[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]

"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.

[highborn]

Ready as he is to get on with preparations to leave, Vanadi still takes a moment to stand just where he is. He tips his head back to keep Gabranth's face — or helm, in any case — in sight.

"I did say it would take some time," he says. "Perhaps upwards of an hour. You would be more comfortable without the armor."

[archademode]

“Comfort is no matter.”

Its absence is only a mark of pride for a man like him. But beyond that— perhaps for the same reason Vanadi seeks obfuscation for matters too close to sensitive memory—

They aren’t there just yet.

“If you worry over me, know that it is unnecessary.”

[highborn]

His brows arch upward, but he offers no argument. Only a shrug, as he says, "Well then, consider the suggestion stricken from the record." If this guy wants to wear full armor in a hot kitchen and look absolutely ridiculous, Vanadi will certainly not stop him.

He turns to lead the way, strides long and sure — although he makes for the tower of living quarters, not the kitchens.

[archademode]

He does, and he will, and he’ll savor that misery if it means getting his way in the process, regardless of how it looks.

Truth be told, out of all the other members of the Magistrate proper, Gabranth was always the most keen on stepping errantly into poor circumstances or standing if it meant coming closer to his own goals. That lowborn part of him, most like. The refugee who’d stumbled by determination and fate into the shadows of greater bodies.

Following along at Vanadi’s back affords him some measure of time at least: something with which to study more of those uniquely sharp ears, the set of his clothing— even the way the man walks, really. As if working silently to determine something from appearances alone, now that they’ve ceased baring figurative teeth.

[highborn]

Vanadi moves through the tower with a smooth kind of confidence — perhaps all the more knowing that there's someone walking just behind him — and the gait of someone used to stepping quietly. That there's no conversation suits him just fine, and they climb up the several sets of staircases to his floor in welcome quiet. He pauses only briefly at his door to unlock it, and tosses a smile over his shoulder that only briefly thinks about reaching his eyes.

"A moment, if you please," he says, and slips in through a door opened only as far as entirely necessary. It closes — and locks — behind him. A promise to answer questions isn't a promise to reveal anything personal about himself beyond questions asked, particularly not before help has been rendered.

[archademode]

There's a clipped snort as that door is shut and locked in his face, shoulders rolling back slightly as he stiffens where he stands. There is of course a brief, momentary thought that slips into his mind when he hears the cold metal snap of a latch fitting into place—

Perhaps Vanadi has no intention of returning at all.

[highborn]

If nothing else, it at least doesn't take Vanadi long. Setting folded shirts into a trunk is no arduous task, and he's not feeling spiteful enough to make Gabranth wait unduly. After a brief rustle and a quiet thud, Vanadi reappears with that same smile, closing (and locking) the door again behind him.

"Right," he says. "Then, if you're sure that's the attire for time spent around ovens, let's go."

[archademode]

“How gentle is your heart that you fret so?”

There’s a flicker of lightness to that question: possibly sincere bemusement, possibly just born of simple surprise that he’d actually returned.

“Trust I have endured worse.”

[highborn]

His smile twists a little sardonically. "We're teammates now, you and I," he says, and gives the plated forearm a rap with a knuckle as he steps past Gabranth to once again lead the way. "I'm obligated to give some kind of a shit about you, hmm? Even if only in matters of overheating."

[archademode]

“That is not always the case. Not even amongst allies.”

And yet Gabranth would do no less for Vanadi, were their places switched. His decision to act as an arguer against now it is nothing more than stubborn pride, determined to establish some sort of distance between them in the wake of how Vanadi's knuckles catch against his plated armor.

Yet still, dourly as ever, he does follow.

[highborn]

It's a good point, as not everyone here is as willing as Vanadi has decided to be to stand by their fellows in the Watch, but it's a point shrugged off regardless. He's happy enough to resume their quiet travel, and leads the way briskly back down all those stairs they'd just climbed.

The kitchens aren't so far off, and soon enough Vanadi is pushing through the doors, pausing only to hand off the swinging door rather than send it slapping toward Gabranth. Allies, and all.

"So," he says, "Do you eat? Or is it only training and folding shirts for you?"

[archademode]

“All men must eat.”

Which isn’t...really an answer, is it. His palm catches the door, gauntleted fingertips sliding smoothly along its edge as he steps in behind Vanadi, larger silhouette looming at his back like a shadow amongst rows of neatly kept utensils and stored goods.

"I deal with the matter as necessary."

Just say yes, Gabranth. Just yes.

"Do you fear I'll ruin your efforts if I've no experience?"

[highborn]

Vanadi rolls his eyes, but only from the safety of having his back to the man as he digs for an assortment of bowls and pans.

"No," he says as he straightens, "I've confidence in myself as a teacher." And then, with hardly a beat, "Are you human under there?"

[archademode]

"I've not asked to be taught." Stubborn. Ever stubborn. And yet his attention wanders there for a time, casting itself about the kitchens themselves as if to ascertain precisely how isolated they are.

If they are alone, truly, then perhaps he need not be so combative.

"Hume, yes. Though I was under the impression I would be the one who would be asking questions of you."