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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Everyone's been busy with the latest mission, and it's entirely possible neither Vlast nor Benedict has even really seen the other in their newly-assigned shared room until now.
But one evening, Benedict is taking advantage of some downtime by sitting on the floor by his bed with a mirror, a small bowl of wax beside him that he proceeds to heat and spread across his lower face. He looks up when the door opens, but is careful not to emote and disturb his process.

Vlast is a surprisingly quiet roommate as these things go. From the look of him and his perpetually foul temper, one would imagine he'd be little better than a bull in a china shop.

In fairness, he's barely around to make much noise, clearly preferring to roam outdoors, returning only for curfew (when he feels amenable). But when he's there, he may as well be a ghost.

The door only creaks and there is only the soft scuff of his footfalls and the crinkle of wrapping as he sets a few parcels on the end of his bed and when Benedict looks up, the 'Qunari' does a double-take.

"...What are you doing to your face...?" he asks, not quite alarmed but there is definitely a note of concern in his growling voice.

"Waxing," Benedict replies simply, moving his mouth as little as possible. If he's a little bit embarrassed by it, this shows only in his eyes, which regard Vlast with a touch of wariness: don't be weird, dudes do this all the time, at least you weren't here for the below-the-face part,

gripping a bit of dried wax between his thumb and forefinger, he rips it from his upper lip with a sound that's half-gasp and half-yip.

"I don't like," he explains, tears in his eyes, "when there's hair on my face." BEAUTY IS PAIN

Vlast considers this. His face doesn't grow hair, but he hasn't exactly made an effort on that front either.

“I see. It would very messy when you eat.”

He can think of a few things less pleasant than gore and viscera from a kill lingering in a mustache, but not many.

Vlast turns from Benedict, but only briefly to crack open the trunk at the end of the bed. There's not much in there – basic toiletries, a comb with a few strands of silvery hair clinging to its teeth, a change of clothes, some of his crude scrimshaw, and medical supplies. It's from the latter stash that he selects a small pot of ointment and kneels next to him, offering the poultice.

“It helps. With the pain.”

He may not have been there for the below the chin part but there's more than enough residual redness for Vlast to think that the whole thing looks overly painful.

Another rip, another little painful sound; Benedict dabs at his eyes with his sleeve, but otherwise smiles, because it's sort of funny. And because Vlast is being kind.

He looks from the pot to Vlast's face, accepting the offering gently-- after a pause, he adds a "thank you," quiet and sincere.

The thank you gets little more than a dismissive grunt.

So much for manners.

"I suppose it's better than the blades people use to scrape the off the hair. It's not taking your skin with it too, is it?"

The smile dwindles, the pot set aside so Benedict can give one last rip and voice its accompanying mild distress. Then, the dried wax collected, he begins to apply it, watching Vlast thoughtfully.

"No," he answers simply, "this is-- this is nice." He pauses to look down at it, sniff it: perhaps he should look into picking up his own, but its very existence begs a question.

"Does something cause you frequent pain?" Finishing up, he screws the lid back on and returns it. "I mean-- such that you need to keep this around,"

Putting the little canister away gives Vlast an opportunity to hide his face. He's not sure what it's doing - something strange and complicated and horrifyingly vulnerable - but it's all quite against his will.

"It's an ointment for burns," he explains slowly, carefully. "I have some residual wounds from my death."

Sensing the delicacy of the situation, Benedict doesn't try to see Vlast's face, just folding his hands to settle in and watch the back of him with subtle curiosity.

It will never not be strange, that people come here who are dead.

"Have you," he hazards, "spoken to Strange about it?"

"It is not a normal wound," he explains with fraying patience, and holds up his hand, the anchor shard flaring green before dissipating. "It is akin to this thing, though the physical ramifications are more readily apparent. There is no point in letting some stranger poke and prod at my vitals just to tell me what I already know."

He shrugs a massive shoulder as if what he said amounts to nothing. As if dying is nothing.

It's all so very simple.

"Either I will consume this magic festering within or it will consume me."

That's--

well it's a bit frightening, for one thing, and Benedict doesn't enjoy thinking about the ramifications of his or anyone else's shards; perhaps they're all doomed to die from them in the end, if the Rifters don't just vanish. Which they are wont to do either way.

But more than that, it's sad. To live in such pain, to succumb to it without even questioning.

"You never know," he says mildly, carefully, "the Research division has managed to solve problems I had no idea existed. It might be worth investigating."

He hasn't succumbed yet.

"Maybe."

He doesn't sound convinced, and he's eager to find an exit from this line of questioning. Vlast feels a bit too raw to say any more on the matter and it's not like anything can be done about it at the moment.

(But something catches, creating a crack in his aloofness. Maybe the research division is worth a brief look. Maybe.)

Vlast gets to his feet, only to kick off his boots and collapse into the nest of pillows and blankets he's made of his bed. It jostles the pair of parcels onto the floor, but he doesn't seem to care, instead fixing his gaze on the shard in Bene's hand.

"Have they made any progress? ...With the anchors."

A twitch of a smile as Vlast seems to relax a little, and though Benedict's gaze follows the falling parcels, he doesn't comment on them-- he's pushed at Vlast enough for one day.

"I'm not sure," he admits, "...aside from amputation, which..." He trails off. That's not happening unless he can't avoid it.

Edited 2024-09-09 22:08 (UTC)

Vlast watches, silent, unblinking. He's either not been updated on what counts as staring and is hence rude or simply doesn't care and discards it like most etiquette.

Vlast can stare like a cat.

Finally his gaze goes to his own palm and he lets the anchor flare again. He can feel it, around the edges, where it will try to grow and spread and the shape of how it will hurt if he relents in his attempt to consume it.

Losing an arm is survivable, of course, but he knows what is to awake in a body missing parts of yourself, to feel the phantom echo of lost limbs trying to move while your mind struggles to map its new reality.

He cannot articulate why, but he doesn't want to see Benedict go through that.

When the anchor dies down, leaving nothing but small, crystalline motes hanging in the air, Vlast exhales.

"...Is not ideal, is it?" he finishes the other man's sentence. "There may be other ways, if we can get our hands on whatever set them into existence."

Watching Vlast flex the shard, Benedict has a distant, worried look in his eyes, the tension around which betraying that he likely thinks about this more than he'll admit.

He shakes his head to Vlast's question, his mouth trying to form something reassuring and eventually stilling instead, and he cups his hands in front of his face to consider.

"That's the hope," he muses, "the Eld-- Corypheus really cocked it up, with the anchors. The only reason he hasn't already won is because so many of us have them."

Other than a scoff (almost a dry chuckle) at the near slip of 'Elder One', Vlast falls back into one of his long, brooding silences, eventually broken only by a low, thoughtful growl rumbling up from his cavernous chest.

His stare lingers on Benedict's cupped hands.

“...Do they frighten you? The anchor? Corypheus? Riftwatch?”

Wincing self-consciously after the slip and the scoff in succession, Benedict furrows his brow and follows Vlast's gaze, clearly not enthusiastic about meeting it.

"Yes," he admits, and after a long pause, adds, "but not as much as they used to."

"Good," he says, with a solemn, determined nod, though doesn't elaborate on which part exactly he thinks is good.

"You are no Rifter, but nor are you from this city."

Wrong accent. Wrong... demeanor...? The locals have a certain air about them that Benedict lacks.

"How did you come to be here?"

Here goes. It's come up a lot lately, gets a little easier each time-- but nothing is easy with Vlast, if only due to his serious demeanor and how, perhaps foolishly, Benedict wants his esteem.

"I arrived as a prisoner," he explains, and, having finished his waxing, sets it aside to clean up another time. "And, through a series of personal trials, decided that staying here was better than the alternative."

It's reductive, dismissive. There's a tension to his shoulders, and he averts his gaze, preparing gloomily to be questioned further.

"Hm."

It's all Vlast says for quite some time, very clearly turning something over in his head. Eventually he puts whatever he's thinking into words.

"We aren't so different as I thought, then."

(Though Vlast's personal trials have largely been comprised of learning to wear clothes, getting tangled in his own hair, and learning not to snap at chantry sisters. They all have their struggles.)

He's watching Benedict's body language closely. Non-verbal cues are not exactly his forte, but he's not having much trouble discerning them this time. For all his cavalier flippancy, the young man is being defensive. However unintentional, Vlast hit a nerve.

There are many people in Riftwatch that Vlast doesn't give a single shit about alienating. Benedict, for whatever reason, isn't one of them.

He gentles his voice as best he can;

"I'll not press you further then."

Change of subject? ...Change of subject.

"...Your face looks good. Smooth."

"Perhaps."

There's the whole philosophical question of corporeal forms vs What Rifters Actually Are and all that, but it's above Benedict's pay grade and, frankly, mental capacity at present.

He offers a grateful little smile in return, which broadens at Vlast's observation.
"It is," he confirms, running his fingers down from cheek to chin, and then-- before he can stop himself-- "want to feel it?"

(Vlast doesn't concern himself too deeply over the philosophical questions of What Rifters Actually Are; he is himself, nothing more and nothing less. Whatever theories abound on how that came to be have, to a one, some manner of precedent in his own world. Dwelling on it seems a waste of time.)

He's almost tempted at the offer, his hand stretching out for Benedict's face. But that smile makes him think twice as his face grow hot like he's been sunning himself too long, and he quickly retracts his hand and rolls onto his side with his back to Benedict.

"Ridiculous," he grunts.

Benedict looks almost as surprised as Vlast when he verges on taking him up on the offer, but it shifts quickly to a sort of surprised disappointment when the qunari turns instead.

It stings a bit, for some insane reason. He's not ridiculous, but still Benedict's face has gone a bit hot.

"Your loss," he says primly, turning away himself.

It is, indeed, his loss. He cannot deny that.

The infuriating thing is that Vlast cannot fathom why.

With a malcontent rumble, he burrows under the great mound of cushions he's "acquired". There's no sense in continually bashing his head against the problem until it cedes some semblance of an answer; he'll either have to figure it out on his own, or just ask.

It's impossible to say what compels Benedict to do it: perhaps it's the sight of this large man shoving his face in a pile of pillows after being so weird and snippy, or perhaps it's a surge of frustration and confusion and, in its way, the sting of rejection--

--but Benedict removes one of his slippers to fling it at Vlast's upturned thigh.

He instinctively wants to follow the motion with a quick escape, but now only has one shoe on: so he kicks that one off and begins to stalk, barefoot, toward the door.

[open-ish] I am the wheel

for Vlast

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sweet baby angel

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