I think it's past time I posted this log that closes off the arc I had with @Chakrasul and begins a new chapter in Bene's life. He was the last experimental Duamvi, the final hurdle for Aban who needed an individual rife with Corruptions touch to see whether the power of the Grand Flame could overcome the essence of Shadow in order to help the Duamvi survive.
Huge thanks to @Eliadon, @Tenshyo, @Swara, @Imvra, @Stine and @Iames for their participation in this!
This is a continuation of the 'Bene Corruption Logs' in The Chronicles of Benedicto
(Tells): Aban tells you, "It is time, if you are ready."
Iames lays his hand upon your shoulder and declares that he will protect you.
The Altar of Fire and Water.
Sunset falls upon the arid landscape, the reddish light filtering across the horizon. The Grand Flame blazes brilliantly atop the dais, taller than mortal and Immortal alike. An Arqeshi Luminary stands here, spiritual mace in hand. There are 2 Arqeshi Luminaries here. A curved, symmetrical moat encircles the base of the Grand Flame, its pure waters a glimmering barrier between the platform and the fire. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. Eyes watching his surroundings closely, an imposing Luminary stands guard here. There are 2 Zealot firebrands here. There are 5 gold-marked temple warriors here. There are 2 Ascendril mages here. Refracting all light around it, a crystalline arachnid scuttles about here. A glyph has been painted around the Grand Flame, glimmering paste giving way to the northern quadrant which is cast in silver. A Flame-imbued crucible glows nearby, hovering over the southern sigil of a glyph. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. The shining figure of a guardian angel floats in the air here. A vicious-looking hellcat prowls about. Trixkya is here. She wields an iron mace in her left hand and a buckler in her right. Tenshyo is here. He is riding on a cloven-hoofed strider.
You see a single exit leading down.
You have reached your destination.
(Tells): You tell Aban, "I am ready."
You have emoted: Benedicto casts his pearl-white gaze over the Glyph of the Eld'akathai, his entire mood seeming tense. Anxious. He turns back towards Stine and Iames. "Sir Stine. Sir Iames. I wish you to stand witness to my last will and testament. Will you hear it?" He announces brusquely.
Exarch Aban enters from the down, light pooling from his radiant form.
He is followed by Seneschal Rahim.
Stine shifts to stand side by side with Iames, giving you his full attention. "Pentarch," he replies simply, nodding.
You have emoted: Benedicto begins securing his weapons upon the entry of Aban and Seneschal Rahim. "Firstly, Sir Luas and Sir Lexen will jointly command the Templar until a new Pentarch is appointed." He begins to unbutton his layered, midnight-blue surcoat whilst nodding a terse greeting towards the two Duamvi.
Iames looks to you his demeanor turning to stone as he stiffens to attention. A silent nod is offered as he awaits quietly.
A contingent of Akkari follow the Exarch as they reach the top of the Temple. Between the now-familiar clerics stretches a litter, a thin woman rasping for breath supported between them.
Aban takes a moment to quietly examine the progress of the glyph. He nods to himself, the silver rippling a strange kind of light as he passes, reacting to his own.
You have emoted: "Riptide must be given back to my Father, Slyphe." Benedicto continues as he shrugs free of the garment. "Keelhaul will be yours to wield Sir Stine." He glances towards him. "Use it well. It carries the soul of my son and his crew and they would not see their sacrifice go to waste."
Seneschal Rahim directs the clerics to lay the litter upon the appropriate sigil, gently positioning her along the lines of power the mixed crystal and metal mark out beneath her.
"Pentarch," Stine replies again, head staying dipped down for a few moments before slowly rising to take in the sight of you preparing for something.
Zandjal startles visiblty as he turns to leave, glancing around himself. He moves towards the stairs and stops to observe.
You have emoted: Benedicto reaches down to tug off his boots one by one. As he straightens, he runs a webbed hand through his tentacles, forcing them back from his face. "My gold and shop will go to my family. Chiefly to my eldest brother Talonnb." He chews his lip - a clear sign of nerves not often witnessed upon the Kelki's face. "I can't think if I'm forgetting anything." He muses faintly.
Zandjal says, "He's wor-worth sommat."
Nodding as the clerics take their place, Seneschal Rahim moves to stand beside Aban. There is a brief moment of concern, and the barest hint of a squeeze to the Exarch's hand before he unstoppers the jar of paste and waits for you to conclude preparations.
Zandjal flinches back after his exclamation, lowering his gaze.
You have emoted: Benedicto shakes his head, offering a faint shrug. "If I've forgotten anything, just make sure it goes to Talonnb. He will allocate things appropriately." He glances from Iames to Stine. "Is my will understood?" He asks, quirking a brow.
"We understand the sentiments provided and will carry through with them if not specifically stated, Pentarch," Stine tells you without waiting to confer with Iames, lifting a chain-bound hand up to salute you.
You have emoted: Benedicto nods with a faint expression of relief. He turns to face Aban and Seneschal Rahim. "I am ready." He informs the Duamvi.
As if writing mental notes, Iames has not taken his full attention away until the sound of the chain. Raising his own chain wrapped forearm to you, "It shall be carried out, should the time arise for such."
Bright tongues of fire flicker from the core of the Grand Flame, coiling through the air in silence.
Tenshyo's hands lift and fall to rest in his coat pockets. Wings fidgeting a moment idly before coming to a rest.
Seneschal Rahim draws out the strange wooden utensil, between a brush and a plaster knife, some of the shimmering paste awaiting. "You should remove anything you do not wish to be turned to ash." He quietly says, beckoning you towards the side of the glyph you will need to lay upon.
Aban closes his eyes, drawing in a long breath. The light around him flares outward, then draws in to a heavy glow just beneath his skin. Centered, the Exarch paces around the glyph. He begins to the north, ambient light moulding to his will as he rolls it into a sphere and places it.
You give a shackled, metal-edged sheath to Stine.
You say, "Syvelium's Blade. Guard it well for me until this is done."
Stine nods his head at you.
Zandjal edges close to Tenshyo, shaking his head at Uisor.
The northern sigil blooms with life, the sphere rippling across the cast silver, Spirit drawing to Spirit with a reflective, serous harmony.
The light follows Aban as he proceeds to the west, placing another orb in the central niche of the sigil. He calls out a quiet word in archaic Esmari, drawing a soft hum from the glyph.
You have emoted: Benedicto finally stands as naked as the day he was born - or in his case 'created' - presenting himself to Seneschal Rahim. He draws a breath, his chest swelling with air before it is quickly exhaled, steadying himself.
Zandjal averts his gaze politely.
The western sigil ripples outwards, the light playing with that of the north as the two sources play against each other.
Stine does no such thing, giving his full and outright attention to you as the process is soon to begin. "The strength of the Templar always be with you, Pentarch, in this life and the next," he says under his breath.
Seneschal Rahim nods to you and begins to mark your body with the paste, following the spiritual pathways that link limb, spirit, and soul.
Aban speaks another word as a third orb is set to the south, this pattern now taken with a calm sense of familiarity.
The gritty paste is both warm and cool upon your skin, present yet comfortable, vying for different levels of attention.
You have emoted: Benedicto raises his arms so that they are horizontal to his shoulders, affording Seneschal Rahim full access to his body should it be required. "Fret not for me, my friends. If it is my day to go, then I will join my son in the hall of the Underking." He manages a faint, sad smile. "I have fulfilled my duty to the best of my abilities and I have no regrets."
The southern sigil does not flare as brightly on its own, but immediately, the polar pairing draws in from the Grand Flame, the two axis stretching and arcing inward.
Iames nods slowly to Stine's sentiment, as he remains focused. Respecting the ritual, and that which is to transpire. As you speaks, he stiffens a bit further. A posture that even the most seasoned Knight would be proud of, affording his Pentarch this respect.
Aban stops towards the east, spending another moment drawing in the light in that direction of power. With a half-step back, he tosses the orb into the sigil.
The descent of the orb is caught in the rising power of the glyph, suspending and rising overhead, finding its alignment with its counterweights.
Zandjal draws himself to attention, watching, his eyes fixed for once on your face.
Stine takes the Executioner's Greatsword from a simple, thick belt of cloth and leather.
Stine gives the Executioner's Greatsword to Iames.
Light dances from atop the Temple of the Gods, emanating around the Grand Flame in kindred essence.
Seneschal Rahim finishes the last lines upon your hands and feet, then silently gestures for the man to lie down across from the Akkari's litter. The woman there's breath drags with the telltale rattle, but a small smile draws upon her lips as the light plays overhead.
You have emoted: Benedicto lowers his arms and moves on silent feet towards the litters. He kneels beside the occupied one for a moment, gently reaching out to take the dying womans hand in his. "Lateri." He greets her softly. "My name is Benedicto. It is an honor to meet you."
The woman gasps at the air in response, her body too spent to speak. But her smile grows a little, and eyes widen, red as they are and clawed as her fingers may be, grasping limply at the edges of the litter.
Just as you have shown respect toward the woman, Stine turns enough to be able to salute a resolved, rasping Akkari scout, the staff of the Arbiter held firmly at his side.
Quickly snapping to a rigid stance, Zandjal bring his weapon to a vertical position infront of his chest in an act of respect towards A resolved, rasping Akkari scout.
Her breathing calms at the man's touch, one hand relaxing while her remaining strength is spent holding on to Benedicto's palm.
Swara bows her head in silent respect, not moving or speaking beyond that.
The arcing light ripples as Aban steps into the glyph, the clerics stepping back to brace themselves in an arc around the Flame's basin. There they stand waiting, facing the east in anticipation of the rising life, while the Exarch the west and the death of one of his own.
You have emoted: Benedicto releases his hold upon a resolved, rasping Akkari scout and lies down beside her. He shifts himself slightly, attempting to achieve as comfortable a position as possible.
Following Stine's actions, Iames brings the Executioner's Greatsword before him. The blade resting into the ground as each hand rests upon the cross-guards.
Aban speaks in low, reverberating tones that resound about you.
Aban rolls two final spheres of light, no longer one in each direction, but one for each spirit in conflict. One he places over Lateri's chest, the woman subsiding into stillness beneath its glow. The other he places over your sternum, positioning it properly before rising to stand.
The weight of the orb is a strange thing, leaden upon your chest. It doesn't burn, but you feel immobilized, as if a heavy blanket were draped over your body, restraining you without binding.
Your pose is now set as:
Benedicto lies naked and covered in mysterious symbols beside a dying Duamvi.
THOUGHT: "Maelo. My son. I loved you and you made me proud. I ask that you watch over your father now as he ends this journey and begins one anew."
Quietly in unison, the round of lyrical prayer begins to sound from the clerics. This time Rahim joins them, however mutely, his concentration bent before the Flame.
Aban lifts his gaze up to the flame, voice joining in another layer between the hum of the glyph and the song of his people. As he chants, his hands reach out to either side, drawing upon the weighing orbs as they elongate, twining, flickering, burning with fury but constrained into blinding splinters.
Like the slit of an iris, the orb of light stretches into a great splinter, hovering over your prone form. Embers crackle and scatter across your skin, stinging with a bite that digs beneath the typical, physical pain.
The splinters -- no, spears -- of light grow and crackle on either side of the Exarch. They stretch and fight to burn as fire wills, but spirit binds them back, giving them purpose beyond their light.
You have emoted: Benedicto's face twists in pain, his teeth bared and locked hard as embers from the morphing orb lick at his skin. He remains immobile, apparently paralyzed and weighted down by the light above him.
Aban draws the shards up with his will, and in the lull of a breath, drops them down upon both. His hands slap together, quickly drawing the beams together into a bridge that fights his control.
No sooner have you screamed than the fire cuts you short, piercing you through every layer of your being: flesh, spirit, soul. The sound dies as quickly as you gave it voice, leaving nothing but fire and suffering. Shadow burns within your flesh, unfettered by the balm of justification or excuse, your sins rising to the forefront of your tortured thoughts.
Seneschal Rahim's voice rises, breaking through his tense whisper, joining the song of the clerics in full.
Fire courses through your body, hunting through your veins and the fabric of your reality, consuming and purging the shadow that lingers within you. The agony threatens to overwhelm you, the world convulsing in a single, eternal moment as some hook of corruption is seized upon. The fire gnaws, ravenous, furious, undaunted, boring a hole through you that you are sure could leak the very heavens if it were not stoppered up.
THOUGHT: Pain and panic. That is all that exists now. The shackles previously binding some forbidden element of his being rise to the front - suddenly freed by the light. "No no no no no!" His voice whimpers within the recesses of his psyche.
The blazing light bores down through both mortal bodies, searing and twisting. To the south, Lateri's dying breath frees the symbiote from her soul, its ethereal form drifting along the blazing current.
THOUGHT: Disembodied screams. Wails of agony. A flash of jade. All is cleansed and burned away by the purity and power of the light that seeks entry to his being.
To the north, the air howls with the fury of a forest fire, light all but consuming Benedicto's body, coursing through his veins and threatening to render him entirely to ash.
An unbearable lightness settles over your being, and you are able to gaze outward, reeling through the fractured facets of fire; you fall upon a rooftop, lance down onto a sparkling street; fly outward onto the distant Pash; you are lost within the rice fields of Jaru; now, distant and faint upon the faraway Siroccians. Enorian's beacon casts you throughout the southeast of Sapience, and it is all you can do to maintain your conscious mind.
You have emoted: A keening arises from Benedicto, his whole body straining against the light that binds him. Purifies him. The muscles upon his body stand taut, threatening to rupture, so much does his body struggle to maintain itself.
Aban's brow furrows, fingers clenching in towards each other, knuckles white as he battles to maintain control. The incomplete glyph diminishes the order of Spirit around the Flame, battling with Fire's purpose: To immolate, to purify, to consume.
Your being begins to mend, shattered though it was by the fire's touch; yet the sense of lightness persists, and grows all the more intense. You are full to overflowing with the power of flame, and you sense the faraway sun, its flow of Spirit never ceasing. You, too, are like the sun, your frame a gateway to the plane beyond... and its power threatens to snuff you out like an errant candle.
Frowning in concern as she watches the proceedings, Swara takes a small step forward.
The arcing light shifts, swaying away from the Exarch, then closer, threatening to part once more as the sheer power of the Flame beckons it to join.
Fear rises in you, and sin and shadow roil as they seek to maintain purchase on your frame. As soon as the embodying flame's purifying light drives them out, you shall surely perish, and never again arise from the holy fires. The terror rises until it is all-consuming panic, and white-hot fire closes inward until you can see nothing, feel nothing, and are nothing but all-obliterating light.
You have emoted: Benedicto's eyes roll backwards so that only the pure white of the orbs remain. His keening becomes a disembodied scream that fills the top of the Temple and the night sky.
Aban speaks in low, reverberating tones that resound about you.
In the silence of your mind, mouthless, you cry forth for help - none answer you. Not the Grand Flame, not the Gods, not your own body, held fixed and immobile as naught more than disparate motes. Yet one thing does answer you, seeping into the flawed, broken, blemished cracks of your body, mind, and spirit.
Iames uses the cross-guards of the Executioner's Greatsword to keep him focused. Knuckles whitening as he watches you, every muscle poised and ready. Affording only a brief moment to give Stine a side glance he turns back to the ritual at the screams.
Zandjal flinches and takes a step back, bumping into Tenshyo's wing.
Aban wrenches his hands forward again, drawing back upon the blazing fire. Slowly, the tendrils of the symbiote can be seen fluttering over you, beautiful and otherly.
No sooner is the symbiote glimpsed that it is drawn under, sucked into the fire as driftwood might a whirlpool, spiralling down and in.
Soft, like a mother's caress on a fevered brow, a lover's kiss to your throat, a child's grip upon your finger, calm seeps into your body. It begins at the center of your sternum, some misty, tendrilled apparition sinking into the void Corruption had left. You can feel it sliding down your limbs and along the spiritual pathways of your being, fitting into you like a glove. There is a sense of resolve, and gratitude, forward-looking rather than back. It is alien, the embrace of another between your skin and spirit, tangling around your disparate soul and body.
You have emoted: Benedicto's screams cease suddenly although his visage and musculature remain as they were. Gradually...slowly...his muscles begin to loosen and relax, his veins vanishing back beneath the pale blue surface of his skin.
The Exarch's prayers, or his control, draw on the light until the arc snaps crashes outward with a flash, spiralling outwards to the edges of the temple and glimmering down out to fade over the city.
You find that there is feeling in your fingertips again; you flex them, slowly, and find that the fire curls around them. There are yet lingering motes of Shadow in you, as well as distant, shameful memories of evil. But the presence pushes them away, instead bearing the stalwart support of camaraderie.
THOUGHT: If a mind can extend a curious hand to touch, so does his, reaching out to explore the calm being. Then, there is no beginning of one or end of another. They are one. A union.
As the light fades and dizzying vision returns, Aban frantically glances over the glyph. The barriers have fallen, the orbs consumed. Lateri's body has been rendered into nothing, immolated in midnight's dawn.
But slowly, 'we' becomes 'I', as the dual consciousness inhabiting your frame resolves to but a single voice. Union of two becomes unbroken continuity. With this sense, your vision returns, the familiar scents of the ocean familiar and new, the cry of gulls, the rustle of cloth as faces you recognize peer around you.
Seneschal Rahim quickly rushes forward to catch the Exarch's side, helping the man kneel beside you. "Aban," he whispers with concern, guiding the Duamvi's hand to your wrist to find a pulse.
Zandjal turns pale as Aban and Seneschal Rahim react.
Zandjal blinks rapidly. Wordlessly, the Vigilant turns and heads down the stairs in a hurry.
Zandjal leaves to the down.
Aban fumbles along your arm, muscle memory finding the wrist with his fingers where his mind might not be able to focus.
Aban speaks in low, reverberating tones that resound about you.
Swallowing down a lump in her throat, Swara steps forward again, eyes riveted upon your face, searching for signs of life.
Tenshyo remains where he stands, watching the procession. His eyes flicking to you. The mans chest swells as he takes a breath, exhale just the same as his inhale - long and slow.
Aban growls and comes close to striking you in his need to see you breathe, or at least know that you have not gone mad.
Aban speaks in low, reverberating tones that resound about you.
You have emoted: Benedicto's body twitches once then stills. Finally there is a sudden inhalation of breath. A rasping gasp that fills his lungs with air. He coughs, drawing in another ragged breath before shifting cautiously upon the litter. A faint groan escapes him and his tongue appears to try and moisten dry and cracked lips. "Water." He croaks brokenly. His head lolls to one side, bloodshot orbs blearily locating the Duamvi knelt beside him. "Aban." He murmurs.
Voice low and hesistant, Swara says to you, "I have... uh, apple juice, Pentarch if you would like. But I can fetch water if you need?"
Aban's shoulders sag with relief, the sweat-pallid man flashing a grin. He claps your shoulder with what is both weak, but too much force considering the rigors each has been through. In a final show, Aban hooks his arm beneath you and drags you back across the glyph to the basin.
Comprehension flashes across Swara's face.
Finally shifting his rapt attention from you and the ritual, Stine turns to Iames to give a knowing look before jogging toward and down the stairs.
Stine leaves to the down.
You have emoted: Benedicto winces, drawing in a hissed breath at the contact. He groans as he is manhandled across the Temple top towards the basin.
Seneschal Rahim frowns with disapproval at Aban, torn between helping the Exarch directly, or helping move the Pentarch to ease the burden that way. He relents to the latter, positioning the man up on the basin's edge so that you can reach the blessed water.
Bright tongues of fire flicker from the core of the Grand Flame, coiling through the air in silence.
You have emoted: Benedicto slides sideways, a loose limb splashing into the lukewarm water. "In." He croaks the broken directive. "In."
It takes both Duamvi to upend the other unceremoniously into the basin. It is perhaps a little irreverent, but forgivable considering the efforts it would take to get the man down to the ocean or river.
Eliadon says, "Well, I'm not sure I'm washing myself with that water again."
Iames sneers arrogantly at Eliadon.
Stine comes back with some loose clothing held under his left arm. "I've some loose clothing if required. Doubtful he's going to be slipping into his regular uniform any time soon," he tells Aban and Seneschal Rahim simply, offering up an undershirt, a pair of loose fitting trousers and a robe.
You have emoted: Benedicto splashes limply into the water, disappearing beneath the flame-reflected surface. Large bubbles float to the surface, quickly becoming smaller bubbles, until they cease all together.
Rolling his eyes, Eliadon looks to Iames and says, "He's alive, it's a good sig- oh, uh."
Aban turns his back on the basin, leaning in against Rahim's side more closely. The man closes his eyes, leaving the fish-man to deal with himself in the water. He takes a few meditative breaths before the Flame before he nods. "That would be good. We'll need a hand getting him down the steps as well."
Iames looks to Stine, "Did he stop breathing again, or.. am I..?" as he asks, he steps forward trying to look closer at the basin for air bubbles.
Swara hastens to the edge of the basin, leaning over the edge in concern. "Is he, uhm, alright?" she asks, an edge of panic in her voice, a hand subconsciously reaching toward the water.
"Sir Iames and I will handle that portion," Stine immediately offers the pair, glancing toward Iames for confirmation. He steps forward to setthe clothing near the basin, within reach of where they'd dumped you in. "...he's of Slyphe and he was Kelki. Trust me. He can breathe underwater, " he tries to offer as a means to calm those who ask.
Eliadon says, "I am reasonably confident that Benedicto can breathe under water. He was a Kelki, he's fine."
Eliadon says, "Probably."
Stine drops robes of ocean-blue silk.
Eliadon nods his head at Stine.
Stine drops loose-fitting, ebony monk's trousers.
Stine drops a simple gray undershirt.
You have emoted: A webbed hand slaps wetly upon the edge of the basin, quickly followed by Benedicto's head as he reappears groggy and sodden. "Haern's Beard." He groans, grasping at the side.
Seneschal Rahim mutters, "I'm sure he'll be fine." His attention shifts to focus on the Exarch, doing his own checks to ensure the leader of their people is in a recoverable state, with a little too much familiarity in the fussing.
Iames utters a deep, rumbling laugh.
Tenshyo chuckles long and heartily.
Eliadon says, "Ready to go hunt another of Jox's children, Benedicto?"
Eliadon stands up and stretches his arms out wide.
Looking uncertainly at Eliadon and Stine, Swara steps back, letting out a sigh of relief as the hand surfaces. She backs away further, giving the man room. "He might need help out though," she observes quietly.
Concern on her features, Swara says, "At least, I hope he doesn't plan on... living in the basin for the next couple weeks."
Iames nods slowly to Stine as he stands before the basin, offering a hand to you. "Shall we, Sir?" he asks while gesturing to the clothing that Stine has procured.
You have emoted: "More ready than you are." Benedicto quips irritably in response. The effort almost causes him to lose his grip upon the side of the basin. "Could someone help me? I haven't got the strength."
Eliadon says, "See? He's just fine."
Eliadon beams broadly.
Glancing up at the proffered hand, you say to Stine, "Ah. Thank you, Stine."
Stine is already there with Iames, hand and arm both held out. "Just think, you'll be laid up next to Sir Lexen in the Templar dorms," he tries to joke with you.
Aban reaches to pat your shoulder again, gripping you for a moment. An expression passes between them, and he nods, letting Rahim lead him back to the bastion, the stunned clerics trailing in their wake.
Exarch Aban strides down, the room dimming with his departure.
You have emoted: Benedicto groans at the prospect. "If I must convalesce somewhere, I'd prefer to do it in private." He allows himself to be dragged from the basin, flopping like a landed fish onto stone floor of the Temple once again.
Iames shifts posture briefly to accept his end of the burden a bit better, and attempting to pull you to his feet with Stine's help as well. "Before you put on a bit more of a show, perhaps we could use that robe, hmm?"
You have emoted: "The clothes, Stine?" Benedicto requests in attempt to maintain some level of decency and salvage what remains of his pride. A faint sigh of relief escapes him as the rain begins, the cool moisture rapidly soaking into his pale skin.
"Just the robe for now," Stine agrees with Iames, having overestimated your ability to move prior with his selection of clothing. He snags therobe and works at helping to drape it over your broad form, tying it closed once done well enough for the journey to come.
Stine picks up robes of ocean-blue silk.
Stine gives robes of ocean-blue silk to you.
(Tells): Her voice laden with crackling fire, Swara whispers warmly to you, "I am sure you are used to caring for yourself, but do let me know if there is any way I can assist while you are recovering."
(Tells): Her voice laden with crackling fire, Swara whispers warmly to you, "The upside is I'm not one of your knights, so you don't have to worry about being all... Pentarch-y in front of me. Heh. I'm here to help, is all."
You have emoted: Benedicto allows himself to be propped up by his compatriots, his massive, naked form dangling between them. When it comes to the dressing he is no help whatsoever, merely hanging inert between Stine and Iames.
You have emoted: Benedicto nods mutely to Iames, his visage revealing how much he relishes the thought of attempting stairs, or even standing, on his own. He twists his face towards Stine. "To the infirmary within the Vigil. I need to lie down. I need to sleep."
"Infirmary it is. Sir," Stine he says toward Iames, ready to head out.
JOURNEY TO THE VIGIL WHICH IAMES LITERALLY GALLOPS TO
A maid makes her way into the dormitory, neatly stripping dirty bedding and arranging freshly-laundered replacements.
You have emoted: "Slow down!" Benedicto complains crankily, even as he is eventually deposited in a freshly laid bed. "I've just been torn apart from arse to eyeball and put back together again with fire and you're galloping about with me, like I'm some damn pony!"
Stine can't hold back a laugh at the pace taken to get here. "Sir Iames is efficient, we all know this," he tells you with a nod of his head, turning to stand at attention and offer you a firm salute. "Do you require anything? That the other pages and such cannot run and grab you."
The salty smell of sea spray wafts into the room.
You have emoted: Benedicto shakes his head, weakly shifting himself to become more comfortable upon the bed. He waves a hand at you both, the gesture small and apparently taxing upon the prone Duamvi. "No, I'm fine. I am going to sleep. I need to get my strength back."
Iames has taken to wielding a sly grin, "Just reminding you to be quick on your feet. You're needed on the field." he ruses once more, though as you gets comfortable he offers a practiced salute. "I will be within the Vigil to watch over the dorms, do not hesitate to beckon for me."
Stine nods his head at you.
Stine says, "Rest easy and well, Pentarch."
You have emoted: Benedicto nods his head, an appreciative expression upon his features as he looks between the pair of you. "Thank you, my friends." He offers sincerely. "Ah, before you leave Stine. Syvelium's blade? Could you leave it with me?"
Stine had already been turned almost to the side before hearing the query from you. "Ah- I had forgotten," he admits, turning back toward you and producing a shackled, metal-edged sheath with which he places down your chest, length-wise.
Stine gives a shackled, metal-edged sheath to you.
Scratching his head, Iames says, "Quite the week, eh? Knighting, Promotion, and now a Duamvi?"
"Not a fuckin' thing the three of us can't conquer. Nightmare, Duamvi or otherwise," Stine shoots a grin toward Iames before offering you one last salute and making his way out.
Stine leaves to the north.
You have emoted: Benedicto encloses his hands upon the hilt of the blade that protrudes from a shackled, metal-edged sheath. "Thank you." His eyes begin to flutter closed. His form resembles the carvings sometimes found upon the tombs of knights and warriors alike. A warrior in repose, hands resting upon the hilt of the weapons they are buried with.
Iames grins briefly before making himself scarce, "Rest well, Sir."