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

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.”

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."

Edited 2021-04-01 05:00 (UTC)

“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.

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?"

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.”

"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."

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.

The more specific question is actually a relief, allowing Benedict to answer without having to pick through his whole sordid history with Riftwatch. He looks down at the shard as if surprised by it.

"I... got it on purpose," he admits, and though this is certainly Part of the sordidness, it's at least a digestible bite. "My. Mother wanted me to. So she could study it."

He knows how pathetic that sounds, and looks away, waiting for Gabranth's reaction.

Ah.

Perhaps mistaken in his assumption (that this is the full depth of the story— that acting on behalf of someone so positioned against the allegiances of Riftwatch is enough), Gabranth’s brow softens by degrees in return. He cannot make himself look overtly kind or warm as his brother so easily managed, but in measuring Gabranth’s typical response to anything, this lies near the threshold of his limited empathy.

“And did she study it?”

And just like that, they're into the choppy waters of his betrayal-- or alleged betrayal? he's never wanted to argue the semantics-- and rather than shady, Benedict's demeanor shifts to simply ...weary.

And he nods. "She and others."

Infuriating, is the word that comes to mind, heat catching near the nape of his neck. It is not his trouble; he hardly knows the man standing before him mired deeply in penitence. This is not his world, and none of it should sink beneath the seamlines of his armor.

But he finds he’s had enough of it, seeing successors caged by their own bloodline. Ensnared by manipulation. Ambition.

“It is your shadow. Nothing more.”

If there was a question as to whether or not Gabranth would judge him harshly for his past, it’s likely well and truly answered now. All pretense absent between them in the short difference of inches that separate— before he turns on his heel, replacing the heavy weight of his helmet once again.

“Return to your leisure. I will speak with Jone in regards to your training.”

The muscles in Bene's face relax, and for the first time since meeting Gabranth, he looks at him with something like gratitude. Not everyone understands, he doesn't expect them to.
But it's nice when they do.

"You can join me, if you like," he replies, the corner of his mouth quirking upward as he gestures back toward the hookah, "...just don't take the coal out again.

..rude."

"No, thank you."

It's as much graciousness in spoken word as can be managed by a bloodied executioner. One hand raised in dismissal, the other unlatching the door to let it lazily drape open once more.

“I have never cared for smoke.” Or drink. ~~Or anything fun, actually.~~

“I bid you a peaceful evening, Lord Artemaeus. Call upon me if you have need.”

~~And don’t smoke box the hallway. Or else.~~

[OPEN | ARRIVAL] When the fire starts to burn

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