WHO: Laurentius & You WHAT: Catch-all for fantasy April (pre-Antiva) WHEN: You guessed it. Fantasy April. WHERE: Kirkwall, the Gallows NOTES: Prompts in comments.
There's a member of the Venatori in the Gallows library.
No, that's not quite right. There is a Tevinter mage in the Gallows library. There. That has the ring of truth to it. Though one might be forgiven for jumping to that first conclusion. Even from the distance afforded by his perch on an uppermost rung of a ladder from which he might search through this higher shelf, there's a certain shaded severity to the mage's face that screams 'I'm going to unhinge my jaw and eat your first born child.'
Which is what Venatori do, obviously.
This one however is removing volume after dusty volume from their places. He stacks them purposefully into the crook of his arm until their bulk threatens to impede his descent. It's all very nefarious.
Now there are two Tevinter mages in the Gallows library, though one of them is indistinguishable from any common Riftwatch clerk, strolling in with a bundle of maps under his arm, only to drop them all with a gasp when he sees that particular cut of fabric and immediately, instinctively, assumes he's about to be killed.
When it becomes obvious that the man on the ladder is not only not an assassin, but probably hasn't even noticed him, Benedict cautiously bends to pick up his scrolls and proceeds to hope nobody else saw that.
As poor luck would have it, only one of these points is actually true. No, Laurentius Vesperus is no Tevene assassin who has traveled far from hearth and home given the singular intent to deliver a somewhat pointed and personal message either to or on behalf of the Artemaeus family (who can keep track these days?). Indeed if pressed on the subject Laurent would struggle to name a single person for whose premature death he might have had so much as a finger in much, less a whole hand or a knife.
(The Imperium is a civilized place, you know.)
He does, however, notice.
With the ominous air of a cloud drifting in to gloomily obscure the sun or like the chill experience by a thief dropping into a back garden only to discover they've attracted the attention of the house's heretofore undetected dog, the attention of the man at the top of the ladder pivots in reply to the gasp and fhwop-thunk of fallen scrolls.
Benedict is halfway through recovering them when from above him a low sonorous voice says,
Going quite still for a moment, Benedict breaks it only to bend to collect the last of them, tucking it under his arm with the rest as he slowly raises his gaze to meet Laurentius'. He doesn't recognize him, at least.
"You're from Tevinter," he observes, keeping his voice calm, trying not to show even more of his hand.
It's the dark, steady gaze practiced most commonly by disappointed tutors—hard to meet and harder still to read in its owners sharp edged face.
Perched there at the top of the ladder, he rather resembles one of the great vultures which love the craggiest places on the border between Tevinter and the Anderfels. Moreover, be looks perfectly at home—not here in Kirkwall, but rather he is cast so easily in role of master of the library it's as if these were stacks in some Imperium archive rather than a southern fortress's.
"Apparently so."
The point of his attention lowers by a handful of degrees to then scrolls. And then, bird in stoop after prey, he begins to descent the ladder.
Having opened his mouth to reveal his own very Tevene dialect, Benedict is past the point of trying to hide his nationality from those who will know it on sight or sound. It's comforting that this man isn't familiar, if nothing else.
Four words isn't much to go by, but the ear eventually recognizes what it's sympathetic to. That Laurentius isn't particularly shocked by it—though later it may occur to him that he ought to have been; a little more caution and suspicion would do a world of good—is seemingly suggested by the ease with which he sets down his collection of texts when he reaches the bottom of the ladder and then turns to advance on the younger man.
"From Vyrantium. I'll take this."
Yoink—Laurentius extracts one of the scrolls from under Benedict's arm. He'd been looking for this earlier.
Benedict snatches for the scroll, but isn't fast enough, and nearly spills the rest of them in the process. He scowls, but notes at the very least that Vyrantium is a far cry from Minrathous, and it's likely they've got nothing, no one, in common.
He'd brought two coats with him when they'd fled Vyrantium—the good one, which is the blackest and therefore most expensive thing he owns even if one were to disregard all its trimmings; and this one, which is both slightly green and cut in a fashion so flagrantly Northern that it's a wonder he hasn't been pitched into the dungeon just for walking out of the guest quarters loaned to him and his equally Northern wife.
In the watery sunlight, he paints a strange picture there on the Gallows' main ferry slip. He is very dark and very brooding, and is looking with such singular intensity across the harbor toward Kirkwall that it's slightly unbelievable the ferry hasn't simply been summoned instantly back to him.
And yet the moment another member of Riftwatch joins him on the slip, his attention promptly pivots.
Yseult has grown accustomed to the deference—or at least disinterest—most members of Riftwatch by now afford her. The question, abrupt and direct from a dark and brooding stranger, takes her off-guard. Eyebrows rise a notch or so, and one makes it two.
Deference, if it was ever a habit—and most of Laurentius Vesperus' one-time colleagues would likely deny it if their opinions were solicited—, seems not to have made the cut when packing. The trunk had been modestly sized, and mostly filled with books and papers and various sheafs of hurriedly copied pages. So if he marks the degree(s) of her eyebrows' elevation, it does very little to deter him.
"In Kirkwall. I assume you have business there."
There's no Riftwatch pin on his lapel or the breast of that murky green coat or anywhere else where one might be expected (although it's hardly as if everyone in the Gallows makes wearing them the habit that they should). A visitor likely, albeit a bizarre one.
Late at night, in some twisting stairwell in one of the Gallows towers, one works there way around and around and abruptly finds themselves sharing a narrow landing with a man dressed all in black.
He seems—not equally startled by the interruption, exactly. He doesn't have a face designed to convey shock as well as it might a glower. But certainly there is some mark of surprise in the way the line of his shoulders square and how he comes so abruptly away from the wall on which he'd been leaning.
It's very late. This landing is between lamps and is illuminated only by the pale lyrium glowstones fixed into the stairwell walls. It paints him waxen and corpse like, and he blue tint of the light goes a great distance to disguise which might otherwise by a distinctly red tinge about the eyes
(From exhaustion? Most certainly. Tevene mages have used spirit healing to seal their tear ducts and turn their hearts to stone, you know).
He tends toward keeping late hours, still-- one might perhaps accuse him of having an affinity with the dark hours of the night, and they would perhaps have reason to think so. A raven sits perched on his shoulder, riding along, her wings rustling at the sudden stop; a croak of complaint sounds from the bird before Emet-Selch himself says anything, a hand lifting to stroke her head soothingly as he raises a brow at the landing's other occupant.
"Finding it a long trip, are you?" he asks, tone remaining light, conversational despite... well. Running into someone all in black standing on a dim landing in the middle of the night.
But then he's out at night and draped in black himself, so really, what is there to say of that part.
"Very," he says instantly, the one-word statement somehow capturing the vague slant of agreeing just to agree—a rest on a sheet of music, a caesura on a page. The remark following that largely meaningless beat comes much more naturally.
"I apparently only have three flights of stairs in me. The Inquisition—" No. He takes a half step back, both literally and figuratively lest the man with the bird on his shoulder get the impression that his intention is to keep him hostage on a stairwell landing at midnight for a prolonged conversation. "Riftwatch should consider installing lifts."
Laurentis has said something wholly unsurprising, in his presumption that she is just a servant. She doesn't have her staff on her (it's in the Warden's office) and she isn't wearing the battle gear she owns, just a dress of several shades of blue.
Her spine straightens a bit, and she gives him an earnest but no less sharp smile. Something he's probably used to, all things considered, but not likely from an elf.
"The Warden Adrasteia, Morale Officer of Riftwatch, accepts your thanks."
Now, if he doesn't get what she isn't saying, she's going to write him off as a little dull.
This is indeed not the first sharp smile he's found himself on the receiving end of since arriving in the Gallows. Those (and worse—there are reasons other than the expense for why he and Lalla parted so swiftly with their lodgings in the city proper) are far more commonplace than little baskets with a candle and tea. The cold shiver of resentment they've felt in the air since crossing into the Marches may be the primary reason he recognizes this gesture as anything more genuine than the most perfunctory kindness. There is no candle shortage in Vyrantium, and the Vesperii are used to receiving things from their neighbors.
But dull? Never.
Standing there in the doorway to the little guest room he and his wife have been afforded, all in black and with the parcel of gifts trapped between his two spidery hands, Laurentius Vesperus might cut a domineering figure if not for the brief flex of dismay in his jagged face. The exact temper of the emotion is difficult to parse on its own—maybe it's embarrassment, or maybe it's annoyance—, but it's certainly more forthcoming than the grim set of his mouth and brow might have been otherwise.
"It's all right." Everything about Adrasteia's body language relaxes at Laurent's apology. It's sincere, in her mind, and that is enough. The man is not in control of what nation he's from, or any of that business, so there is very little reason for her to hold his heritage against him.
He's here now, besides. "You'll find I don't hold many grudges. I hope Kirkwall hasn't been too disagreeable, in general."
Opposite her, there's very little give in the man's own bearing save for some slant of his mouth, the angle of his chin. Some flicker in the dark eye.
"I didn't come to Kirkwall expecting to find many friends," is the diplomatic way of putting how the city has greeted them while his long hands turn to juggle the packet of her gifts, tucking the sum of them nonchalantly under one arm. He cuts a remarkably gloomy figure there in the shaded room's doorway.
(There are Elven mages in the Imperium. Rare, but they do exist. Only they're usually not showing up on one's doorstep with thoughtful little presents—)
"But everyone here in the Gallows has been friendly enough. No one's so much as threatened me with a knife between the ribs."
"Kirkwall is not the most welcoming of cities to outsiders, especially not now."
Adrasteia seems genuinely sorry about that, but she also recognizes that she has little control over how northerners are treated by the denizens of the city itself. "However, should anyone in the Gallows or wearing a Riftwatch uniform gives you grief, please, let me know."
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Laurentius.
GALLOWS LIBRARY.
No, that's not quite right. There is a Tevinter mage in the Gallows library. There. That has the ring of truth to it. Though one might be forgiven for jumping to that first conclusion. Even from the distance afforded by his perch on an uppermost rung of a ladder from which he might search through this higher shelf, there's a certain shaded severity to the mage's face that screams 'I'm going to unhinge my jaw and eat your first born child.'
Which is what Venatori do, obviously.
This one however is removing volume after dusty volume from their places. He stacks them purposefully into the crook of his arm until their bulk threatens to impede his descent. It's all very nefarious.
no subject
When it becomes obvious that the man on the ladder is not only not an assassin, but probably hasn't even noticed him, Benedict cautiously bends to pick up his scrolls and proceeds to hope nobody else saw that.
no subject
(The Imperium is a civilized place, you know.)
He does, however, notice.
With the ominous air of a cloud drifting in to gloomily obscure the sun or like the chill experience by a thief dropping into a back garden only to discover they've attracted the attention of the house's heretofore undetected dog, the attention of the man at the top of the ladder pivots in reply to the gasp and fhwop-thunk of fallen scrolls.
Benedict is halfway through recovering them when from above him a low sonorous voice says,
"You might be more careful with those."
no subject
"You're from Tevinter," he observes, keeping his voice calm, trying not to show even more of his hand.
no subject
Perched there at the top of the ladder, he rather resembles one of the great vultures which love the craggiest places on the border between Tevinter and the Anderfels. Moreover, be looks perfectly at home—not here in Kirkwall, but rather he is cast so easily in role of master of the library it's as if these were stacks in some Imperium archive rather than a southern fortress's.
"Apparently so."
The point of his attention lowers by a handful of degrees to then scrolls. And then, bird in stoop after prey, he begins to descent the ladder.
no subject
Having opened his mouth to reveal his own very Tevene dialect, Benedict is past the point of trying to hide his nationality from those who will know it on sight or sound. It's comforting that this man isn't familiar, if nothing else.
no subject
"From Vyrantium. I'll take this."
Yoink—Laurentius extracts one of the scrolls from under Benedict's arm. He'd been looking for this earlier.
no subject
Benedict snatches for the scroll, but isn't fast enough, and nearly spills the rest of them in the process. He scowls, but notes at the very least that Vyrantium is a far cry from Minrathous, and it's likely they've got nothing, no one, in common.
"That's for the Ambassador."
GALLOWS FERRY SLIP.
In the watery sunlight, he paints a strange picture there on the Gallows' main ferry slip. He is very dark and very brooding, and is looking with such singular intensity across the harbor toward Kirkwall that it's slightly unbelievable the ferry hasn't simply been summoned instantly back to him.
And yet the moment another member of Riftwatch joins him on the slip, his attention promptly pivots.
"Where are you going?"
no subject
"Excuse me?"
no subject
"In Kirkwall. I assume you have business there."
There's no Riftwatch pin on his lapel or the breast of that murky green coat or anywhere else where one might be expected (although it's hardly as if everyone in the Gallows makes wearing them the habit that they should). A visitor likely, albeit a bizarre one.
MIDNIGHT.
He seems—not equally startled by the interruption, exactly. He doesn't have a face designed to convey shock as well as it might a glower. But certainly there is some mark of surprise in the way the line of his shoulders square and how he comes so abruptly away from the wall on which he'd been leaning.
It's very late. This landing is between lamps and is illuminated only by the pale lyrium glowstones fixed into the stairwell walls. It paints him waxen and corpse like, and he blue tint of the light goes a great distance to disguise which might otherwise by a distinctly red tinge about the eyes
(From exhaustion? Most certainly. Tevene mages have used spirit healing to seal their tear ducts and turn their hearts to stone, you know).
"Pardon."
no subject
"Finding it a long trip, are you?" he asks, tone remaining light, conversational despite... well. Running into someone all in black standing on a dim landing in the middle of the night.
But then he's out at night and draped in black himself, so really, what is there to say of that part.
no subject
"I apparently only have three flights of stairs in me. The Inquisition—" No. He takes a half step back, both literally and figuratively lest the man with the bird on his shoulder get the impression that his intention is to keep him hostage on a stairwell landing at midnight for a prolonged conversation. "Riftwatch should consider installing lifts."
in media res;
Her spine straightens a bit, and she gives him an earnest but no less sharp smile. Something he's probably used to, all things considered, but not likely from an elf.
"The Warden Adrasteia, Morale Officer of Riftwatch, accepts your thanks."
Now, if he doesn't get what she isn't saying, she's going to write him off as a little dull.
no subject
But dull? Never.
Standing there in the doorway to the little guest room he and his wife have been afforded, all in black and with the parcel of gifts trapped between his two spidery hands, Laurentius Vesperus might cut a domineering figure if not for the brief flex of dismay in his jagged face. The exact temper of the emotion is difficult to parse on its own—maybe it's embarrassment, or maybe it's annoyance—, but it's certainly more forthcoming than the grim set of his mouth and brow might have been otherwise.
"Ah. Forgive me. I spoke without thinking."
no subject
He's here now, besides. "You'll find I don't hold many grudges. I hope Kirkwall hasn't been too disagreeable, in general."
no subject
"I didn't come to Kirkwall expecting to find many friends," is the diplomatic way of putting how the city has greeted them while his long hands turn to juggle the packet of her gifts, tucking the sum of them nonchalantly under one arm. He cuts a remarkably gloomy figure there in the shaded room's doorway.
(There are Elven mages in the Imperium. Rare, but they do exist. Only they're usually not showing up on one's doorstep with thoughtful little presents—)
"But everyone here in the Gallows has been friendly enough. No one's so much as threatened me with a knife between the ribs."
That's an improvement.
And maybe it's a joke.
no subject
Adrasteia seems genuinely sorry about that, but she also recognizes that she has little control over how northerners are treated by the denizens of the city itself. "However, should anyone in the Gallows or wearing a Riftwatch uniform gives you grief, please, let me know."