[CLOSED] You're a wolf

[archademode]

WHO: Gabranth and Emet-Selch
WHAT: it's time
WHEN: now
WHERE: Lowtown
NOTES: NA, will update as needed

He helps because it is needed. He helps because it is his sworn duty, because it stems the rising tide that weighs so consistently upon Kirkwall now: between the refugees and the need for resources, between roads no longer quite as safe as they'd once been, and turbulent seas, and news from Starkhaven, and turmoil within, and—

He ferries supplies to the smithy. The donated or salvaged supplies that cannot be saved, suitable only for a fair exchange in raw worth: crate held tight within armored arms, tucked beneath a decidedly unarmored chin, blond hair whipping in a strong dockside breeze, a mirror to the fluttering of his own dark cloak— trailing after him like a twisting shadow.

He passes stalls. Stands. Shivering silhouettes. Hungry stares.

It is the way of things. Only so much can be done.

Comments

[archademode]

“Is this a dismissal?” Gabranth asks, stony expression betraying nothing.

[arkitect]

"Would you rather make it one than offer an answer?"

His own expression is a relatively neutral sort of annoyance by now. Resting bitch face territory, essentially.

[archademode]

“I answer to no one save for Riftwatch’s own leadership. You, however, are not amongst their number.”

Therefore, no answer is owed. A point he stresses by bringing it up. A point of pride, in fact— stubborn and uncalled for.

And then, now having proven this is by his own mercy, deigns to offer up a response.

“It is not my business, what you do, or how you choose to do it. Yet others would waste nothing on these people— to prevent them ‘making trouble’ or otherwise. Perhaps you do not realize this. Perhaps you do, and it is shame that has you hesitant to acknowledge the mercy you’ve done.”

Gabranth’s attention shifts away, heavy shoulders dropping in a fainter semblance of a shrug.

“Regardless, a Judge Magister is not blind. Nor does he twist the truth to suit, or exploit it for petty gain: I observe, I speak because I wish it— and I’ll say nothing of what I have witnessed to anyone. Be at ease if it is your concern.”

[arkitect]

"Judge, is it. I suppose that explains the need to make much of so little."

Nevermind the need to interrupt someone over something and then insist he owes no answer for it. Not entirely something Emet-Selch wouldn't do himself, sure, but the way of doing it certainly doesn't help.

"But yes, I am aware enough of their situation-- I am hardly blind, either," he says with a dismissive wave of one hand, before his arm drops back to its position. "I am less aware, however, of just who you might be."

There's familiarity, sure. He's seen this figure, heard this voice, but hasn't a name to put to it.

[archademode]

“Judge Magister Gabranth.”

The title is known. Its usage in this world unnecessary. He speaks it with vainglorious air all the same.

“Of Forces.”

The silence that follows is expectant— no grand surprise, given how much that descriptor applies to him in the general sense.

[arkitect]

Unnecessary, maybe, but-- well, of all people, he can understand hanging on to something even though it holds no weight here.

He lets that expectant silence hang for a few seconds after he nods, leaves a delay just for the sake of it that's almost enough to begin questioning whether he means to answer; when he does, he speaks casually, as if he didn't delay at all. He could reach for a title to use in turn, but ultimately decides it isn't worthwhile.

"Emet-Selch-- of Research now, I suppose."

[archademode]

And there, without a helmet in place to mask the full acuteness of the shock that rolls through him, there is no mistaking it: his eyes dilate, his lip twitches before dragging back into a sharpened scowl, shoulders locked tight and high as gloved hands settle just across the pommels of his swords.

He has heard that name before. In the endless void. In the stretching span of a cyclical eternity, where he'd met— and lost— and yet met again those who would choose to stand beside him without hope of reward. Or salvation.

His voice is a growl when he says it, hollow and dark, and warning above all else:

"Ascian."

[arkitect]

He sees it coming before Gabranth speaks, in his reaction-- no one would react to his name that way based on things he's done here. He watches the man's hands fall to his swords, already rifling through memory; has he seen him before? Surely not. This is not a face he ever knew before, not a name he knows well. If he knew of his world's Gabranth, it was not by the title he gave.

Externally, he shows no sign of this. One brow arches as Gabranth growls that word, his expression affected surprise-- overwrought enough that it's clear he's just playing it up.

"Well, I suppose my reputation precedes me," he says, a hand raised to his own chest. For the moment, he sounds thoroughly unconcerned. "You are familiar with our work, I assume?"

Just how is that the case, though.

[archademode]

Work. As though ruin is a cause to be rallied behind. And it is hypocritical, Gabranth’s disdain— but like so much else, he does not see it.

Or he chooses not to.

“I would not speak of it as such.” Nor did the allies he remembers still, though he doubts now that their paths will ever cross again. That the fade would claim them as it had claimed him.

That they survived that terrible sundering at the end of all things.

“Do the others here know what drives you? What you have so willingly done?”

[arkitect]

"I wonder if you know what it is that drives us."

However he learned of what Emet-Selch is, however he knows his name-- there are precious few who ever learned the truth. He counters with that easily enough, still without belying any tension he might hold at this conversation.

[archademode]

“Servants of the god Zodiark. Fanatics. Cultists. You pollute this place with your ideals, and thus I question your motive for aiding us now.”

Gauntleted fingers remain tight around the twin pommels of his blades; undrawn, but a visible threat all the same.

“Answer me: why are you here.”

[arkitect]

"I am merely going about my business, as you can clearly see," he says, his arms spread. A disarming, nonthreatening gesture, though of course it's ultimately a pointless one. It's for effect more than anything else; anyone who knows his former nature would not move a hand from their weapons with only this.

"But, if you mean to ask how I have come to be here, then surely you already know the answer. I had no hand in my own arrival. As for Riftwatch, well-- I've no reason not to agree to join, nor have I any designs on this world, though I am sure you will be loathe to believe that."

[archademode]

“Your business.” Gabranth grits, lip curling back into the shape of a scornful scowl, pale eyes sunken into bitter shadow. “Your business is calamity. You could easily mean to ensure it finds purchase here, when so much of Thedas lies already upon the brink.”

And Gabranth will not allow that. Noah will not allow that. Distinction made sharp within the flicker of a beat.

game spoiler territory starts here

[arkitect]

"Thedas would hardly need my help with that, as you well know."

A shrug, there, that accompanies a shake of his head.

"Honestly, though. We have never done so without a purpose, foremost-- and there is no purpose to be found in sowing chaos here. Naught to be gained from it."

[archademode]

"Not as of yet. But were Corypheus' efforts to prove lacking, where you stand now would undoubtedly make for the perfect point of sabotage."

He thinks of the gods. The countless, endless lives they fed to nothingness— waste unparalleled, unchecked, untamed. Gabranth had damned them for their lofty efforts, their supposedly necessary designs.

Emet-Selch reminds him of them now.

"Bark if you wish: there is no purpose that could justify such wanton slaughter."

[arkitect]

"We did not consider it wanton slaughter to begin with. Not that I expect one of your kind to understand."

They had never viewed it that way, at least. Not at the time. His arms fold, still watching Gabranth, but still keeping the same lazy posture.

"But allow me to make it more clear: our purpose could never be found here, even had it not been brought to an unceremonious end."

[archademode]

"I imagine your victims would disagree. As I so also disagree."

A monster knows its own kin; a wretch, the stench of sin. He is not his brother, but if there is some benefit to be drawn from that truth, it is that the man who stands before him now is no great mystery to untangle.

And to that extent, he lifts one gauntleted hand, willing away the suggestion of listening.

"Thus permit me to make myself more clear in turn: you are guilty of cruelty beyond measure, and you have done nothing to confess such profane misdeeds to those who now mark you as an ally. That, ascian, is an error that must now be remedied."

[arkitect]

Clearly, Gabranth has made up his mind on the subject, just as many who have stood against his kind have before; as expected, and nothing he cannot deal with, but still enough of an annoyance.

"I have already died for those selfsame deeds, but I doubt that would be enough for you, would it?" With a brief glance spared to Gabranth's weapons, he adds, "Nor do you seem entirely opposed to making another attempt at it yourself."

[archademode]

"If desire were permission enough, know that your punishment would be met already."

That luxury, however, has been ceded: he's no intention of sullying either his reputation or his own perceived reliability in the eyes of Riftwatch at large or its leadership. No, much as he strains in his tightened grip on those swords, he stays exactly where he stands— peregrine stare unspeakably sharp.

"Instead, I grant you time to consider the divulgences you intend to offer. The explanations you will no doubt give."

He turns, heavy cloak facing Emet-Selch's chosen perch— emblazoned scales blood red in waning daylight.

"Neither is of consequence to me."

[arkitect]

"Would it? You sound so certain."

A hint of amusement, at that. He's been killed once, yes, but not by Gabranth; he's more difficult than that to simply be rid of.

"But surely you realize your opinion upon the matter is of little consequence to me as well-- see me how you like, but I am no longer beholden to my lord. Your efforts are better spent with actual threats to this world."

[archademode]

“In this, we agree.” Gabranth snorts hotly through the edges of his teeth, pacing away from the source of his own disquiet.

What he fails to add, however, is the fact that one of those threats remains— to his mind— Emet-Selch himself.

[arkitect]

Well, he is often one to prefer the last word, and so he raises his voice just enough to still be audible.

"Then you have found common ground with one of us regardless! A relief to you, no doubt."

...But he doesn't need to speak his mind for Emet-Selch to be aware. Given the view he takes, the quickness with which he's chosen to leave-- of course he still sees everything the same way.

Which, naturally, makes Gabranth a threat in turn.

For the time being, he simply watches him leave, remaining where he is until Gabranth has left his sight; this, however, is something that's going to need to be reckoned with sooner or later. Preferable to establish a position sooner.