[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

[archademode]

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...?"

[altusimperius]

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.

[archademode]

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?"

[altusimperius]

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.

[archademode]

"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."

[altusimperius]

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."

[archademode]

“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.

[altusimperius]

"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."

[archademode]

“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.

[altusimperius]

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."

[archademode]

There is no pause held between when Gabranth ensures the door to that quiet little room is tightly shut and latched, and when his hands reach up to grasp the curvature of his own helm beneath sharply slanted horns. Back set to Benedict, bannered cloak more visible than the rest of him in that moment, its blood red insignia almost burning in the light.

A shock of blond hair— hanging loose about his shoulders— is the first thing to tumble free. The only thing to be seen, in fact, until heavy footing turns him back towards the window rather than slate and stone.

If disfigurement or cruel attributes were the concern, neither is to be found along the map of Gabranth's finer features: bright eyes catching Benedict's own, their gaze hawkishly sharp— clear skin unmarred by either damage or fierce weathering, only a narrow patch of untrimmed scruff running down across the base of his jaw.

It is his brother's face. Though as the younger of the two, there's too much softness in his countenance to be mistaken completely by those who knew Basch well.

He is aware of it fully in this moment: his own apparent humanity. The loss of an imposing advantage, traded in exchange for some small amount of understanding. A foothold, perhaps, in a world not his own.

[altusimperius]

If asked after the fact, Benedict would say he didn't know what he was expecting. A grizzled veteran, pocked or otherwise marked by hideous disfigurement, unwilling to remove his helm because it's the only way to preserve his dignity in a world where conclusions are drawn for superficial reasons.

And as far as superficial types go, Benedict is up there. He isn't ready for what greets him when Gabranth turns around-- a deep intake of breath and a startled step back toward the window are only the surface level signs that he's been shocked to the core.

"You're," Benedict stammers, and there are myriad descriptors that could follow: beautiful. Unexpectedly young. Blond? Not disgusting?

"...oh." This is not a frightened or disappointed 'oh'. It's an 'oh' that would make Calpurnia Artemaeus roll her eyes furiously, because it's the reason she doesn't have an heir yet.

[archademode]

“Are you satisfied, then?”

Asked without any particular inflection, as though entirely oblivious to Benedict’s current plight (he isn’t). Even without his helmet in place, there’s a flintiness to his disposition that works tirelessly to harden what could otherwise be a gentler face...if such a thing was wanted. Steeled purely by intent, rather than armor alone.

He hardly blinks, his brow set firmly with a disciplined breed of tension, waiting for a sign that he is free to replace the helm kept held in hand.

[altusimperius]

Benedict has gone from terrified to suspicious to coldly relenting to intrigued, and that much is clear in the set of his own brow. Have his eyebrows ever made a straight line, or has one always been cocked much higher than the other?

"...yes," he concedes, his mind overflowing with less appropriate things to say, but he did make a promise, and doesn't want to scare Gabranth away.

"How old are you?" The question is all curiosity, no judgment.

[archademode]

“Old.” Is the reply that slips out from beneath the shadow of his helmet, already fitting itself back into place.

Truthfully, in Archadia it was often a sign of respect between Judges— and towards ruling charges— to remove their own helmets when speaking in private; now that the fledgling Magister Artemaeus has seen him as he is, Gabranth has few arguments against leaving himself so exposed provided that the room itself is secure.

But this place is too unfamiliar still. The window too open, the door’s latch too loose within his grip when he’d locked it shut. He feels too restless to be at ease until the weight of that horned helm rests firmly along the base of his neck once more.

“If you fear I am inexperienced due to appearances alone, then let your mind be at ease.”

[altusimperius]

"Really?"

Benedict's heart pangs as he remembers another Rifter who appeared far younger than she was: one who similarly took an interest in him, who went out of her way to help him.
And then she vanished.

"I... don't," he assures Gabranth, humbled slightly, but continuing to look over the man's face with undisguised appreciation.
"Thank you." For the show and for the trust both, it would seem.

[archademode]

“My last breath was spent defending the life of Prince—“

No, a prince no longer, he thinks. Eyes drifting briefly shut when he pauses to correct the differences in fact between what he remembers in life, and what he now knows to be true beyond its end. “—Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor.”

He feels cool stonework at his back, its sturdy craftsmanship a welcome brace to keep himself from appearing far too disconcerted by memories long since passed.

“When death claimed me, I was no older than the age of thirty six.”

If they are airing the ruddy details, and Benedict's curiosity so piqued, he supposes there is no better way to handle the subject than to let loose the whole of it. To Benedict's show of gratitude, however, he says nothing.

He has no idea how to accept that with grace, aside from a stony little nod.

[altusimperius]

"You're dead? In your world?"

That's new. Benedict takes a step forward, stealing a better look at Gabranth's face while it's there for him to see, his eyes wide and dark and curious.

"What happened to the Emperor? Or... do you know?"

There are stranger questions to ask a person, in Riftwatch.

[archademode]

Like a creature composed entirely of distilled patience— or as Vayne himself had once suggested, a dutiful hound— Gabranth endures the entirety of Benedict’s searching gaze. Tension remains threaded throughout the corded line of his shoulders, across the point where his arms are neatly folded over one another, but when embedded fully in a suit of armor, none of it shows.

“The gods refused my rest.” Said simply, though as the words form his mouth draws itself sharply downward at the corner with disdain. Resentment. "In the nightmare between worlds, I was set to wander for an eternity...until your own world sought me out."

At the mention of Larsa, however, there is so much a shift in him: a fondness without end, a willingness to walk through hell yet again, if it meant ensuring the young Emperor's safety. A potent balm for the bitterness dwelling in his tightened expression.

The boy who clutched his hand and wept over him as the world went dark.

“But I believe he flourishes, now. A mercy to his people— for there was no better a heart meant to sit upon the throne.”

[altusimperius]

Something thrums in Benedict's heart: there's a part of him that knows, in another time and another place, he might have taken full advantage of a person like this, especially with Gabranth's loyalty seemingly a given.

"Noble of you," he remarks, coming a bit closer still, stepping around the hookah to get a closer look at the man's face, since Gabranth hasn't made a point of putting the helmet back on yet.
"You should know, taking an interest in me is..." The corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk, albeit not an unkind one, "...a risk. I'm not highly regarded here."

[archademode]

“Because you are of Tevinter.” Gabranth surmises, those pale-hazel eyes opening to fix themselves on Benedict once more in turn, seemingly certain in his own grasp of the situation.

[altusimperius]

Well.

Benedict's expression is... difficult to read, something that almost wants to become a nervous smile but forces itself to stay serious, his heart already beginning to pound a little faster. He's not going to lie, that's gotten him in enough trouble as it is, but.

"...that's... a reason," he lamely replies, then quickly pivots. "What sort of place is. Um." He has to search his memory for a moment. "Archadia?"

[archademode]

The man is a Judge, Benedict. His entire career has been made out of sniffing out unease and omission. Even without lying, are you certain this is the tack you want to take?

Yet Gabranth says nothing about that abrupt shift aloud— instead pressing away from the wall, and stepping far closer into Benedict’s space, testing whether curiosity still holds sway...or whether, thus confronted, caution will make its presence known in the Artemaeus heir once more.

“You did not finish your explanation.”

[altusimperius]

"Uhh-" Benedict's voice wavers, and he takes a step back without thinking about it, only to regret it with a wince a moment later. This squirrelly shit is why everyone hates him, and yet.

"I've made some," he stammers, "bad decisions. In the past."

[archademode]

Something at the edge of his mouth pulls for a beat— a twitch of a response to the way Benedict so transparently wars with himself when pressed.

Is Gabranth enjoying this?

It vanishes, of course, so near to invisible that it’s more than easily missed: his advance stopping there, posture shifting back into something more deferential. Exposure is the best way to erase unease in those suited for leadership, they say.

“As have many.”

A short breath chases deflective commentary— and then, as though wondering about a potential relation:

“...how did you acquire that mark upon your hand?”

That shard, he means. The first and only that he knows of to be visible on someone anchored so directly to this world.