[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

uh, gallows, obviously.

[poleaxed]

Bonk.

Jone has never been confused with patient women. She sees something odd, she makes a fuss about it. A man is sitting in the mess in full plate. It's nice, well made, and some part of Jone wants to ask after the craftsman and see if she can afford it.

The rest of her knows that's bollocks and he's making a fool of himself.

She picks up another pebble, ready to bounce it off his helm.

[archademode]

The benefit of armor is— quite unsurprisingly— its ability withstand assault from all possible sources. For that reason, all Gabranth knows of Jone's introduction (of sorts) is the brief, tinny little hum it leaves behind in his ears for a few fleeting seconds.

Thus, that pitch-colored helmet shifts by degrees, turning instinctively to favor the side that had been struck, his own eyes skimming the other figures gathered before at last settling on the only one left clutching something in her fist. It prompts no rush from him when he rises (she is welcome to strike him fully in the face if she so wishes), advancing on her in smooth, even strides.

His shoulders square when he reaches her, he relies on that much to leave an impression beyond the rest of his own grim facade.

"Enough."

Not a warning growl, not a livid snarl, only the hardened voice of a man that is quite used to being heeded when he speaks.

If she wished to gain his attention, she certainly has it now.

[poleaxed]

He gets closer and closer, and the look of manic glee on Jone's face gets more pronounced. Is she really enjoying this, or is this her fear response? (It's both.)

"What happened to your face, mate? Boiling oil? Gouged out an eye?"

[archademode]

“Duty.”

Is the only response he offers in return, perhaps concise because he intends to reveal nothing of his obvious disfigurement beneath the mask, if her curiosity is to be believed.

—in truth, he is the only acting Judge Magister from his world to stand here, as far as he knows. Those memories, aged and distant now, are as much a part of him as his own breath and blood, and he would sooner damn himself to another eternity of turmoil than sully the honor Archadia left him. Better to play the part, to look as unyielding as his armor, and ensure a sense of dread still lingers about him.

That a part of Archadia still lingers about him.

“Do you strike everyone you meet?”

he’s a cop, don’t answer that, Jone

[poleaxed]

"Oh, the worst sort, that is. I had some duty once, nearly topped me off."

She plays with the unthrown pebble, tossing it up in the air and catching it with a sure hand.

"Oh, yeah. Ask anybody."

[archademode]

“Then permit me to be the first to stop you.” He says, one thick-gloved hand snapping out in a bid at interrupting her game— that pebble well enough within reach, yet it’s her hand he aims for instead: a larger target makes for a far more viable one, and his interest lies in deterring its owner rather than simply batting away her chosen toy.

In a sense, some part of him knows it’s hardly his place to enforce order here, but how can he possibly ignore such blatant admission?

[poleaxed]

He grabs her hand. Her eyes go wide. This is not the fear response. This is all excitement.

"Wanted a fight, luv, why didn't you say?"

Her free hand forms a fist, and she throws her punch straight for that ridiculous helm of his. It may seem cocky, even silly, and that's fine. Hurting him isn't really her intention. She expects punching his metal fucking face will hurt her.

And when you're a reaver, pain is just another word for strength.

[archademode]

It has been ages.

Not since his last battle, nor his last brawling match for that matter: those were always abundant in the gods' own paper-fragile, relentless worlds. No, it is the unexpected that finds his pulse quickening so suddenly when the dense metal of his own helm catches hard against his cheek beneath the press of her fist (the unexpected that has him exhaling a scoff so near to a coarse chuckle that there’s no disguising the approval lingering within it, even without an expression to offer).

In this, if nothing else, he can feel at home.

His weight drops easily on his own; she is taller than him, and there is hardly shame to be had in using such an advantage as leverage, rolling his lingering grip on her hand into his shoulder so that if she isn’t careful, all balance would easily be lost in an instant.

He could, for cruelty’s sake, tuck in an armored elbow between her ribs— but like her, his aim is far from injury.

[poleaxed]

She thinks she senses that, the pure joy of a fight, and answers in kind. Her grin is a bit more crooked, and for that, far more real. No longer an angry sneer, meant to frighten and confuse, it's just her in her element.

He has the advantage, yes, but that just makes it fun.

When she slams her forehead into his helm, it's with far more strength than her previous hit. She begins to move her captured wrist, attempting to make his grip more tenuous, if not break it outright.

[archademode]

“Fool—“ the word is snapped out hastily as she frees herself, divided focus costing him his singular tether between them. His own posture shifts too far forward to continue carrying momentum, heels settling low against stone flooring.

“You’ll split your own skull, carrying on like that.“

His armor is adamantine— it is unyielding— and it has only been shattered once in a thousand lifetimes.

When his hand rises next, it isn’t to snare her again, but to preventatively press his palm against the flattened curve of her forehead: a barrier of concern between them, though only barely should she continue pressing her advantage. He isn’t so soft or so foolish to surrender completely to sympathy.

[poleaxed]

There's certainly a patch of blood on her forehead, dribbling red down between her eyes. Yet, she's still grinning. She can feel the strength surging through her, dragon's strength built on pain and loss. She pushes herself forward, intending to grab his wrist and twist it-

And then he puts his hand up, showing concern for her.

A good fighter, that's rare. A good man, those all died out ages ago. Is this a trick?

So she explains herself. "Reaver, I am," she says, "get stronger with pain."

[archademode]

"Then save your strength."

His palm doesn't linger; once he's certain she has no intention of reeling back once more for another blow, he withdraws— twisting away from her skin so as not to spill anything more across the front of her brow.

Though his own blood is still warm in his veins, though he'd like nothing more than to continue on for the sake of dislodging the restlessness that's found home within his chest, there is no point in carelessly carrying on: he'd risk making enemies of the only allies he has in this world, or at the very least damaging his own reputation.

He exhales stiffly, shifting his neck so that the cloak tangled high across his shoulders settles back neatly into place.

"And no more rocks."

[poleaxed]

The blood has dripped down to the rest of her face, enough so that when she leans forward to press a kiss to his helm, it leaves a signature.

"The training yards," she says, pulling away, "there every day, me. Come and spar some time, I'll be there in proper kit."

She has her own armor, even if it isn't as impressive as his.

[archademode]

[Excuse him he's going to sit down in the dining hall for a while because what just happened.]

[archademode]

It takes him a long moment before he turns to divorce himself from her company, posture rigid where he stands as still as a statue. There's mercy in the fact that armor bares no weakness, no emotion or confusion, even in the full face of something so inexplicable as their exchange.

He does not understand her. He does not understand this world or its etiquettes, and maybe that alone is the source of his confusion in the wake of their encounter, but Gabranth leaves her without another word of either agreement or dismissal, taking up space at the farthest table, gloved hand perched beneath his jaw.

He stays there an hour longer than usual, that day.

I. This should go well

[muckspout]

Edgard, perpetually unbathed, is not one to notice details. A faint green glow coming from underneath a glove is a minor detail when the likes of demons and wyrms are afoot. Edgard's eyes widen at the sheer spectacle. He raises his bow and tries to steady his hand.

The fear in him rises and, not thinking, he sends an arrow directly towards this armored man's head, which bounces uselessly off the metal. He curses in Orlesian and then aims downward toward a wyrm immediately next to him. It's more effective, but the wyrm on the ground lurches forward and bites Edgard around the ankle. Edgard howls in response, kicking it.

"Tell your friend to back off!" He yells at the man. "What do you want?"

II post-Jone

[thereneverwas]

There's a man tidying the training ground when Gabranth arrives, who could best be described as 'hulking': enormous and broad, with a bit of midsection spilling over the belt of his gambeson, this is a Fighting Man for certain. Or at least was.
He's whistling some drinking tune as he moves about the pitch with a rake, leveling it out and removing clumps from the dirt for tomorrow's practice. He stops, however, when a Big Fucker In Full Plate arrives, and pauses to lean on the rake handle with one long tuneless whistle of appraisal.

"Ey, buckets," he calls cheerfully, "Jone's not here, but I can tell her you called."

only the best disasters here tyvm

[archademode]

The arrow does little more than scrape along the filigree of his helm, but an eternity spent in battle has honed Gabranth’s senses enough to distinguish one blow in a whirlwind from another: whatever struck him likely came from a higher point than the creatures threaded around his own position, and he glances up in time to see Edgard clutching tightly at his bow—

In time to see him howl beneath the harsh crunch of hungry jaws.

He recognizes neither the person nor the make of his bow, but there's certainty to be had in the fact that the man has no idea what he's stumbled into. A suspicion confirmed when he addresses Gabranth himself, as if the wyrms are somehow his own hounds let loose.

There is no closing the distance between them: one step forward would leave Gabranth sinking his foot into the waiting maw of the nearest nightmare, or turning his back fully to the unfamiliar demons nearby— neither appeals. Instead he drops his weight low, wedging both of his own swords to the hilt in the skull of the wyrm at his side, palm lifting with focus, the air around him going dry from gathered heat sparked into flame— flame that soon coalesces into the form of flanking blades, snapped out to cut through thin air with a harsh flick of Gabranth's wrist.

They do not, however, sink into Edgard.

The wyrm impaled instead at Edgard's feet offers only a gurling snarl as it dissipates as swiftly as an unwanted dream— alongside the blades Gabranth had summoned for the deed.

“Tch—“

One frigid spell clips his side just as he finishes his own casting, seeping sharply between the laces of his armor just across his ribs, the demon responsible for it more opportunistic than he'd originally expected. He'd left himself unguarded for far too long. A crucial mistake, perhaps: if Edgard opts not to assist him, or was not driven by fear at all and instead made a deliberate choice to attack Gabranth as part of this distortion, then Gabranth is certain he'll not survive this.

Not that he holds any fear of death, but it would be a shame, nonetheless.

[archademode]

“Judge Magister.” The correction comes coupled with a faintly admonishing click of his teeth when he says it, but the helm does steep work in suppressing any and all subtle sound, particularly at the distance he maintains while picking out a nearby patch of ground for his own use.

“And I did not come for her.”

There is a sidelong glance cast in Barrow’s direction for the briefest of moments as he checks the clasps of his own armor, studying the man’s appearance— attempting to get a grasp of his station and standing. Perhaps a battle hand that had long since outlived his place on the field, perhaps simply a man that did his fighting on his own terms and nothing more.

Difficult to say for certain.

“So you will say nothing when you next see her.”

[thereneverwas]

"Magister," Barrow intones, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline, "don't wanna sling that one around too easy, mate. What sort of Magister stomps around looking like a bloody Revenant, anyway?"

He's cheerful enough, removing a cigarette and a match from his belt pouch so he can light it, clamping it in his mouth as he straightens up off the rake and continues his work.

"Gimme a second to sort this place out before you scuff it up again, eh?"

[archademode]

The suggestion is noted only by the barest tilt of that helm, horns shifting sideways by degrees and nothing more. Understanding it fully will come with time, he supposes— or at the very least, experience.

But the fingers at his wrist go still for a moment as they abandon their work, preceding his own retreat to a nearby corner without any further obstinacy on his part (he can— when he is not actively being prodded— offer up the smallest semblance of patience). Despite opportunity, he neither sits nor leans while waiting.

“These grounds are yours, then, I take it?”

[thereneverwas]

"Well, only so much as anything here is mine," Barrow pleasantly replies out the side of his mouth, the cigarette clamped in the other side and bobbing as he speaks, "I take some responsibility for it, I suppose. Don't want the pups tripping over the ground as well as their own feet."

When the raking brings Barrow a little closer to the newcomer, he can't help but give him a closer once-over, his expression still friendly, amused even.

"Direct attacks on the fortress are very rare," he says quietly, with a reassuring tone, "you're more likely to fall down with the grippe than to take a sword, mate."

[justashotaway]

Laura haunts the training yards herself, though perhaps not with the same single-minded attention to them. (There are other things to do, important things: completing work for Commander Flint, prowling alleys for dangerous people, climbing buildings she shouldn't, walking through marketplaces, sitting with her shoulder bumping against a handsome boy's, petting a cat.) She's there often, though, and often enough that she recognizes a new person quickly.

The morning after his first day spent whacking training dummies, once she's observed from shadows (and from the corner of her eye while practicing as well, sans claws), she approaches him. A little thing dressed all in black, she tips her head up to regard his metal helmet as he hits a featureless wooden shape. "I will fight you."

[archademode]

“Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary.”

There’s no dislodging Gabranth’s perpetually stiffened cadence, but in that single, narrow little moment his own voice does seem quieter in response to how Barrow draws nearer— more sober than performative, even with his helmet’s hollow reverberation adding to it.

“There is no fear in my decision to maintain my service, even in this world. A Judge can enforce nothing if his presence lacks gravity.”

What else is there, after all, for a man so sullied by misdeeds? They might as well be shackled to him as neatly as his armor, for how he cannot seem to move beyond their grip.

“If you train fledgling recruits, surely you must know something of this. The necessity that lies in appearances alone.”

[archademode]

Small as she is— determined as she is— it paints a strange picture were someone to spy the two of them standing there between wood and pitch (his own blades still in hand, perched mid-swing, helmet turned fully to face her where she stands ever so casually just a few steps away), as if frozen in time for the longest of seconds spent in utter silence, until:

“I accept.”

True, that he could refuse her declaration if he so wished. Truer still that despite everything else, the sight of her petitioning him with such certainty reminded him of Larsa. Small creatures with deceptively stern hearts.

Or perhaps he is a fool, and so is she.

His hold on his twin swords flick quickly where he grips them, reversing their positioning against his palm so that their hilts face forward, rather than towards his back. Better to get a feel for her abilities if she is too young or too inexperienced to endure blows with broad reach.

“Come, then. Take up your sword.”