Well that's sort of weird. Though surprised by the request, Benedict acquiesces easily, turning his palms up and extending them toward Gabranth for him to see.
There's an ink stain or two around his fingertips, and on the side of his hand where it can smudge against the parchment, but apart from that and a few callouses acquired from polearm training, they're clean and smooth.
There, at least. A few rough patches scattered amongst signs of finer graces: all he needs to make his point, gloved thumbs heavy in their press across slighter hands—
And then he releases Benedict, returning to his intended path.
“When you first began your training, it hurt terribly, correct?”
The way soft skin cracks, how quickly it takes to blister and bleeding after little more than a brief foray into fresh endeavors.
“Exposure in all things demands change. Draws out armor from nothing, and makes the unbearable brookable.”
The evening streets are clear of much foot traffic, though Gabranth is careful to keep close watch over Benedict regardless. Fearing no flight, only danger. Always that.
“Someday even this will feel as nothing more than a glancing scuff to you. Easily forgotten.”
With the weather warming, it's nice to get out, even into the piss-smelling streets of Kirkwall. There's a familiarity to being in the city, no matter what city it is. He keeps his pace up to match Gabranth's, his demeanor verging on cheerful.
The place he settles on is small. Cramped by seating less than aggregate space, a clutter of chairs and tables mismatched— but it’s fine fare by reputation. As close to to the demands of loftier appetites as one can get outside of Hightower, and Gabranth hasn’t the coin to see to matters there.
Benedict will just have to endure this instead.
For the entirety of that meal, Gabranth himself doesn’t dine in tandem, only talks and regales and watches with his usual indifferent state. It is, so far as outings go, a fair enough one by his own estimate. And when it’s done, Benedict is returned without incident, sent off to see to himself before nightfall proper.
Small, small favors at the end of a misery overcome.
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no subject
There's an ink stain or two around his fingertips, and on the side of his hand where it can smudge against the parchment, but apart from that and a few callouses acquired from polearm training, they're clean and smooth.
no subject
And then he releases Benedict, returning to his intended path.
“When you first began your training, it hurt terribly, correct?”
The way soft skin cracks, how quickly it takes to blister and bleeding after little more than a brief foray into fresh endeavors.
no subject
no subject
The evening streets are clear of much foot traffic, though Gabranth is careful to keep close watch over Benedict regardless. Fearing no flight, only danger. Always that.
“Someday even this will feel as nothing more than a glancing scuff to you. Easily forgotten.”
no subject
With the weather warming, it's nice to get out, even into the piss-smelling streets of Kirkwall. There's a familiarity to being in the city, no matter what city it is.
He keeps his pace up to match Gabranth's, his demeanor verging on cheerful.
"...I mean. I hope so."
no subject
The place he settles on is small. Cramped by seating less than aggregate space, a clutter of chairs and tables mismatched— but it’s fine fare by reputation. As close to to the demands of loftier appetites as one can get outside of Hightower, and Gabranth hasn’t the coin to see to matters there.
Benedict will just have to endure this instead.
For the entirety of that meal, Gabranth himself doesn’t dine in tandem, only talks and regales and watches with his usual indifferent state. It is, so far as outings go, a fair enough one by his own estimate. And when it’s done, Benedict is returned without incident, sent off to see to himself before nightfall proper.
Small, small favors at the end of a misery overcome.