faderift | [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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Wouldn't want to impose."

He will absolutely impose, once the idea of relaxing feels less like losing the last vestiges control. For now, he follows after, looking over the empty space that's meant to be his.

"Besides, you've got to stay sharp, right? To keep an eye on me?"

Nobody's said as much. It's not a cell. But that doesn't mean he has anybody's trust yet.

"Oh, yes, it's a tight leash I'll keep," Benedict drawls with a smirk-- he's probably just about the last person anyone would put on guard duty for a potential deserter, but considering the amount they went through to get him here, it seems a silly concern.

"Anyway." He crosses one leg over the other, folding his hands neatly atop his lap, "any questions about Riftwatch? Comments? Concerns?" There's humor in his eyes: it's a role he plays by necessity, but that doesn't mean it isn't a little bit funny too.

He won't admit out loud to being surprised they didn't throw him in a ditch as soon as they had the proof he'd brought to barter, but. You know.

"Besides the state of the walls?" he jokes. Half the fortress crumbled to rubble hadn't exactly been reassuring, but they're making do. He takes a seat on his own cot, testing out the thin cushion.

"What was it like for you, when you first got here? Did they roll out the red carpets?"

"Can't be helped," Benedict says with a similar lightness, "unless you're an architect."
Caius' question seems to freeze him in place, and he squeezes out an awkward laugh as all the air seems to go out of the room.

"--no," he answers, and seems content to leave it at that. It's not his favorite topic, one might say.

Edited 2024-08-26 19:01 (UTC)

—Not what he expected, but it's a clear enough reaction to make Caius swerve from the natural follow-up question. His eyes flick over the other man quick, considering, but there's plenty he can learn without making Benedict any more uncomfortable. He just nods, accepting for now.

"But you trust them now? Believe in them?"

Caius might hear the story at some point, might find it useful, but for now it's best left alone: it doesn't help anyone for him to know how things used to be, when what he's curious about is now.

"I do," Benedict confirms, recovering with a fussy little toss of his head, his expression relaxing, "more than I believe in what they're doing back home, anyway. And then some."

He purses his lips, then adds, "it's an adjustment, coming south. The politics are different, stupid sometimes, but it's charming. In its way."

It's a story he'll be interested in when he's earned enough trust for it; how things used to be is often how they become again. Circles and cycles. But he can guess enough to leave it be for now.

An eyebrow ticks skeptical at his last comment, though. Charming?

"In which ways?" Not that he couldn't see it if he tried, but he wants to understand what Benedict sees. How he thinks.

The question and Caius' tone of asking are telling, and Benedict can't help but laugh-- he would've done the same, and probably did, when he was still new to the south.

"There's a-- simplicity," he admits, a grin threatening to overtake his face, "--having to do so much without magical intervention, and... the fashion isn't always so bad. There's a lot one can do with cold weather clothing." He shrugs helplessly.

"And people are trying, for the most part. Doing their best. It's," endearing, relatable, "...refreshing."

"As opposed to, say, doing their best to undermine each other?"

Not everywhere in Tevinter is a viper's nest, he wants to say. And even the simplest-looking life must have its cutthroat moments. But he nods instead, accepting, able to at least see the appeal in something not that.

"You're from the city, aren't you? Minrathous?" Mr. Fashionista.

The question yields a little huff of breath, and Benedict nods, right on target.

"I am," he confirms, "and I miss it sometimes, I do. But," and the word hangs there a long moment, to the extent it isn't certain he'll even finish the sentence.

"...it's better here," he concludes awkwardly, quietly.

What a peculiar indulgence it is — of the comfortable, he thinks, of the well protected — to let oneself be soft. Or is this the hairline fracture of a weak point, an echo of a past blow, that takes the volume from his voice? Hard to imagine an Altus scion being allowed to be noncompetitive.

It's unwise to bare a flaw to him. More still, to let his own cautious calculations see the light of day. Instead Caius leans back, opening up the air between them literally as much as figuratively.

"I'll take your word on it for now." He'll see for himself soon enough.

[open-ish] I am the wheel

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