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

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).

[OPEN | ARRIVAL] When the fire starts to burn

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

lmfao it's true tho

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