[OPEN | ARRIVAL] When the fire starts to burn

[archademode]

WHO: Gabranth and— potentially— you
WHAT: a new rift brings new nightmares
WHEN: anywhere around the end of the month, for the sake of not pinning anyone down
WHERE: unspecified Ferelden rift, the Gallows (later)
NOTES: fighting, general gore related to combat, will adjust if needed

I: OUT OF NIGHTMARE

He remembers every moment of it. Knifing at scales larger than a man, the beast’s maw like a flesh-lined pit as it whirls to snap at each of them in turn.

It would’ve devoured everything had they not slain it, and yet still its hunger burns somewhere in the back of his mind— a nagging insistence in a dream that would see the battle resurrected as quickly as it’d been extinguished.
 
Wyrms the size of fully grown men spill out into the open air, painting the image of a split fish’s belly, limned in sickly green. Golden scales, thrashing gullets framed by teeth— their narrow forelimbs dragging them along across the ground, as no wings exist to carry the weight of their frames.
 
Within the rift, there is a glimpse of something larger swimming: like a behemoth brushing its silhouette across the surface of the water. Never breaching save for the noises that occasionally escape, low and rumbling.

But against that backdrop, set firmly in Thedas and tangled deep inside the circle of larval wyrms, is a blur of pitch-dark armor. Tall, faintly inhuman in shape, though the tattered cape tied fast to it seems to somehow right appearances with each whirling movement. Whatever it is, it is probably a man, and it is knee deep in a Fade-given nightmare, working feverishly to keep pace despite the difference in numbers.
 
And, of course, just in case you might assume he’s part of the unwelcome invasion into Thedas itself, a faint green glow clings to one gloved hand where it clutches the hilt of a sword.
 
So maybe don’t hit him instead of the wyrm-spawn and demons. Or do. Your call.

[OOC: The nightmare-born wyrms he's bringing in are the larval offspring of this world-devourer. They're significantly smaller (think person-sized), can only bite and thrash, have no wings, and— as they're part of Gabranth's Fade dream alone— they'll vanish neatly when killed. Demons from the Fade are/can also totally be a part of this party, so just have fun with it and I'll back you up, or message me if you need anything else.]


II: IN THE GALLOWS

It is difficult to relax.

Not for the difference in worlds, not for the dull ache across his palm or even the thought that he will never return to the place he’d been pulled from. He has always been ill at ease. Always driven, thinking only of the task ahead. A life lived singularly for the Hunt, and the Hunt alone. Here, now, as information comes trickling in— however helpful...or not, in some cases— he is not yet permitted to act on it in any way fitting for a Judge Magister.
 
So instead, whenever he is not actively being educated, he spends his time striking at false targets on what could best pass as training grounds. Sunrise to midday, a single break spent for an hour in his quarters, chased by a reprise until dusk. His armor stays fixed, his helmet always in place, even when fetching due rations.
 
It does, if nothing else, make tracking him down all the more simple a matter, should you need him for anything. Surely someone might be able to make use of a tall, unsettlingly clad executioner.

III: WILDCARD 

[OOC: hit me with your best shot if you've got an idea that doesn't fit into these two prompts; Gabranth will be puttering around the Gallows post-arrival, and I'm happy to timeskip or roll with other scenarios even if they take place after that period.

Also please check out his permissions post if you have any questions about him generally, or my own rp preferences.]

Comments

uh, gallows, obviously.

[poleaxed]

Bonk.

Jone has never been confused with patient women. She sees something odd, she makes a fuss about it. A man is sitting in the mess in full plate. It's nice, well made, and some part of Jone wants to ask after the craftsman and see if she can afford it.

The rest of her knows that's bollocks and he's making a fool of himself.

She picks up another pebble, ready to bounce it off his helm.

[archademode]

The benefit of armor is— quite unsurprisingly— its ability withstand assault from all possible sources. For that reason, all Gabranth knows of Jone's introduction (of sorts) is the brief, tinny little hum it leaves behind in his ears for a few fleeting seconds.

Thus, that pitch-colored helmet shifts by degrees, turning instinctively to favor the side that had been struck, his own eyes skimming the other figures gathered before at last settling on the only one left clutching something in her fist. It prompts no rush from him when he rises (she is welcome to strike him fully in the face if she so wishes), advancing on her in smooth, even strides.

His shoulders square when he reaches her, he relies on that much to leave an impression beyond the rest of his own grim facade.

"Enough."

Not a warning growl, not a livid snarl, only the hardened voice of a man that is quite used to being heeded when he speaks.

If she wished to gain his attention, she certainly has it now.

[poleaxed]

He gets closer and closer, and the look of manic glee on Jone's face gets more pronounced. Is she really enjoying this, or is this her fear response? (It's both.)

"What happened to your face, mate? Boiling oil? Gouged out an eye?"

[archademode]

“Duty.”

Is the only response he offers in return, perhaps concise because he intends to reveal nothing of his obvious disfigurement beneath the mask, if her curiosity is to be believed.

—in truth, he is the only acting Judge Magister from his world to stand here, as far as he knows. Those memories, aged and distant now, are as much a part of him as his own breath and blood, and he would sooner damn himself to another eternity of turmoil than sully the honor Archadia left him. Better to play the part, to look as unyielding as his armor, and ensure a sense of dread still lingers about him.

That a part of Archadia still lingers about him.

“Do you strike everyone you meet?”

he’s a cop, don’t answer that, Jone

I. This should go well

[muckspout]

Edgard, perpetually unbathed, is not one to notice details. A faint green glow coming from underneath a glove is a minor detail when the likes of demons and wyrms are afoot. Edgard's eyes widen at the sheer spectacle. He raises his bow and tries to steady his hand.

The fear in him rises and, not thinking, he sends an arrow directly towards this armored man's head, which bounces uselessly off the metal. He curses in Orlesian and then aims downward toward a wyrm immediately next to him. It's more effective, but the wyrm on the ground lurches forward and bites Edgard around the ankle. Edgard howls in response, kicking it.

"Tell your friend to back off!" He yells at the man. "What do you want?"

only the best disasters here tyvm

[archademode]

The arrow does little more than scrape along the filigree of his helm, but an eternity spent in battle has honed Gabranth’s senses enough to distinguish one blow in a whirlwind from another: whatever struck him likely came from a higher point than the creatures threaded around his own position, and he glances up in time to see Edgard clutching tightly at his bow—

In time to see him howl beneath the harsh crunch of hungry jaws.

He recognizes neither the person nor the make of his bow, but there's certainty to be had in the fact that the man has no idea what he's stumbled into. A suspicion confirmed when he addresses Gabranth himself, as if the wyrms are somehow his own hounds let loose.

There is no closing the distance between them: one step forward would leave Gabranth sinking his foot into the waiting maw of the nearest nightmare, or turning his back fully to the unfamiliar demons nearby— neither appeals. Instead he drops his weight low, wedging both of his own swords to the hilt in the skull of the wyrm at his side, palm lifting with focus, the air around him going dry from gathered heat sparked into flame— flame that soon coalesces into the form of flanking blades, snapped out to cut through thin air with a harsh flick of Gabranth's wrist.

They do not, however, sink into Edgard.

The wyrm impaled instead at Edgard's feet offers only a gurling snarl as it dissipates as swiftly as an unwanted dream— alongside the blades Gabranth had summoned for the deed.

“Tch—“

One frigid spell clips his side just as he finishes his own casting, seeping sharply between the laces of his armor just across his ribs, the demon responsible for it more opportunistic than he'd originally expected. He'd left himself unguarded for far too long. A crucial mistake, perhaps: if Edgard opts not to assist him, or was not driven by fear at all and instead made a deliberate choice to attack Gabranth as part of this distortion, then Gabranth is certain he'll not survive this.

Not that he holds any fear of death, but it would be a shame, nonetheless.

[muckspout]

Edgard has upset a few too many mages recently, so at the flick of Gabranth's wrist, Edgard drops to the ground immediately, fully prepared for pain to come. He takes a deep breath and covers his head. The pain doesn't come. Instead, the wyrm disappears directly in front of his eyes. Edgard blinks for a moment and then snaps his head back up just in time to see Gabranth get swiped by a demon.

He's made a mistake. Again. He jumps to his feet, bow ready, and sends another arrow at the demon.

Incensed at himself at his mistake, he yells wildly and runs directly at Gabranth. Edgard's intention is to come help him, but any normal person might misconstrue this.

[archademode]

Help is welcome, trouble is not. But wariness is a luxury in battle, and Gabranth was unprepared even in dreams for the onset of chaos to such a degree (he’d made his last stand, they’d ended it— rest and respite was meant to follow, not this).

He wrenches his blades free of the earth, anger beginning to spark to life under the pressure of pain across his side: a decision needs to be made— and quickly— if he is to turn this around. A bowman in close quarters is particularly vulnerable, this much he knows.

A bowman in close quarters is significantly more vulnerable than the despair demon moving ever closer to his flank.

“Strike me again and I shall tax you the last of your living breath.” Words growled so vividly that the syllables stick across his tongue as he moves past Edgard’s wild charge, sword drawn through the air only for the sake of catching another wyrm-spawn beneath the jut of its open jaw.

II post-Jone

[thereneverwas]

There's a man tidying the training ground when Gabranth arrives, who could best be described as 'hulking': enormous and broad, with a bit of midsection spilling over the belt of his gambeson, this is a Fighting Man for certain. Or at least was.
He's whistling some drinking tune as he moves about the pitch with a rake, leveling it out and removing clumps from the dirt for tomorrow's practice. He stops, however, when a Big Fucker In Full Plate arrives, and pauses to lean on the rake handle with one long tuneless whistle of appraisal.

"Ey, buckets," he calls cheerfully, "Jone's not here, but I can tell her you called."

[archademode]

“Judge Magister.” The correction comes coupled with a faintly admonishing click of his teeth when he says it, but the helm does steep work in suppressing any and all subtle sound, particularly at the distance he maintains while picking out a nearby patch of ground for his own use.

“And I did not come for her.”

There is a sidelong glance cast in Barrow’s direction for the briefest of moments as he checks the clasps of his own armor, studying the man’s appearance— attempting to get a grasp of his station and standing. Perhaps a battle hand that had long since outlived his place on the field, perhaps simply a man that did his fighting on his own terms and nothing more.

Difficult to say for certain.

“So you will say nothing when you next see her.”

[thereneverwas]

"Magister," Barrow intones, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline, "don't wanna sling that one around too easy, mate. What sort of Magister stomps around looking like a bloody Revenant, anyway?"

He's cheerful enough, removing a cigarette and a match from his belt pouch so he can light it, clamping it in his mouth as he straightens up off the rake and continues his work.

"Gimme a second to sort this place out before you scuff it up again, eh?"

[archademode]

The suggestion is noted only by the barest tilt of that helm, horns shifting sideways by degrees and nothing more. Understanding it fully will come with time, he supposes— or at the very least, experience.

But the fingers at his wrist go still for a moment as they abandon their work, preceding his own retreat to a nearby corner without any further obstinacy on his part (he can— when he is not actively being prodded— offer up the smallest semblance of patience). Despite opportunity, he neither sits nor leans while waiting.

“These grounds are yours, then, I take it?”

[justashotaway]

Laura haunts the training yards herself, though perhaps not with the same single-minded attention to them. (There are other things to do, important things: completing work for Commander Flint, prowling alleys for dangerous people, climbing buildings she shouldn't, walking through marketplaces, sitting with her shoulder bumping against a handsome boy's, petting a cat.) She's there often, though, and often enough that she recognizes a new person quickly.

The morning after his first day spent whacking training dummies, once she's observed from shadows (and from the corner of her eye while practicing as well, sans claws), she approaches him. A little thing dressed all in black, she tips her head up to regard his metal helmet as he hits a featureless wooden shape. "I will fight you."

[archademode]

Small as she is— determined as she is— it paints a strange picture were someone to spy the two of them standing there between wood and pitch (his own blades still in hand, perched mid-swing, helmet turned fully to face her where she stands ever so casually just a few steps away), as if frozen in time for the longest of seconds spent in utter silence, until:

“I accept.”

True, that he could refuse her declaration if he so wished. Truer still that despite everything else, the sight of her petitioning him with such certainty reminded him of Larsa. Small creatures with deceptively stern hearts.

Or perhaps he is a fool, and so is she.

His hold on his twin swords flick quickly where he grips them, reversing their positioning against his palm so that their hilts face forward, rather than towards his back. Better to get a feel for her abilities if she is too young or too inexperienced to endure blows with broad reach.

“Come, then. Take up your sword.”

[justashotaway]

For a moment, she expects to hear no--and thinks he might be preparing to say as much--but then he relents. Which is acceptable.

The direction, however, makes her hesitate. A sword might be the better choice; she's as likely as anything to inadvertently slice off the pommels of his weapons otherwise.

"I will fence you if you want," she informs him, glancing over to the side of the yard. There are false weapons there, suitable for the kind of sparring he's proposed. "I do not wish to damage your swords. If you fight backwards with them, I will."

As explanation, she holds up her fists. Two claws appear before each hand, translucent and glowing the silver-blue of lyrium.

[archademode]

There is a shift in his posture once those claws make themselves known— a slant of his head, chin inching higher out of what seems more like interest than any amount of fear. Another beat of consideration, swords once again flexing in his grip as proof of thought for her sake (his mask expresses nothing, after all).

“Those are your preferred weapons, correct?”

What creature— in this world or any other— would opt for hardened steel over their own magic and mettle? He cannot imagine hefting a blade across his palm if he had such a resource to spare.

III

[altusimperius]

At some point while Gabranth is exploring the residential towers, he will come across the aroma and haze of nearby elfroot smoke. It seeps out through a crack in the door of one of the rooms, and should he venture nearer, he'll see a veritable cloud of it within.

The far window is also open, of course, but the rate at which the tall, languid figure within is producing the smoke makes it impossible to filter out so quickly. When the occupant sees someone peering inside, he lifts one hand in a lazy, smirking wave.

hello andraste i want 2 report a crime

[archademode]

A cracked door is practically an invitation; a languid wave is one, as far as any member of Archadian enforcement is concerned. The heady scent is ignored as Gabranth sets one armored glove across the doorway, pressing his own way inside and searching through the haze of smoke (and the limitations of his own helm).

He finds exactly what he needs in less than a handful of seconds.

"Shut the door, or spare the commons."

No tongs or skim bothered with, Gabranth uses his own gauntlet to pull the heated coal from Benedict's only clear source of smokescent— dousing it fully (albeit unceremoniously) in the nearest water-filled basin.

x-files theme

[altusimperius]

It was difficult to see the stranger through the haze, but now that it's clear it is an enormous person in a full suit of armor, all of Benedict's self-preservation instincts-- and residual Templar-based trauma responses-- kick in.

"Fuck!" he gasps, scrambling back across the nest of pillows and away from the armored figure, "I didn't do anything! I haven't-- ask Byerly! Byerly knows!"

He holds up a large pillow as though to shield himself, but is tall enough that he can't quite fold himself entirely behind it.

[highborn]

Vanadi has been doing a lot of hurrying about, these last few days. It turns out there are at least a hundred things to forget about until the last minute, when planning an extended trip. Today finds him strolling past the training grounds with an arm full of freshly laundered silken shirts, lush colors and intricate patterns and suchlike. It's important to travel in style.

He pauses, though, at the sight of such a well-armored someone or other on the training grounds. And they're really going at it in there, huh? He glances around, half expecting to see the rest of the armored, invading force, but no, it's still just this guy. This guy, with the green-glowing hand.

Vanadi steps into the room, a prisoner to his curiosity, and for a moment only watches. But before long, "You do stand out, don't you? You must be new."

[archademode]

His blades brush smoothly along the contours of wooden targets— catching only against their sturdier metal jointing when his own arcing strikes aim higher— unwilling to damage such simple equipment meant for fledgling aspirants (and Barrow would likely wilt over the thought of any more damaged tackle). The fluid flow of practice as thoughtless as breathing, for someone who spends almost the entirety of each day here, fully engrossed in mock battle with lifeless targets.

One snap of his wrist, posture receding, and the air inside that room seems to constrict for a beat, streaks of wind without any discernible direction snaking around the pommels of Gabranth’s twin swords—

And then Vanadi speaks.

Focus lost in an instant, he finds himself without anywhere to direct the whirlwind now clinging furiously to the edges of his fingertips: his body is already turned towards the unfamiliar spectator in the doorway (an instinctive response to the sound of someone else’s voice), and the untamed volatility of his magic threatens almost immediately to lash out for it. Forced to throw the whole of his posture into redirecting the strike, Gabranth only has time to exhale one lone, livid growl of a sound as it snaps out— shockwave slamming into stone and trembling a the support column closest to Vanadi himself.

A narrow miss, thankfully.

[highborn]

For his part, Vanadi doesn't stick around to see how near or not that miss may prove; at the first sight of unnaturally disturbed winds and building forces turned in his direction, Vanadi knows more or less what he's looking at, and leaps to make himself scarce.

He reappears again in the doorway a few seconds after the impact, eyes that damaged column, and turns a resentful frown onto said newcomer.

"What are you thinking?" he snaps, but there's no fearless stride into the room to accompany it. Nope, no thank you, he'll scold from out here. "Magic on the practice range? Stick to your blade, if that goes out of control at least you won't snag a passerby in the corridor."

hello it's me

[heorte]

It'll go easier without the armor, Ellis almost says, but instead—

"We're meant to have a look at them," he explains, gesturing to the crates. It's swords, mostly. Ellis hasn't looked through them yet, but he expects that whatever castoffs are sent here are going to be whatever is easiest made. More complex weapons will go where they're most needed.

A shrug of a shoulder, hefting the lid of the crate in his hands before turning to set it aside.

"Anything that's damaged, we set aside for the training yard. It'll do well enough for practice even if there's nicks in the blade."

opens my arms

[archademode]

Heavy work is welcome work, though there are some in the world— this or any other— that would argue differently. Yet armor and all he holds no complaints, sifting through crate with a seemingly tireless attention to detail: neither slowing nor shirking the necessary attention needed for each blade.

“Do new trainees arrive often?” He asks eventually, breaking an otherwise stoic silence, his helm fixated on one particularly unwell armament, pommel rattling as he shifts it in his hands.

leaps into them in slow motion

[heorte]

"Depends on whether you mean Rifters or what Kirkwall sends us," Ellis answers, rounding one of the crates with two lightly dented swords. "But regularly enough."

Rifters are sporadic events that can't be planned for, as far as Ellis is concerned. At least the straggling stream of city guard hopefuls is somewhat predictable.

"Are you given to sparring?" feels like a fair question, considering the armor. But not everyone likes company. There's plenty of people who'd keep to themselves in the training yard, coming and going without comment.