Jᴜᴅɢᴇ Mᴀɢɪsᴛᴇʀ Gᴀʙʀᴀɴᴛʜ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
archademode) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2021-03-27 05:11 pm
archademode) wrote in faderift2021-03-27 05:11 pm
Entry tags:
[OPEN | ARRIVAL] When the fire starts to burn
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
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.]
no subject
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, Joneno subject
She plays with the unthrown pebble, tossing it up in the air and catching it with a sure hand.
"Oh, yeah. Ask anybody."
no subject
In a sense, some part of him knows it’s hardly his place to enforce order here, but how can he possibly ignore such blatant admission?
no subject
"Wanted a fight, luv, why didn't you say?"
Her free hand forms a fist, and she throws her punch straight for that ridiculous helm of his. It may seem cocky, even silly, and that's fine. Hurting him isn't really her intention. She expects punching his metal fucking face will hurt her.
And when you're a reaver, pain is just another word for strength.
no subject
Not since his last battle, nor his last brawling match for that matter: those were always abundant in the gods' own paper-fragile, relentless worlds. No, it is the unexpected that finds his pulse quickening so suddenly when the dense metal of his own helm catches hard against his cheek beneath the press of her fist (the unexpected that has him exhaling a scoff so near to a coarse chuckle that there’s no disguising the approval lingering within it, even without an expression to offer).
In this, if nothing else, he can feel at home.
His weight drops easily on his own; she is taller than him, and there is hardly shame to be had in using such an advantage as leverage, rolling his lingering grip on her hand into his shoulder so that if she isn’t careful, all balance would easily be lost in an instant.
He could, for cruelty’s sake, tuck in an armored elbow between her ribs— but like her, his aim is far from injury.
no subject
He has the advantage, yes, but that just makes it fun.
When she slams her forehead into his helm, it's with far more strength than her previous hit. She begins to move her captured wrist, attempting to make his grip more tenuous, if not break it outright.
no subject
“You’ll split your own skull, carrying on like that.“
His armor is adamantine— it is unyielding— and it has only been shattered once in a thousand lifetimes.
When his hand rises next, it isn’t to snare her again, but to preventatively press his palm against the flattened curve of her forehead: a barrier of concern between them, though only barely should she continue pressing her advantage. He isn’t so soft or so foolish to surrender completely to sympathy.
no subject
And then he puts his hand up, showing concern for her.
A good fighter, that's rare. A good man, those all died out ages ago. Is this a trick?
So she explains herself. "Reaver, I am," she says, "get stronger with pain."
no subject
His palm doesn't linger; once he's certain she has no intention of reeling back once more for another blow, he withdraws— twisting away from her skin so as not to spill anything more across the front of her brow.
Though his own blood is still warm in his veins, though he'd like nothing more than to continue on for the sake of dislodging the restlessness that's found home within his chest, there is no point in carelessly carrying on: he'd risk making enemies of the only allies he has in this world, or at the very least damaging his own reputation.
He exhales stiffly, shifting his neck so that the cloak tangled high across his shoulders settles back neatly into place.
"And no more rocks."
no subject
"The training yards," she says, pulling away, "there every day, me. Come and spar some time, I'll be there in proper kit."
She has her own armor, even if it isn't as impressive as his.
no subject
no subject
He does not understand her. He does not understand this world or its etiquettes, and maybe that alone is the source of his confusion in the wake of their encounter, but Gabranth leaves her without another word of either agreement or dismissal, taking up space at the farthest table, gloved hand perched beneath his jaw.
He stays there an hour longer than usual, that day.