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.]

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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.

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.

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."

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

“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.”

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."

“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.

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?"

“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?"

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?"

"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."

Hume, that's interesting. He commits the word to memory, for the same reason that he's not quite an elf as this world knows them. Small, important differences.

"I heard no questions and took the initiative," he says idly from a pantry, and reemerges with a bag of grain and a sack of flour. They're both set next to the readied bowls. "If you're a hume, then I must ask — have you found any changes to your body upon your arrival? Besides the rock, of course."

He thinks to move to assist, watching someone so slight of frame carry heavier burdens against the crook of his arm— but before he can move, Vanadi sets them down just fine on his own, and Gabranth's posture eases slightly where he stands at the ready.

"No." It is a simple confession to make, though curiosity flickers somewhere in him at the thought of being asked such a thing: only one other person has so far, and she was infinitely more inquisitive. "After my death, time no longer paid me any regard. The Fade, it seems— as well as this world— has done nothing to alter that agreement."

He is as he ever was: a dead man walking, so to speak.

"Why do you ask?"

He'd been measuring scoops, but the mention of death earns a brief pause, a glance over. Gods, but that raises a few more questions, doesn't it? But he did promise answers first, and so, returning to his measurements:

"Because I was changed somewhat. I was a high elf once, and now I'm — well, there seems to be just the one sort of elf around here, regardless of whether they're Dalish or city."

When eggs have been cracked into the bowl alongside a few other ingredients, Vanadi tops it off with a wooden spoon and holds the entire lot out for Gabranth.

"Here you are: stir, please, if you would."

“A high elf,” he repeats, his hand outstretched to begin work, though his thoughts linger elsewhere. There is nothing at all familiar about either the term or the people: Ivalice hadn’t true elves to speak of, and their existence as such means he’s wholly at a loss now.

This world seems to regard them as lesser at times, and he’s adopted a similar understanding out of lack of exposure and learned Archadian prejudices, but—

Well, he's never been a true son of Archadia, has he?

“What does that mean, exactly, by your own world's perspective?”

Ah, the man looks perfectly ridiculous stirring a bowl in full plate armor, just as Vanadi had expected he would. He watches for a moment too long with an appreciative smile, but turns back to his own part of the work.

"Well, I suppose someone might hear high elf and think ... breathtaking art and architecture, the elven aristocracy, the shining city of Aluthsa on the mountain slopes ..." He trails off, groping for more material. "Oh -- longevity. I expected I'd live another seven-hundred or so years at home, and here I think rather less. Elves of this world have shorter ears and somewhat different faces, too. It's been strange to look in the mirror."

"So you are nobility amongst your own kin."

Amongst any, he amends inside his own head, as if correcting his own affected habits. Still, if he notices— or cares about— his own absurdity in this moment, it doesn't show: he continues stirring tirelessly, taking great care not to overagitate the mixture by his own best estimates.

"A shame, that. Do you believe you will not also be as long-lived, now that you are here?"

Vanadi makes some small sound, almost a disparaging tsk -- which could be due to the sizeable stew pot he's just hefted up onto the stovetop.

"I do believe that," he says idly, "But it's conjecture based on, alongside the rest, my hair. It grows considerably more quickly here, likely at about the rate a human's might. That's new, too."

For a moment, that stirring pauses. He thinks back briefly on his initial conversation with Wysteria Poppell, and how she’d been keen to ask after the rate of his hair’s own growth, as a measure of whether or not time has sought to resume for him once more.

He does not mention there has been no change in his own appearance, it would be cruel, to a man that has lost time, and may further still.

“...my condolences, then. I cannot imagine such a thing to be a mercy, when you’ve already been misplaced amongst worlds.”

And would you believe it, Vanadi, he actually sounds sincere.

He hears the ring of that sincerity, and it's well noted. Perhaps they've come a little further than near-misses in the training yard, or perhaps there's just a core of empathy inside that hard shell. Either way, Vanadi offers a shrug in response.

"Oh, I was hardly using the time. And I would hate to outlive those here I care for. If that's the price of this world, I pay it gladly."

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