least, as he’s argued before, something is left behind when someone simply dies.