into the distance, a rough road

[tadpoled]

WHO: Tav and you!
WHAT: Tav arrives in/near the Gallows
WHEN: Current
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Nothing at the time, but will update if needed

Another day gone and another restless night follows for Tav. He tosses and turns, but he finally falls asleep on the wooden table serving as his bed since he arrived in Baldur's Gate. When his eyes shut, though, he does not find peace. Instead, Tav finds himself walking through the grass just outside the Basilisk Gate. The gate's teeth dig into the earth, barring him entry for some reason. What has he done this time to earn the gods' wrath? Who has he angered where to suffer yet another setback?

"Cursed to touch everything," Tav mutters to himself as he wraps his hands around the lowest bars of the portcullis and attempts to lift the entire contraption.

However, just as he applies upward force, Tav sinks through the ground, disappears into the momentary dark and emerges through a blinding green and black. He crashes into a cart full of hay, right hand burning as if he's had a splinter of something shoved into it. All around him are voices, commotion, and he raises his aching head inch-by-inch to observe the sunset broken over parapets of stone. The light paints the gallows in a hallowed plum and graphite, but the true star of the scene is the burning slice of green and black hanging in the sky.

Wait, did he do that?

Tav glances down to his hand and it blossoms bright and painful, pulsing with each burst of the green sky flame. People clamor around it, shouting, and creatures seem to pour from it without restraint. Glancing back to his hand, Tav sighs. If it's not a tadpole, there's always something else to worry about. At least this looks fixable, for now. Tav hefts himself out of the cart, a bit unsure on his legs, but he surges toward crew.

Time to fight. Again.

Comments

[atonally]

Quite.

Satisfied enough with the dead-or-dying state of the demons, Redvers lifts his shield to provide some cover to his face. Hand extended. Now—the focus and will required to use the anchor is similar enough to what he does as a Templar. Little thought required.

But the moment stretches on, especially this close to the thing. The scent of ozone. The hairs standing up on the back of his neck. With his head angled away from the light, he can see a sliver of the collapsed new rifter, and during these interminable seconds Redvers narrows his eyes at the unfamiliar script tattooed on his forehead.

With a burst of otherwordly sound and a feeling like a sudden inhalation, the Fade gasps back into itself and the rift closes.