THERE ARE SOME WHO SURVIVE AND SOME WHO DON'T

DARCASSIAN PENVENAN, a rogue, the smartest man in the room, with a body like a map of pain. Look for him tomorrow and you shall find him a grave man. Trans man. He/Him. "I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory. When's it gonna get me? In my sleep, seven feet ahead of me? If i see it coming, do I run or do I let it be?"

[cassian-penvenan]

tatsuokon​:

mid-evening, the Verdicci Masquerade, towards the servants’ stairs at the back of the party      ( @cassian-penvenan​ )

He keeps having to remind himself that he’s at this party for a job and not just to enjoy himself. Or, rather, Adrik has to keep reminding him, every time he starts to get too close to getting carried away, every time he tries to pull them into some quiet corner or empty room away from the noise and the responsibility, or every time he starts to get a little too comfortable making small talk with well-dressed Catelian nobles, as if he hadn’t just been nearly assassinated something less than 48 hours ago.

He can’t help it: he’s dressed for it, an elaborate outfit of beads and carefully embroidered pink satin that he’d spent far too much money on, a rose gold mask set carefully across his face, barely hiding his identity but sheltering him just enough from close scrutiny that he feels like he could get away with almost anything. It’s cruel, to hold luxury out this close in front of him and tell him that he’s here to work. So he’s rather itching to get to it, by the time he and Cassian are supposed to reconvene near the back stairs that should take them down to the basement, to the vault around which Cassian’s been scouting to make sure they’ll have some time uninterrupted for him to break the thing open while Tatsuo stands guard. 

He’s there a minute or two before he should be, picks up a glass of something fizzy from one of the servants circulating nearby to give himself an excuse to be over here as he waits, moves to a nearby window that looks out over the Verdicci gardens, luxurious and well maintained.

     “Shall we get this over with?” he says, voice low, as soon as he can sense Cassian’s familiar presence just behind his shoulder, and then he turns to face him, gives him a grin. “That way, our spoils stored safely in that clever little bag of yours, you and I can actually enjoy the rest of the party.”

Cassian is aware, at the edge of things, that he might be... overextending himself. The little game with Zhenya, stealing books of all things. That had been easy, a simple mark and a simple method. I wasn’t taxing to make sure Calliope steered everyone away from the library, it wasn’t taxing to figure out what was valuble and take it. He was so good, after all, at taking things. The weight of the book he found, on that small section of their larger mission, is one that he can’t ignore. The knowledge that might be stored inside, the small and frantic hope that things can get better for him. It was a foolish idea, one he would have to explore later. For now, all he had to do was push through and do the second part of his job, in tonights proceedings. 

He might be overextending himself. But when it comes to stealing goods from impossible vaults...Cassian is pretty much the best option. It was how he had made a name for himself, after all. Darcassian Penvenan had been the most talented thief in Diregate –– if you needed something unlocked or broken-in-to, mundane or magical, Cassian was your man. He hadn’t let anybody down yet, and he didn’t mean to start tonight. But it meant more scouting than he had done in a year, more stealth than he had been able to manage since his body began to betray him. The lower floors of the basement, where the vault had been located, was one they had been careful to arrange a guard for when the party had been organised. More security than the party had as a whole, a well armed man making stricter rounds with less distractions available to them. Cassian had to be a shadow, as he slipped away from the party and explored the basement levels. Tracking his movements, timing how long it took for him to get from one spot to the next, how often the man crossed the entrance to the Vault, home to riches unimagined. They might be able to time things so that they found themselves at the vault doors when he was leaving them, but Cassian didn’t like to leave things up to fate. So Calliope was pulled away from the party for just a moment, to lure the man into compacency. Flirting and charm laced words seemed to do the trick, and a rather nasty bout of a sleeping spell, which left the man unconsious several hallways away from his true post.

His body ached, but his heart was racing, adrenaline propelling him forward –– the thrill of it, being back in his element, back in the saddle, in the middle of a heist. 

Cassian feels as if Tatsuo’s heart isn’t really in it, when they finally find themselves in each others company. He’s to be Cassian’s own guard, while he cracks into the vault. And Cass isn’t foolish, he’s noted the way that Tatsuo seemes...distracted, tonight. Hungry for anything but work. He doesn’t get the impression that they’ll actually spend all that much time together when this is done, sure as he always is that Tatsuo’s shadow will end up right beside him again, the two of them clinging together as they always do. Cassian is far past being bitter about that, so he just allows himself to roll his eyes at the thought of it, before he returns Tatsuo’s grin. “I do always have more fun when I know I’ve robbed someone for all they’re worth.” He muses, voice low. He inclines his head, then, and guides Tatsuo down to the depths of the basement, tracking the path he’d carved out earlier, until the hidden door to the vault is before them. He sets out his tools, then, and casts another lingering look at Tatsuo before he begins his work. He hides a wince, when he drops to a knee too qucikly before the locking mechanisms, the ache of it radiating back up through his body.

“There should only be the one guard on patrol, but that’s taken care of. Still, I don’t trust that no one else will come down here tonight. Stay sharp for me, won’t you?” 

[cassian-penvenan]

zhenyafen​:

For months Cassian has drifted through Zhenya’s periphery, a star that keeps winking out before they can bring themselves to reach for it, to chart its course. Questions grow in her mouth like bile when she catches him on the edge of camp. She swallows them back every time. He doesn’t want to be burdened by her curiosity, she reasons, he has more important things to worry about. So Zhenya says nothing, watching out of the corner of her eye, until he catches her and she looks away, jaw tight. 

It’s fine – more than fine. Zhenya is content to orbit around Cassian and he her, content to wonder without answer, until she hears of the library. Until the whispers drift to her of a dark an ancient magic, the shadows of it curling around her cheek like fingers. How long since her own magic has started to grow stagnant? She’s far out of practice, reduced to making trinkets by campfires when she used to bless swords with holy fire. But that was when there were surer hands guiding her own, when she didn’t count each day by the food in her belly and the shelter over her head. 

Which brings them here, hesitating only for a moment before Zhenya crosses the threshold after Cassian. Only the thrill of what they’re about to do distracts them from the horrible discomfort of their clothes for the occasion. Lords and ladies, Zhenya had worn this every day for court. Now it feels like someone else’s costume. A rather appropriate sentiment, they suppose; she’d stolen it hours before the ball began. 

“Ready as one can ever be,” she sighs, hands smoothing down the front of her jacket. No better time to play at thievery than with a mask over their face and an excuse to keep their hair down, covering their ears. “Any idea what kind of spine we’re looking for, or are we guessing?” They shoot Cassian a twisted attempt at a smile.

.

He’s been able to sense, since he got back to the Gambit, Zhenya’s curiosity and hesitance around him. She’s a new creature, someone who joined in the days when he was gone. Someone he didn’t have a connection with. He had assumed, the first time she glanced away from him, that someone had told her bad stories. Spoken ill of him, and now he was someone she would never really trust. That was fine, he could try to win it, and if he didn’t manage it it wouldn’t really matter at the end. At the very least, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her first hand. 

It was still strange, though. To work with her. Side by side, someone practically a stranger. He doesn’t let it give him pause, as they enter the Library. He feels breathless with the value of the books in this room, more than they could ever carry out. The golden lettering glinting in the low light, the delicate leatherwork, the gleam of metal clasps and velvet ribbons holding pages together.  “Hm,” He shoots her a look. “When in doubt, just look for whatever seems the most expensive.” 

He takes a step toward the shelves and starts scanning. “Although, that implies that the value of a book is housed in its rarity, in how much money was poured into making it. One can’t overlook the price of knowledge, either. You seem like the type of girl who understands the value of knowing something.” His fingers skim over titles. “An artificer, didn’t you say?” He asks, plucking a book from a shelf and tossing it in her direction. The title seemed like it would be relevant to her interests, if that was the case, and the quality of he binding told him it would sell for a pretty price if they found someone interested. 

He doesn’t stop to catch her reaction to it, the book or the careless way he sent it toward her. He’s scanning the shelves again, pulling out titles he knows to be rare, some that just look rather pretty. 

[cassian-penvenan]

( The Masquerade Ball, mid-way through the evening, @zhenyafen​ ) 

Cassian wishes, more than anything else, that he found the journey to this city a little bit easier. He was still getting used to really moving again, to travelling the hard and fast way that the Gambit did sometimes. Weary bones, shaking hands, and he knew that he had to keep it together. He wasn’t going to be a weight that slowed them down, he wasn’t going to let his weakness show. He would be worthy, and useful. 

And tonight was the night he would prove it to himself. Pushing through any of his reservations and working a party like he was born to do it. This was a night of rampant stealing, for all intents and purposes. And Cassian, above all else, had always been a master theif. Once upon a time, he could slip his hand into any pocket and get away unnoticed. He could open any door, any safe, any display case. His reputation for that, within the Gambit, had always been noted. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d robbed a library. But it wasn’t the normal thing that called to him. He liked shiney things, easy to slip into pockets. Necklaces, jewels, treasures and trinkets. But the call of rare books was something that couldn’t be ignored, not by them. Plus, he didn’t quite trust his hands to slip inti pockets unnoticed, anymore. 

So he’d planned it all perfectly, with Zhenya as an assistant. It wasn’t a hard thing to arrange. Calliope keeping watch, keepng anyone who might approach the library entertained while Cassian and Zhenya slipped inside and back out again, with books in hand. The moment that Calliope seems to be in possition, he nods his head to his companion. “I hope you’re ready to part some fools from their valubles.” He muses, voice low, a quiet whisper.

With that little quip he moves, casual as anything as he heads toward the library.

[cassian-penvenan]

gavrileontidis​:

Silence stretches between them into something cold and hard. Gavril thinks about retracting the question; it’d make life easier for the Gambit, no doubt. Darcassian can pretend he doesn’t know that Gavril knows, and they can go on fool’s errands together. A perfect and elaborate farce. Around them the carnival shifts, a new performer takes the open stage closest to them, and the music morphs into brassy, upbeat horns. “There’s no climb,” he says, almost to himself. “We move in circles.” 

They’re not friends. Gavril doesn’t mourn the state of his soul. He doesn’t think Cassian wants him to, anyway. 

His breath catches - so the healers had given a deadline. Darcassian seems to slump, overcome with despair for a moment, until he straightens again and holds his head upright. There’s a glitter of something in his watery blue eyes, and Gavril has never seen him so earnest. The obsidian sinks in his pocket, alongside the red bead. 

“It’s not wrong,” he says, stoic in the face of Cassian’s vulnerability.  “I don’t believe in absolution, but the fact that you would try… it makes you a better man than most of us.” There is something admirable about a last-ditch, futile effort to be good - at least, it seems futile to Gavril. “But I can’t lie to them, not about this. They’d want to know.” 

He doesn’t realise he’s moving until his right glove is off and the white Camellia’s hand is raised before him, reaching for Cassian’s arm. Lisaya. Or his own instincts, over the years with the Gambit. Fix what’s broken. Heal what hurts. He just wants to know, really, if it’s as bad as it sounds. “May I?” 

His mouth twists, just for a moment. It’s a self-depricating smile. A better man. It was a novel idea, and so wrong that it almost made him ache. No, it did make him ache. Because there was an old chasm in him, the shadow of a little boy who... who would have liked to be good. Who would have liked to be loved, and guided with a gentle hand. He’d been a wreched, abandoned thing instead, with a mother who slept around and a father who threw him out on the streets for being...different. 

Cassian feels choked with it, the panic at the idea of his secret being out in the open, so soon after they return. He’d felt much stronger before he walked up to Gavril, and now he wishes he had stayed away, had been smarter. Of course, he should have known that Gavril would see through him like a glass window, would read him like a book. He’d never been a subtle creature, for all that he wore his lies like a second skin, a set of armour against the world. He sounds a little choked, as well. Torn open, more vulnerable than Gavril has any right to. “Don’t lie to them.” He offers, “Just don’t tell them. Please. Not ––” He glances away again. “I will, and soon, tell the truth. I just need...a little time.” 

It’s a plea, and it isn’t one that Gavril has to listen to. He’d be right to just let the word get out, and they really would want to know. They had a right to be aware of whatever dead weight they might be dragging around with them for the next few months. Should be able to decide if they’d rather chase him off, or leave until Cassian was dead and gone for good this time. 

His gaze flicks back, as Gavril moves. Glove removed, hand outreached. And there’s a novel concept: being touched by someone, not an elven healer, not Tatsuo. He could flinch away, it might be smart. He knows Gavril doesn’t care for him. But he doesn’t. He’s far too vulnerable inside to deny the request. He wants as much contact as he can get, even if its a clinical observation, even if just for Gavril to catalogue the web of wounds across his body, the map of pain that leads only to damnation. There are slashes dancing across his chest, some scarred, some that still threaten to open up every time he shifts wrong. Bruises against so many parts of himself. Fault lines. So Cassian nods his acquesance, a stiff movement, and steps forward enough for Gavril to make contact. 

[cassian-penvenan]

tatsuokon​:

There is an ease, to being around Cassian, hard won and familiar. His had been a bristly presence, when he first joined the Gambit, that not everyone had taken to, and he’d seemed reluctant to make friends, and then they had been friends, close in a way that Tatsuo had been close with few others before. Comfortable, and easy, in a way two men so easy to dislike could only be with one another. They had looked at one another and, different as they were, both seen something there that kept them coming back.

It feels a bit like being home, to have him back—or, at least as close to something like home as Tatsuo has now, in a world that his home has been eradicated from, a map where the place he grew up was once a star and is now an ink smudge. He feels relief; as relieved as he’s ever been. To have Cassian back. Back, and not dead, same as he ever was. 

     “Of course they were glad to be rid of you,” he replies, fondly. “You’re an absolute bastard on the best of days. I’m shocked even the ever-generous elves were noble enough not to kick you out sooner.” 

He lets himself smile, again, really smile, the relief washing through him again. He’s not one to put much stake in luck, or in fate, not when fate has had its way with him so many times in the past several years and usually come up on the wrong side of things. But… this carnival is all about luck, and he’s starting to suspect that if he’d decided to waste a few tal pulling a bead from a jar, it would have come up in his favor just this once.

     “Well, if you ever decide you want vengeance, let me know. I’m sure the bastard that did this has absolutely rancid blood; maybe Adrik’s god will have something to say about it. In the meantime—we are at a party, and this is cause to celebrate.” 

It’s easy, sometimes, to get lost in Tatsuo’s smile. Not to the same depths that he used to, in the early days. But it’s still always a sight that Cassian is glad to see, a gentle warmth, a beacon of something softer. He’d thought about it in passing, when he lay on his sick bed. How nice it would be to see it again, how much he wished he could, if even only once before he left this life for the next. And here he was, seeing it. The relieved expanse of Tatsuo’s face, believing all was well. The smile, a quirk of his lips, because Cassian is... here, back with them, for however long it lasts. 

He smiles in return, and actually lets it twist in distaste at the mention of the bastard that did this. Harcourt Vale was a vicious man, he had always taken such sick pleasure in things like this. And he would be beside himself with glee, knowing that Cassian couldn’t escape this damage, knowing that Cassian had come crawling back to the gambit in the hopes of some scraps of affection. He’d always liked to see Cassian bent and broken and grovelling for whatever he could get. It shouldn’t be any different now. 

“Lets not think about him, now.” He says, with a wave of a hand, because he didn’t want to waste his time praying for revenge. He doubted that Adrik’s blood god would have much time for his pleas, his prayers for mercy or for justice. For all that Adrik was a terrifying beast of an assassin, they had a heart made for far softer things. Helping the needy, love piled upon love at their shoulders. 

“Celebration.” A smirk, and he leans forward a little bit. “Now that’s something I can get behind. Figuring I owe you a few drinks by now, from the old days.” 

[cassian-penvenan]

gavrileontidis​:

With the sun high above them it feels like everything is exposed. The obvious pallor of Darcassian’s skin, the bags under his eyes. Gavril wonders if he ought to feel slightly insulted that Darcassian believes he can fool him - and the Gambit - so transparently. Then again, maybe it’s because Lisaya has told him where to look.

He holds Cassian’s gaze, mouth set in a thin line. A thief is a thief, and a believer is a believer. Consistency is something Gavril admires, because he doesn’t know how to embody it. “No, it doesn’t,” he replies. “Which is good. Why would you want to sound moral? It would be rather a stretch if you’d turned over a new leaf entirely.” Darcassian makes it sound so easy - retrieve a precious gemstone in three easy steps! His eyes, his presence, belie the reality of the ordeal. If arduity is the measure of penance, he may have surpassed it.

This is how Lisaya weighs punishment. Retributive, an eye for an eye, the balanced scales. The hand that tore the seams of the ascetic plane wide open; the hand that was taken away. Gavril gently runs a finger over the surface of the obsidian, reacquainting himself with its weight, before he tucks it away. 

“You want to be good,” he observes, matter-of-fact. “And how long do you have left to do it?” Lisaya likes it when people try to be good; reformation was a big thing at the Sterling Temple. But They know Gavril disagrees. How much of a life can you spend on your knees repenting? What good does that do anyone? He doesn’t quite meet Darcassian’s eyes when he asks, quietly, “What did the elven healers say when you left them?”

Darcassian huffs out a laugh, despite the thin line of Gavril’s mouth, despite the tension between them that he supposes will always be there. It’s just funny, because it’s true. He isn’t a changed man completely, even if he wants to be. He still has dark corners and his muscle memory keeps pushing him in the wrong direction. Cassian would have to learn to be better, would have to try it over and over again. It was hard, but he would do it. “Yes,” He agreed, with that frantic level of amusement laying just under the surface. “I suppose it would be better if I went for the slow climb back to humanity. Much more compelling, that way. “ 

Its stupid, to get lulled into a false sense of security. To think that his job might be done here, that he could walk away at any moment when Gavril was finished considering the efforts of morality. Cassian is nodding at the matter of fact sound of Gavril’s voice, he does. He wants to be good. He freezes, though, when the follow up comes. He feels...

He feels caught out. He feels breathless. He feels sharp and betrayed somehow, and in the next breath he feel weak. He looks up, harsh for a moment, and doesn’t let himself crumble, no matter how hard he wants to. His mouth twists, his eyes flick away again, and it hangs heavily in between them for a long moment.

It would be useless to lie. That much is clear, not when the question is so direct, not when Gavril is so sure. He shakes his head, and any harshness in his visage melts away. Because he’s so tired. Tired from the journey, heartbroken over the last year of his life, devastated that he’lll die with so many people remembering him as...something despicable. His voice is quiet, he lets it be resigned. “That I’d be lucky to make it to the winter solstice.” He shakes his head, looks down at his shoe, where it scuffs in the dirt. “They can’t do anything besides watch me die there, so. I thought.” His voice shakes, just for a moment, and he steels himself, makes himself stand up straighter. Furious at himself for the weaknes of it. “Is it –– I just thought. Well. Is it so wrong to want to fix as much as I can, before I go?”

Cassian shakes his head again, shifts in his clothes, the way they sit just not-quite-right on his smaller frame. “It doesn’t matter. Just. Don’t tell anyone else. I don’t want them to forget I was despicable just out of pity.” 

[cassian-penvenan]

syvashkastrilko​:

An ever-so-slight frown had settled on Vashka’s brow. The concerned kind. Cassian really must be exhausted. There was a haziness to him, unlike who Vashka remembered - Penvenan had one of those minds that wound tight as a trapline. Now, though, something was sticking. The road was hard, between Fahryst and Lodorwind; but this hard? Perhaps, but… but he shouldn’t worry. Not where Cassian could see, anyway. He’d never seemed too pleased by fretting. Gentle enough wasn’t quite a reassuring answer, but Vashka nodded, not wanting to press. “Good. Very good.” It was. There had been much to fear, when they left Penvenan behind to be mended. The worst, really. 

But. Here he was. So soon, too. It felt soon - too soon, but those Lodorwind elves could work wonders. And that had been the idea, after all. He nodded again, slower, as Cassian pointed out the sizable, shaggy-maned mare at his heels. Then stared, frankly. He wanted to be of some help? Without even knowing what with? That worried frown had turned a corner, toward confusion. Cassian must want something. Mustn’t he? Always planning, calculating, arranging. Was he after a favour? Perhaps a sensible assumption. But not a kind one. Catching himself, Vashka loosened a little, that smile not so tight. Suspicion was something he’d learned, from these people; not a natural bent, and not a feeling he much liked, frankly. 

“Ah… I’ve meant to go to the hills, for herbs. The flowers, and so on. It’s nothing much to do, but - if you like? Then, please. Your ride must be resting, yes?” As Cassian probably should be, looking as he did. But. “We’ll find you another. Or -” they probably wouldn’t, he realized, with so many people borrowing mounts to explore the area during their stay. “Take mine?” Vashka gave his horse a solid pat to the withers, and scratched under her soft chin. “It’s not so far to walk. She was only coming to carry the things, really, and we’re in no hurry at all.” He certainly wasn’t, at least. A slow-roaming day in the countryside sounded far better than braving the festival. Maybe Cassian simply wanted the same, a while away from the noise, the business. So, they could find this together. That would be fine enough. Even if Penvenan had never been especially pleasant company… but that was before, and - and he seemed out of sorts, and it wouldn’t be well to turn him away at such a time. No. It would be fine enough.  

There was always something soft about talking to Vashka –– something to do with his nature, the way he was. Cassian didn’t think about the irony to that, just enjoyed the return to it. He wasn’t delusional. He knew they weren’t really friends, he knew that he had never quite made the effort before to be kind, or patient. He was stiff. And often rude. And not extactly the friendly, cuddly type. As much as he regretted that now, it was true. But he had liked Vashka, in the way he often did with his team mates. He thought he was...a good man. Better than Cassian had ever been. 

He allows an almost-smile, a quirk of the lips. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, when Adrik pointed him toward Vashka. Hunting a beast. Finding some poor lost soul. Hunting a treasure or some great prize. He was used to that kind of thing, in the Gambit. It seemed that there was always something important to do, where they landed on their travels. But Vashka was off for herbs, for flowers. Nothing much to do. Something that Cassian, over a year ago, would have waved off. He huffs out a small sound. “I’d like.” He agrees, trying to seem like its completely ordinary. He does feel a twinge of it, uncertainty. Because his ride is resting, and he knows they won’t find another one. 

Cassian looks up at Vashka then, and he can’t physically let himself be selfish with it. He huffs out a sound, a shadow of his past impatience. “Don’t be silly. I couldn’t –– I couldn’t possibly.” He says, “I’m here to help, not inconvenience you. You should ride.” Maybe it was silly, maybe it was a strange hill to die on. Maybe he still had that bitter strength inside him that wouldn’t admit to weakness. 

He brushes his fingers through his hair, for a moment. Looks at Vashka and practices his softer version of a smile, new on his face now. “Really. I’m fine, you know? The walk might be...nice. So lead the way.” 

[cassian-penvenan]

tatsuokon​:

There’s something softer in the lines of Cassian’s face then he’s used to, something changed in him, and—that shouldn’t be a surprise, given the state they’d parted in, Cassian nearer to death than Tatsuo had ever been, even in all of his own scrapes. And yet it is a surprise. A surprise to see a smile from him that looks like something other than a sharp, knowing grin or a wry smirk, a look in his eye that holds something genuine and gentle and not gone in a flash. Maybe that’s just what comes from a brush with death; maybe Cassian has to be different now than he was before, maybe everything has to have been changed, by it. The way Tatsuo was changed, time and time again, by the flames that consumed the palace, by the blades of men who had pursued him, by the stench of the alley behind a tavern and the kind eyes and kind hands that had pulled him back to his feet…

Cassian leans back, and seems to slip back into the man Tatsuo used to know again, though his words are something the old Cassian would never have admitted to. Missing them. Tatsuo lets out a short, soft laugh, settles back into his own seat again, slides his half-finished drink in Cassian’s direction, a small offering, a silent apology for not recognizing him a moment sooner, a silent apology for leaving with the rest of the Gambit when Cassian was too close to death to be awake and aware of it.

     “That must be why I’m so good at staying alive,” he jokes, lightly. “Something in me knows how boring death would be, and fundamentally rebels at the thought of it.” 

He bumps Cass’s knee with his own, the distance between their seats closer than he would ordinarily sit to someone else, close enough that he can see faint lines in Cassian’s face that weren’t there the last time he looked, darker circles under his eyes. 

     “But you’re back now. And you’re feeling better? I mean, the elves found a cure, to get you back on your feet?” 

Darcassian lets himself soak in the warmth of this, for a moment. The old joy of having Tatsuo by his side. It was something he’d never really known before he met the man in front of him, something he’d never thought he wanted. And then suddenly, he had. He’d wanted whatever Tatsuo could give him with a frantic and jealous desperation. It’s lessened, calmed with time, but he still enjoys whatever he’s given. Even more so now, when hes touch starved and hungry for contact, when he’s hungry for whatever scraps any single member of the Gambit can throw at him.

Tatsuo bumps his knee, looks at him, and Cassian looks back. Lets himself play with the idea of being a softer and more honest version of himself, something more deserving of the affection he wants so badly. He’ll never be Adrik, but he can still be Tatsuo’s friend. 

Honesty, of course, is much easier in principle than in practice. And he stops short of himself when Tatsuo asks the question he’d known was coming. He could tell the truth. He could say that his curse, as far as they knew, could never be undone. His body would unwind itself and slowly rot from within, any wounds he gained on the road would hurry him on his way. Cassian could look Tatsuo in the eye, right now, and tell him that he had come home to die. He could admit that some small part of him hoped, more than anything else, one of the Gambit would be there to hold his hand when the time came. Because he was scared. Because he didn’t want to be alone, before his body sent him to hell. 

Or he could not do that. 

“They did some remarkable work, trying to sort me out.” He says, which is technically true. They’d kept him alive this far. “To be honest, I’m sure they’re glad to be rid of me.” A quick grin, a shrug of his shoulders. 

“It’s all fine now.” It was. It was fine. He had accepted it. “I’m ready to get back out in the world, make some tal. Drag you into some kind of trouble, if the opportunity arises.” 

[cassian-penvenan]

gavrileontidis​:

The thing about being the Gambit’s go-to healer (albeit reluctantly) is that he’s seen most of them in some degree of pain or discomfort. And he knows how they try to hide it. Lisaya sees all, despite your best efforts; he’s been on the receiving end of that gaze himself. Patience. They seem to want to hear Darcassian out. Gavril wants to roll his eyes.

“You’ve said your piece,” he says, fist closing around the gem. He has to force himself not to shake. There are some parts of his past he’s doomed to oblivion, because he knows he’ll never get them back. Soar, Craita. The obsidian snaps past and present together in an instant. Do things differently. Lights, Darcassian will need to be a little more specific than that. They all want to do things differently, a merry band of sinners. Gavril will forgive (has forgiven) but he won’t forget. “No, I haven’t forgotten the mess you left behind you,” he says. The curse, they’d agreed, merited the careful attention of Lodorwind’s elven healers, not Gavril’s rather more slapdash methods. He’d tried - even for Darcassian - and he’d failed. 

Though to be fair, he’s improved since Darcassian left; the Gambit give plenty of opportunity for practice. And Gavril of now can sense it - not the pain, but the thread, the stitching holding him together. He could press Cassian further. Or he could turn his back and walk right out of Fahryst. Perhaps this is a little pilgrimage, doing his rounds of the Gambit and making penance. Doesn’t work that way.

Patience, patience. He sighs.

It’s as if the carnival pulls away from the two of them, a bubble of regret, grey and quiet. He could press Cassian further or he could give him a break - you don’t have to be blessed to know he’s dead on his feet. Gavril rolls the obsidian out of the bag, into the palm of his left hand, a pure coal black with whispers of green. A familiar face; an old friend. “How did you get it? Can’t have been easy.”

.

Darcassian wishes, sometimes, that it was easier to just build yourself anew. His old instincts still live inside him, the ones that tell him there’s no one in the world worth breaking his back over. No one ever looked out for him, after all. No one ever seemed to care. Except, he knew that wasn’t true. Because people in the Gambit had looked out for him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Because some of them seemed to care. And he knows more of them would, if he’d been a better man than he was before. If he’d known, then, how to give in to his fears and just allow himself to be soft, just for a second.

He knows he should be trying for that now, but the idea of it makes him feel sicker than any curse does. It had been important before that he didn’t need to lean on anybody, that he didn’t need any other person to feel whole. He looks away for a moment, a quick glance. The mess he’d left behind, indeed. Blood on their clothes, the burden of him surely heavy in their hands. His enemy and his would-be-murderer had been honourable enough, at least, not to hurt any other member of the party. But it was still a mess he had made for himself, still something that he should be held accountable for in his own right. In the end, his life would be given in recompence for the wrongs he had done. He just hoped that he could clean up some of his mess before his soul really did depart. 

He swallows past the desperation for that, and tries for a sly sort of grin. “How do I get anything?” He asked, with an almost lofty air, though he feared that the performance of it was transparent now. It wasn’t as natural as it used to be, for him. “I’m a thief. I steal things.” He breathes in, and chances eye contact again. “It wasn’t so hard.” He continues, of course, a lie. It had been the hardest thing he did all year. He felt like it almost killed him again, tired bones and panting breath. He’d broken out into a nosebleed from the strain of just moving. He’d wanted to sleep for days when it was done. But it had been worth it. “Wait until dark. Climb through a window. Break into a safe. Flee the scene before anyone could find me there.” A quirk of his lips, again. “Doesn’t make me sound quite as moral as I’d like, does it?” 

[cassian-penvenan]

tatsuokon​:

It’s the voice that does it. That stops him in his tracks, makes him look, and actually see, that cuts through the illusion of his different things can look when they are out of place. Because Cassian’s voice is so, so obviously him, in that unmistakable way. Tatsuo has heard it hundreds of times. Had thought he might never hear it again, and yet, here it is. And here he is. Darcassian Penvenan in the flesh, looking remarkably better than he had the last time Tatsuo had seen him. 

     “Fuck,” he exhales, entirely against his will. Eyes widening. Cassian is in Lodorwind, off with some fancy elvish healers. Cassian is gone, not traveling with them anymore, has been gone for a year and—

And Cassian is here. Sitting next to him, in Adrik’s seat. Which, really, seems like something they wouldn’t mind all that much. They didn’t like Cassian in the same way he and Tatsuo had always gotten along, but they had known Tatsuo cared for him and had seemed to shape their own presence around him accordingly. He thinks they’d be happy enough to see Cassian, knowing he was happy enough—happy, and relieved, and somehow furious all at once, furious because he’d had to be afraid, furious because he’d been convinced they’d never see one another again, that Cassian would have the gall to go and die without him.

     “You dumb piece of shit,” he finds himself saying, the words tumbling of of his mouth and he hits Cassian’s shoulder with the back of one gloved hand and then, before he’s even processed that much, he’s hugging him, arms wrapped tight, a hand splayed across his back. Finds a feeling in his chest, somehow, that if he holds tight enough that will mean Cassian is staying, won’t slip through his fingers again. “Welcome back, brother.” 

Cassian smiles, almost managing to make it a playful thing. Almost. Even through the feeling of the hand hitting his shouder. That would bruise, no doubt, but it would be a mark on his body that he could cherish at the very least, unlike the rest of them. A mark of someone who cared for him. His stomach twisted at that, though not unpleasently. He allowed himself to sink into the feeling of Tatsuo embracing him. A hug, such a simple thing. It shouldn’t threaten to break him apart, it shouldn’t make him want to crumble. 

Brother. He huffs out a laugh, against the skin of Tatsuo’s neck. He clenches his fingers into the fabric of his shirt for a moment, shakes his head in some kind of fondness. That might have felt like a slight before, might have made his stomach twist in some shadow of rejection. It didn’t, now. Those feelings dimmed by the relief of being back here, safe in the knowledge that Tatsuo cared enough to embrace him at all. 

“It’s good to be back,” He admits, pulling away slightly to let Tatsuo see his small, gentle smile. He reaches up and messes up the hair slightly before he pulls away. Leans back in his chair, settles his weary bones for a moment. He wants to seem stronger than he is, he tries to imbue himself with the old thoughtless confidence he used to have. “This may be difficult to believe, but I think I actually missed everyone. The one thing they don’t tell you about almost dying is that its really, terribly boring.” 

That, at least, was true. It had all been carefully clean rooms and stern healers, with hopeless looks in their eyes as they surveyed his body. The mages they brought in, purveyors of dark knowledge, all with shaking heads and grimacing smiles. And all of that alone, with no company to sooth his heart. He’d been scared, and he’d wanted his friends, but of course they’d had the world calling to him. They couldn’t have stayed. He doesn’t blame them for that. 

[cassian-penvenan]

gavrileontidis​:

On his way down from the temple of Laimyre, Gavril takes a bead from the jar and murmurs thanks to the priestess. It’s a heavy, deep red - ominous, but Gavril tells himself he doesn’t believe in that kind of thing anymore. He makes his way towards the taverns, a new wariness in his step. There’s still work to be done in this city, as long as the sun shines.

After a day in Fahryst, he’s grown acclimated to the endless light - still bugs him, but he’s picked more appropriate daywear to loiter in the city and look for odd jobs. Arctic orcs don’t take well to this heat. The gloves, however, stay on, rolling the bead gently between the fingers of his left hand. Gavril finds a quiet spot and surveys the festivities - there’s an ice sculptor on one of the outdoor stages gathering quite a crowd - when he notices a familiar face coming his way. 

He remembers thinking good riddance the day Darcassian left. He drops the bead into his pocket, slides the glove off and prepares a spell, but Lisaya stops him. He’s hurt. They can sense it, somehow, although Gavril just sees a face begging to be punched. He’s done nothing to earn my pity. But as always, Lisaya never speaks when spoken to. Only fills him with longing to run his hands upon the seams, the wounds, and close them. 

But Darcassian moves first. The gesture surprises him, so much so that his hand moves involuntarily to take the bag. Gavril recognises it by the cold weight in his palm, an obsidian unique to Ohrog, an heirloom among the mining families. Not just any gem - his, the one stolen by Darcassian three years ago. “I won’t thank you for returning what was never yours to take,” he says, looking up once more. “What’s wrong with you?” Gavril was never one to mince words, least of all with Darcassian. 

.

There was a long time where Darcassian didn’t really care what other people thought about him. It was easy to cope with the damage of pissing someone off, of hurting them by taking something or twisting a situation for his own gain. He certainly hadn’t cared about getting on Gavril’s bad side, all those years ago. And Cassian thought maybe the worst thing about dying was... now he did care. Now he didn’t want to be hated. Now he wished they wouldn’t all be glad that he was gone. 

“I don’t want you to thank me.” He says, eyes flitting away from Gavril as he weighs the ge in his hand. Its muscle memory to allow his voice to be just a little bit too sharp, and the sound of it now almost makes him wince. “I don’t expect to be forgiven. Not yet, at the least. But you should have my apology regardless.” Trying to sound indifferent, trying to sound like it doesn’t matter. Because it doesn’t, and he really doesn’t expect it. Not for something as small as this. He should have to work so much harder to earn anything like forgiveness from someone like Gavril. “I’ve learned that, well... alright. Listen. I’m a shit person, I know that. But I thought I would try and do things differently now.” 

Arms tucked behind his back, he clasps a hand around his own wrist in a vain effort to steady himself. He feels startled, suddenly. Like he’s been caught in a lie. Like Gavril can see right through him. It leaves him feeling exposed and naked, delicate in the light of day. Of course Gav knows, of course he can sense the hurt. Hurt is his speciality, healing his divine right. Cassian purses his lips and thinks on his answer, a delicate arch of his brow. He huffs out a laugh, but its a laboured thing. “I know we were never on the best of terms, Gavril, but I would have hoped you’d remember dragging my bleeding body to Lodorwind alongside the others.” 

No need to mention the wounds that still threatened to open up at any moment, given enough strain on his body. No need to mention the way he had to fight against the depserate urge to go to sleep and never wake up, the way his body bruised at the slightest provocation, the way new wounds would stubbornly continute to weep and weep and weep until they threatened to drain away his life. The bandages hidden under clothes, the charms covering the worst. His voice is softer, by a fraction, when he carries on. “Just tired from the journey.” An easy excuse, and one that Vashka had assumed for himself. 

[cassian-penvenan]

syvashkastrilko​:

Mid-morning, on the first day of the carnival. With @cassian-penvenan​.

Even now, after so many years running with these people - and all the others who’d slipped in and out of their fold, in that time - the start of settling into some new place was always strange, for Vashka. Just so unlike what he’d been used to, before; no billets assigned, no tasks delegated, no orders, really, at all. His time needed spending, though. Better to stay busy. Yesterday, Gwyn had swept him off into the snow, following that trail. Today, left to his own devices as Fahryst churned with festival-goers and the party started to spill into the streets, he’d found himself too restless to stand by, and not entirely prepared for mingling. (If he ever was.) So. Leading his shaggy mare through the bustle of the inn’s stables, Vashka intended to keep out of the way, and do something useful with himself. Useful and quiet. 

Those plans, simple as they were, veered abruptly as he glimpsed a cut-glass sort of face past the stall gates. Elvish in angle, and familiar. “Cassian?” Vashka pulled up the horse, stepping around to see, to be sure. Yes - there he was. Early? This seemed very early, to be out in the world again. After what Penvenan had survived. Barely. “I thought -” he stopped, swallowing a few probably stupid questions. Cassian had never struck him as especially patient. Wouldn’t want to get on his bad side already. So Vashka sorted out a smile, instead. “Welcome back to us. I hope the healers were gentle with you, in the city?” Such people could be their own kind of hard. And they must have been working quickly, to have him well so soon. Though Cassian did seem… weathered, a little. No wonder. All that, and then those roads - no wonder. 

.

It was a delicate kind of peace he had found. With an aching body, aching bones, but a heart that sang out for the company he had recently found himself claiming once again. To see his old companions again had been strange, had been exactly what he wanted. And so far, it had gone exactly as he imagined. Some who bristled at the sight of him. Some who embraced him as an old friend. And now there was Vashka, who he didn’t quite know how to cope with. 

Cassian tries to approach with confidence, with an ease. But he knows that he moves differently now that his body is so bruised and tired. He knows he doesn’t have the same easy grace to pull out at a moments notice. He knows that he is a weak and fragile thing now.  Vashka seems surpried to see him, and that isn’t strange. Of course he would be, with the bloody state that Cassian had been in when he departed from the group. He feels something inside of him clench, at the way that he stumbles over the words. A year ago it might have been impatience, but now he wishes he had the strength to tell Vashka to just take his time, not to worry. He purses his lips for a moment, ignoring the way his heart leaps at the smile. Its a gentle thing, and Cassian hadn’t actually been certain how Vashka would react to his return. 

“Gentle.” He repeats, almost dumbly. Oh, he longed for gentle things now. More than he had before. Though there has always been something in him that wanted to be treated with care. To be seen and deemed worthy of a soft touch, of warm words, of some small semblance of love. “Gentle enough, I suppose.” He offers, with a tired flick of his hand. “And happy enough to send me on my way when they were done with me.” That part is a lie, of course, because they told him he could live quite a while longer if he stayed in their care. 

“I’m....” A moment of thought. “Glad, lets say, to see you again.” Which is more honesty and vulnerability than he is strictly ready for. He straightens a little, delicate hands gesturing toward the beast beside Vashka. “You have your horse.” A stupidly obvious statement. “Adrik mentioned you might be heading out for something or another. I thought you might want some help, with that.” 

[cassian-penvenan]

( a quiet spot at the festival, day two, probably near the taverns )       @gavrileontidis​

Darcassian never used to get this nervous. Then again, he never used to care this much about what other people thought of him. Before the world crashed down around him, he’d been sure he was going to live a long life –– longer than some of the people he knew, thanks to his mother and the longevity of her kind. He didn’t know how important it was to make a good impression, yet. He didn’t know just how badly he wanted to be loved, to have friends, people who would stand beside him when the world became dark and unpleasent, when his body literally wouldn’t hold itself together. 

He can feel bandages against his skin, under his coat. Bruises covered up by illusion magic. His body held steady by potions he drank. He was so much more fragile now than he had been before. In his mind, as well. He felt a desperation for contact, for forgiveness, for any amount of affection he could win from the Gambit, now that he had returned to it. 

His plan for Gavril had been put in place before he actually set out to rejoin them. A certainty had blossomed in his mind that he couldn’t go back until he had worked to right one of his numerous wrongs. The gem, in its small bag, feels like the heaviest weight of the world, where it’s tucked safe inside of his pocket. 

He’s been waiting for a moment, some time quiet. He’s been waiting to work up the courage. His hands shake when he approaches Gavril, but he ignores that, steadfast in his determination. He clears his throat, stands up a little straighter, and slips his hand into his pocket to retrieve the little thing, enclosed in black velvet. It had been such a pain to get it back, to steal it back from who he had sold it to. The effort almost left him bedridden, but he’d done it. 

     “Here.” He says, holding the small bag out. “I think this is yours.” 

[cassian-penvenan]

tatsuokon​:

early on in the carnival     yet another lovely outdoor tavern ( @cassian-penvenan​ )

He’s really enjoying the sun. The warmth. Lodorwind had been on the cold side, and the Gambit’s long trek along the edge of the northern tundra had been worse. Sure, the Northern Kingdom of the Blossoms, being up in the mountains, had gotten cold every once in a while, but he’d always been a summer child. So Adrik had darted off somewhere, probably knowing better than to pull him away from his current position, basking in the sun at one of the tavern’s outdoor tables, had left in the way they often did that always felt like a promise to be back. As far as he’s concerned, the chair they vacated is still occupied, the shadow of the promise of their return, a bookmark, held open. 

So when, behind his closed eyes and reclined head, he senses someone who is clearly not Adrik approaching the empty seat, it stirs him from his sun-drenched doze and back into the waking world, letting his eyes fall open  and moving just slightly to show he’s still alive and alert and not letting anyone steal this chair. 

      “Seat’s saved,” he says, barely glancing at the person approaching, gesturing a hand to a nearby table instead. “There are seats over there, though. Plenty of other places to sit.” 

.

He’d caught word of the Gambit travelling outside of Lodorwind, and it had felt like a sign from the Gods. Even through the weakness in his bones, his shaking hands, the effort it took to behave normally without the gallons of healing potions he took day to day now –– he’d longed for them. Been strong enough to long for them, this group that had become his family, even if several in their ranks probably thought they were better off without him.

He’s grateful that he runs in to Tatsuo first. Because he doesn’t think Tatsuo would hate his return. Because his heart always did beat a little faster at the sight of that man, and now the flush of life was comforting. A reminder that his heart could still beat strongly despite the strain. He’s relieved, but damn him, he still feels nervous. You see, Darcassian has never been the kind of man who recieved a lot of love. Never been the person in a group that you couldn’t stand to lose. He feels a moment of hesitance, and wonders if he should go back to Lodorwind, if he should leave them all be. Fear and longing war in his chest for a moment. The fear that he’ll be an unwelcome addition to the party, the longing he has for company. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore, not when the end comes to take him. 

So he fixes all of his lies in place, and he plasters over the fear with a confidence that’s much harder to capture, these days. 

Darcassian can’t help but snort out a rough laugh at Tatsuo’s greeting. He pushes the chair out and collapses in to it, regardless of anything else. “Rejecting me already, is it? Another slight to add to my list of grievances with you.” He says, giving Tatsuo a moment to glance up and actually look at him, for his voice to sink in so that Tatsuo can realise who it is. “Surprise.” 

[cassian-penvenan]

firbolg, tiefling

Is there something you would die to protect?

“At this point, probably anyone I’d ever met before. Funny thing about the Gambit –– I’m sure there will be ample opportunity to go out in a blaze of glory, protecting one of those fools.”

What is the best or worst first impression you’ve ever made?

“I think I rather made a mess of things with...well, far too many people. When your first impression is conning someone, or stealing their most valued worldly posessions. Though I do maintain that anyone dim enough to get robbed probably deserved it –– well, I can see now how it would be... hurtful.” 

[cassian-penvenan]

dragonborn, kenku

Give at least (one) unpopular opinion on something?

“All the famous bards are overrated? Festivals are stupid? Most of the time its okay to steal from people, as long as they’re really annoying and really dumb.” 

How well do you communicate with others?

“Amazingly. I’m a fantastic communicator.” 

[cassian-penvenan]

jessie mei li

KATERINA OF LODORWIND

A scholar of the The Volscian Conservatory in Lodorwind. Katerina was plagued with the burden of never realising she was the smartest person in any room. A kind girl, with gentle hands. For several months she apprenticed under the healers looking after Cassian, and for several months she made him wonder if he should have tried to be a better man while he could. He isn’t sure why, but even after her short apprenticeship was over, she still came to see him. His one visitor. His one friend in the world stationary enough to see him. Katerina was the one who infected him with his new, silly little ideas about morality. 

“There are never any lost causes,” she would say, despite the fact that his blood wouldn’t stop running out of a new damned papercut. “Redemption can be found even in the unlikeliest of places,” She would say, despite the fact that he had done more bad in his life than she could count. “Righting a wrong sometimes sooths the soul, even if you don’t manage to earn forgiveness at the end.” She said, and it gave him the idea, sparked a vicious longing in him to see the Gambit and fix whatever he had done to cause them pain in the past, to savor the friendships he still had with them.