[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]

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."

[archademode]

“It does not.”

He could press further of course— truthfully he does yet intend to, though perhaps instead at some later point rather than the immediate span of this conversation. Weighty things, most often, are best managed in smaller doses, and more familiar company.

“You dislike war so much?”

[highborn]

"Why wouldn't I?" he asks, pausing to shoot a cocked eyebrow back at Gabranth. "I've had my fill of causing and suffering hurt, it's difficult to summon any enthusiasm for the thought."

And this is, admittedly, a good cause -- but it doesn't make him feel any happier about the getting hurt part.

wow thank you dw

[archademode]

Perhaps it is because war is all he’s ever known— no, certainly it is because of that fact, that Gabranth finds such a response to be so surprising.

To have one’s fill or not, suffering will always chase life.

“I fear I do not understand.”