​​[M] What Goes Around [Closed]

Benjamin Tolsby gets what’s been coming to him.

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Sun Apr 14, 2019 9:32 am

8th Intas, 2718
Sobbing in pain and fear, Benjamin felt the sweep of a familiar field, rolling out in a wave of Perceptive that felt so much like the D’Arthes and yet was entirely not. As recognition dawned in the mess of a galdor, the red head began his muffled yelling and struggling a new.


Benjamin would know the bastard from anywhere, they’d schooled together and they’d graduated together, and he’d hated him the whole damn time. The tall farmers sprog with his filthy piercings and devil-may-care attitude had stolen everything from the violinist. He’d stolen Charity’s heart, and then had ruined it for everyone else when Damen had decided he would be in control of his daughters suitors. Then of course he’d gone and made himself some special la-te-dah Sergeant or something. Youngest in Numbrey or some garbage. Oh the special Mister Valentin. The shit-shoveler-come-Seventen. It didn’t stop there though, no. Hero of the Day swooping in to save the pianist, stealing her away yet again! Not just from himself this time, but also from Damen and the circle. It had been so satisfying to break his arm, so wonderful to hear him scream in pain. Ben had thought about it over and over, finding sick pleasure in the memories, planning his next move. It hadn’t really been a surprise when they’d found out that Rhys and Charity had abandoned the apartment above the noodle house, but there where abouts were unknown at present. Diaxio had promised Damen all she needed was time, and she would find them. Benjamin had all the time in the world. So he’d been waiting. Remembering. And waiting.

The yelling dissolved into laughter, and the galdor flexed his field. He was in agony, and he couldn’t cast, but fuck Rhys Valentin and his goon. Rage and something dangerous simmered in the taller blonde’s field, but Benjamin didn’t care, it only served to fuel his laughter because he knew now what was happening. All the broken knee’s and ankles were worth it, because Rhys Valentin had finally lost. Ben had dug in deep where it hurt, where it really really hit home, and for once it wasn’t the Hero’s turn. For once, Ben had been the winner. He’d nearly had something that the ersehole thought only belonged to him, had nearly delved into that which Rhys seemed to hold so dear. He’d tainted the Seventen’s belongings like a banderwolf marking its territory.

How terribly funny.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Benjamin’s chuckles turned into groans as he was shoved out of the door, yelping as he hit the cold stones and biting down on the gag. Barely given time to blink away the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him at the pain in his shattered bones, the galdor cried out in protest as his shoulder sockets over stretched and nearly popped. Struggling to support himself on one foot, the auburn man was dragged and thrown again with contempt to the floor. He was manhandled to sitting up, bones crunching together and bile rising again. The smell of his own bodily fluids was a rank reminder of what little he would be able to do against the tide, and clenching his hands Benjamin fought back the nausea as the bag was removed from his head. Blinking rapidly, he focused on the figures before him. Two men. One was Rhys’ it was clear from his field, the other however was an unknown. Human maybe, lacking a field. His eyes watched with helpless frustration as the expensive violin was thrown to the floor within its case, a pain of a different sort welling in the man. The instrument was his livelyhood, and had cost a good few concords. His eyes followed the masked man with a glare as they moved to drag the large heavy door of the warehouse closed, before turning back to Rhys. He watched as the taller man removed the mask, almost with a reverent sort of slowness, breathing heavily behind his gag and shaking his head. As the other man spoke, Ben watched the still masked figure move to his violin, unclasping the latches. He yelled something, pointless behind the fabric, watching as clumsy hands lifted his beautiful string instrument and pulled the bow across it.

Alioe have mercy, that was horrible.

Snapping back to Rhys, the red head bend his good leg, trying to move back as the other spoke of showing him everything that had transpired since the beating. Monite wove through the air, mona drawing in and contained by a prodigum created carefully for this moment. Planned just for this. Benjamin began to roll, freezing in place as the spell caught him in place, paralyzed by magic. His eyes glazed over as though his brain had turned off, but he was there. Stuck inside the prison of Rhys’ shared connection.

Murky green eyes widened, and welled with tears as Gale played the death throws of his violin’s last sonnet, and it was almost all that anyone would see of the agony that was playing out within him. His breathing was broken, catching and huffing, wheezing and fast. Sweat beaded on his skin and his nostrils flared. His field shattered over and over, broken and pulsing in mindless pain. Gurgling sounds escaped his throat finally, tendons tense as Rhys remembered cracking ribs and slowly bending bones. The galdor’s gaze wavered, and his field felt loose. Consciousness was only a threadbare thing slipping from his grasp.

At least unconscious he wouldn’t be able to feel anymore.

word count: 985

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Tue Apr 16, 2019 11:21 am

Vienda, O Vienda
after dark on the 8th of Intas, 2719
Rhys enjoyed the recognition that flooded Benjamin's features as he removed the mask, smirking with satisfaction as the galdor bastard struggled against his gag with an obvious desire to say meaningless words in his direction. Gale had discovered the ersehole musician's violin, but the suspended officer chose not to allow himself the distraction of glancing in his sister's direction.

Once he sat and began his spellwork, he was far too lost in the need to concentrate to entirely hear the horrid sound produced, the smith having discovered their own avenue of torturing the unfortunate Tolsby all on their own. He could see the panic grip Ben tightly at his first syllables of Monite, the urge to crawl away stifled quickly by paralysis. Rhys hadn't experimented with a prodigium since Brunnhold, but the rush of amplified magical power was far superior to any sensation of adrenaline. It would have been intoxicating had he not felt so strongly his sense of purpose. He understood how others could grow dependent on such a feeling, how magic for magic's sake could be an addiction all its own.

But this was justice.

As much as he didn't want to crawl inside Benjamin's mind, there was no escaping the surface thoughts once his Perceptive magic had connected them. It was nauseating, it churned his stomach and fueled his vindictive anger. He curled fingers into the dirt beneath him to keep from getting lost in his own emotions, to stay focused, to make sure his conversation with the mona was not utterly derailed or turned sour by all that burned beneath bones that had been knit back together in the cavity of his chest.

He heard the fatal noises of the toffin's violin, but he was far to lost in Achtus, bleeding on cobblestones in his memory to even react or let the rather effective cruelty register in his thoughts.

Rhys shared everything. Too much. Every last snapping, crackling sound and every lingering, painful flare of a nerve.

He relived it in vivid detail, unaware of tears that welled in his own eyes at the remembering of that day, that trailed down his cheeks from the depths of his near-meditative state of casting. Blue eyes narrowed, sharp like carved crystal, watching the auburn-haired galdor's face contort in agony, feeling the distress that twisted his field, sensing the tumultuous thoughts such projected pain had on the sorry-ersed piece of chroveshit before him,

"No, you don't—" The tall Sergeant hissed, leaning to curl gloved fingers into the gag and yank it downward, allowing Benjamin some much-needed air as he seemed so close to fainting. He didn't drop his concentration on the spell that kept the man immobilized, tempting as it was to scuffle with the thing, to bruise his knuckles on such soft flesh. The proximity would have been nauseating had he been capable of registering the sights and scents that assaulted his hyper-focused attention, but the young Valentin was so hell-bent on this moment that he was practically unshakable, "—we're not done here, ersehole. Was that too much for you—aren't you a real man? I survived it all, so don't you go passing out over a little taste of the reality."

His other hand snatched for the galdor's coat and held him up, Rhys on his knees in front of him, the amplification of his glamour within the prodigium oppressively fearsome. Their thoughts still tangled, his vehemence was a roving hatcher. It felt like starvation and the tone of the blond not-galdor's voice felt as though he was ready to gnaw the marrow from Benjamin Tolsby's bones.

He probably was.

As much as he'd promised himself that he was not working, that he was off the books, that this would not interfere with his professional life, he couldn't entirely escape who he was, what he'd become in the Seventen. His desire for justice extended beyond personal revenge and reached further, Rhys aware that the drugs that had captured Charity's life were, in fact, ruining countless others. His vigilante desires were still motivated by a strange sense of helping more than just himself and those he loved,

"You're a tool. This much I could tell that day. This much I've known since you were just another spoiled brat in a Brunnhold uniform all those years ago. You've always been a fucking lapdog, licking at the heels of those smarter or stronger than yourself. I'll give you one chance to be a man—something you've clearly never been in your life—and share some names of your drug-pushing galdorkind compatriots with me other than the two I know. Locations. Distributions. Spill what you know and hear this—I haven't even shared the agony of my recovery yet just in case that whole experience wasn't quite enough for you."

The young Valentin taunted him with memories of the disgusting sensation of bones knitting back together, of needles and stitches, of days languishing in bed without any pain mediation.

"One chance, Benjamin."

Rhys didn't offer him redemption. There was no room for that in his mind, not for all the wrong the twisted creature had committed against his wife and not for all the pain he'd caused them both. He held no interest in forgiveness. Just an insatiable need for seeing this whole circle of wrongs burn to the ground one fire at a time until he was out of matches.

word count: 982
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