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

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.”

Vanadi allows his face to soften, an edge removed from the always-poised, ever-defensive construction he's made of himself, and he nods. "Yes," he says, a little more quietly, "Among others, but — yes."

It is a small shift, that, valuable in its scarcity. And though Gabranth lacks familiarity enough to fully grasp the depth of that rare glimpse of something personal, he isn’t so blind as to not recognize its presence.

Or so unseemly in nature as to disrespect it.

There’s a soft sound let out from within his helmet. He looks away, to grant privacy to Vanadi’s sentiment.

“I believe it is your turn, then. To ask something of me, if you care to.”

His wry amusement is back, and though he's already pulling out a sauce pan for the next bit of his preparations, he has to pause for a glance over.

"Oh? I don't recall those terms in the original agreement. Have we had a change of heart?" Not that he won't make use of a free question, of course.

"If you've no desire for it, then I will rescind my offer."

That, right there, is petulance. Directly prompted by Vanadi's own notice. There's no mistaking it, his plated arms folding tightly as his stance shifts.

His smile flicks briefly into a grin, but he pushes it away quickly enough.

"No, no, once again -- only curious." Pan on stove, heat once again on, oil begins to heat in the bottom of it. Idly, he asks, "In your world, is it common for someone to go about in full armor like this?"

“Only those who are bid to serve his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Gramis Gana Solidor.”

There is pride in it, tangled deep in voice and posture: anyone here could claim to be anything, to a certain extent, provided it was the Fade that brought them into this world— but truths like this are easily spotted, if one knows where to look.

“We Judge Magisters, appointed to be both blade and shield in his name, surrender the pretense of humanity in order to better act in his stead."

But it has been a long time, now. An eternity between here and Ivalice.

Vanadi keeps his attention on the stove as Gabranth speaks, although his ears are cocked back and listening. This all sounds very much in keeping with what he's learned about the man so far, and Vanadi decides he very much believes he was some honored imperial guard.

After a long moment, he says, "In my original world, there was an underground kingdom known as Gracedown. It was destroyed some three hundred years ago, long before I came along. All there is to it now are the enormous ornate gates on the surface. They're truly beautiful, some thirty feet high, carved of black stone. Some of the gilding is even still there, after so long. I have always thought they feel very sad, left behind without anything to guard."

That is...too close, he decides. Much too close.

For a man that’s been a relic, and does so continue on here, out of place and unwarranted, and utterly alien in his cause— he finds too late his own jaw gritted tight beneath his helm, brow pinched almost painfully in discomfort.

There’s only the sound of his own exhale, and then:

“I have heard enough of you.”

A sign their little game is done, he turns instead towards returning supplies already used into their places, tending to work without further commentary.

A game is done only when both parties agree it's done, according to Vanadi, who glances back with a cocked brow and hands freshly dipped in flour.

"Did I call you a rusty old set of gates, did you hear me say that?" he asks, and snorts. "I should hope a man has a much easier time picking out a new purpose. The legs and opposable thumbs are a great help to that, I imagine."

Edited 2021-05-01 01:17 (UTC)

"I've no desire to seek out new purpose.”

This time, as before, there’s something bristling to be found in him, like the fur on a dog’s neck when it stands on guard.

“And you will mind your tongue, lest you lose it.”

"Every rifter must," he says, tone gone a little more quiet. "Unless you plan to do nothing with yourself and await your eventual return, but that strikes me as time spent about as well as gates guard a ruined kingdom."

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Vanadiiiiiiii

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