open | now give me something to believe in.

[interroga]

WHO: Cassian Andor & you
WHAT: A liaison from the Shadow Dragons arrives
WHEN: Bloomingtide
WHERE: Minrathous + Kirkwall
NOTES: Some injury description

arrival.

It’s a late spring night when a stranger arrives at the Widow Tavisa’s Boarding House.

Most regular guests would take the front entrance and speak to the innkeeper in the main room; but this one slips through the back entrance and takes an out-of-the-way servant’s staircase, into a shuttered wing of the building which isn’t supposed to be open to the public. But those rare people in the know might be aware that this leads to Riftwatch’s secret outpost in Minrathous —

The darkhaired man slumps against the locked door leading into their safehouse. He knocks on the door in a fixed, staccato rhythm identifying him as an ally. He has a hand pressed to his side with worrisome urgency, jaw tight and teeth gritted against the pain; he knocks again a little louder, in case whoever’s on watch is dozing.

No one’s expecting a new arrival right at this hour. It’s not ideal.

settling in.

After finally getting vetted and officially joining, Cassian tucks the Riftwatch pin into his pocket and starts to get the lay of the land, gathering information, pressing a finger to the pulse of this new city he’s going to be calling home.

There’s a kind of amiable affability to this new arrival, his smile calculated to be inoffensive and mild, even as the gears are very busily ticking away behind his dark-brown eyes.

You might find him at the Gallows bar, pouring himself a drink and smoothly sliding into the chair at your table to pry: “So, what’s your favourite place in the Gallows or Kirkwall?”

Or wandering the battlements of the towers and looking out across the city. Rebuilding is expensive, and so some parts of Kirkwall still bear the marks of the Venatori attack a little over a year ago: collapsed buildings that never got raised again, battle-scars and scorch marks from dracolisks. “What was it like?” he asks. “The Venatori attack.”

He also goes for long walks through the city, right past the alienage (although his gaze lingers), and venturing into the deeper recesses of the city slums. One particular afternoon, he emerges from Darktown blinking half-blinded into the dim light of Lowtown, which is right about when a few thieves assemble around him for an attempted mugging, knives brandished. “I really don’t have time for this,” he says to the ringleader, looking more annoyed than frightened; which is right about when a Riftwatch colleague might turn the corner and encounter the scene.


( Also happy to receive wildcards, or to write up a bespoke starter for you; just hmu @ quadrille if you’d like to discuss! )

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[interroga]

Cassian does the math. Eight years is ’43.

“So, before the coup and the Archon replacement?” he asks. There’s a tug at the corner of his mouth, rueful, “The first one, I mean.”

It’s been years and it’s only gotten worse back home: even the puppet Amladaris now replaced with direct control, the mask coming off, the title of Archon becoming ever more meaningless.

[altusimperius]

Benedict nods once in confirmation. He's been back since then, but only in the underground sense, careful not to show his face anywhere he might be recognized.

[interroga]

And perhaps this is the million-tesserae question, although he plays at carefully-weighed neutrality, just innocently curious, just asking, turning Benedict’s own words around on him:

“So what brought you to Riftwatch?”

Cassian’s been keeping unconscious mental count, marking noticeable accents where he could; there’s a lot of Nevarrans and Fereldans and Orlesians about the Gallows, and understandably fewer Vints. He's automatically intrigued about his fellow countrymen, so far from home.

[altusimperius]

There’s no sense dancing around it; Cassian seems a measured, sensible sort, who might not immediately jump to the worst conclusion. It’s a relief to have had a chance to chat a bit first, because Benedict now sees no reason to obfuscate the truth.

“I was captured by them, he answers, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rueful smile, along with my mentor at the time, Atticus Vedici. We were among a research group that, as I came to learn after the fact, was comprised of Venatori.”

He looks down at his hands on the table. It’s not his favorite story to tell, despite his relative innocence: he was still an adult, he still should’ve known better, should’ve been paying attention.

”Atticus had aligned himself with them for his own ends. All were killed but the two of us, but the association remained.” He purses his lips, sighs, brushes hair off his brow.
”My mother went Venatori as well. Magister Artemaeus. By the time I was finally free to return home, I found I didn’t want to.”

[interroga]

Maybe a little bit more time to adjust and get to know the other man before that bombshell —

Something in Cassian’s facial expression goes rigid upon hearing those particular names. Vedici causes a tic in his jaw, and then my mother, Magister Artemaeus almost a full grinding of his teeth before he manages to tame that spasm of distaste and return to his usual calm affable mask. It had been a surprise, had caught him wrong-footed, unprepared for such a clear-cut connection.

And there’s that moment when he’s clearly running back through strategic mental dossiers and connecting the dots, dredging what context he can recall: House Artemaeus, prominent Magisterium family and literally one of the fucking worst, there had absolutely been active Shadow Dragon intelligence working on targeting them someday, but also they were currently down a scion…

“—You’re the missing heir to House Artemaeus?” Cassian blurts out, incredulous. 

[altusimperius]

In his last couple words, Benedict finally notices the reaction greeting him, and slowly trails off. He draws back a bit when faced with that question, with the look of someone who's been blown by a sudden wind, and all at once he wonders why this is the one fucking time he just came out and said it.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, and nods timidly. yep that's me

dying i love this

[interroga]

And there is another version of him which probably would’ve done the very thing Benedict Artemaeus feared. His mentor’s voice in his ear, saying: Take the shot. Maybe try to ransom Artemaeus for leverage (not knowing that they’ve already been there, done that). Maybe just go ahead and kill him later in his sleep, because one less Magisterium baby is one less Magisterium baby.

Good thing Luthen Rael isn’t here right now.

So instead, that realisation gets to take its merry time processing. Cassian put down his cup of tea, very carefully, and ticks back through how Benedict had described it. Unaware of the affiliations, didn’t want to go back, all of that adds up to a certain picture. He’s here, after all.

It feels like forcefully peeling his hands off the hilt of a dagger, but he forces himself to relax. Unclenching that jaw, letting the hackles sink. Doing the math.

“Disapproving, I hope,” he says, drawing a conclusion. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

(How did ‘welcoming the newbie’ manage to pivot and half-turn into ‘the personnel officer being interrogated’?)

[altusimperius]

Keeping very still, like a hare in a wolf's sights, Benedict waits until Cassian has spoken again before he even moves at all. This man does not need to know about the rest of the journey from proud Magisterium scion to here, Benedict knows that much, the Maker finally granting him a trickle of sense.

He nods again, afraid of what will come out if he speaks.

cw just everything #tevinter

[interroga]

In that awkward silence, there’s no end of bitter questions that Cassian might like to ask.

Do you know, now, what sort of work your family’s been funding? Did you know there’s several Shadow Dragon cells currently gaming out how to kill Calpurnia and Aurelias? How many slaves did you grow up with? Did you have a favourite?

He’s usually so good at appearing benign and warm and friendly that the anger gets in the way, a splinter in his facade. But it’s always been there, roiling beneath the surface.

Somewhere along the way Cassian had picked up his fork, spinning it thoughtlessly in his hand, but he sets it down again when he reminds himself that he shouldn’t do anything. Good behaviour at the breakfast table.

“So long as that stays true, then we won’t have a problem,” he says, smiling. The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

[altusimperius]

His eyes on the fork, Benedict shudders slightly in unconscious relief when it's set down again, and only then does he lift his gaze to meet Cassian's once more. He nods for a third time. Good behavior at the breakfast table.

Glancing to one side, he wonders unsubtly whether now would be a sensible time to fuck off, or if that would be taken as a rude dismissal.

[interroga]

In the end, Benedict is spared having to conduct an ungainly escape — and both of them spared this increasingly awkward not-conversation — when Cassian catches that sideways look, and cuts them both loose in turn.

“Thank you for checking in,” he says, mildly. “Was there anything else?”

And that, too, sounds like a dismissal; but at least a polite one.

🎀

[altusimperius]

“No,” Benedict says faintly, switching back to Trade— it feels safer somehow?— “I’ll,”

He stands, a bit too quickly; smiles a bit too brightly, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Then he takes his leave without looking back.