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

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[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

Magister.

Benedict had been as calm as possible for having had an entire suit of armor rolled off of him, but the instant he hears that word, he jerks away again, rolling out of Gabranth's reach and scrambling, hand out defensively, to put his back to the wall.

"What the fuck do you want," he hisses furiously, his eyes flitting over every aspect of the suit's shape; there's no family insignia that he recognizes, no other indication of who might have sent... this.
And for that matter, "...and what the fuck kind of Magister dresses like that?"

What does he want?

A question so foreign to him that it obscures all else: how Benedict has already retreated beyond reach, how much contempt intermingles with scrutiny in the expression fixed his way— what he’d wanted was taken from him the moment he’d been cruelly spat out of a dream. What he’s left with is little more than a bottom line.

“To assist in saving this world.”

He has to shift back onto his heels to rise once more, pulling the fasteners of his soaked gauntlet loose, tired of tolerating the way it humidly clings to him.

“The kind that has a mind to endure,” Tanned skin beneath dark leather, barely more than an inch bared to cool air, entirely unscarred. Visible only in the wake of tugging that single gauntlet loose. A sign of humanity if nothing else...though it might bring little comfort to Benedict, all things considered.

“What sort of Magister does not?”

That's a perplexing answer: from the kind of Magister Benedict knows, it would mean Gabranth is Venatori. But there's a large and looming problem here, which is that he's never heard the name Gabranth in his life, or at least not in the context of. Well. The Magisterium.

"...you're a Rifter," he says slowly: it's both a guess and a question, Benedict continuing to eye him suspiciously. The green glow on his own hand, were he to catch it on the stranger's, would suggest that it takes more than a shard to designate an outsider.

Edited 2021-03-30 03:12 (UTC)

"You are not."

It isn't said like a question, in fact it carries much of the same hesitant tone of Benedict's own suspicion: he can see the shard lingering against the other man's open palm, yet Gabranth clearly was initially believed to be part of this world, for all that his status as someone divorced from it matters.

And yet.

The straps of his gauntlet are refitted, refastened tight in a much more accommodating position for the tautness of wet leather. Once done, he extends the opposite hand for good measure, flashing the barest glint of green through a narrow cut across the base of the glove itself.

"The world in which I was born is known as Ivalice. Does that put you at ease?"

Ivalice. Benedict thinks on it, then shakes his head.

"But you call yourself a Magister," he says in a hushed tone, his fear beginning to trickle away, little by little. It never even occurred to him that there would be such a thing, anywhere but here.
More fool him, for not thinking about it.

"...my mother is a Magister."

“Your mother...?”

From what Gabranth understands of his own world, that would make this man— and his mother— as near to nobility as any military servant could hope to be.

....and he nearly crushed the wind from him.

Unbidden regret burns hot across the back of his own neck, settling near the tension at his jaw, but he says nothing of it. Shows even less behind his grim mantle. What transpired is done, and he’ll make his amends as best he can once he understands the full scope of this diegesis.

“Then you must be training to take up her mantle as well.”

That's the most directly anyone has ever asked, and Benedict is momentarily taken aback by it. From where he sits, back pressed to the wall, hand still outstretched in case he needs to cast suddenly, he sees now that the armor is unfamiliar: rather, it's so unfamiliar as to not be Thedosian at all, not just Not A Southern Templar's. Or a Northern one, such that they are.

"We're not in touch at the moment," he says quietly, carefully.

A strange thing to say, he thinks, but not altogether beyond understanding. Duty is a taxing burden, and it can easily sever every last attempt at keeping familial bonds tethered tight.

Such a thing was never his own trouble, of course: his family was already lost to him by the time the Emperor extended his hand.

“I am sorry to hear it.”

Even without a face to match his voice, he manages to convey sincerity. Lowered pitch, a humane cadence— it is all he can offer, and so he gives it freely, without pretense. The least he can do for one of his own kind, in essence.

“What is your name, Magister to be?”

It's strange, how terrifying this figure was only minutes ago, who's now showing Benedict such deference. He doesn't entirely trust it-- he's been around the figurative block too long to trust things like that anymore-- but this wouldn't be the first Rifter with whom he's felt a bizarre kinship.

More kinship, oddly, than he feels with most other Thedosians, but that's neither here nor there.

"I'm not--" he begins to say, but stops himself, exhaling deeply as he finally moves his casting hand to push his hair back out of his face.

"Benedict," he concedes. "Of House Artemaeus."

Judge Artemaeus would have a fine ring to it, were his line part of Ivalice’s own history. Here, he knows it must be different, for the only part so heavily fixated on has simply been the role of Magister and little else. Yet the name is committed quickly to memory— Gabranth expects someday the concept of meeting Magister Artemaeus herself might not be nearly so far from reach.

“Lend nothing to terror.” He says, letting the subject fall away as easily as it had initially risen. “Turn your arm against the place where thumb and forefinger lock, and you’ll have no trouble dismissing a tight grip.”

A man cannot rely wholly on his magic to save him, no matter how well executed (and Gabranth’s head still aches from those spells, which is testament enough to their proficient application).

There’s only a slight pause before curiosity gains the upper hand, and he adds:

“Before, when you fled: who did you fear I was?”

With a sort of sullen curiosity, Benedict attempts the move on himself, twisting his wrist where his other hand grips it.
Huh.

"A Templar," he explains, finally drawing himself to his feet, using the wall for balance; being terrified didn't make him less high, but at least he's lucid enough to have a human conversation.
"Mages are free here," he continues, stepping back toward the hookah room, and beckoning Gabranth after him so they can make themselves more comfortable. Once inside, he goes to the window to open it more fully, giving the smoke more room to clear.

"But that's because Riftwatch is safe for us. Elsewhere in the South, Templars hunt and confine mages to towers. They did it before the war, and they'll do it again, given the chance." He waves at the smoke, lazily guiding it toward the window.
"In the North, where I'm from, that's not the case. Mages do the governing, and Templars only serve as law enforcement."

"Then your initial assumption was not far from correct." Comment given as he shuts the door behind them to both bar more clotted air from escaping, and ensure their conversation— personal as it may be— remains assuredly private. The room itself, now clearing quickly, looks comfortable enough by even the most basic of standards.

Still, Gabranth opts not to sit.

"In Ivalice, Judge Magisters act as the guarding hand of the Emperor himself, doing what he cannot— or at times must not."

He cannot help but think of the knife's edged balanced in memory: how Emperor Gramis Gana Solidor had Gabranth spy on his eldest son...and how poorly the aftermath had fared for them both. A wounding mistake, and one he would readily make once more if asked even now.

"I suppose by your people's standards, I would be no different than any Templar." Though he pauses there, eyes shutting briefly as he draws back on fresh lessons in terminology.

"...yet your Templars bar themselves from the use of magic, do they not?"

Bene's heart skips a beat when Gabranth closes the door, that same residual fear rising back up, but they're talking now-- it's fine-- he can use his words instead of panicking.

"...could you... keep that cracked open," he asks, nodding toward the door as he continues to fan at the smoke, "I don't know much about Templars, I admit. They have their own sort of magic, that mostly exists to control and silence what mages can do."

With there being little left to do in the way of smoke, he leans on the windowsill, peering out at the city.

"Magisters here-- or in Tevinter, I mean-- operate the Imperial Senate. They're politicians, not enforcers."

A strange request. One Gabranth could easily refuse, given the nature of current (presumably sensitive) topics, and the likelihood of being overheard— but he instead reaches over with an outstretched gauntlet to unlatch the door and let it slide free by a narrow margin of inches.

**you're having this request granted because you're the nearest thing to a Judge Magister(s kid) he's found in this world, Benedict. this is your permanent free pass to ask for things.

"You've not studied them, your enemies?" Meaning the southernmost Templars, rather than any among Riftwatch or Tevinter's ranks, for surely they pose a risk to him as he is now.

The question doesn't entirely make sense to Benedict, as phrased, and he fixes Gabranth with a strange look.

"There are Templars in Riftwatch." A fact that he hates, but about which he has largely kept quiet, "they're not the enemy. At least. ...not right now."

He rubs at his temple, looking out the window. Maker, at least the newcomer is able to get this information from him, instead of drawing conclusions based on someone else's explanation.

"...if anything, the Magisterium is the enemy. A lot of them have allied with Corypheus." Them, he says, not us; perhaps he doesn't include himself in that number anymore, Magister-to-be or not.

Gabranth instead takes it only at face value, for among broad political groups there will always be those who desire power above all else. That Benedict divorces himself from their number is viewed by Gabranth as a matter of sensibility, rather than any sort of tumultuous divide. A point in his favor.

Still, falling back on earlier course of conversation, one lingering question remains:

"And your mother...?"

Even going on a year later, it's tough to admit. Going on twenty-six, Benedict still feels very much a child when the topic turns to his mother, to his lifelong admiration of her and aspiration to be just like her, and how that has had to change. As he has changed.

Unable to bring himself to say it, he turns back from the window to nod at Gabranth. Yes: his mother is The Enemy.

For a long moment, Gabranth says nothing: braced against the far wall, arms still sternly crossed as if wholly unaffected, his eyes drifting only briefly shut in shadow when he offers a single nod of understanding in turn.

War will always be the most costly ordeal, and what it cuts away will rarely ever heal— this he knows. So he gives Benedict time. Time to breathe in the wake of his own wordless confession. Time to ease back into the room itself rather than the painful confines of his own mind, before Gabranth bothers interrupting once more.

"Do you train?"

Benedict nods again, his expression strange, perhaps proud; the training is a fairly new development, but one he's taken seriously.

"I practice magic on my own," he replies, "and combat down below, with the others." Which is to say, with Jone [and technically Barrow also but we ignore that because casturbation is a sin] and the newer, less battle-oriented recruits.

"Good. You cannot come into your own practicing in isolation."

Perhaps Benedict is correct in his belief that he is not fated to be a Magister. But there is a possibility that yet remains for Gabranth, to instill something more permanent in this world than his own living memory, for however long it lasts.

Odd, to think of that as a comfort when all else has failed him.

"Henceforth you shall train with me, as well."

This merits an indignant look from Benedict, but it's hardly the first time anyone has said such a thing to him, and, with his luck, it won't be the last.

But, there are worse ideas.

"Fine," he says primly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, "but you'll have to share the time with Jone, because I also have to work."

He pauses.

"...and I want to see your face, first."

“The Daughter of Denerim knows nothing of magic save for her own fear. She is of little use to you in that regard.”

But fine. No matter how stubborn Gabranth may be, clearly Benedict is permitted to request that much, as no further argument against the prospect of sharing time is made in the seconds that follow that singular remark.

As for the latter, however, Benedict manages to earn himself the first sign of hesitancy Gabranth has shown since their disastrous truce was forged just outside. His posture broadens, shoulders squaring when his chin tips upwards by readable degrees beneath his helm. A little taller. A little nearer to the Templar Benedict had feared him to be.

“....why.”

Why, he says, not no.

"I don't need your permission," Benedict informs him, an imperious bite creeping into his words; now that they've established Gabranth regards him as within a similar or higher social order, it's easy for him to fill that role.
"Being able to fight without magic is important. ...and it's important to her, that I do."

When challenged on his request, he folds his arms, his gaze quiet and catlike in its opacity.

"Because I won't trust you until I do."

Edited (words ) 2021-03-30 23:29 (UTC)

“Then I need shut the door, and you will speak nothing of what you see here.”

It isn’t combative. Not biting or snarling, like something cornered and resentful, or too proud to be reasoned with. They are conditions to be met between allies— and to that end, Gabranth’s voice carries the full weight of stern expectation behind it.

“If I am to have your trust, you must keep mine in turn.”

Or. Else.

Benedict nods toward the door, conceding easily; the reason for the request is moot now, with discussion of things like trust and allyship.

"I will."

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