faderift | [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

Blithely ignoring him, Barrow remains where he is, smoking and leaning and chatting; he rather gives the impression that, if there's even the slightest opportunity to distract himself from working, he'll take it.

"I've got to say, it's not often one comes across someone like yourself, who knows what he wants and says so. It's an admirable trait, that, though you could stand to be a little less brusque about it if you-- aw, wish you wouldn't do that, mate."

He sighs at the now-ruined practice dummy, exhaling a puff of smoke.

"They're really not meant to withstand actual sharpened weapons, you know."

"Perhaps you ought stand in their stead."

No matter the cycle, no matter how endlessly he lived and died and uttered vows to better causes than the one he'd ended his own life for in Ivalice, Gabranth remains a petty man. He cannot paint himself differently. He cannot shine with virtue as his brother so keenly manages.

He is content enough in that, he finds.

So he is rougher when he needs to be when he pulls his blade free, letting splinters tumble into half-raked pitch. Something for Barrow to handle later, if he cares about the pups and their soft feet so much.

"Well!"

A little gasp, feigning offense. "How do you like that! See if you're allowed on my training pitch again, with that attitude."

Because now it's his after all.

And there's Jone, dressed down from previous, more armored encounters. Her hair's a bit odd, pulled back in an asymmetrical twist that's further obscured by sunhat. Is this all to hide the chunk of hair she lost to actual magic fire? Yes, and fuck you for asking.

The rest of her clothes neatly hide her burnt shoulder and a bruise on the side of her neck. Thank fuck it's still cold enough for high collars.

"Your what?" She strides up with hands on hips. "You own things by paying for 'em, Bazza. You're paid to be here. S'a difference, but I understand how you can get confused with all the head injuries."

She ignores Gan (can't remember the second syllable; talk about head injuries) momentarily, focusing on giving Barrow a hard time, before turning to him. "I'm personally hope you're back this quickly. I was hoping to've broke something."

"Fine armor does its work."

To say nothing of her own, which still rests firmly in his possession (that it was flame which acted as its undoing rather than the strength of Gabranth's own attacks equates to little more than semantics in his mind).

"Who the fuck is 'Bazza'," Barrow asks amiably, swatting at Jone like a lazy bear as she comes by, and probably missing.

"It's mine so long as I'm bloody cleaning it," he decides (continuing to not clean it, but that's neither here nor there), "so when were you going to tell me, eh? Is he treating you like a lady?"

He gestures to Gabranth.

Joke barks out a surprised laugh. "A lady, Baz?"

She rubs her forehead, causing her hat to go lopsided. Fuck, this is stupid.

"Have you really been saying shite like that? Out loud, where people can hear you?" She looks to Ganbranth. "Has he been? 'Cos then I'd have to knock him off the fucking pier. D'you think he can swim, Gan?"

"He seems ill suited for it."

Swords sheathed for the sake of folding his arms across his chest, intending fully to bask in the sudden shift in conversational direction: if Barrow is now taking the brunt of her claws, far be it from Gabranth to intervene on anyone's behalf.

"Perhaps you should hold nothing back, for all that's been said."

"You can try," Barrow says primly, at no point seeming overly concerned that either of them could or will convey him to the pier, but he does look slightly annoyed at Gabranth's remark.

"Ill suited? What's that s'posed to mean?"
He shakes his head at Jone. "Real charmer, this one. You sure about him?"

"Later," Jone says, as thought she doesn't care, "we're gonna talk about why you think my business is your business."

To Ganbranth, "when you fight him, and you ought to, go easy."

"You are concerned for him."

Surely she must be, to both prod the man and shield him in the same breath. And truth be told— despite how the pair of them irritate beyond measure— he has no real desire to bring harm to either of them: they are allies here, after all, and in an unfamiliar world there are always too few of those to rest easy.

"There is no need. I've no intention of damaging him, regardless of how he speaks."

"Well when your business comes looking for you in a full fucking suit of plate," Barrow begins, but lets the sentence die on his lips in favor of scowling at Jone, pointing an accusing finger at her.

"I'm a lot harder to damage than that, thank the both of you very much," he grumbles, more playful than angry, even if there is a glint of actual irritation in his eyes, "but I suppose I'll leave you to it."

Shifting his weight up off the rake, he flips the handle up over his shoulder.
"Don't let him kill any more dummies," he admonishes Jone, moving to go.

"My business can come to you in a box with a pretty bow on top. Still ain't yours to open."

She shakes her head, beginning to walk away. To Gan, she murmurs, "I work with him, 'course I give a wank. But it's his life."

This said pointedly, eye glimmering at Barrow under the rim of her hat.

Barrow's penultimate remark hardly falls on deaf ears: there's interest to be found there, in the idea that the man might be so keen as to hold his own, should they find the opportunity to cross blades at some later point in time. Even so, only once Barrow and Jone are both fully out of earshot does Gabranth bother moving again, already reaching out to assess the damage he'd cause that wooden target barely a handful of minutes prior.

Training facilities with poor funding often lack additional materials for practice, and Gabranth— exalted as he had eventually become in the eyes of Archadia— is no stranger to scarcity.

He’ll replace it himself, if they haven’t the supplies to spare. Without a word spoken, of course. Best if they are unaware it was his doing.

[OPEN | ARRIVAL] When the fire starts to burn

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