LET THE POET BLESS THIS ROUND

CALLIOPE OF VALMYAR / "CAL", half-fey, a storyteller and a musician. He/They. "See... there's magic in a bard's song. They call it 'inspiration'."

[calliopeofvalmyar]

ovidofpouthena​:

This is something new. Or, not new, perhaps, but newly open. The way he looks at them, something in his eyes that speaks to just what potential lies there. A sparkle in his eyes. Of course, it would have been impossible not to note, in any of their forms, the charm and beauty Calliope possesses from the moment he first joined the Gambit. A simple fact, something only aided by the otherworldliness, that somehow pairs oh-so well with his humanity in their eyes. They’ve found him intriguing from the first, even if for more selfish reasons partially, wondering at how his skills would transfer, and they do not mean his singing or playing, if they were to take on his face. But it goes beyond that now, something they came to realize during their time performing together during the job they had taken last.

“Neither is it ours,” Ovid says, slight smile playing on their lips as they regard him with interest. It’s a dangerous prospect, they know that full well. They haven’t been above indulging their wants in the time since leaving Velergard, but they’ve been…careful. Careful not to grow attached, to keep anything of that sort simply of the body, too afraid of growing close, letting their mind become clouded again, only to be betrayed for the person’s fear of who they really are when the truth was revealed. But they’re curious about this little thing, about Calliope’s intentions here. It’s easy to tell themself that a bit of flirting is harmless, after all, they do it so often, when wearing Dru’s face especially. And here tonight is the perfect place for a little game of it, with wine flowing, surrounded by decadence, Calliope looking even more beautiful than usual, somehow, in the outfit he’s donned, a sweet scent following him in the air that matches the sharp grin he gives them.

They’re tempted to reach out to the front of Calliope’s mind, but there’s intrigue in not knowing, in a chase, a thought that comes from Iago, a low growl of want they feel in the pit of his stomach. It’s always an interesting feeling, the way their own wants meet those of the faces they wear; they never let them take over, but there’s no denying the feeling of an itch at the back of their mind, right along with the memories, the skills. They are many, after all, all of it is them. They are we. This isn’t a situation they’ve been in in Iago’s skin, but it feels right, having been on the receiving end of his affections before themself. It feels easy to look back at Calliope with a sharp glint in their eyes, raising an eyebrow at the question posed. 

“Of course, a lapse we will gladly fix,” they hum, titling their head slightly as they look at him, as his fingertips brush along the exposed skin of their wrist, moving up their hand. Instead of handing him the cup, they keep their hand there, guiding it to his lips, letting him take a sip. They watch closely, unable to keep their eyes from lingering on his lips, considering the way the spot where his fingers touch their skin feels supremely warm. “Sweet, but elegant, isn’t it? With something…biting beneath, an unidentifiable undertone. Fitting, we think.”

.

“I have to admit,” He muses, “I’m glad for that.” His voice is low, conspiritorial, as if they are planning some great indulgence together. Cal hopes they are, hopes this conversation is leading somewhere deliciously far away from abstinance. Calliope can see the interest in their eyes, and it sends a little thrill through him. He’s hoarded looks like that for as long as he can remember, from as many people as he could inspire it in. At home, it meant that he must have been doing something right. That he’d made himself pretty enough, grown talented enough to covet, that his flaws were buried so deep no one could find them. His first tumbling kisses had been biting things, intense and intoxicating and without a scrap of human gentleness, and they had made him feel poweful somehow –– in the way that some people could bend to his charm and to his wants, more often in the way they wanted him to bend to theirs, the power of being something desirable. He hasn’t hungered for that feeling much, since the last and most intense of his dalliances left him feeling marked and hurt and far too small for his own comfort. 

But seeing it now, in the eyes of his companion... 

He feels hungry again, the small spark of wanting picking up steam under his skin. Calliope quirks a smile, eyes flashing at the prospect, at the agreement in Ovid’s voice. There’s a sense of likemindedness between them that Calliope thinks might have always been there, the idea that the two of them have the same trusted instincts, if nothing else. Colourful histories, as far apart as they might have been, in their different realms. And the same quiet, unspoken fascination with each others skills. Calliope can’t be sure that Ovid is actually as interested as he himself is, but he thinks he’s noticed the flash of curiosity, every now and then, when the topic of the future is explored, in quiet moments where Calliope lets it slip into the open air.  

He tries, sometimes, to be subtle with it. With the strange things that crop into his head, the way that the future punches him in the gut and compells him to write odes and hymns for it, prophecy woven into music to be shared for all the world. It was a strange thing to have found himself with, a talent he didn’t understand, one more thing stolen from the realm of Lord Etris, along with the perfume he’d smeared on his skin tonight. He tries to be subtle about the way his own desires war inside him, and he’s far better at that. He’s not being subtle now, with the way that the want glints in his eyes, the demure way he looks at Ovid and invites the flirtation, as he waits for Ovid’s response to his question. 

He’s excited by the look in their eye, the quirk of their eyebrow, the expression that slips on to their face. Even the sound of their voice can be such an intoxicating thing, music to Calliope’s well trained ears. It’s too simple, too natural, too easy to take a drink from their hand, to allow them to press glass against lips and feed Calliope small tastes of the sweet wine. He lets it linger there, on his tongue, tasting it on his own lips as he looks back at Ovid. And a quirk of a smile, then, sharper than he had allowed himself before. It was all well and good to offer delicate sweetness, but he liked the idea of something biting underneith. He wondered if their kisses would taste like the wine, would leave the same warmth blooming against skin. 

“Fitting, darling. That’s a word for it.” He agrees, voice slightly breathless with the wondering of it, the strange closeness that comes with standing beside someone you want, within touching distance. “I have been missing out. Part of me feels that I should thank you, for opening my eyes. Is there some sweet-sort of trouble I can help you get into, to show you my gratitude?” The almost savage smile is still in place, and the offer is at its core a selfish one. He would like to explore, after all, whatever sweet danger Ovid can wish into being. He has made himself a soft thing for them, something warm and open and willing to be guided in it. 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

gwyncrafven​:

the glittering cityscape and the various surrounding intrigues could seem quite foreign for someone as accustomed to otherwise as gwyn believed herself to be. this was less to a point of discomfort, as the elven breed knew how to maneuver in a fashion suiting her own tastes and needs most anywhere, seemingly. however, she was very much the type to make do with little where possible. thrived in it, really. in comparison, the figures of catelia permitted the impression of being in near opposition to this stance in every sense of the word, their careless manner bellying the sort of treachery and corruption one might easily get swept into if they were less mindful. reveling in a brand of chaos that she’d know little of personally, or want much of a willing part in.

so, her appearance in a setting that embodied these very things to the utmost degree, then, made for a rather strange circumstance altogether. 

veiled and made fairly presentable in a manner that was not so far off from her usual wear — as freely spending her hard-earned tal on fussy and impractical garments such as a gown with far too many frills to function would never be her personal choice — the hunter was of a similar mind to her partner that evening in her understanding that their talents could be of better use elsewhere. anywhere, really. though, with that said, her attending the frivolous, masked affair had everything to do with covering for those that had need of her aid here specifically rather than someplace else at present — the masquerade was dripping in an obvious excess of wealth, after all, begging to be pried from those far from deserving. that made it necessary to see matters through from all possible angles. a lot of shifting hands, moving parts. her willingness to partake was strictly with this in mind. .. mostly, anyhow. it didn’t hurt that the tal to be gained and the company kept were decent as well. 

“you’re forgetting my fondness for grime.” gwyn offers in response to calliope’s approach, a quick smirk dancing along painted lips. “well, it’s easy money, anyway.” the drinks weren’t bad either, the elf lifting a glass from a nearby server. “i am glad you’re enjoying yourself, though. just try not to get too distracted.”

.

Calliope is keeping half an eye on the party, half his mind on the timing of events, as much as he understood them. For the most part, he had been tasked with...being himself, it seemed. As dazzling and attention grabbing as he was naturally. But he knew that at certain points, it was much more important for him to keep the way clear for his companions. Gwyn, as well, had this burden. 

“Hm,” He makes a small sound of agreement, eyes flicking over to her in amusement. Her instruction was one he wasn’t too surprised about. Of the Gambit as a while, Calliope was one of the people to go looking for fun over anything else, most of the time. It did, sometimes, give people the impression that his attention slipped quite easily. He liked that, the way it appeared that he would occasionally lose track of the world, as if he was unsuited to it. He hadn’t grown up here, after all. His mind had been trained by a very different place indeed. So let him look distracted. Distracted by shiny things, distracted by pretty people, by stories he could get caught up in, by the way he could entertain the people around him.

He was considering getting distracted by someone very special indeed, if he have into his impulses, the wish to make dangerous decisions and flirt with people he shouldn’t. But that would have to wait until the hardest parts of the night had come and gone, until their loot for the most part had been liberated by his companions. “Oh, my dear, I wish I could make that promise for you.” He says, with a lofty smile, a sharp little grin. He often forced his grins to turn a little sharp, in the way that was natural on the face of a fey. Sharp, or cloyingly sweet, two settings that had rather the same effect on most people. 

“One must be allowed to cut loose, just a little, at times like this. But I shall do my best to keep my mind on track, and away from all the very pretty, very rich people we have surrounded ourselves with.” He says, eyes tracking around the room. “I’ve lost track of Tatsuo. You don’t suppose he’s gone and gotten himself killed by Catelian assassins in the last few minutes, do you?” A quirk of another smile. “I’m under very strict orders not to let that happen, if at all possible. Once is really rather enough, per trip.” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

ovidofpouthena​:

This is the sort of place they thrive in. A city full of secrets and political intrigue, an assassins guild, danger of the shadowiest kind around every corner. It makes them think fondly of their days as Head of Velergard Intelligence, the sort of deeply ridiculous politics that rule the elite, and how to find just the right secrets to keep secure and also barter away at a later date. And the masquerade in particular was why they had swayed the Gambit to travel this way. Promises of wealth and secrets easily found, all while enjoying the life of the rich for one night.

They had considered Dru for tonight, the perfect guest for a group of nobles such as these who love beauty as much as wealth, and all the better to pluck secrets from unsuspecting lips. But it was too dangerous to risk it, even with their knowledge of her, considering they know she’s travelled to Catelia before, had a rather torrid affair with one of the other family’s daughters while working for their rival. In another face, they don’t have her memories so clearly, would be unable to tell if one of those people she wronged is still around, but it’s not something they want to risk, when there’s plenty of potential otherwise.

So as Iago they dress in the finest baroque doublet they can find, patterns of gold and black as he’s always preferred swirling along well cut lines to match the mask. News travels slow, they don’t even need to use another name. Iago Thorn of Urnundr, Master of Coin is just as meaningful here as it is dangerous across the Rift. And if they let a few of the less subtle Verdiccis and party guests flatter then with wine and shows of their own wealth upon hearing his name, in return for secrets, well, at least others are running interference.

And they can feel those very eyes on them, something familiar in the weight of that particular gaze, one they’ve found themself becoming more interested in by the day, as they excuse themself from a conversation with a deep bow, and retreat to find another glass of wine. They let him follow only turning once they’ve found a quieter corner and letting him approach, a grin playing on their lips as he does so, one that wides a little with the closeness. Iago’s thoughts are warm and hazy in the most pleasant way, even he understands the need for a break from business, perhaps too well.

“Only the sweetest sort, Calliope,” they hum, looking at him with interest, as they swirl their glass of wine. “We promise to involve you in any mess we make, though, a mess is no fun alone. Have you tried the red? It’s positively exquisite. Or are you abstaining for work tonight?”

.

Oh, it’s far too easy to feel a flush of warmth once they settle beside their companion. It’s a foolish kind of happniess, the type that comes along with the interested look in Ovid’s eye. He could grow obsessed with that look, he thinks. He wants to see it in every shape, on every face, every expanse of personhood that Ovid chooses to inhabit with beautiful grace. Perhaps it was a mistake to stand so close, enough to feel the warmth between them, only grown stronger since their sucessful duet at their last stop. He had wondered at the feeling of potential, back then, and he wonders at it again now. 

“Abstinence has never been my calling, you’ll find.” He says, without much thought. A smile spreading across his face, warm and soft, a little playful. Calliope has been having so much fun, with their little games tonight. Flirting his way through the crowd, engaging in endless conversations, some interesting, some so dull he took to the wine without hesitation. It had led, quicker than Calliope would have liked, to the gentle buzz in their veins. Not quite so powerful as it might have been if this were Valmyar, but enough to inspire this most gentle of longings in his heart. The wish to be close to Ovid, to get closer still. The curiosity, the warm human feelings that made him ache a little bit to be held. 

(He hasn’t been held in so long. Longer than he would like to admit. And not with gentle hands for even longer than that. So many times he has almost given in to the demands of the flesh, only to wince away from the prospect of it. Relations with a human could be so messy. What if his heart cracked open again, when someone was kind to him? What if they touched his hair and he found himself in tears, what if they never wanted to touch him again and he was alone again?) 

Stupid. He pushes any worries away. He widens his smile so it shows a hint of his biting strength, the cool and calm grace that he always shows the world. It was stupid to want to be near Ovid so badly, but he wouldn’t let it become a weakness in the long run. And anyway, it was not something he felt like resisting, just now. He had never been one to show an excess of restraint, after all. 

He’s always been a fool. 

“I haven’t,” He offers, “Tried the red, as it happens. A lapse in judgement.” And his eyes twinkle with something, as he looks at Ovid. He imagines for a second, pressing close, and stealing a taste of it from their lips. He reaches out instead, allowing himself some hesitance, and touches gentle fingertips to the skin of Ovid’s wrist, tracing up the back of his hand toward the glass he holds. “Let me have a taste of yours, won’t you?” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

zhenyafen​:

Reminds me of home. That alone ought to alarm Zhenya, but already she’s taking a second, third, fourth, sip. There’s something on the edge of her tongue she can’t quite catch, as if she might be able to name it with more in her mouth. By the fifth she has the sensibility to realize there is almost certainly something strong in this, for which she has practically negative tolerance. Another gift of her mother’s warning. Of course, she doesn’t think to search for anything deeper, any edge of bitterness that might be familiar. 

“There was never anything like this at –” Zhenya hesitates. There was nothing homely about her upbringing. Zhenya belonged to nowhere and no one, the palace her place of residence by chance and fortune. “– where I grew up. The most we ever had were fruit liquors, and only late in the summer when they would’ve rotted otherwise. Once I tried the colorful powders the alchemist made for the prince and his parties.” They make a face. “He liked to poison himself for fun.”

Zhenya can’t remember a time when she’s spoken so freely about her childhood or adolescence – or any time before the Gambit. Certainly not to someone she trusted so little as Calliope. Beautiful, perfect, the-birds-sing-to-his-tune Calliope, under any other circumstances wholly undeserving of Zhenya’s short supply in precious truths. But now they spill out of her. More than that, she wants to tell him. She wants to share her stories and for him to share back. She wants him to know exactly what she thinks of him, too. 

“I envy you, you know.” Another sip, two, three. “All that time, desperately trying to fit into the human idea of what I should be. What I wouldn’t have done for someone – anyone, it didn’t even have to be my father – to take me into the wilds from the start.”

.

Calliope can’t quite bring himself to stop wondering at the taste of this on his tongue. The fizz of it, the flavour. He would swear that he experienced it before, once upon a time, but he couldn’t tell you when or where it might have been. So curious, more so with every taste. He sips his drink, letting more and more slip between his lips every time he raises the pretty glass to his mouth. He glances up again at his companion when Zhenya begins to speak. He had been hopeful, when this evening begain, that they might come out as friends on the other side. That had been the goal, after all. The mission had been to win her over, as he did with everybody else, with sharp charm and sweet smiles, and companionship worn like a warm coat. 

Perhaps his plan is working, because after a moment of hesitation, Zhenya is telling him far more than he’s ever heard from her. Far more about her life than he ever really expected to gain, on a night like this. He almost laughs, the shadow of it on his face, when she speaks of the poison the princes liked to play with for fun. He had experienced his fair share of that, in the past, in one way or another. 

He quirks his eyebrow in surprise, then, and an ill-advised laugh flits out of him. Envy. Oh, he could identify with that. What part of his upbringing had not been marked by that particular brand of ugly longing. He throws the rest of his drink back, and leans forward to look at her. Its curious, and its gentle, a mix of honest sympathy and the taught coldness he forced upon himself sometimes. He means to say that the wilds were lovely, that the world of the fey was the most magical place in the world. He missed his home, he did. He wished he could be back there. But the truth came out, “They would have eaten you alive, where I come from.” He says, not unkindly. “I’m not sure if its the same with the Elves, but...” He laughs, and it isn’t a soft thing, the music of it doesn’t hit quite the way he likes it to. “But you shouldn’t envy me. Not really.”

He breathes out a sigh, a delicate thing. His smile feels bittersweet, when he paints it on. His heart feels vulnerable. “I couldn’t even survive it, in the long run. I was too human, too weak. You can’t survive the feywilds if you’re weak, you know? They smell it on you, like you’re a prey animal and they want to devour you.” His voice actually cracks with it, the slight bitter hint to his words. “Sometimes I think they really would have killed me if I stayed for much longer. I recieved quite brutal treatment, there, near the end, all because I was so...” 

And his smile twists, down, into a frown. “Human. Far too human.” His gaze flicks up again, narrowed gaze at her. “Why am I telling you this?” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

( The Masquerade Ball, later in the night / @ovidofpouthena​ ) 

If Calliope was a more honest person, he might admit that he put far more effort in tonight than he really needed to. When he had lived in Valmyar, in the singing tower, a favouried servant of their Lord God, his life had been made up of moments like this. Pretty things to wear, pretty people to surround themself with, the haze of honeysuckle and sweet wine and any little vice that their heart could desire. In Valmyar, their blood had been weaker than everybody elses, left them silly under the weight of it all when they overindulged, left them aching for the notice of someone else.

He felt almost silly now, in a different way. It had been an almost decadent treat, to dress himself up in the finest and loveliest clothes he could find in this town. A special honor, to spray on the perfume they had stolen on their way out of the singing tower, from the rooms of a God. It smelled like ozone and flowers he would never touch again, like the purist water, like power, like the touch of a lover. It wasn’t the type of thing that could be crafted by human hands, and it had caught its fair share of attention tonight. Yes, Calliope had done a fine job thus far, keeping the attention away from his friends and their less than savory pursuits. No one noticed that their pockets were lighter than they had been before, when they were busy being beguiled by Calliope. 

They’ve indulged, as well, in enough human wine to make them feel...light. Abuzz with the energy of the room. Needy for the attention he’s gathering from those around him, and unsatisified with it. He’s been needy for something else, someone else, for far too long now –– and just as he has the thought, Ovid crosses his line of sight. One of the familiar faces he’s come to expect, from this, the most fascinating of his companions. 

Ah, he’s earned a break. He’s earned the company of a friend. He’s earned an indulgence in this little spark of theirs. It feels far too easy, far too natural, to slide away from the conversation he’s engaged in and approach Ovid’s side instead, tuck himself a little too close to their body, emboldened as he always is by the sweet taste of wine.

“Ah, my darling. There you are. I was beginning to think you had gotten into trouble.” He says, with the soft hint of a laugh laced through the words. “Not that trouble is discouraged, of course, but I do expect to be involved if things are going to get messy.” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

( The Masquerade Ball, early in the evening / @gwyncrafven ) 

Part of Calliope wonders if he couldn’t have been put to better use elsewhere. He has so many talents, far reaching skills. He could charm any secret out of any man, he was sure of that. So many of them were week to his specific brand of seduction, the slight otherworldly nature of him that set him apart from other people. He’d seduced God’s, he could trick any mortal man, if he wanted to. But then again, this was such a nice little role to play. To put on the prettiest of clothes, to wear his prettiest smile and keep his keen eyes on the proceedings of the event. Half his mind on the tasks his friends had undertaken, the other half on enjoying the event and making sure the attention stayed firmly on him. 

Well, him, and his dear companion. She was such a pretty thing, after all. And he did so love to spend time in her company, now that they had grown sightly closer, as they had over the last few weeks. 

He felt rather like he was in his element, even if he wasn’t weaving magic with his words in most of his converatsions. He was beguiling enough without any enchantments, without the magic that came so easy to him. This party hadn’t even been important enough to have a vision of, when he was spending some time with his muse earlier that day, strumming on the strings of his harp and trying to beacon the uncertain whispers of the future closer to the forefront of his mind. 

He settled beside Gwyn now, during a slight lull. “This is lovely, don’t you think, my dear? Our companions really ought to spend more time in places such as this. So much more fun than any of their grimy taverns.” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

zhenyafen​:

When Zhenya was young, too young to remember anything from before the palace and her mother’s gilded rooms, she hadn’t understood the concept of liquor. It was like faeriefruit, her mother would whisper, swatting away at tiny hands, it made you happy and sleepy. It made you mad. She was right, of course, in the twisted way that mothers, poor ones especially, always were, and for the first decade of Zhenya’s strange life it was enough to scare her from the stuff completely. 

Watching Calliope set down their drinks, pastel and sparkling and smelling faintly of a summer breeze, Zhenya is distinctly reminded of her mother’s warning. Faeriefruit. She brushes a thumb over the intricate stem, her best approximation of a delighted expression plastered on. It’s difficult to tell with Calliope if it’s actually working; he is merciless in having a good time, no matter the circumstances. Perhaps the fae taught him that. Her other hand, concealed in her lap, twists into the fabric of her pant leg. 

It’s not fair, the way Zhenya’s stomach twists when she looks at him. She knows it isn’t. She knows he’s done nothing to earn the growl that grows in her throat when he laughs or the horrible way her face goes green when he plucks at that stupid mandolin. They are meant to be alike, something shared in their straddling of two worlds, but they’re not. The child weaned on magic is nothing like the one who took it when she was grown.

“I can’t imagine what I’ve done to deserve such a beautiful gift.” Here, the smile is genuine. Zhenya takes a sip and cannot help the way her eyes widen or how her fingers go right to her mouth. “Lords and ladies, Calliope, what is this? Drink, drink, it’s fantastic.”

.

There’s the gentle brush of tension in the air, as there always seems to be. Zhenya summoned that up like he summoned charms. Calliope learned a long time ago not to let things like that get to him, guided by his mother’s advice to keep his head held high and act as if the whole world belonged to him, as if the universe and all it had to hold was his birthright. As a teenager, even when that advice had started working, he’d wanted to laugh at her sometimes. He didn’t have a birthright, he didn’t have anything but the determination she trained into him, the certainty that he could fake it until he made it. 

Calliope falls gracefully into his chair, sprawling out before her and looking as comfortable as they day is long. He takes her smile and tucks it away inside himself, fuel for the fire, something to spurr him on. She gets a gleamingly bright one in return, natural across his features. He’s mulling over a response in his head, pulling together pretty words about all of the things Zhenya deserves. He watches her as she takes a sip, and his carefully planned phrase falls away. 

His eyebrow arches in curiosity, his smile turning more playful as he watches her reaction. It must be rather good, to inspire something like this. His interest has skyrocketed, and he huffs out a laugh. “You know, I didn’t quite catch the name.” He muses, as he takes his own glass in delicate fingers, raising it to salute her before he takes his own drink from it, a long sip as he lets the flavour of it sweep through him. There’s a tingle, something bright, and it does taste fantastic. 

He laughs again, a soft thing, holding the pretty little thing up to the light for the moment. “Lords and ladies, indeed.” He takes another small drink, trying to pinpoint the details, the origin of what he’s tasting. “Delicious. Reminds me of home, almost.” A quirk of a smile, almost mindless. “Not sure if that’s a good thing.” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

ovidofpouthena​:

It’s a simple choice to make, asking for that condition, to allow Calliope to play alongside them, and they know already, from Clarion knowing their manager so well, that she’ll say yes to just about anything to save their reputation at such a grand event. But more than that they can’t help the warmth that comes from seeing Cal’s reaction to that decision, the way confusion gives way to clear excitement and warmth in their eyes. They can’t help but think they’d like to surprise him again, if it’ll garner this reaction.

There’s always the temptation to reach out, scratch the surface of the minds around them to come by a hint of understanding, something within their very being, just like the itch to shift if they stay in one face too long. This is an urge they’ve learned to temper over the years, an invasion of privacy that doesn’t sit right on their shoulders, yes, but also one they don’t entirely need. They aren’t sure if it’s part of being a doppler, or who they are as a collective individual, but they’ve always been skilled at reading other people, and their years as a spy only aided in that skill. They don’t need to ask to know that this is something that will make Calliope smile. And seeing a companion light up is nearly as satisfying as the tal that will come from both of them performing together.

“Of course, we will be Clarion to perfection. We’ll have all the fans clamoring for an encore by the end,” they offer with an extravagant bow, before they leave, as she shoos them out.

They hold onto the gilded lute of Clarion’s that she gave them to practice and perform with as if it’s a newborn babe, cradling it close to their chest out of instinct, knowing well that it’s one of Clarion’s most prized possessions. And they can also tell that it’s enchanted somehow. But they don’t focus on that quite yet, unable to keep the smile from slipping over their face as Calliope looks at them with a certain softness. 

“No, not kind. Simply exactly as it should be. Something well-deserved. You should be the one winning the adoration of the audience, and so you shall. And perhaps selfishly we like the idea of performing together, as much as listening to you perform,” Ovid hums, the same smile playing on their lips. They can’t help the way they look at Calliope, part themself, part Clarion, instinct to observe, read, with interest.

“We think we’ll make a very good duo.”

...

That smile again, slipping over Ovid’s face. Well, Clarions face. As Clarion cradles his lute, the beautiful instrument that lets them make beautiful sounds. It’s a nice smile, different from the others that might be worn on different faces. Calliope would like to catalogue them all, a fleeting thought tells him, and he pushes it away. 

Ovid clearly knows enough about him to know what to say, flattering little words, hitting on things that Calliope would likely sit around daydreaming about for the rest of the day. Winning the adoration of the crowd, being watched and being loved by someone, anyone. He hasn’t had a chance like this since the day he left Valmyar in shame, since the day he’d had his heart broken. Oh, he could have been one of the greatest in that land, everybody said it. But he had messy entanglements and he expected far too much for the gods, allowed delusions of care and tenderness to burrow inside his chest and nest there. But now Ovid was here, giving them a chance. 

He allows his smile to grow wide, reaching his eyes. Calliope tries for a fond shake of his head, a laugh, lets it twinkle out. He stands and allows Ovid to look at him, with those keen eyes, ones that imply they could see right through you and to your very soul. Chances were that they could. Calliope didn’t know how deep their abilities went, didn’t know how easy it was to reach in and take things from other people, learn about them, become them. He’d have to ask, when they had less to do. But he didn’t mind the feeling of being gently examined by that smiling face. 

“I think so too,” They offer, amused as they can sound, preening a little bit under it. The tiniest ounce of flirtation in their voice, a natural reaction. But there was a truth, as well. He thinks they’ll sound wonderful together, and look even better. “Why, we’ll be the prettiest pair in all the fade.” He reaches up, and fixes a strand of Clarions hair, examining their face for a moment, before offering his arm.

“Come on, dear. Let’s see what beautiful music we can make together.” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

gwyncrafven​:

as their efforts thus far are noted with particular care, gwyn gives renewed focus to the aches she’s suffered these last days, having pushed them aside with minimal attention in favor of moving forward without due concern. it was a habit hard broken, though compared to some other instances in which she’d suffered before without verbal complaint, her injuries were minor now and easily silenced. “i suppose you have a point.” gwyn offers an easy smile in return, one of more warmth than she might be accustomed.

calliope shows off the beads along his wrist, ones she noticed before though hadn’t considered much. her own ‘pretty’ thing before now had been one pawned on her without need of payment ( from her at least ). it’d been an act to keep pestering men at bay and a saleswoman had offered it as a gift, in view of her prior services with vashka, specifically. however, it’d been ruined in her journey with gavril later that day, appropriately torn and dirtied during their hunting escapade. gwyn hadn’t considered replacing it or even that it was necessary to, though at calliope’s urging, she realized she hadn’t a clue what she might even want. beyond another pretty drink, perhaps.

“hm, only if you say so. did you have something particular in mind?”

.

He lets himself indulge in this, the calm aura of walking through the crowd of the festival. The world feels alive here in a way it doesn’t, sometimes. In other towns, in other areas of their world, with sadder people who have less reasons to express their joy. Calliope likes the world like this, with games and happiness in the air, with problems that can be easily solved and prizes to be won around every corner. Their trip so far has been thrilling, a truly enjoyable thing. He wants to cherish it as much as he can, before the Gambit departs again, heading out into the wild and the unknown world, looking for whatever work will come their way. 

He’s glad he gets to spend some of the time with Gwyn, doing nothing much at all, allowing himself to be a mindless and pretty thing on her arm. Encouraging her to do the same with him, to give in to the warmth and the hazy ease of the encounter. 

“I always have a point, my sweet.” He says, with a small wink in her dirction. “Hm, lets see. What is it that a woman like you desires the most. Pretty rings, lovely trinkets, another drink in your hand? The latter more than the formers, I would imagine, from our brief dalliances together.” 

He smiles, wry, in her direction. “Maybe I’ll choose something for you. A token of affection. I saw some rather dainty necklaces over on the far side of the market that weren’t going for...outrageous amounts of tal.” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

ovidofpouthena​:

They can’t help but watch Calliope with a little more interest as they land in Clarion’s form, always curious to see the reactions they garner from those that they travel with the first time they witness a shift. They do it often enough, after all, but they usually do so in private, as they said something about doing so feeling a whole lot like changing their clothes in front of others, something only to be done in comfortable company, or out of necessity. While there’s inherent trust with anyone who travels with the Gambit, they still know better than to flaunt their skills, that having been a danger in the past. 

But here, Calliope looks on with wonder, lets out a rather melodic laugh, their ears now particularly tuned to the music in everything, and they grin back at him with ease, just as thrilled with his reaction as they change itself. It takes a moment for them to refocus, look back at the woman as well, see her wonder and awe. She steps forward to look at them better, and they oblige, happy to model this new form for the money it promises to bring.

“We’re pleased you think so. It’s something stronger than any sort of magic, or trickery. We are Clarion, for the time we wear their face,” Ovid explains with a grand gesture. They don’t mention the way each face stays with them, pieces of those souls lingering, becoming part of the we even if they only step into a form once. They nod along with Calliope. “We have all the talent they do. Songs, lyrics, nimble fingers to pluck strings expertly, a voice to warm even the coldest of souls.”

The woman nods, clearly still in awe of what she’s just seen before her. “Very good. There are hours left before the performance, plenty of time to practice…perhaps you could offer a demonstration of their music, just to be certain. I believe you, but…”

“But, of course, it’s not looks alone, but the performance that matters. And we’re happy to do so. We do have conditions to our performance as Clarion, though. One, we wish for our race to remain a secret. If word gets out, we’ll be bombarded with too many requests to handle, and we prefer to live in…discretion,” they explain carefully, no need to mention the real need for discretion is that they’re wanted for treason and murder alike. Ovid looks to Calliope, gives him a warm, knowing smile, before looking back at the woman. “And two, our dear friend performs with us. Calliope is an exceptionally talented bard. Consider it a two for one deal.”

...

It isn’t uncommon for Calliope to feel things like this –– a small spark of potential, between him and someone else. In a world where connection is everything, where beauty is something easily caught up in, when there’s a rush of something developing in the air. He knows Ovid is interesting, and he wants to know more and more with every day, a burning curiosity developing in his mind. He wants to know how far those talents go, how far he can push them, how it feels on the inside to shift your skin. He wants to know what makes Ovid tick. 

Calliope reigns that hunger for knowledge in as much as he can, turns his attention to more important things. Ovid, and the capacity they have to become Clarion in every way needed. The songs, the voice, the skill, the face. They wear it beautifully, as they do everything else. Calliope has the sense that this is one quest they’ll pull off without a hitch, and Cal means to support them in their efforts in every way that they can. 

He thinks of jumping in, offering more assurances, but something in Ovids voice surprises him. He listens as carefully as the manager does, as their companion speaks of conditions. Discretion is important, he knows that. But its the latter half that throws him off. He freezes for a moment, at the warm and knowing smile sent in his direction, as if Ovid has looked into his heart and seen the selfish core of him. The part of him that wishes he was in Ovid’s shoes, that he could step into the limelight and wow the crowd. He’s always wanted to be the brightest, the star at the heart of the universe.

And some people, recently, have made him feel dim and useless. 

So his smile blossoms slow, uncertain for a second, before it develops into something warm and thrilled. Something soft unfurling in his stomach, something fonder than he’s felt in months. It’s an almost vulnerable feeling, but Calliope cherishes it, for the momen that it lasts. The woman looks at him, then back at Ovid. She sighs. 

“Fine. Yes. I’ll take that deal. No demonstration necessary” She says, almost resigned. “Just don’t make a fool of Clarion, that’s all I ask.” 

With a few more moments of discussion, details in hand, she clears them out and away for them to prepare. Calliope looks at Ovid, softness still lingering in his eyes. “That was kind of you, darling.” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

( at the festival, straight vibing outside a tavern, @zhenyafen​ ) 

It takes more than a lot for the gentle buzz of alcohol to really settle in to Calliope’s bones. It’s the fey blood, he’s made of stronger stuff than those who these drinks are brewed for. But he had learned, at least, that a few would leave him soft and warm around the edges, loosened gently in the warmth of the air. 

If he could get Zhenya a little softer and looser around the edges, that would be ideal. That’s why he’s settled there, beside her. Why he’s managed to talk her into some small bout of companionship. She didn’t trust him, or didn’t like him, or thought that she was better than him –– one of those options, and he would like to change it, if he could. 

Calliope is really rather bad at being disliked. It doesn’t suit him, it makes some kind of fear well up in the pit of his stomach, an old childhood memory of being less than everybody else. He can’t let it stand, can’t let it sit. So he’s determined to do some good old fashioned wooing tonight, if he can. Determinedthat Zhenya will soon see him as a treasured companion. 

The sparkling and beautiful drinks are sure to help. He’s delighted by them, and he brings two more over to their table. Whatever, he’d said, when the tavern owner asked him what he wanted. Something fun. 

One glass goes down in front of his companion, and he slips into his own chair with a grin. “There you are, my darling. Isn’t this one pretty?” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

ovidofpouthena​:

The thrill of a well laid plan, from a chance opportunity is something they never tire of, all the more exciting just now to have this chance with Calliope, a way to show him just what they can do, and perhaps give him a chance to do the same. A bonding experience, something they think they would quite like to have with him. It’s simple enough to collect Clarion and help haul them to the nearby inn, finally into a bed where they can sleep off their hangover and keep from interrupting these plans, tarnishing their reputation. And it gives them a chance to being to get a feeling for their mind, reaching for the surface, gaining an understanding of their state.

By the time they’re tucked in safely, Ovid is itching to shift into a new skin, and they smile widely back at Calliope when he grins at them both, and encourages the show to begin. His excitement is something contagious.

“Oh no, we insist you watch. We’ve been told it’s a rather exciting thing to witness, and we do want to prove this isn’t some trick of magic alone, but a genuine change,” they insist, with a wave of their hand. After all, they have encountered that accusation many times over, on the occasions that they make their race known. Dopplers are so rare, terrifying and inaccurate tales passed down to scare children more often than actual dopplers making themselves known in any part of the Fade, from all they’ve seen. People are more inclined to believe in particularly powerful magic, illusion spells that defy the norm, than to believe that they are actually in the presence of a doppler, if they’ve even heard of them.

They like to prove that they can do much more than any simple illusionary magic might accomplish.

Nothing better than a hint of dramatics, Ovid holds out their arms, clears their throat, and focuses on the figure now lying in the bed at the other corner of the room. It’s instinct to shift, after all, but having the person in front of them makes it all the easier to choose who to shift into. The change happens all at once, a sort of strange blurring of their very being, but to no pain for them as normal as this is for a doppler, a split second of their true form, before body and clothes alike shift into a new face. The thing that always takes adjusting to is the new feelings of an unfamiliar face. A sudden flood. Clarion is arrogant, perhaps understandably so given their great skill, but they have a problem like the problem that caused Ovid’s talent to be necessary in the first place. For now, they push Clarion’s feelings and memories to the back of their mind, instead offering their companions a charming grin.

“How do we look? An adequate Clarion Call?”

.

His smile widens, and Calliope is desperately glad that he gets to watch. Does so with soft eyes, full of excitement, the burning curiosity to see Ovid take a new shape. To see Ovid become Clarion Call as if it was a skin they were always meant to wear. Calliope knew that it would be a sight indeed, that it would be fascinating and marvellous and unlike anything else that anybody could do. Because Ovid was special, because they could do wonderful things. 

It’s just as wonderful as he expected, watching it happen. He lets the joy and wonder show on his face, the pleased look in his eyes, the short and happy laugh. He reaches up and pats his companion on her shoulder, as she looks at Ovid in wonder as well. In wonder, in awe, just as Calliope had promised her. And then, as if he had spoken a prophecy, came the relief. 

“Adequate?” She asks, breathless. “Its –– by the Gods,” And she steps, looks closer, Calliope lets her go. “You really look like them. Its flawless. Its –– more than I was expecting.” 

And finally, the woman smiles. A bright thing. Hope in it. “Yes. Yes, that will do nicely. You can sing, yes? You know their songs? If you can make it work, there’s pleanty of tal in it for you.” 

Cal beams, a bright thing, over her shoulder. He’s horribly jealous that Ovid is going to get to step in to the limelight, going to get to pretend to be someone like Clarion, known across the Fade as one of the brightest and the best, such talent. Even Cal, who had spent so much of his life hidden away in the realm of his kind, had learned quickly of the music this preformer could make. It’s a dream, a silly one, to be loved by so many like that. To be known for his talent, to be seen for what he can do and have people enjoy it. Cal had that in Valmyar. He wanted it again. 

But he wasn’t jealous enough to dampen the excietment, the thrill on his face. At least he would get to watch, at least he would get to be there. And maybe, when it was done, Ovid could tell him all of Clarion Call’s secrets, enough to give Calliope an edge as he continued to work on his own art, on his own career. 

“They can make it work.” He promises, real faith in his voice. He shoots Ovid an encouraging look. “They’ll do even better than our dear, sleeping friend here.” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

gwyncrafven​:

THE MARKET / DAY FOUR / @calliopeofvalmyar​

as the days pass through the joyous city of light, the hunter finds a gradual tolerance building for the escapades of their fellow festival-goers. this was more apparent in this current moment as — in an instance of rarer freedom, it seemed — the woman embraced a steady, casual pace through its fair streets, linked well in arms with the gambit’s own masterful minstrel.

they moved through the sea of bodies with more ease than anticipated, a fact perhaps attributed to its calmer state in the earlier hours. and as anyone would expect of her now, a lovely little cocktail rather vibrant in its smoldering hue laid clasped in hand, which some might also assume was the very reason for her perkier mood and willingness to be dragged about. yes, the barkeep guaranteed in no uncertain terms that her poison of choice would sooner knock her on her ass before they broached the rear exit doors, but of course — as gavril could attest — gwyn possessed something of an enduring hardiness. more than most would assume of someone so lithe. and they were not the first in this .. stroll to claim as much, with this being the pair’s third glass now. there was little doubt the barmen held immeasurable talent all the same, penchant for dramatics aside. they were not unlike her companion at present, who held his own love affair with similar tendencies.

“are you planning to stop at every stall now or can we actually move more than two steps at a time?” perhaps it was a mere exaggeration. though, the query’s summoned with a hint of humor on her tongue regardless, something usually reserved for those she’d grown closer to in their little merry band, as it were.  

.

Calliope likes to take time, like this, to remember that once upon a time he had been popular. Not in the earliest days of his youth, when his father’s nature had left him strange and more human than the other children of Valmyar. But once he had grown into himself, learned to use beauty like a weapon and his voice to beguile even the strongest of men –– people had liked to be around him, because he always got what he wanted, because attention fell upon him the same way it would to a beautiful flower. Even their higest lord, once, had looked at Calliope when he walked into a room. 

That world was lost to him now, for the most part. He was practically ruined there. His new life was still settling around him, and he often found himself feeling like the odd one out in a group of people who had known each other for far longer than they had known him. 

It was nice to walk with someone beautiful by his side, on his arm. For someone to put up with his fleeting wish to enjoy the world around them. To have a drink in their hand and stalls upon stalls of goods to look at. The gentle buzz of the drinks in his veins was not nearly enough to knock him off his center, though perhaps it did add an extra sparkle to his smile, or inspire his laughter to pour more freely than ever from his lungs, musical in the air around them. 

“And why shouldn’t I?” He asked, with a fond air in his voice. “We’ve worked hard these last days, have we not? Found beasts and children, preformed, dazzled crowds.” He levels a smile at his companion, at Gwyn, who he felt he could grow rather fonder of in the coming days. “Come along, dear one. We ought to find you something pretty. As a token of the trip. I already have mine, you see?” He held up his wrist for her, still attatched to her own arm, to show off the delicate pink beads around it, the flecks of gold shining in the sun that never seemed to set these days. 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

ovidofpouthena​:

A smirk finds their lips, smug, self-satisfied as is so characteristic of Iago, as Calliope teases, and then goes on to praise their skill so grandly. It’s for the show of it, of course, for this opportunity laid out before them, but it doesn’t stop it from going to their head a little, especially in the warm state of inebriation they’re in.

Calliope answers the affirmative before they can, which is all the same, considering they know in this particular case there will be no issues of talents not transferring along with the appearance. They have plenty of bards amongst them, used those faces many times before, especially during their time at court, bards being particularly useful at acquiring information from the vain and self important, with the promise of songs sung in their honor, or a particularly entertaining night offered. Now will be no different, unless this particular bard has some strange unknown mystical talent, but even then, perhaps they would manage; it is, after all, one of the reasons they’re so curious about the bard next to them now.

So they simply nod along, content to let him do the talking and selling the idea, as they try to force themself by sheer will alone into sobriety. It doesn’t work. Still, Ovid offers Cal and the woman a charmingly sly smile as Cal looks over at them, suggesting they’ve never let him down. That’s a nice thought.

“A demonstration will be necessary. The performance must be perfect to keep their reputation in tact,” the woman says after a moment considering, clearly realizing the situation is too desperate to be picky.

“And we are happy to offer such, as our companion has said,” Ovid says, offering another bow, a habit of Iago’s that they’ve always found amusing, but terribly helpful in making others believe they have the power. “Perhaps we can help you bring your charge to their room to rest up, and we can offer our demonstration there. As well as discuss compensation better in private, as well as conditions of our aid.”

.

Calliope can’t help the way he looks at Ovid, with interest, with some small level of fond amusment. His time with the Gambit has been short, a hand full of months, but Ovid, with all of. their many faces, is one of the people that Calliope can’t help but be a little dazzled by. His curiosity about them has grown and grown, the simple wish to know more, to see where the edges of their power might lie. Calliope wants to know everything they can do. 

“What a splendid idea.” He agrees, with an easy smile and a nod in Ovid’s direction. “Best to get them nicely tucked into bed for the day.”

He bent, then, in a graceful movement. To collect his beads from where he had left them laying somewhere near Ovid’s arm on the table, safe in the knowledge that his new tiny scrap of beauty was safe near someone he knew. And it did feel safe, near Ovid –– not entirely, but enough to set some small part of him at ease, enough to battle the general sensation that you couldn’t really trust anybody in this life, not even your gods. The strip of pink and gold finds itself delicately tucked away in a pocket, there to sit until he found some way to affix it on to his person. 

They collected the sorry excuse for a musician, who still seemed more content than anything to stay slumped over the grimey table at this tavern. And off they went, through a street and into an inn, laying them down to sleep in a bed far more comfortable than the ones they had at their disposal in the Gambit. Calliope was desperately jealous, for a moment, of the plush pillows and soft sheets. He takes the moment to tuck them in, before straightening and fixing his two companions with a blinding grin. 

“On with the show, then, my friends?” 

He watched then, waiting in a semi-excited state, arms tucked safely behind his back. Quirking a smile in Ovid’s direction. “Would you like us to turn around, dearest?” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

ovidofpouthena​:

They’re beginning to think that making friends with one of the tavern owners was a mistake, considering how thoroughly inebriated they are in no uncertain terms. Luckily, there’s no great rush to do any real work. Whatever the last few drinks the lovely old man had made were, though, must’ve had something particularly strong in them, despite tasting like spiced juice, and sparkling like the night’s sky over the mountains of Lolander in their youth. A silent resolution  not to have another drink until they manage to sober up a little, content for the moment with the feeling of weightlessness, and sitting with Calliope. They watch with interest as he admires the beads he bouthg, holds them up to the light, the colors beautiful, the distinct thought that they fit him well, just as mesmerizing, a thought they’re about to give voice to, when Cal perks up suddenly, grin spreading across his lips, before leaving the table altogether.

“Huh? Cal?” they say, without any real intention of following, despite the curiosity now pulling at them, as they see the scene unfolding. It takes a moment too long for their mind to catch up, and they roll their eyes at themself, a little bit of Iago slipping through in their state. Luckily, they catch on quickly enough the familiar name of Clarion helping in the matter, and they can imagine the plan here, a perfect opportunity for Calliope to show off his own talents and save a reputation all at once. 

There’s confusion, though, as he leads the woman towards them, and they quickly sit up straighter, try to look a little less of a mess, although they don’t know what he’s talking about. 

“My friend here is a fantastic…oh. Oh. Right, of course,” Ovid lets out a little laugh, only doppler cluing them in suddenly on what he wants them to do, mind hazy with alcohol, forgetting their talents.

“A doppler,” the woman repeats, skeptical.

They rise from their seat, finally, give a little bow, catching on. “Precisely so. We would offer a showing now, but it’s rather awkward to shift in public. Akin to undressing, if you will,” they offer, with a gesture.

.

Calliope really can’t help it, the fond quirk of a smile at Ovid’s confusion. Leave it to them to completely forget their own talents once they get a few drinks in them. Their little laugh is charming, somehow, more than it has any rights to be. He quirks an eyebrow at them as he approaches, over the back of the woman he brought over, willing them to catch up with what’s going on here. And bless them, they do. 

“And as much as we would all like Ovid to undress, I’m afriad it wouldn’t be appropriate just this second.” He says, voice melodic and laced with just a hint of charm, not enough to actually begile anyone, but he always finds that it doesn’t hurt to lay it on thicker in times like this. “Rest assured, they can become just about anybody. Its astounding. Such skill. Such talent. I could hardly believe my eyes the first time I witnessed it.” 

She still has a skeptical look on her face, but there’s also desperation in her eyes. She needs somebody to clean up this mess, and she needs them to do a good job, and she needs it to happen quickly. It isn’t every day you have this problem and there’s a doppler at the bar next to you. Cal is practically shaking with the joy of it all. The god of fate might be a bastard, but sometimes he gives them little gifts. 

“But can they preform?” The woman asks, and yes, that would be a concern as well. 

Calliope quirks their head to the side, waves a hand in dismissal. “Undoubtedly.” He promises, quick and simple, although he finds that he isn’t sure he’s telling the truth. He doesn’t know the liitations here, if Ovid will have the voice and the skill of the person they imitate. He thinks so. But even if it isn’t true, that would be a hurtle to overcome later. 

He looks to his companion, eyes warm and amused and delighted by the current proceedings. Encouraging, another quirk of his brow. “I’m sure we’d be happy to organise a demonstration somewhere a little more private, if you feel the need. But you can take us at our word. My dear friend here has never let me down yet.” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

( outside one of the taverns, on the third day of the festival )       @ovidofpouthena​

Calliope is almost entirely distracted, at the table he shares with Ovid. He finally allowed himself to give in to a silly want and purchase a string of beads in the prettiest shade of pink, the golden flakes inside of them reminding Cal of home in a way that almost made their heart ache. They’ve lapsed into a silence that wasn’t entirely comfortable, but had the impression it would be someday, with Ovid, several empty glasses on the table before them. Cal holds the beads to to the light, watching the way the colour shifts, allowing a pleased smile to cross their face at the sight of it. 

Cal is about to open their mouth to ask Ovid to do them a favour and tie the string of beads around their wrist, but before they can begin their eyes catch on something interesting going on behind the pretty glass. A woman looking rather distressed at the sight of a person at one of the tables. And loudly scolding them for getting in such a position. The figure slumped over shifts, and Calliope catches sight of their face, eyes widening as they do. Oh, oh yes. They perk up, putting their ears to use and catching some of the conversation going on. 

     “No shape to preform, by the Gods, how are we going to get out of this mess?” 

And a moment later, quieter:      

     “If I can’t find someone to go on for you, you’ll be ruined, you know that, Clarion?”

His eyes widen in delight, a grin blossoming across his face that he has to try and reign in as he slips out of his seat, a plan already forming. He doesn’t spare the time to explain to Ovid when he departs, trusting them to catch up eventually. 

     “Pardon me,” He starts, charming smile in place, warm and enveloping. “I couldn’t help overhearing your little problem, Clarion’s indescretions could be truly devastating to their career, couldn’t they? And I just had to come and offer our assistance. I have just the person to fix all of your problems.” He lays a hand on the womans back, gently hearding her toward their own table. “You’ll be shocked, you’ll be awed, you’ll collapse in relief. Tell me, ma’am. Have you ever met a doppler?” 

[calliopeofvalmyar]

ETRIS –– ARCHFEY GOD OF FATE, FORTUNE, AND MUSIC

THE HIGHEST LORD OF VALMYAR, cloaked in darkness and grim intent, with eyes that see all throughout the land. A god of decadence, of indulgence, of beautiful music and beautiful followers. Etris makes games of destiny, and plucks the strings of fate as if it is an instrument which only he can master. Etris makes games of his followers and subjects as well, often taking them to bed, often leaving them ruined once they leave his halls.