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

“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."

“I see.”

He’s back to it, then. All attention refocused, care taken to clean along the edges of the bowl— an excuse to consider broader scopes that just the matters of warfare and all due strategies in regards to it.

In that light, he supposes it would be a kinder fate, and not one he’s like to be familiar with.

“So then, high elf. Tell me what it is we are currently endeavoring to produce."

Vanadi appears at Gabranth's elbow with two more bowls, each of them a mix of seeds and small bits of dried fruit and berries.

"Bread," he announces, and carefully pours both bowls into the mixture he'd handed over to his dutiful assistant. "Travel bread, specifically. A bit plain, but one can't get too fancy on the road. You're nearly done there, but I've more work for you."

“A long journey, I take it?”

To prepare as he does— to have more work yet to be done. Not that Gabranth is ever one to complain about working up a sweat.

Better than sitting idle with one’s own thoughts.

"Yes, I'm headed to Orlais for a few months," he says, critically eying the mixing bowl. It's looking quite good though, so after a moment to add oil, he finally takes it fro Gabranth's hands to pour carefully into an oven pan.

"Thank you, by the way," he adds. "I'm sure this is nowhere near as engaging as destroying targets in the training room, but I do appreciate it."

“It it lends aid to an ally, then it is of far greater import.”

He dusts his gloves, then, letting flour and grit fade from view after a few diligent beats, that helmet trained on the sight of so slight a creature hard at work with practiced effort.

“Months," he says, repeating the word out of surprise alone. It isn't beyond the pale to consider that some tasks might require more time to see done, but still, he's here to ask questions, isn't he?

"What undertaking is this that calls you away for so long?”

How noble of him. Vanadi's quirked smile is buried in the oven as he sets the bread to bake, and it's gone again as he turns back.

"That is, technically, a secret." A little dramatic, but true. "Is it only curiosity that drives your question? I can't imagine you would find the answer very useful."

"Of course. I can claim no other use for information so trivial." Fresh as his arrival remains, even if he were a feckless man given to matters of subterfuge and coin (a thought that repulses him to the bone, make no mistake), he would have few options open to him in that regard.

"Though if it would pain you to confess..."

With a gently arched brow, he asks, "Would you divert your curiosity, despite our agreement? If it did pain me to confess."

“You change the subject.”

A mild accusation, he knows a deflection well enough by now, though it hardly offends; everyone has something they safeguard, after all.

“But if this is so, then indeed. I would yield.”

There's an amusement in his eyes, an almost smile that matches it, and he huffs. "Only curiosity," he says. "I am following my good friend to the city of Val Royeaux. She has an assignment there, and I'm loathe to part with her for its duration."

Ah—

He turns, then, armored hip resting lightly against the counter at his side, one palm settled faint across its edge. There is a sweetness to the air between them: a matter of embers swelling with heat, fanning the scent of bread beginning to bake. A scent he's not directly experienced in quite some time.

“Then she is the one you cling to this world for.”

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