[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]

"Keenly."

And he pauses there, as if suddenly noticing something more about the man at his side than he'd bothered to before: the rougher hands, the sturdiness of his build, the scarring at his throat— small, subtle indicators, true, but testaments in their own right.

"Are you of a mind to?" It's a question asked with dour restraint, masking what would otherwise undoubtedly be read as eagerness, though considering how little hesitation lingers between the gaps in their conversation that much might well be obvious already.

[heorte]

"Aye," comes slowly, as Ellis tries to discern the tone of this question. "If you're interested."

Is he interested? The helmet covering his face doesn't make it easy to decide if he's mistaking Gabranth one way or the other. He turns to deposit one sword on the far rack, and drop the other into near-empty box with a thud.

"But you needn't feel obligated. There's usually one person or another there who might partner me, or ask for instruction."

[archademode]

“Come, then.”

It’s more of a command than anything else, his decision swift— his voice unmistakably saturated with the expectation that he’ll be heeded without question, abandoning the rest of their work with little in the way of ceremony for surrender.

“I shall see to the rest of the supplies on my own once we’ve concluded our sport."

[heorte]

A flicker of stubborn protest works across Ellis' face, but is reserved for after their turn around the ring in the training yard.

If Gabranth thinks Ellis is going to leave all this to him, then he's made an error in his assumption. It's tedious work, certainly, but Ellis doesn't mind it. And it feels like shirking to leave it all to this man, newly arrived and bearing up in all that armor.

"Aye," Ellis says after a long moment of consideration. "I wouldn't mind some exercise."

Though it occurs to him he might want at least his own breastplate, Ellis doesn't detour from the course towards the training yard.

"What weapon do you favor?"

[archademode]

His own quickened strides slow just barely, an almost imperceptible shift; he has no desire to grant himself so much a lead that their conversation can't continue.

"My own swords. Granted by the grace of Emperor Gramis Gana Solidor."

Swords, Ellis. He favors swords.

"But if this does not suit you, I will adjust."

[heorte]

"It suits me."

Swords.

The prestige attached to them is noted. Ellis consider that, alongside the gleam of armor and the few inches of height this man has on him. (It's hard to tell, is it the armor or the man?)

"I'm trying to decide if I should stall you while I put on my own plate."

[archademode]

It prompts a flicker of— something. Amusement perhaps? The helm, as before, turns such perceptions into trial, but—

“To what end?” He asks, the words breathy with subtle fascination.

[heorte]

The helm does make everything about this man guesswork. Ellis only has the tone of his voice to go on, and it doesn't feel like enough to draw conclusions.

"So it feels less like a mismatch," Ellis says, then continues, "I trust you to pull your blows, but I'd like to know how much of a challenge you're looking for."

[archademode]

“I need no challenge.”

True, it would kindle fire in blood run cold, the difference between passing time and basking in bloodied sport. But he knows— as keenly as he feels the difference in earth beneath his feet compared to the star-touched void he’d kept to before the Fade— precisely where he stands now.

“Do not overburden yourself for my sake—“

He pauses there, stuck in a moment of realization.

“Your name. I would have it.”

https://youtu.be/izGwDsrQ1eQ

[heorte]

"Ellis."

It seems almost a little belated to be exchanging names, considering they're well on their way to the training yard. But there's no reason to withhold it, so.

"Care to introduce yourself, before I reassure you I wouldn't find it a burden?"

swoons tho

[archademode]

Priorities, Ellis. Sparring first, propriety second— or at the very least, that's how Gabranth would have it if instincts and intentions alone drove the whole of his actions.

“Judge Magister Gabranth. A pleasure.”

And he does, in fact, mean that. There’s an earnestness that seems to cling to Ellis' own offers to accomodate, and when unmoored in a world so vastly different to all one has ever keenly known, even the smallest of gestures counts for a great deal.

[heorte]

A beat of quiet follows that introduction.

It's slightly more formal than expected. He studies the gleam of Gabranth's helm for a useless moment before deciding on a response.

"What would you like to be called?" is potentially the better question. Ellis hadn't anticipated titles to be involved.

[archademode]

What would he like? Judge Magister, of course. It carries weight, the same as his ornately wrought armor— no less than his ceaselessly proud posture and the golden emboss across the edges of his blades.

But—

Their surroundings aren’t those of burnished glory, this world gone slightly sallow from waged war and the toll it’s likely taken on its people. All those faint track marks of weariness laid out across weathered stone, and he wonders if there may be something of that too in the man standing at his side.

He’ll not do this again, if asked. His answer rare in its make.

"Gabranth suits fine."