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

(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.

The slipper bounces uselessly off Vlast's tree-trunk of a thigh and the not-Qunari glowers over his shoulder.

His hand doesn't move on his own; he's not so irresponsible that he can't take credit for his own actions. Regardless, he grabs a cushion and sends it sailing with alarming accuracy at Benedict.

It nails Benedict right on the back of the head as he's about to leave, and he stumbles forward into the doorway before turning around to grab the cushion from the ground and whip it back at Vlast.

It's funny now, a little bit-- Vlast can be difficult to read, but it's hard to misconstrue a pillow fight.

Vlast's moment of triumph is short lived; the cushion lands square in the middle of his face with a whumph, before sliding into his lap and revealing a feral grin.

He has no real concept of a pillow fight; it's only very recently in his life that he's had pillows and frankly, the novelty of burying himself in them has yet to wear off, so this is very new. He does know all about fighting though; from infancy to his adult years, he's scrapped with anything and everything he could get his claws into so long as it didn't earn him a lecture from his mother or Sadizi.

It's not so hard to reinvent the wheel here.

Vlast makes a strange, abortive turn, seems to remember something and then promptly swats the pillow right back at Benedict with a sharp swipe of his hand.

This is war now.

Benedict has the power of petulance on his side in most cases, but the sheer force with which the pillow hits him in return is enough to knock him on his ass with an undignified gasp.

He sits there a moment, blinking in wide-eyed offense, but (perhaps in contrast to how things might have gone years ago), shakes it off in a moment or two, standing to approach with the pillow held in both hands. His expression transitions from confused to diabolically gleeful in the time it takes him to cross the room, and, in a motion rather unlike throwing the pillow, yanks it down over one of Vlast's horns.

[open-ish] I am the wheel

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sweet baby angel

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