With no magic of his own to draw on, he has to rely on his sword and his reflexes. There's a joke to be made about how the Navy never prepared him for fiery monsters; but it did prepare him to think tactically and strike hard, and working here in Thedas — particularly with Gabranth — has helped hone his skills.
(Much as he misses weapons that weren't developed in ye olde medieval time. Adapting does't mean he likes parts of this place any better than he had on arrival.)
All this to say: he's less light on his feet than steady, packs power into it as he slashes at one demon's midsection, though has to quickly dodge a burst of flame that singes his hair.
To Holden's credit, he is performing better than Gabranth had anticipated.
There is no sound way to tell (other than simply inquiring) how often the captain had set himself against creatures like this, yet he strikes with enough confidence to offset stiffened balance. The slightest hints of hesitation only flickering here and there, quick to fade.
"You hold no natural affinity for this," he scoffs out, slamming his longsword in against the edge of his opponent's arm, nearly severing it from force— though that, too, poses risk, considering the livid heat it provokes, forcing him to back away for a beat.
"A Judge Magister does not deal in compliments—" He snarls raggedly, lunging back in towards that open, wounded side to sink his sword in deep— feeling the heat of his now severing blow even well through the thick guard of his armor, hissing through his teeth when he withdraws, letting his opponent wither into molten nothingness.
It precedes a glance towards Holden, studying the man's own work, unwilling to interfere.
Is that your excuse? is what he might say, were they not in a fight.
He dodges another burst of fire, blade flashing. It'd be a fair assumption that he's never fought, or seen, a creature like this before coming to Thedas. He certainly hasn't fought one in close quarters like this, no. But
he did, once, have enough time watching a monster dig through his ship's bulkhead to imagine all the things he'd do to it if he could. Despite Prax's moral objections.
So maybe it's a little cathartic.
Takes him longer than it did Gabranth, with less elegance, but he stabs straight through a demon before long; holds up his free arm to cover his face at the final blast of heat.
His swords are not sheathed until the demon Holden faces dies, but all thought of rushing in to guard him is cut from his mind the very second it rises: by his understanding the captain has worked hard for this— and the only way instinct can ever calcify is when it is left to take root under pressure. A familiarity with direness in close combat.
When it is finished, he finally moves in to survey what he can see of Holden himself.
A little scalded, maybe, but that goes with the territory of rage demons. He lets the tip of his sword fall to the ground, sink into the earth under his weight, for a moment as he catches his breath. Which gives him enough time to give Gabranth a look-over, check for any signs of damage in the armor, if nothing else.
If he doesn't find anything particularly worrisome, he glances upwards at the pulsing rift. The green light plays across his face, his dark hair; and then he breathes out.
"No point indeed." Gabranth agrees, seizing opportunity before Holden has the thought to take it for himself: he'd spent hours on an isolated beach in recent memory, tearing open and closing rifts on command— if there is energy to be spent for the task, he would have it be his own, rather than Holden's.
The air is tense with magic, Gabranth's arm just as much when he snaps it forward, straining against willful resistance, letting vivid viridian swell as it weaves its way across the wound between planes—
And then it is done. The sky bluer, the scent on the wind cleaner. Within the decay of scorched earth where the demons had been prowling, something glints in the light, and Gabranth finds himself striding nearer to it with an unfamiliar curiosity.
Gabranth's hand is up, green light connecting to the rift, before Jim even has the chance to consider doing the same. There's an aborted half-motion with his shard hand, but he lets Gabranth carry on with finishing the job
if with a pretty terrific frown.
But it's all done soon enough. He sets his blade back in his scabbard, breathes in the fresh air as if for the first time. At least they can be sure no one else is going to be hurt by this rift; and hopefully they've got all of them, now.
Gabranth does not immediately expect him to. Instead, he kneels down to fish up the piece of only faintly weathered metal, its edges kissed with soot from nearby earth— easily cleaned away with his rough-gloved thumb.
"It is jewelry. A broach. Nothing of consequence." Yet not without use is the determination he reaches, sparing a moment longer admiring its finely crafted surface. "I shall gift it to Jone of Denerim."
Its faceted composition bears more of a trophy-esque appearance, rather than the delicate craftwork nobility favors: she would likely appreciate it, when gifted with an accompanying tale of their diligent efforts here. A memento to replace absence.
Edited (trying to tag during dnd, a recipe for disaster) 2021-07-17 20:27 (UTC)
"You're going to give Jone a broach that fell out of a rift?"
He approaches now, curious himself, wondering what it might be that seems gift-worthy to her. For a moment, he doesn't recognize the gleam of metal in the unfamiliar context of Gabranth's hand. And then, of course, he does.
Hang on to this for a couple of days. It might feel good in the pocket.
The look Gabranth fixes him with is sidelong, horns shifting over the tall rise of dark pauldons, helmet glowering facelessly. He says nothing for a long, silent beat.
"Do you wish to court her?"
Is that why you do not want another granting her trinkets.
Oaths and armor, an existence devoid of bared weakness— there should be no surprise in that confession. Yet he keeps the medallion held fast within his own grip regardless.
"This will be a gift of appreciation, nothing more."
Uh huh. His eyebrows climb during that explanation, then slowly settle back down.
"What I was trying to say," he clarifies, "is that it's mine."
Letters shine on the badge's surface, Canterbury, and Executive Officer. How many times has he instinctively reached for his pocket, only to remember it was left on the Roci?
He crosses his arms, impatient; but can you blame him? It's all the more ridiculous since he's sure Jone would give it back to him in a heartbeat, if he'd said as much.
"Before I was captain of any vessel, I worked on a ship called the Canterbury. Captain Carl McDowell gave that to me before he died. Now, do you need me to prove it to you, or are you going to take my word for it?"
The silence stretches longer, Gabranth’s thumb still perched protectively across the medal’s embossed finish, measuring the weight of all earned trust against the improbability that they would simply stumble across a memento left lying beneath a rift that does indeed somehow belong to Captain Holden himself.
Fortune— or perhaps faith— favors him.
There is a low noise of disapproval let out somewhere within that helm as he relinquishes his would-be gift.
He might not have known it was possible, either, if Petrana hadn't mentioned to him recently something similar happening to her. But Gabranth relents, and he breathes out, reaching out to take the badge in his own hand. The weight of it is familiar against his palm, cool even under the midday sun.
For a long moment, he's quiet.
"I wasn't acting XO for longer than a day." There's something of wryness in his voice, old grief. Faint amusement, too, for the person he'd been then. "It's where I met Amos."
He's not sure how well Gabranth might know him, but it's hard to know one of them without knowing anything of the other, common enough knowledge that they'd arrived together.
There is something of a glimmer of recognition in Gabranth’s duller mind, his memory untidy as it is focused and narrow in its accommodating scope. The name is familiar. The context not. The look Holden wears, however...
Fondness, grief, longing— a tangle of emotion all too visible in reflection, as Holden runs his fingers across it, taking it into his own grip.
Has he been too forward in his assessment? His claim? The look is sharp enough that even broad, and armored, and harsh in his bearing, a visibly uncertain pause colors the faint movement of his helm as it shifts to one side.
He does not wish to insult his friend, or press upon him some terrible discomfort when discretion is necessary.
"The man you keep company with, your Amos. He is your swain, is he not?"
If it helps, it's more bewilderment etched across his face than anything else. Swain isn't more recognizable to him than leman, but rather than asking for another clarification, he says,
"He's my mechanic." A beat, then, equally baffled: "The two of us, our pilot, and my XO are the only people left from this ship."
His tone maybe takes some grimness off the statement, at least as it first sinks in.
Perhaps, Gabranth decides, it would be best to let the inquiry rest where it lies: their assumptions are running along different lines, and he is not half so meddlesome as to truly need to know what sentiments run between captain and crew. The medallion was important to him— a reflection of a past that holds value— that is enough.
"Executive Officer," he says, clearly relieved to hit on an simpler topic. The badge gets pocketed, now, as he goes on, "Second in Command. She keeps me from doing anything too stupid, and leads in my absence."
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(Much as he misses weapons that weren't developed in ye olde medieval time. Adapting does't mean he likes parts of this place any better than he had on arrival.)
All this to say: he's less light on his feet than steady, packs power into it as he slashes at one demon's midsection, though has to quickly dodge a burst of flame that singes his hair.
"Yeah," he says, "I've gotten that impression."
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There is no sound way to tell (other than simply inquiring) how often the captain had set himself against creatures like this, yet he strikes with enough confidence to offset stiffened balance. The slightest hints of hesitation only flickering here and there, quick to fade.
"You hold no natural affinity for this," he scoffs out, slamming his longsword in against the edge of his opponent's arm, nearly severing it from force— though that, too, poses risk, considering the livid heat it provokes, forcing him to back away for a beat.
"Yet you persevere. It is admirable—"
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is where he starts, ducking low enough to stab at a demonic foot.
" — to talk to you — "
The demon doesn't take too well to that, of course, which means another hasty retreat, sidestepping around its back.
" — about how to pay a compliment."
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It precedes a glance towards Holden, studying the man's own work, unwilling to interfere.
"He deals in truths."
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He dodges another burst of fire, blade flashing. It'd be a fair assumption that he's never fought, or seen, a creature like this before coming to Thedas. He certainly hasn't fought one in close quarters like this, no. But
he did, once, have enough time watching a monster dig through his ship's bulkhead to imagine all the things he'd do to it if he could. Despite Prax's moral objections.
So maybe it's a little cathartic.
Takes him longer than it did Gabranth, with less elegance, but he stabs straight through a demon before long; holds up his free arm to cover his face at the final blast of heat.
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His swords are not sheathed until the demon Holden faces dies, but all thought of rushing in to guard him is cut from his mind the very second it rises: by his understanding the captain has worked hard for this— and the only way instinct can ever calcify is when it is left to take root under pressure. A familiarity with direness in close combat.
When it is finished, he finally moves in to survey what he can see of Holden himself.
"Not a poor victory. You are unharmed?"
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A little scalded, maybe, but that goes with the territory of rage demons. He lets the tip of his sword fall to the ground, sink into the earth under his weight, for a moment as he catches his breath. Which gives him enough time to give Gabranth a look-over, check for any signs of damage in the armor, if nothing else.
If he doesn't find anything particularly worrisome, he glances upwards at the pulsing rift. The green light plays across his face, his dark hair; and then he breathes out.
"No point in waiting to close that."
80000 years later we come back to this idea
The air is tense with magic, Gabranth's arm just as much when he snaps it forward, straining against willful resistance, letting vivid viridian swell as it weaves its way across the wound between planes—
And then it is done. The sky bluer, the scent on the wind cleaner. Within the decay of scorched earth where the demons had been prowling, something glints in the light, and Gabranth finds himself striding nearer to it with an unfamiliar curiosity.
WE MADE IT LADS
if with a pretty terrific frown.
But it's all done soon enough. He sets his blade back in his scabbard, breathes in the fresh air as if for the first time. At least they can be sure no one else is going to be hurt by this rift; and hopefully they've got all of them, now.
"What is it?"
He doesn't immediately follow.
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"It is jewelry. A broach. Nothing of consequence." Yet not without use is the determination he reaches, sparing a moment longer admiring its finely crafted surface. "I shall gift it to Jone of Denerim."
Its faceted composition bears more of a trophy-esque appearance, rather than the delicate craftwork nobility favors: she would likely appreciate it, when gifted with an accompanying tale of their diligent efforts here. A memento to replace absence.
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He approaches now, curious himself, wondering what it might be that seems gift-worthy to her. For a moment, he doesn't recognize the gleam of metal in the unfamiliar context of Gabranth's hand. And then, of course, he does.
Hang on to this for a couple of days. It might feel good in the pocket.
He blinks, and then he says,
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't."
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"Do you wish to court her?"
Is that why you do not want another granting her trinkets.
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It's enough to startle a laugh out of him.
"No."
A beat.
"Wait, is that what you're doing?"
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Oaths and armor, an existence devoid of bared weakness— there should be no surprise in that confession. Yet he keeps the medallion held fast within his own grip regardless.
"This will be a gift of appreciation, nothing more."
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"What I was trying to say," he clarifies, "is that it's mine."
Letters shine on the badge's surface, Canterbury, and Executive Officer. How many times has he instinctively reached for his pocket, only to remember it was left on the Roci?
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There is stern accusation in his tone. His hand is fisted now, the medal clutched within it.
“It cannot be yours.”
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"Before I got here."
He crosses his arms, impatient; but can you blame him? It's all the more ridiculous since he's sure Jone would give it back to him in a heartbeat, if he'd said as much.
"Before I was captain of any vessel, I worked on a ship called the Canterbury. Captain Carl McDowell gave that to me before he died. Now, do you need me to prove it to you, or are you going to take my word for it?"
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Fortune— or perhaps faith— favors him.
There is a low noise of disapproval let out somewhere within that helm as he relinquishes his would-be gift.
“Take it, then.”
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For a long moment, he's quiet.
"I wasn't acting XO for longer than a day." There's something of wryness in his voice, old grief. Faint amusement, too, for the person he'd been then. "It's where I met Amos."
He's not sure how well Gabranth might know him, but it's hard to know one of them without knowing anything of the other, common enough knowledge that they'd arrived together.
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Fondness, grief, longing— a tangle of emotion all too visible in reflection, as Holden runs his fingers across it, taking it into his own grip.
“...he is your leman.”
gabranth's really firing on all cylinders huh
is neither a yes or a no, a snap of his attention back to Gabranth.
he's trying; he has the emotional comprehension of a potted plant so
He does not wish to insult his friend, or press upon him some terrible discomfort when discretion is necessary.
"The man you keep company with, your Amos. He is your swain, is he not?"
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"He's my mechanic." A beat, then, equally baffled: "The two of us, our pilot, and my XO are the only people left from this ship."
His tone maybe takes some grimness off the statement, at least as it first sinks in.
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"What is an 'X-O'?"
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