[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]

“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.

[highborn]

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?"

[archademode]

“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.”

[highborn]

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?"

[archademode]

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?”

[highborn]

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?"

[archademode]

"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?"

[highborn]

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."

[archademode]

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?"

[highborn]

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."

[archademode]

“High praise for a world that lingers near the brink of disaster.”

Or perhaps low praise for the world Vanadi left behind. Whatever the case, Gabranth finds himself keenly interested in the concept.

He is here, after all, just as Vanadi— just as any of the other rifters— and there will be no divorcing him from this path. But to say that there might be a level of benefit to it in return...

Well, that would hardly be terrible. To find a place worth ending in.

[highborn]

"The praise isn't for the world. I mentioned the company, no?" he says idly, loftily, like it's of no consequence -- like he wouldn't do just about anything to remain in this world with its people. He plucks invisible dust from his shirt, just in case it wasn't clear how extremely casual and unconcerned he is.

[archademode]

"Company alone cannot drive a man to swear himself to a cause that may tax him his survival in return."

There is risk to be found in all of it, for even the most mundane assignment undoubtedly sets the lot of them at odds with Riftwatch’s enemies, and their hungry grip on the map of this world.

“Surely there must be more to it than that.”

Or....perhaps the companionship of which he speaks is far more valuable than simple allyship alone. Romance, deeper bonds, such things aren't beyond the pale, he supposes.

[highborn]

"There is more to it," he says, and glances over to study the man sidelong; his attention lingers on that helm in particular. "But I find myself unwilling to lay bare my thoughts for a man whose face I haven't even seen." A shrug, a lazy smile. "Just some strange peculiarity of mine, I suppose."

[archademode]

"Strange indeed."

Without any particular inflection, he shifts his stance to rest a little more easily across his heels; despite the fact that his back remains straight, his neck held high for the benefit of height, there’s something less guarded about it overall.

He doubts now his conversational partner will run, or act in perilously poor taste.

"Perhaps I shield my face for your own benefit."

[highborn]

"Oh?" Vanadi's polite smile quirks in one corner. He seems a little more at ease as well -- intimidating a man as this may be, he's not actually made any violent moves. Not after the initial mishap, anyway. "Are you a medusa, would your petrifying gaze absolutely ruin my day?"

[archademode]

"Or that my own disfigurement might be too much to bear."

That is, after all, the usual assumption: a sea of burns, the aftermath of cruel magic without cure, the remnants of countless bloody battles. It suits his own purpose, if nothing else. Letting others find apprehension in their own imagination.

They most often fill in the blanks with a personal sort of dread.

[highborn]

"That could be," he decides, though without any of the sympathy that might accompany actual belief. He hasn't made any actual judgments yet, nothing is off the table -- though that one does seem unlikely. He leans in, an elbow rested on his thigh.

"Is there bone showing?" he asks, as if chasing some titillating tidbit of gossip.

[archademode]

"Am I to answer your inquiry without incentive?"

His arms fold, armor catching across itself as gloved fingertips lock themselves into place, seeming to signify an end to his willingness to surrender any more details without advancing their current agreement.

how bad do you wanna know about bones, Vanadi

[highborn]

"I'm afraid that's about how I feel about your questions," Vanadi says, and offers a shrug. "A few folded shirts aside. The two of us seeing no reason to speak, expecting the other to give -- well, that's not going to be much of a conversation, is it? If only there were some workaround."

[archademode]

“What do you propose, then?”

For surely the man must have something in mind; Gabranth is certain he can practically see the gears perpetually turning behind those narrowed gold eyes.

[highborn]

The gears are indeed turning, and a smile creeps into place underneath the fingers fanned idly against his lips.

Innocently, he asks, "Do you cook?"

[archademode]

“I...”

He would ask if he looks like a chef, but truth be told, he supposes he hardly looks the part of a Prince’s keeper by any standards other than Archadia’s own.

“It is hardly one of my highest qualities.”

That’s a no, Vanadi. But if you ask him to...well....

[highborn]

Vanadi's small smile grows, and he begins to carefully gather the neatly folded clothing. No sense letting that work go to waste with hasty hands.

"There are some tasks in cooking that take more time than skill. Assist me there — food for the road, you know — and I'll put no limit on questions."

As much as he hates to say it. Well, if this guy manages to ask anything too personal, obfuscation and distraction ought to do well enough for answers.

[archademode]

He's met with a single, determined nod. Something to act as a signed pact between them, for all Gabranth is ever committed to keeping his word once given.

"Show me, then."

He's no true map of this place just yet, nor any idea of what might take more time than anything else, rudimentary as his own cooking remains, but he's nothing if not fully invested: stepping around the table proper to place himself at Vanadi's side.

Lead the way.