[ There is a rhythmical thump of books being inspected and then dropped into an increasingly dangerous stack, Dorian just about clearing a shelf in his perusal. Assumptive behaviour aside, he certainly stands out in his distinct fashions, shining leather and gleaming metal accouterments.
And what he would suggest to be a highly recognisable and indeed iconic profile. ]
Yes? [ he says, without immediately looking up. And then, perhaps remembering he is no longer in Skyhold and such summons aren't yet ordinary, he pivots to look, and his head tips as recognition and known gossip borderline click into place. ] In the flesh.
[The young man has an air of trepidation to him as he meets Dorian's eyes, as though he is, perhaps, regretting calling attention to himself. But it's too late to go back now.]
I'm, [he pauses, then forces himself to continue,] Benedict of. House Artemaeus.
[ Oh dear. Dorian knows, for a moment, some old instincts. The kind that have him want to bare his proverbial teeth when confronted with a bared throat. Imperium instincts, such as they are, for all that so many claim he lacks that particular killer instinct.
It makes a mark, regardless. ]
So you are, [ is, in spite of all that, warm. Cheerful! He snaps closed the book he has in his hand. ] The spy, and-or captive, and-or turncoat. No Tevinter can wander this far south without collecting a veritable maelstrom of rumour, you know.
[Though sitting poised and straight like proper Tevinter nobility, there's a tension about Benedict that doesn't let up when it becomes clear that Dorian knows who he is-- and that Dorian's assessment is, more or less, completely accurate.
He opens his mouth to reply, perhaps to quip something back, but just closes it again and nods wearily.]
[ Benedict drops his gaze, and Dorian continues to look hard at him, the book he'd chosen open at a casual flop on his knee, fingers splayed to hold it there.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and then he utters a dry laugh. ]
Would you like to know, [ he starts, turning a page, letting his gaze drop back down to his text ] precisely how long it took me to convince the Inquisition that I wasn't going to rat them all out to the enemy the moment the opportunity arrived? That I wasn't some dastardly spy already, who'd slithered my way into Trevelyen's good graces?
Almost immediately, [ is a bit of a punchline. Dorian chances a look up to see how it's received, and the earnestness he is met with is--
Well, he hasn't decided. He continues. ]
On account of their desperation, you see. Necessary evils. But just as true: it has taken the entire time I was there. I don't doubt that my leaving could confirm some suspicion in the minds of some who even matter, with no regard for the ways I have proven myself over and over again.
You're an altus mage and we are at war with Tevinter. You had a responsibility to earn their trust and keep it. Maker's breath, why are you still here?
Because I saw what kinds of things they're doing over there. In Minrathous.
[His explanation never feels like enough, when he's allowed to get the whole thing out; perhaps wisely, Benedict has resolved that no one really wants to hear it.]
Maybe it's just that living in the south has affected my biases, but... the Elder One. I've met him. What he's got planned, it's just.
[He sighs grimly.]
I'd rather be against him than with him. And if I went home, that wouldn't be possible, at least by choice.
[ Hm is a little imperious, flicking a page aside. ]
Good to know you've more wits about you than those in the Magisterium currently vying to lick Corypheus's lyrium engorged arsehole. I wouldn't call that an affect of the south. An affect of the south is a degraded taste in liquor.
[ He's seen a few, over the years. Studied it when it was whole, even, lodged in Evelyn's hand, and when Solas wasn't looking. Not that his research took him very far, but the sight is familiar regardless, acknowledging it with a glance. ]
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And what he would suggest to be a highly recognisable and indeed iconic profile. ]
Yes? [ he says, without immediately looking up. And then, perhaps remembering he is no longer in Skyhold and such summons aren't yet ordinary, he pivots to look, and his head tips as recognition and known gossip borderline click into place. ] In the flesh.
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But it's too late to go back now.]
I'm, [he pauses, then forces himself to continue,] Benedict of. House Artemaeus.
[hey neighbor.]
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It makes a mark, regardless. ]
So you are, [ is, in spite of all that, warm. Cheerful! He snaps closed the book he has in his hand. ] The spy, and-or captive, and-or turncoat. No Tevinter can wander this far south without collecting a veritable maelstrom of rumour, you know.
But I think you've outdone yourself.
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He opens his mouth to reply, perhaps to quip something back, but just closes it again and nods wearily.]
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[ Dorian angles his body language back to the shelving. ]
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[He smiles grimly.]
Though... not a spy. Not really. [The rest? All reasonable accusations.
He tucks a strand of hair behind one ear.]
...it's been a bit of a year.
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I'm asking you, I think. I prefer my rumours to be, what's the word...
[ Now he moves closer, finding a seat for himself. He snaps his fingers, eureka; ]
Factual?
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Captive, yes. Atticus Vedici and I were taken prisoner when we first arrived, but we worked our way out. He's with the Inquisition proper.
[He tenses as he speaks of his former mentor, a bad but fading memory.]
And... well. Again. More recently. I was thought a turncoat.
[He's been holding eye contact until now, dropping his gaze.]
...I...
...I made a huge mistake. And I paid for it. And now I'm fortunate enough to be able to try again.
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The corner of his mouth twitches, and then he utters a dry laugh. ]
Would you like to know, [ he starts, turning a page, letting his gaze drop back down to his text ] precisely how long it took me to convince the Inquisition that I wasn't going to rat them all out to the enemy the moment the opportunity arrived? That I wasn't some dastardly spy already, who'd slithered my way into Trevelyen's good graces?
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Well, he hasn't decided. He continues. ]
On account of their desperation, you see. Necessary evils. But just as true: it has taken the entire time I was there. I don't doubt that my leaving could confirm some suspicion in the minds of some who even matter, with no regard for the ways I have proven myself over and over again.
You're an altus mage and we are at war with Tevinter. You had a responsibility to earn their trust and keep it. Maker's breath, why are you still here?
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Because I saw what kinds of things they're doing over there. In Minrathous.
[His explanation never feels like enough, when he's allowed to get the whole thing out; perhaps wisely, Benedict has resolved that no one really wants to hear it.]
Maybe it's just that living in the south has affected my biases, but... the Elder One. I've met him. What he's got planned, it's just.
[He sighs grimly.]
I'd rather be against him than with him. And if I went home, that wouldn't be possible, at least by choice.
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Good to know you've more wits about you than those in the Magisterium currently vying to lick Corypheus's lyrium engorged arsehole. I wouldn't call that an affect of the south. An affect of the south is a degraded taste in liquor.
[ He flicks a look at him. ]
You've met him, you say?
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[Like his parents, he need not say. Instead, he extends his left hand and pulls off the glove he wears at all times, revealing the rift shard.]
He had a special interest in how I got this. Wanted to know where the rest of it was, whatever that means.
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[ He's seen a few, over the years. Studied it when it was whole, even, lodged in Evelyn's hand, and when Solas wasn't looking. Not that his research took him very far, but the sight is familiar regardless, acknowledging it with a glance. ]
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[He flexes his fingers over it, then withdraws his hand.]
It was no secret that the Rifters are here. That we collect them, and the others from Thedas who have shards.
[He purses his lips, his eyes going distant.]
...I just. Shouldn't have confirmed it.
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If wishes were sovereigns.
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[Said grimly, but with a smirk in return.]
So, that's that.
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[ Page flip. ]
Perhaps so. Perhaps if you allow it to be.
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[He looks up.]
...but I have a future. One I don't intend to squander.
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So when I ask you if you're a spy or a turncoat, you'll say--
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