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

For his part, Vanadi doesn't stick around to see how near or not that miss may prove; at the first sight of unnaturally disturbed winds and building forces turned in his direction, Vanadi knows more or less what he's looking at, and leaps to make himself scarce.

He reappears again in the doorway a few seconds after the impact, eyes that damaged column, and turns a resentful frown onto said newcomer.

"What are you thinking?" he snaps, but there's no fearless stride into the room to accompany it. Nope, no thank you, he'll scold from out here. "Magic on the practice range? Stick to your blade, if that goes out of control at least you won't snag a passerby in the corridor."

"Had you not interrupted without warning-"

His voice coarse with irascibility, stance straightening as he rises to his full height, gauntlets fluidly moving to his hips in order to sheathe his blades. Vanadi might be keen on staying outside behind the safety of that archway, but Gabranth is clearly keen on closing the distance for the sake of confrontation.

There’s a saying in Archadia. Well— more superstition than either fact or word of mouth: interrupt a Judge Magister in their fervor, and you'll earn exactly what finds you.

"If your magic is so precarious that a simple spoken interruption will cause it to go off course, you'll find me sincerely doubtful you should be using it anywhere near the Gallows."

Bold words, but Vanadi is already glancing sidelong down the corridor to either side of him, gauging how easy a hasty scramble might be. This guy is ... significantly larger than Vanadi had first gauged, and very heavily armored. He takes a half a step back.

“As you so acutely inferred, this world is yet unfamiliar to me. The Mist is diluted here; my magic does not respond as readily as it once did."

In other words: he needs the practice, and he cannot leave. Another step back on Vanadi’s part, and Gabranth once again narrows the distance— forcing his (strangely) long-eared companion to either persist in his shadow, or continue to cede ground.

"And the training grounds are untouched in the waning hours before sunset. You are the first I’ve encountered, when so many others are busying themselves with their meals.”

Clearly that means you are the issue here, Vanadi.

Gods, why doesn't he have his rapier with him? Not that he expects such a thin blade would offer him much against all that armor. Vanadi gladly takes another step back, not particularly attached to the ground he's standing on.

"Oh, yes, it should be perfectly safe if you count on coincidence to keep others safely away," he says, a tone which drips with the poor idea he finds all this. He holds his right hand at his side, fingers cupped as if to reach for something not readily apparent. A ready defense, just in case. "I recommend you wait out your time of confinement, then get to work on your magic. You're not likely to disappear back through the rift any time soon, you can spare the time."

“I managed to avoid striking you despite your best efforts.”

Because that’s clearly what Vanadi was aiming for: butting in simply to take a hit directly to the face— though with a scar like that, it might not be entirely beyond the pale.

His attention shifts down a moment later towards that guarded hand, tucked warily behind a tangle of silken wares.

“...have you been dishonorably discharged?”

That gets a blink from Vanadi, and his defensiveness falters in the face of bewilderment.

"I beg your pardon?"

“Your arms.” He clarifies, the silhouette of his own darkened helm sinking downwards into a dour little nod that fixates on Vanadi’s tightly gripped silks.

“You carry the whole of your belongings with you.”

Unwrapped, uncovered— possibly even hastily gathered if Vanadi is roaming about here, rather than spending the waning hours of the day deep in relaxation.

Perhaps wandering onto the training grounds was simply Vanadi’s way of lingering before his own departure.

"That's quite the leap to make," he says dryly, but -- relaxes. Just a fraction of an inch. But still, if someone is talking about clothing, they're probably not about to run you through, so this is an improvement. He stands a little more certainly, a little less like he's about to break into flight.

"I wasn't dishonorably discharged, though I'm sure I appreciate the concern," he says shortly; he should end the sentence there, he owes this intimidating man nothing. Though ... he does sort of want to encourage the conversation, if it means nothing more drastic. Begrudgingly, he adds, "I'm packing for an extended absence."

It would be difficult to claim Gabranth lacks the ability to act on the same level as (intentionally) projected by the full breadth of his given regalia: there is more than enough proof lingering in record elsewhere to testify to a cruel heart and the bloodied temperament to match.

But it has been a long, long time since that was true, and even if he isn’t wholly capable of embracing change, he certainly isn’t the man he used to be.

So no, Vanadi. For the time being— and potentially always— he isn’t here to hurt you. Which is perhaps why the next question comes across as oddly candid:

“Intended, or forced?”

His eyes narrow; he's no fan of the inquisition going on here, but ... he supposes he can understand the angle. Who wouldn't want to know more about what may be in store for them here? He takes a breath, sets aside his irritation, and resettles the silks in his arms.

"Intended," he says, tone even and smooth. "You can expect to be sent out on various missions, but there's really very little forcing going on here. Rifters are treated well enough by Riftwatch."

Not dishonorably discharged, not in danger or forcibly dismissed—

“Yet you hold no baggage.”

Vanadi, are you poor? Because you certainly don’t otherwise appear to be.

Unless that isn't the angle here, and this really is just a good old fashioned interrogation. Irritation resurges with a flare of exasperation, and Vanadi huffs.

"I said packing for, not headed out on this very second." Time to go on the offensive. A narrow smile replaces his irritation, and, making a gamble, he steps in closer. The tone changes, as suggestion creeps in. "I'm happy to outline information for a new arrival, I was there myself not long ago. But if you're only curious about me, why, you need only have said so. I hold no secrets a few rounds of drink wouldn't buy."

"It was your interruption alone that bade me change focus. I've no intention of purchasing anything for you."

And besides, he’s already acquired a healthy bit of debt since his earlier arrival— a byproduct of being a creature driven by combat and little else, particularly when the little else is all that’s intended for him during the quarantining period.

Which is also why, after a tepid little exhale that catches along the inside of his helm, Gabranth folds his arms. Closes off his posture without surrendering ground.

"But perhaps, in exchange for assistance with your current efforts, you would spare what information you have to offer regardless."

Not even a blink, huh. (Well, a metaphorical blink, there could have been any number of literal blinks under there.) Vanadi only barely manages to suppress a roll of his eyes as his moment of charm falls away, and he scrutinizes this man who couldn't possibly look any less domestic. With extreme doubt, he asks, "Mm. Can you fold a fine shirt?"

“Give them here.”

He’s no nursemaid, but acting as a Prince’s keeper (and as the Emperor’s own, first and foremost) means he knows how to handle nearly every aspect of finery and its due care. Heavy gauntlets snatch the silk from Vanadi’s grip likely before he has a chance to protest; the nearby equipment tables serving as a suitable base as he runs the edge of his palm along seamlines to straighten them out— barring any wrinkles from forming in transit.

It must look absurd, really. Grim as he is, smoothly folding cloth into precise corners, hunched over that table which looks so small to him in comparison.

When he’s finished, what remains is a perfectly uniform— perfectly aligned— set of silken accoutrements.

“Fetch your luggage.”

He’ll not follow; you’ll need to bring it here.

Well. That's a little unexpected. Vanadi watches this at first with hiked up eyebrows, but as there are a decent number of shirts to get through, eventually makes himself comfortable in a seat at the edge of the equipment table. As laughable as it is, he's clearly doing a good job of it, which Vanadi doesn't mind in the slightest.

"Oh? Are you going to pack it for me as well?" he asks, but his leaning recline back onto one palm suggests he's not about to go fetch anything very soon. "I'm impressed. Is there any service you don't provide?"

“Mercy, for those who test the limits of forged agreements.”

Said as he draws himself fully upright once more, gesturing with an open palm towards his completed work with blatant expectation.

Don’t mistake his gentler handiwork for a muzzle without fangs, Vanadi.

“Your luggage, or the information you have to offer in regards to this world: beginning with your name.”

And all at once, the amusingly surreal sight is shattered, and they're back to the menacing man in enormous armor.

"Let's go with the information," he says smoothly, as he couldn't be less interested in sharing any more personal facts with this stranger -- including what sorts of things he packs for a long trip, beyond shirts. He lifts a gloved hand that doesn't manage to hide his own green rift glow and holds it out to shake. "I'm Vanadi de Vadarta. And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

~~it’s his only routine, there’s no helping it~~

“Judge Magister Gabranth.”

The helmet lowers ever so slightly, eyeing Vanadi’s outstretched hand with a direct, almost uncertain focus: it takes a few seconds too long before a stiffened bow— more a forward-leaning, much deeper nod than anything else— is offered in return.

“How long has it been since your initial arrival?”

That bow earns a crooked smile; it's more akin to what he'd find from elves back home. He'd really just wanted to see what the response to a handshake would be. He drops his hand.

"About three seasons now, nearly four," he says, and his eyes skate the visor of the helm. "How does that shorten, if I may be so bold? Judge? Gabranth? Gab?"

"Gabranth," he counters, tone stretched thin in direct response to that last abbreviation in particular. "If you must."

That Jone uses it as often as she's physically able hardly works as permission for the whole of Riftwatch to in turn; Gabranth suspects that even under pain, she'd be more likely to use it in excess, rather than curb her own tendencies.

"A long time to be away from your own world. What do you make of this place? How do they fare in their struggles?"

Is it a long time? He'd not thought of it that way, and only shrugs at the assertation.

"I'd initially thought Thedas was an improvement over my original world, but now I've seen a bit more of it and lowered my opinion accordingly. I still vastly prefer the company here, however." God, what is under that helm? Is it not considered bad manners to continue to address someone unarmored with the visor down? His thoughts leave him sounding a bit distracted as he goes on. "I'm not one to ask about the war, I'm afraid, as I prefer to participate only as much as entirely necessary. I'm sure you must be a welcome addition in that regard. Unless the armor is for show, of course."

Poor manners, even by Archadian standards— provided the person Gabranth speaks to warrants sufficient respect. Those who aren't human, however, fare much more poorly in the eyes of the Empire.

Even so, there's a case to be made for fine bloodlines whether they be of hume descent or otherwise, but unfortunately for Vanadi, so far as Judge Magister Gabranth can yet understand, the man's fair dress isn't a promise of nobility.

~~He doesn't even have luggage.~~

"You yourself bore witness to my work." It is not for show, in other words.

"The world you once called home, you held it in less regard? Is there nothing to be missed?"

He studies Gabranth, weighing the pros and cons of another jibe at his apparently shoddy control of whatever magic that had been. But while he's fairly certain the man isn't about to pop Vanadi's head off with a single squeeze of his neck, he'd still prefer not to test his luck. It seems better for his health.

"Very little," he says instead, with a sweeping, dismissive gesture of his hand. "I prefer to forget the world I've left, to be frank. It's irrelevant. If I have my way, I'll never leave this world."

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