INBOX

[archademode]

MESSAGE | ACTION | CRYSTAL

Comments

crystal; late cloudreach.

[poleaxed]

[No creature for succinct missives, Jone unthinkingly grabs her crystal and excitedly yaps into it, happy and thoughtless.]

Gabranth! You'll never believe it, mate.

[archademode]

[Jone, please. A little warning next time, if you would.]

What is it? Speak plainly.

[poleaxed]

[With obvious pride:]

Got our Ben to give a toss about his training. Enjoyed it, he did.

[archademode]

[There is no other 'Ben' of course, he knows this, and yet—]

Benedict Artemaeus?

[poleaxed]

[She laughs.] Yeah. Reckoned he needs speed training, weaselly little thing. Remembered a game I used to play.

[archademode]

[It strikes him then, the relevance of that statement on her part.]

The one I'd witnessed you entertaining in the courtyard.

[This will be, he thinks, the first of many confessions made today.]

[poleaxed]

[She knew it.]

You spying on me, Gab?

[archademode]

[There's a huff of an exhale for that catching just across the line.] Hardly.

I was deeply entangled in the business of relaying reports in regards to Lord Artemaeus' performance during our prior mission.

[And, if that isn't nearly enough of the last word:]

You were simply too turbulent to ignore in the process.

[poleaxed]

[She clicks her teeth.] Such a charmer, you are.

How'd the, uh, the report go?

[archademode]

Commander Flint dismissed it entirely. [Frustrating enough to sour what little respect for the man yet lingered.] Byerly was amenable to it, but...

[He leans back in his quarters, his breath a narrowed: an ill-fitted sound caught between teeth.] He would see Benedict punished for his actions at the fete.

[poleaxed]

Punished how?

[archademode]

Trivial work, nothing more. It will not break him.

[No, that isn't the part Gabranth finds troubling:]

He wishes me to be the one to offer approval to Lord Artemaeus, for the quality of his efforts otherwise.

[And that, for a Judge Magister suited only to dour deference or denial, is a task that sticks itself to the edge of his thoughts like a burr to a heel.]

[poleaxed]

[nelsonlaugh.jpg]

Likes hugs, he does.

[archademode]

Absolutely not.

[poleaxed]

Yeah, figured.

Why's he want you to pat his ass? Ain't we done that already?

[archademode]

You did. [He solemnly corrects. There was, after all, no 'we' in that affair. Not when Gabranth left Benedict to swallow pride and privilege before the rest of the Orlesian's celebration was complete. He'd not ridden beside Benedict— not spoken to him in fact— until his return from his return from Gwaren.

A long time to be left waiting, and even then, the comforts of reunion had been few.]

He believed it would mean something, in his own words.

[Gabranth, this isn't nethecite science...]

[poleaxed]

Eeh. You forgave him. I wouldn't've.

I can try'n help, but I can't see the point. The lad's got his nose far enough up his own arse already.

[archademode]

He...

[It's the slow start of something, like the gnawing of teeth across a lower lip, all digging contact with no real bite: there is much he would say were he certain it was his place to. Instead, he lets that fade— a mirror to his own stop-start conversation with Benedict in reverse.]

I will not break agreement with the Head of Diplomacy, Daughter of Denerim. A word given is one that need be kept.

[And ah, to that end, there's more to be said:]

Your tournament, have you yet made progress with its planning?

[poleaxed]

It's a stupid agreement. [Just saying.] But it's yours. Think saying 'impressed' or 'proud' oughtta do the trick.

A bit. Talked to Thenuviet, after. Seemed right impressed, he did. Might need a bit more elbow grease before he's in the funding mood, but it's comin' along.

[archademode]

[He takes no offense to her commentary; he has a tendency to swear himself to 'stupid' causes more often than not these days, it seems.]

He will not be your only guarantor.

[Hardly the way he'd intended to broach the topic, but his own bluntness rarely heeds his best intentions.]

[poleaxed]

[Uh.]

How'd you mean?

[archademode]

I have spoken with Lady Gwenaëlle and Lady Alexandrie d'Asgard. The Lady Alexandrie is willing to spread word throughout Hightown on your behalf, and has inquired about forming a committee in order to ensure the tournament you desire comes fully to fruition.

[poleaxed]

Oh, fuck me, you had to find the Orlesian Vint and the grand Dame herself, didn't you, 'kinell-... [A progressively more muffled string of expletives follows. Give her a minute.]

[Tiredly,] What'd you tell 'em?

[archademode]

[She's granted as much time as she desires; he's there, of course, when she returns— listening just as intently as before, and hardly deaf to the litany she'd just evinced.]

Little. They will cause you no trouble.

[Or at the very least enough benefit to offset that trouble, knowing Jone's thinned tolerance for all things overwrought.]

Lady Alexandrie in particular is taken by the idea of bolstered morale. She believes it holds potential for those combatants who are currently training for the Grand Tourney, and that the attention might do Riftwatch a great deal of good.

[poleaxed]

Posh Orlesians're never no trouble, Gab. [But it's said with more weary fondness than snapping spite.]

Which one said that, Baudin? 'Cos if she did, you cut out the bit where she called you a cunt.