WHO: James Holden and YOU WHAT: Catch-all for April WHEN: Fantasy April WHERE: The Gallows and Kirkwall, mostly, but around NOTES: Starters in the comments, lmk if you'd like something bespoke or feel free to drop in a wildcard.
Accrued in full thanks to his own carelessly incensed temper, he’ll not have the Daughter of Denerim paying for the repair of her own armor, no matter how she might protest.
Even so, it has been an eternity since he last set foot in a world even remotely similar to this one: he isn’t overwhelmed by it— there’s no hesitancy or concern about milling through a crowd as he is (particularly when armor alone affords him a wide berth amongst any populace), but the map in hand is poorly done, and the writing itself...
There is a tense exhale for it, something that echoes faintly in the hollows of his heavy helmet, standing at a deadened stop in the middle of an otherwise bustling marketplace. One faint green glint occasionally sparking against the dark shadow of his gauntlet where he holds limp parchment.
He is a Judge Magister of Archadia. A man so painted by the harshness of his duties and cast silhouette that few would feel comfortable enduring the brunt of his presence.
Cue a tall man carrying the Thedas version of a to-go cup of steaming coffee. He's dressed like a local — it's been half a year, more than long enough to give into that — with leather gloves to ward against the cold. And, of course, hide his own anchor shard. He'd needed to come into the city on some business, bought himself a drink for the trip back, hadn't been paying much attention to the crowd.
But it's hard to not notice the large man in armor. And, once he looks, the signs of someone who has no idea where he is are clear: the pause, the closely-consulted paper, the faint glimmer of green. So Holden approaches, offers,
I’ve no idea is the first response that comes to mind, his lip curling somewhere beneath the helm in irritation, though his newly found companion is hardly privy to the sight of it. In fact, from the outside in its entirety, that metal suit of armor seems wholly unaffected: mask only tipping up or down— left or right— in order to divide his attention between the paper in hand and the man at his side.
He holds up the drawing as a granted offer for potentially keener eyes.
“Here.” Murmured without inflection. The paper (somewhat waterlogged across key points, ink smudged with blunted prints) looks as though it says ‘lhotown, upper meerkatte', and lastly— 'abhjejj fendis’.
There's a shake of that uninviting helm in response, motion lacking in the hurried rhythm of someone so defensive that they make themselves the fool for it.
"The man I am indebted to."
The one he cannot now seem to find, owing to Gabranth's own lack of scrutiny in selecting exactly whose busywork he'd take on for simple coin. Potential illiteracy on their part— or something near to it— hadn't been a concern at the time so much as how quickly he could receive payment.
In hindsight, he would've chosen differently.
"I've the items he wished retrieved well in hand, yet cannot comprehend the written location of his business enough to find it."
"I did not ask." The voice of a man that— despite lacking the face with which to fully express it— absolutely knows he ought to have.
Still, he pauses there for a moment of deep, focused thought before directing his attention away from the failed scrap and towards Holden himself instead. Perhaps a change of tack is necessary in order to see this through.
"Of course you didn't," he sighs, despite the fact that he's sassing an entire suit of armor. The visual alone faintly reminds him of Bobbie in her power armor, though they look nothing alike, really; but both sets of armor were built for the purpose of intimidation and strength, and both wearers built, he'd guess, much the same.
"I've lived here about half a year," he says, and shrugs as he takes another look at that map, "I'm familiar."
Familiar is the word he chooses. He'd imagine, say, John Silver — or plenty of other locals, or rifters who've been here longer — know this part of Kirkwall much better. But he's not a hapless newcomer anymore either. Instead of trying to parse the words this time, he instead tries to make some sense of the map, see if he can find anything he recognizes.
A good guess, in truth: Gabranth would hardly be the man to confirm such suspitions if ever confronted by them, but evidence will always speak for itself when set in the hands of someone keen enough to recognize it.
"Half a year is enough," he decides, assertive enough to be completely certain they've the tools in hand to succeed. "Look here, these parallel lines. Might that be the lower stairwell cutting through the markets?"
The alternative of course is that he's gripping the map by the wrong end, and they stand nowhere near the correct starting point.
If this were a joke, Gabranth would easily make himself the punch line right about now: without any given thought, his attention lifts, glancing upwards towards their immediate overhead as though looking for hand-drawn lines to just be suspiciously floating overhead somewhere.
“He was a man with poor bearing.” That much of a clue he can offer, at least. “Narrow boned, and smelling of salt— or perhaps reagents of some sort.”
Or bad ale. That’s near enough to a potion, anyway.
Luckily for Gabranth, Jim left that kind of practical joking behind somewhere in his teenage years. He takes a look upwards as well, looking for any stairs, any — well, sign.
Narrow boned catches his notice enough to ask, "Human, or elf?"
He needs a moment, the barest catch of a thought spent attempting to remember the differences between races here: the ears, the horns, stature, territory— after a moment, his head shakes, as if he's somehow certain of his own assessment despite being made through the haze of hindsight
"Elven, I believe."
Likely not nearer to city center, given the state of his rough dress and anemic demeanor.
He gets it — at least, he might not know anything about the world Gabranth came from, but from his own perspective of a mostly human universe, the existence of elves and dwarves and Qun was fucking bizarre. Still is, when he lets himself stop to think about it.
"It doesn't hurt," he says, shrugging. "There are jobs and areas of the city where you're less likely to find one working." His tone is even, but not matter-of-fact; one of the many things he hates about Thedas. "And it saves us time, so we're not looking for human vendors."
From there, all that remains left to them is to search. A matter of narrowing perimeters and guesswork burns its way through daylight so rapidly that by the time the matter is resolved in port— a narrow-edged little stall wedged in the gap between two buildings, and (mind you) one that bears no resemblance whatsoever to either map or half-hearted directions— the moon itself has already begun to rise.
Still, if nothing else, the exchange is quick: a pouch of stolen— so said the petitioner himself— reagents and stones returned to the slouch-shouldered shopkeep, and traded for a single palm's worth of coins. The vast majority of which Gabranth soon turns and offers to Jim in short order, without either ceremony or much in the way of commentary.
If he starts to doubt that they'll find their mystery merchant at all, he doesn't show it. Patron saint of lost causes, it's been said. He's fairly patient though the whole process, if the odd dry joke or grumble can be called patient — but he never suggests they give up, so there's that.
He keeps out of the way as Gabranth speaks to the trader, and has opened his mouth to suggest they head back to the Gallows when he finds himself being offered a not-insignificant amount of coin.
He's quick, though, to shake his head. "I appreciate it, really, but you don't have to do that. I didn't help you because I wanted a payout."
"Regardless," if there's a stubbornness dwelling in anything that evokes the image of bullish horns, perhaps it's best that Gabranth's own helm carries them, for his stance is clearly iron-clad, and his tone— well, it reads as the sort most often carried by those most used to being heeded when they speak.
His hand remains outstretched, his own faceless attention clearly locked in place.
"Your day was spent on the whole of this endeavor. I would not bear the cost of that without recompense."
There is— at the tail end of Holden's refusal— the start of a weighted ( and perhaps possibly irritated) pause. True that his eyeless stare belies nothing, but the silence...
Well, it might prove shocking how loud that manages to be.
Still, he's not the immovable creature his past once defined him as without exception. After what must feel like an entirely too-long period of time, his offer recedes, tucked away at his side in lieu of setting the edge of his palm against the belt at his hip.
He'll never admit that the long, judgy silence of being stared down by an emotionless helmet started to make him sweat; but he is only human. He doesn't move to recant his refusal, though, crosses his arms and prepares to wait out the staring contest.
And then, thankfully, Gabranth relents.
"Jim," he says, "Jim Holden. And what can I call you?"
"Gabranth." Judge Magister by preference, but he's been warned away from that title and all its unsettling implications more than enough times by now to know that its use need end beyond the Gallows and its inner workings.
No matter how much it pains him.
Still, that weighty silence clings a lone beat longer, before Gabranth's own broad silhouette presses past Holden's own without any further formality— thick, dark cloak trailing so closely between them in passing that it might even catch Jim's side if he doesn't opt to move.
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wildcard in Kirkwall, we'll say somewhere in lowtown;
Accrued in full thanks to his own carelessly incensed temper, he’ll not have the Daughter of Denerim paying for the repair of her own armor, no matter how she might protest.
Even so, it has been an eternity since he last set foot in a world even remotely similar to this one: he isn’t overwhelmed by it— there’s no hesitancy or concern about milling through a crowd as he is (particularly when armor alone affords him a wide berth amongst any populace), but the map in hand is poorly done, and the writing itself...
There is a tense exhale for it, something that echoes faintly in the hollows of his heavy helmet, standing at a deadened stop in the middle of an otherwise bustling marketplace. One faint green glint occasionally sparking against the dark shadow of his gauntlet where he holds limp parchment.
He is a Judge Magister of Archadia. A man so painted by the harshness of his duties and cast silhouette that few would feel comfortable enduring the brunt of his presence.
And he is, without a doubt, utterly lost.
👍
But it's hard to not notice the large man in armor. And, once he looks, the signs of someone who has no idea where he is are clear: the pause, the closely-consulted paper, the faint glimmer of green. So Holden approaches, offers,
"Where are you trying to go?"
no subject
He holds up the drawing as a granted offer for potentially keener eyes.
“Here.” Murmured without inflection. The paper (somewhat waterlogged across key points, ink smudged with blunted prints) looks as though it says ‘lhotown, upper meerkatte', and lastly— 'abhjejj fendis’.
Or maybe that’s 'abrhidg pandics'.
No, that can’t be right...
no subject
Tries to read the notes.
"Is this your handwriting?"
Doubtful, but he doesn't really want to risk insulting this newcomer's writing to....you know, his face.
no subject
"The man I am indebted to."
The one he cannot now seem to find, owing to Gabranth's own lack of scrutiny in selecting exactly whose busywork he'd take on for simple coin. Potential illiteracy on their part— or something near to it— hadn't been a concern at the time so much as how quickly he could receive payment.
In hindsight, he would've chosen differently.
"I've the items he wished retrieved well in hand, yet cannot comprehend the written location of his business enough to find it."
no subject
Is asked as Holden looks back up from the paper, looking fairly flabbergasted. Please don't make him try to say 'abkhujg fandis'.
no subject
Still, he pauses there for a moment of deep, focused thought before directing his attention away from the failed scrap and towards Holden himself instead. Perhaps a change of tack is necessary in order to see this through.
"—how well do you know the area?"
no subject
"I've lived here about half a year," he says, and shrugs as he takes another look at that map, "I'm familiar."
Familiar is the word he chooses. He'd imagine, say, John Silver — or plenty of other locals, or rifters who've been here longer — know this part of Kirkwall much better. But he's not a hapless newcomer anymore either. Instead of trying to parse the words this time, he instead tries to make some sense of the map, see if he can find anything he recognizes.
no subject
"Half a year is enough," he decides, assertive enough to be completely certain they've the tools in hand to succeed. "Look here, these parallel lines. Might that be the lower stairwell cutting through the markets?"
The alternative of course is that he's gripping the map by the wrong end, and they stand nowhere near the correct starting point.no subject
Unfortunately, the map remains comprehensible. That's a problem.
"Or maybe we need to be looking up."
We, he says, already committed to this task he hadn't known about maybe 10 minutes ago.
no subject
If this were a joke, Gabranth would easily make himself the punch line right about now: without any given thought, his attention lifts, glancing upwards towards their immediate overhead as though looking for hand-drawn lines to just be suspiciously floating overhead somewhere.
“He was a man with poor bearing.” That much of a clue he can offer, at least. “Narrow boned, and smelling of salt— or perhaps reagents of some sort.”
Or bad ale. That’s near enough to a potion, anyway.
no subject
Narrow boned catches his notice enough to ask, "Human, or elf?"
muscles my way back into your inbox oh no
"Elven, I believe."
Likely not nearer to city center, given the state of his rough dress and anemic demeanor.
"Does that assist you?"
waits with open arms, oh yes
"It doesn't hurt," he says, shrugging. "There are jobs and areas of the city where you're less likely to find one working." His tone is even, but not matter-of-fact; one of the many things he hates about Thedas. "And it saves us time, so we're not looking for human vendors."
no subject
Still, if nothing else, the exchange is quick: a pouch of stolen— so said the petitioner himself— reagents and stones returned to the slouch-shouldered shopkeep, and traded for a single palm's worth of coins. The vast majority of which Gabranth soon turns and offers to Jim in short order, without either ceremony or much in the way of commentary.
"In thanks for your assistance."
no subject
He keeps out of the way as Gabranth speaks to the trader, and has opened his mouth to suggest they head back to the Gallows when he finds himself being offered a not-insignificant amount of coin.
He's quick, though, to shake his head. "I appreciate it, really, but you don't have to do that. I didn't help you because I wanted a payout."
no subject
His hand remains outstretched, his own faceless attention clearly locked in place.
"Your day was spent on the whole of this endeavor. I would not bear the cost of that without recompense."
no subject
"People helped me when I was new here too. Consider this me paying it forward."
no subject
Well, it might prove shocking how loud that manages to be.
Still, he's not the immovable creature his past once defined him as without exception. After what must feel like an entirely too-long period of time, his offer recedes, tucked away at his side in lieu of setting the edge of his palm against the belt at his hip.
"Your name, then. So that I might call upon you."
no subject
And then, thankfully, Gabranth relents.
"Jim," he says, "Jim Holden. And what can I call you?"
no subject
No matter how much it pains him.
Still, that weighty silence clings a lone beat longer, before Gabranth's own broad silhouette presses past Holden's own without any further formality— thick, dark cloak trailing so closely between them in passing that it might even catch Jim's side if he doesn't opt to move.
"Expect me soon."