faderift | [OPEN | ARRIVAL] When the fire starts to burn

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

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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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.

Edited 2021-03-29 02:46 (UTC)

"Yes." They disappear again, as silently as they appeared, and her hands drop to her side. "But I will fight with a sword if you prefer."

It isn't, in itself, really a hardship. She learned to use a blade long before blades were foisted upon her, and there still are times she needs the skill--any time she needs to conceal her identity, for one, and most of the time when she's in Nevarra. Hers is the demand to fight; he should get to decide what shape that fight might take.

"No, use them."

He knows too little still about lyrium to be entirely certain in his own understanding (never a studious man, only a disciplined one, comprehension was always quicker to come than confidence), but in fighting any opponent, Gabranth's preference lies in having them at their best.

~~Unless they're his brother, but that hardly counts.~~

The reverse hold on his blades is forgotten in an instant: one smooth rotation of his wrists in time with one another, and his stance has dropped into something more flexible. Readied. He remains the taller of the two, of course, but that's an advantage she's welcome to have.

Barely a breath is spared before he's upon her. A heavy swing, brought down by the longer of his twin swords— something to close the gap while it sets pace.

Knowledge of lyrium wouldn't help him much here, even if he had it; the things templars and mages do with it rarely look much like claws manifesting from the hands and feet of a magicless girl. So far as she knows, Laura is the only one in the world who carries it painted onto her bones.

She brings both hands up, claws appearing again, angling her arms so the duller side is what his blade meets. They're little more than light, the sword cutting into them--only the sharp inner edge has form, a slender and impossibly strong razorline.

He is strong, and he is well-armored. These are things Laura needs practice with; she's built for sneaking murders in the dark, but every mission is not throat-cutting. And though she's nowhere near as heavily built as he, she has some strength to her, along with a light foot and some sense for tactics. Pushing up against his sword with a grunt, she does her best to slip sideways, out of the way of its arc.

And then she swipes at his side. Her usual approach with something significantly larger than her tends to involve getting a hit or two while in range and then leaping back again, beyond claw or sword or mace.

Some might say there’s nothing pleasant about it, being taken by surprise— particularly in combat, where so much hinges deeply on sharpened metal or how shallow the plating of exposed armor stands.

Gabranth would disagree.

Her speed is welcome, the deftness with which she strikes out a sure sign no boredom will find him. He rocks back in his stance as she edges in, allowing the blow to glance long across the curvature of his breastplate instead of bringing it too close to tied laces or leather.

The reverse grip, forgotten by his dominant hand, comes back to life in his shorter blade: rather than grant her free access to his back (her range is short, her speed is quick— perhaps he is misjudging her tactical preference, but too often do the swift and agile aim for blind spots), he turns in the opposite direction to meet her with that lesser sword held near his own spine as a guard.

Chased, naturally, by another horizontal swing from his longsword. Broad strokes where he pursues her, his defense a matter of strength and the confidence to trust in that. To know just how daunting an aggressive shielding can be.

Still, if she’s as capable as he thinks, she’ll glimpse opportunity somewhere in his flurrying blows.

He's wise to keep her away from his back, and he succeeds in it--she could leap toward him otherwise, she thinks, get her arms and legs around him and find the seams of his plate armor. For now, though, she's busy dancing out of the way of his long sword, a mix of darting away from it and clashing her claws against it.

Where she can, she slashes in at him more, one hand and then the other. She might try to stab under armor, under other circumstances, but this isn't a real fight.

She does, however, slide down to a crouch to duck a blow, kicking out hard at his ankle with a well-placed foot--and another sharp, ghostly claw that comes through her boot. The momentum carries her up again, graceful but practiced, as she tries to get in close for a hit to his longsword arm.

No, it isn’t a real fight. If it were, Gabranth would be relying on the searing cruelty of magic to guard his form— and he imagines she would still manage to persevere, watching with kindled interest as each of his blows glances smoothly off dull metal: a lesser fighter would have trouble there, would be unable to ensure that the safety of the equipment used remains a full priority. She makes it look easy.

'It is a dance', Drace would say, agility coursing through each of her poised strikes. The memory of her voice still singing with so much clarity in his ears that he could swear—

Laura closes in, and Gabranth’s secondary blade is held too wide to catch it quickly enough. A misstep that costs him, where Laura catches him at his gauntlet, his footing already undone from her rapid segue. He swipes forwards with his offhand for good measure, attempting to land a hit across her back with the pommel of his sword. One firm tap at best, if anything.

Edited 2021-03-31 23:46 (UTC)

His hit lands, knocking her off her balance--not enough to send her sprawling, but enough that it's visible, a few extra steps as she moves out of reach once more. She's breathing a little more heavily than she was, though she's not worn out by any means.

Once she's out of reach, she straightens up, hands falling to her sides, claws disappearing from her hands and feet alike. They've each gotten a strike in. That will do for now.

"I am Laura Kint," she informs him. It is considered good manners to make your identity known to someone else, especially after you've sparred. He is large, and he is strong; there is a good chance he'll be a member of Forces with her.

"Judge Magister Gabranth." Replied without hitch or heaving syllable, despite the fact that the rush of adrenaline has the both of them breathing a touch more quickly— his swords now quick to find their sheathes without any further ceremony.

"A pleasure."

That, he means. Rare to find someone both disciplined enough to show restraint in combat, yet still able to keep him on his toes. Figurative and (in regards to the lunging attack she'd managed) utterly literally.

For all of this, she's offered only the stiffest of bows in formal greeting.

Edited 2021-04-01 02:53 (UTC)

Laura nods in answer. This is comfortable in a way others' greetings aren't always; she'll take an introduction that doesn't involve touching when it's offered.

"You are new." He doesn't need to know that. But it seems relevant to mention, as context for what might become the inevitable question for him. "Are you from Tevinter?"

New as he is, he's had enough in the way of introductions to understand why this question continues to rise to the surface of each conversation— though Laura is the first not to have an embittered reaction to either the word Magister or Tevinter. A problem easily remedied, if he were to simply discard the portion of his title most likely to inflict some amount of unease.

Clearly, that idea doesn't suit him.

"Another world entirely," he confesses, said less like a correction and more an explanation: a little gentler on the words themselves, his tone easy. Leveled. Devoid entirely of pride.

The underside of his palm is tipped upwards, the faintest glint of green only just visible through a cut made in the base of his gauntlet.

"You are the first I've come across that has not recoiled in dread or disapproval. Is this world not your own as well?"

Laura shakes her head, then realizes he might not realize that it's No, I am unlike you, not No, this world is not my own.

"I don't care about Tevinter." That, she thinks, will be clarification enough. There are things she thinks about frequently, and the Imperium isn't high on the list; if she dislikes them as a people, it isn't with the same ferocity others hold. "Where do you come from?"

"Mm." It's a soft hum of a sound. Laughably soft, in fact, if any of the others he's associated so far were within earshot. There is something undeniably comforting about the ease of simple exchange between two people more suited to fighting than talking.

He finds himself around less and less of those as the years press on.

"A place where the dead cannot die." His helmet shifts, ornate horns casting long shadows across the set of his shoulders in waning sunlight. The words he means to find feel more akin to the catch of a dry tongue against the back of his teeth, and he wonders if there even is a way to explain such a miserable existence as the one he'd left behind.

The one he misses even now, for reasons he can't bring himself to confront.

"I take it your purpose here is much the same as my own, given your skillset."

"I am part of the Forces division," she tells him, which is likely as good as yes, our purposes are similar. Everyone in Forces fights sometimes--some more than others, but everyone, at some point. "And when I am not working, I..."

Laura hasn't told anyone about her extracurricular activities. She suspects she shouldn't go into great detail now.

"Some people need protection. Sometimes I help them." She tips her head up a little more, looking at the place where his eyes might be. "What happens to the dead, if they do not die?"

“A noble cause.” To help those who cannot help themselves. Who have no recourse but to bend in the wind— or be broken by it.

He commits the name of her division to memory. The idea of fighting at her side is a welcome one, all things considered.

~~...Well, fighting in general, really. It’s his language more than any other.~~

As for the rest: does he care to discuss this? Does he imagine she would believe him?

“They live on, as little more than puppets for the gods and their cruel sport.”

"Oh." There's a sort of quiet disappointment there, like candlelight glowing through the cracks of a shuttered window. How much better it would be if the dead simply continued to exist, present and benign.

If she doesn't shake it off, though, Laura at least buries that moment the same way she does everything else--someplace beneath her skin, nowhere near the serious angles of her face. "Do you always fight with two swords?"

On that, they can agree.

"I do." Said as one hand moves to rest gingerly across the divot nestled neatly at the edge of his longsword's pommel. The point of connection between the two blades when combined into one— though he doubts she cares to learn of such a niche function, and so keeps it to himself.

"Chaos Blade, Highway Star." She is the first to ask, and he introduces them with a barely noticeable fondness. The kind of pride Gabranth prefers to keep well-hidden, gesturing first to the longer of the pair, just before the shorter. "All Judge Magisters are gifted similar weapons to use in their dealings as the Emperor's hand."

He pauses, then, the ornate horns of his helm tilting alongside his head as he shifts his focus to her instead.

"Your claws. I've seen no others like them."

Though he is new, he admits, and perhaps therein lies the reason for it.

She looks at each in turn as Gabranth speaks its name. That they have names is interesting to her in itself; to name something, you must care for it, or you would simply refer to my long sword, my short sword. The cow. X-23. But he speaks of them as someone else might a friend.

Laura decides to remember their names. Chaos Blade and Highway Star, a large blade and a small one. Friends of a new acquaintance.

Her claws, on the other hand, are nameless.

"Because they are mine," she answers, attention turning from his sheathed weapons. This is an area where Laura treads carefully, as a general rule--though, given how little she talks already, it might not be particularly evident. "Others do not have them."

"I thought as much."

Not because they seemed so much more dangerous than typical Thedosian provision, but because her use of them felt more akin to the way a brawler might use his own hands or feet, rather than some tacked on extension. As foundational as blood and bone— or perhaps metal, in this case.

"They do good work."

Not a nick to be found, not a dent across pommel or leveled edge.

"You do good work with them. Most would not, even with the benefit of time and practice."

Over a year in the Gallows, and she's still not used to praise--particularly not from strangers. Her expression doesn't shift more than a fraction, chin tilting down just a little, but it does mean I am not sure what to do with this information.

(It's not an unpleasant kind of confusion, at least. While his isn't the form of swordplay she's learned, it's not hard to see that he's well-studied in this regard. A compliment from someone who knows how to fight means something.)

"Thank you." Responding correctly, at least, is simple. Acknowledge what the other person said, then offer a compliment in turn. "Your swords are well-made."

Which speaks well to him: his taste in selecting them, his ability to wield them effectively.

It pulls something from him, that compliment. Something that shifts his stance slightly, his weight resting a little lighter, chin tipping just so. It cannot be a certainty, considering the armor that bars his expression from view, but if ever he was close to a smile—

"Should you ever desire to spar once more, I expect you to call upon me."

It comes with the formality of a half-bow: a gentle incline involving his head and shoulders more than anything else, though for someone so accustomed to battle he expects it would suit her better than something much more rigid in etiquette (and posture besides).

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[OPEN | ARRIVAL] When the fire starts to burn

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

this is just the fighter's equivalent of showing off pet photos lbr

lmfao it's true tho

no subject

no subject

no subject