[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

[highborn]

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."

[archademode]

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.”

[highborn]

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.

[archademode]

"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.

[highborn]

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?"

[archademode]

“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.

[highborn]

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."

Vanadiiiiiiii

[archademode]

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.

[highborn]

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."

[archademode]

"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.”

[highborn]

"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."

[archademode]

"I have been dead for far longer than I served in life, highborn."

For all his vexed posturing, this, at least, is said with sobriety— his hands stilling against the heavy lip of the bowl he'd been tending to. Between the ovens and the set of his helm, it is warm in this room, and it is the first time he's noticed it.

Still, he opts not to cede form.

"All I have devoted myself to since is the safeguarding of what peace is yet left in the liminal spaces between worlds, where darkness and cruelty know endless hunger. Here, I will do no less."

[highborn]

He would like to snort derisively to this little piece of lofty poetry, but already he knows exactly how well that would be taken, and today the goal isn't aggravation. So he only frowns faintly, studying what little body language the armor gives up.

"What does that actually mean?" he asks, head cocked. "What deeds does it translate to? Here, in particular, but I confess I am curious about it in your previous world as well."

[archademode]

Wow lofty poetry is Ivalice’s finest export, Vanadi.

“In the aftermath of my own death, I was not granted rest.”

Is that clear enough? Still, it’s hardly the first time he’s been asked to speak plainly, of course. Amongst others from aggregate gathered worlds, there were always more that spoke like Vaan, and less like himself or Lord Larsa.

Or Basch.

“Instead I was resurrected by the gods, and ordered to serve as executioner in an eternal war between them.” A distasteful memory, that. One that even now curls his tongue against his teeth in recounting.

“I declined.”

There is more of course, but for the sake of clarity, it is perhaps best to take it slow.

[highborn]

For being obviously just the beginning of whatever this answer is, it's already a hell of a story. Vanadi's hands have stilled their work, and he studies the armored figure with a frown. Unfortunately, maybe they have a few things in common after all.

"And instead?"

[archademode]

“Instead I was punished. As traitor I was hunted and cast out, until all that was left to me was imprisonment in a realm without rest or relief. There I was meant to remain for eternity in isolation.” He says it without self pity, despite all the gravity dwelling therein. And as for Vanadi's stare, he opts not to meet it— there's no room for pity or consideration in his heart, not even when he's intended as the recipient of it.

“I did, however, eventually discover a way to return. Yet that, too, I did not take— I thought it better to remain in turmoil, and ensure others discarded by the gods would not also share my plight.”

Better to be the lighthouse in a storm, or a shepherd amongst wolves.

“It was an eternity ago now, I spare little thought for it.”

[highborn]

Vanadi makes a low, thoughtful noise. As if he even knows what to make of any of this. Gods are a foreign concept to him, along with eternity-- then of course there's that this man could be fabricating the entire story, although admittedly Vanadi sees little reason to bother.

The first question that comes to him, then, is, "How old are you?"

[archademode]

“I’ve lost count.”

It sounds— well, it’s soft, that confession, as if he’s only just now realizing that fact himself. Basch had never asked, and he’d kept himself at a distance during their reunion.  “Thousands of lifetimes. Longer. It matters not.”

When you’ve nothing to do aside from lie in endless wait, it goes without saying that it all begins to blur together.

“But to answer your prior question, it means I am determined to see this war won, and this world safeguarded. And when that is finished, I’ll consider it leave enough to grant final rest at long last.”

[highborn]

Well, both of those answers are remarkably depressing, aren't they? Vanadi turns his gaze back onto his work as he considers them, looking somber. He doesn't particularly want to ask what final rest entails. Maybe that means Gabranth would finally take a vacation, but it seems unlikely.

His work pauses only when he glances over, debating his next question. Asking apparently wins out over keeping it to himself, and he says, "May I ask how you died?"

[archademode]

“Betrayal.”

Ever his fate, though he does— knowing full well he’s already sworn himself to Riftwatch and its just intent— feel inclined to keep that detail to himself: even the god that summoned him in the afterlife felt the sting of his own blades, and the words borne of that confrontation still stick to his skin like brands. Noah fon Ronsenburg and his destiny of defiance. “My Emperor would have seen the world itself undone in his ambition for war without relief, and his younger brother— the crown prince placed in my care— would have paid the price for it.”

“I turned my blade on him instead to grant Prince Larsa’s wish for peace, and in doing so was slain.”

It was a choice, and he met the consequences for it full bore, and the way he says it reflects as much. The cause itself was enough, he'd have had it no other way.

[highborn]

It feels too intimate to be hearing this; who is he, to be given right to a story like this? Just someone nearly attacked in the training room. He almost wants to tell Gabranth to stop. But he listens, brows furrowed.

If he's to be handed this story, he figures he may as well speak the questions it stirs in him.

"A death for peace, then?" he asks, unwilling to voice the real question: Did it work, was there peace? Did you die for anything?

[archademode]

“Prince Larsa is now Emperor Larsa, as I have been told.” Perhaps it is a lie, something kindly told to settle a lifeless heart, but—

He trusts his brother’s words. Long as it has taken them to reach a point of faith over hostility.

“No better a heart could hope to sit upon Archadia’s throne.”

It is warm, that confession. Perhaps uncharacteristically so— yet then, with a faint exhale, he sets the last of the tools back in their places, wiping the edge of his glove along the counter.

“To be made unnecessary by those worthier than yourself, I can think of no more desirable coda than this.”

[highborn]

There's a change in Vanadi's look; there's a gladness, happy as he finds himeslf to hear this man at least has had a good death. Someone so obviously loyal and principled deserves that. But there's a grim envy in it, too.

"I think you must be right," he murmurs, turning to check on the progress of the bread in the oven. It will be a while yet. And then, on a whim which is probably a bad idea, "My death was very small. Anticlimactic, and I imagine unnoticed. It achieved nothing worthwhile."

[archademode]

Gabranth is not a creature beholden to pity. Soft sentiment is meant for those whose hearts yet beat unburdened, this he would attest to the end of his now perhaps finite days.

But he watches Vanadi from the edge of his hollowed mask, the air weighted with silence for a beat, just before:

"A man might be inclined to disagree. For it brought you here, to fairer shores in dire need."

[highborn]

He glances back over his shoulder with a twist of a smile. He recognizes this as consolation, cajolery — but it's not wrong. He gestures a vague wave of acceptance, of you've got a point there, friend, and sets back to work. Cleaning, this time.

"Well, in any case, I wasted my life there. Here, I am grateful for the second chance. I can't claim to be eager to help war efforts, but — well, I'll not desert. Particularly not while those I care for remain." He sweeps a hand through his hair with the huff of a sigh. That all of this second chance is tentative, and could dry up any day when he disappears, he doesn't say. "I hope that answers the spirit of your many questions, if not the letter of them."