renounced.

praise the day / believe in sheltering skies / stable earth beneath / hear his breath come through his teeth / walk by faith / tell no one what you've seen / walk by faith / tell no one what you've seen / tell no one what you've The world needs bad men. We keep the other bad men from the door.

[gavrileontidis]

ezekind​:

They’ve been coming down to the docks just about every day since they arrived in Catelia with Wyn. Helping to repair ships, hauling cargo, the kind of unglamorous work they grew up on, not particularly exciting, but enough to get by, to make a few tal, pay for the room they’ve been staying in, pay for food and supplies. Meet a few people—though the sailors that come into Catelia’s harbor are all either deeply unambitious or have an impressive death wish and nowhere in between, so they don’t imagine they’ll find anyone particularly useful here. 

The captain of the ferry is one of the deeply unambitious sort, a career woman settled in the fact that Catelia will always need a ferry, and there’s something respectable about that even if it isn’t the kind of life Ezek can ever see themself not hating. But she’s kind, and needs help, and is wealthy enough to pay, and that’s about all they know: I need someone to help, she’d said, and handed them a bag of tal and they’d promised to meet her down on the docks. 

The half-orc standing by her side as they make their way over, however, is a surprise they hadn’t been expecting. A familiar face, among the orderly chaos of an island so far from home. 

      “Well, well,” they say, looking Gavril up and down. “Last place I would’ve expected to see you turn up again.” There’s a hint of a smile behind their usual gruff demeanor. It’s been a long time, since they’ve seen one another, and Gavril looks better than Ezek would have expected he’d look, given the state he was in the last time. 

They turn their attention back to the ferry captain: if Gavril’s helping with whatever this is, there will be time for small talk—or, time to avoid it—later. She turns to them, too, a note of surprise in her expression at the apparent familiarity between the two people she’s hired to—do whatever it is she needs done.

     “Right,” she says. “I was just explaining, I don’t precisely know what they are, but one of my sailors went in to find out and came out unable to keep the contents of his stomach down. The medics say he’s been poisoned. If the ferry can’t sail by nightfall, I’m through. Someone else will start taking passengers back to the mainland, and that’ll be it for me.” 

The spark of recognition catches him off guard; Gavril isn’t used to running into people by chance. Often they end up wanting something, but he can’t imagine what Ezekiel Kind might need from the likes of him. They shared a drink once, he remembers, in a grimy tavern close to the city’s port, though it was cut short by a brawl quickly followed by the city watch, and Gavril had had to slip away. The memory brings a small smile to his lips, and he nods at them. “We should finish that drink,” he says. “Some odds that we’re both alive and well.”

Although he shouldn’t speak too soon. Lights, they might not be by the time they clear the ferry. Gavril ventures a first step onto the ferry, keen to prove his mettle to Ezek, and it bobs dangerously with his weight. The bellowing from below decks seems to swell. He grips the gunwale and hopes he doesn’t look too green. “Best of luck,” the captain calls from the docks, though there’s a note of despair in her voice. 

Nothing for it. He stops at the top of the stairs that descend below decks, mace in hand. “I can do something for the poison,” he says to Ezek over his shoulder. "Protection spell, but I’ll need to touch you for it. As for the rest - well, the seas are your balliwick. Maybe we can send the creatures back where they came from.”

[gavrileontidis]

FAHRYST MISSION SUMMARIES

4. MAKE YOUR OWN LUCK. 

Despite their disagreement on the matter of method, Ovid and Gavril agree to help Razia Morn feel more assured of success at his final year in Chargues Academy - each in their own way. While Gavril lectures Razia on the philosophy and probability of luck and chance, Ovid tries to shift into one of their faces that can cast a spell to guarantee the coveted gold bead. Gavril moves to stop them, determined to advise poor confused souls against superstition. With both of them distracted, Razia is freed to draw the bead himself, and - as luck would have it! - finds a perfect gold bead in his hand. His friend Kolra is immensely pleased and assumes Ovid and Gavril did as they wished. This leaves them none the wiser as to whether the solstice lottery is real, but their pockets are slightly heavier today. / with @ovidofpouthena

5. THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 

The best place to find the two erstwhile acolytes is obviously at the only temple in town. Vashka and Gavril find out that the dragon’s jaw-bone at the Temple of Laimyre is actually a divine ward, and its disappearance leaves the temple exposed to malicious magic. At the end of the carnival, the two stake out the location and catch a rogue in action as they try to empty the temple coffers; on his person, they find the missing relic. But Gavril knows a guy who knows a guy (who knows a guy) who’d be willing to pay a pretty penny for it. The two get into an argument, but Vashka makes big sad puppy eyes, eventually talks Gavril round to returning the jaw-bone and claiming their reward. / with @syvashkastrilko

9. AN IMPOSSIBLE SIGHT. Ongoing.

13. A PROLONGED ENGAGEMENT. 

The Gambit’s two most reluctant romantics, Zhenya and Gavril, set out to find a needle in a haystack. They locate Cedar at last - quite by mistake, when they wander into the only seedy-looking tavern in Fahryst. It turns out Cedar is from a family of con artists and his ‘fiancé’ Basil was their next mark. When Zhenya and Gavril corner him, Cedar breaks down and reveals that he was truly, madly, deeply in love with Basil, and didn’t want to hurt him. The two decide to deliver Cedar to his unsuspecting lover, as well as an enchanted ring of truth of their own making, and let Basil decide what to do with him. / with @zhenyafen

[gavrileontidis]

THE DOCKS / DAY TWO, CATELIA / @ezekind​

The ferry bobs gently on the waves, a picturesque white-grey boat against the white-grey foam of waves. Gavril has never been on a boat, and would be rather happy going his entire life without setting foot on one. But duty calls - and by duty, he means an acceptable amount of tal and their journey off the island of Catelia. As much as he prefers it to Fahryst, the endless politicking and blood-red rivers are hardly attractive for an extended stay. 

The rhythmic lapping of waves against the underside of the ferry is soothing, though punctuated by the occasional croak from below decks. On its transom, painted in thick black strokes is its name: the Venerabile, for the noble families of Catelia. Its captain, Luca Attara, looks down at it mournfully. “Quite the tragedy, isn’t it? What if the Venerabile never sails again?” She wrings her hands anxiously as she looks to Gavril. “I asked anyone I could find.”

Can’t have been that many people, Gavril thinks. He’s the only one there on the boardwalk in the early-morning fog; an especially ominous bellowing noise rumbles out from the ferry, and he fiddles with the strap of his satchel. Keeping promises to anyone other than Lisaya is always risky. “I’ll certainly try, Captain. But I still think you should’ve called a real exterminator. Could you tell me something of the creatures?” 

She shakes her head, clearly despondent. “Nothing more than I’ve already said, traveller. I’m afraid you’re my only hope - why, hello!” Suddenly the captain’s face brightens, and Gavril hears approaching footsteps, turns to see a figure moving towards them in the fog. Another poor sod roped into a fool’s errand. “You’re quite the sight for sore eyes,” Gavril calls, a moment before recognising the person before him. 

[gavrileontidis]

tatsuokon​:

He grins, at the bet, an almost vicious glee rising in him as Gavril agrees to make a deal, suggests the dance competition as their stakes. Tatsuo has been oh so interested in it, himself, and while it sounds like tame enough stakes, he has a feeling it will end up far more interesting than either of them can realize right now. 

     “And if I’m right, you’ll do the same. Deal,” he agrees, and then swirls his own drink around, watching the way the viscous liquid moves, clinging to whatever lies at the bottom, stubbornly refusing to reveal even a glimpse of it. Whatever it is, it rattles against the glass, a sound of movement, a sound of metal or something like it. His mind casts back to a game he and the other teenagers at the palace used to play—toss a tal into someone else’s drink when they weren’t looking, and if they didn’t notice, they had to finish the drink all in one go.

But, no, that’s far too simple for the woman who had made the drink with the lapping waves that smelled of pine. It must be something more intricate than that. Something that can move, on its own. He takes a sip, and considers, for a long moment. 

     “A miniature of a dragon,” he says, and he’s not entirely sure why, but the idea of it fits in his mouth, something about the warm spice of the drink well-suited to the idea. He gives Gavril a little shrug, and then downs the drink, warm and thick and fragrant.

And then spies the beating heart at the bottom of the glass, and lets out a delighted laugh, pouring it out into his hand, still damp from the leftover liquid in the bottom, and watches it for a moment as it beats there.

      “Oh, that’s good,” he says, grinning as the tiny thing races ever so slightly. He sets it down on the counter, arching an eyebrow towards Gavril. “What happens if we both lose? Do we both have to dance?” 

A dragon. Something about the guess strikes Gavril as impossibly funny and he starts to laugh - a low growl of a laugh that shakes his entire body, the kind of laugh he hasn’t had in a long time. The tiny stone heart stutters, tapping against the glass. He doesn’t try to question where it comes from, only rides the wave of glee that washes over him as he pictures a little dragon in a cup; Tatsuo’s delight in finding the ‘surprise’ makes it even better. 

When he stops at last, discreetly wiping a tear, he looks up at Tatsuo with wide eyes. “Is that how you ask someone to dance? No courtly manner in you,” he scoffs, and lets out a chuckle that makes his chest hurt. He slings an arm around Tatsuo’s shoulder companionably. “Wish there were a singing competition,” he mutters. There are plenty of Ohrog mining songs he knows that could rouse a tavern like this into a belligerent chorus. 

Still a bet is a bet, and the faithful never renege on a promise. Gavril stumbles to his feet, a looseness in his limbs he hasn’t felt in years. “You think I’ll back out now?” he says, nudging Tatsuo cheerfully. “Come on, then. You can dance, if you want, and I’ll just have to shuffle along behind you.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the city square. This is how it works; he has to act now, before he starts to regret everything. 

Gavril waves thanks to the bartender who eyes the pair of them, clearly amused, and leads Tatsuo to the doorway, humming a work song under his breath. 

[gavrileontidis]

gwyncrafven​:

the makings of a laugh too pure and sudden to be mistaken escape her at the mere idea of someone like her being near a cotillion of any sort — well, beyond guarding the doors, perhaps. “that would absolutely be the day. could you imagine such a thing?” glancing back towards him once more, as if considering gav for the first time, gwyn follows with a tone hard to be interpreted as anything other than a slight in the most amusing of fashions, “seems it could be right up your alley, though. very prudish, i hear.”

she doesn’t mean to stop so suddenly, without word or warning, and gwyn’s grateful for the tendencies gavril holds upon realizing her error. or perhaps he was merely used to her manner. in either case, a minor headache was now averted and her focus remains momentarily on their new find — the indication of more than myth right at their very fingertips. though her outward calm remains in some fashion, a more sensible part of her offering stern reminders of what may lay in store, the hunter’s practically bristling in anticipation now. still, expectation never quite conquers experience as a steady, practiced motion propels her towards their mark, their trail picking up in momentum and findings in due time with scattered indication of their fabled foe all but made certain by its claws in the blanketed earth beneath them.

a near hint of a smirk daring to dart forward as she notes her companion’s wariness, the question of whether to proceed seems foolish on the one way, but very much in gavril’s way in another. despite her habits, it’s something she’s grown to appreciate. “well, a little late to back out now, wouldn’t you say?”

at that, they seem to press on after use of the readied spell, caution in their steps as something finally breaks through barren trees — a smearing trail of red and a spilling of scattered, jagged teeth. and nestled at its heart, was the tale come to life, a creature so impossible that more sensible considerations dared to protest in spite of the presented reality. yet and still, here it lied. frayed and tattered, nearly gutted on the far side. a damaged wing lie on its right, just above, and you could tell by the surrounding mess of branches and angles of it all that the plunge downward was hardly graceful or planned. it summoned the question of why this was so, of what exactly could manage such a feat, yet there were no signs of anything but their intended goal. the beast seemed to curl into itself, as though shielding what remains from further assault or concern and in this way, somehow seemed more helpless than any formidable enemy gwyn would have crossed prior to now, dragon or otherwise. it is a thrilling, awful sight. she knows better than to take any part of the situation for granted. that being said, there’s a nagging concern for what’s become of it, of the scene as it stands, and the question seems to form without conscious mind towards it: 

“.. what’s done this to you?”

-

There are times he almost doesn’t recognise her. In the years he’s known Gwyn, he can count the number of hunts they’ve been on together on one hand; that’s her balliwick, while he hangs back for the aftermath. So it’s still strange to watch her at work, with her single-minded focus on the trail. Just in case, he casts a quick sanctuary spell. There’s little else he can do; Gavril’s mind is preoccupied with the growing ache of whatever lies ahead. But whatever questions he has are quickly answered as they enter a clearing (one made by force), marked by blood and destruction.

He’s never seen a dragon before - at least, not a whole one. On its side, the top of its torso brushes top of the canopy of bronzewood. It takes slow, shallow breaths, silver-white belly rising and falling gently. The dark orbs of its eyes swivel to look at the two strangers, even as the rest of its body remains immobile. 

The scale of damage is near incomprehensible; its wing in tatters, deep gashes along its side. The work of a hostile dragon, or something worse? Gwyn speaks first, and he glances at her in mild surprise - not the words of a hunter, but a healer. 

Great mother of the permafrost laid so low. Skeptic that he is, the sight still seems like an augury of worse to come. 

Gavril takes a few steps closer, but the frost-dragon’s breathing picks up. Perhaps whatever did this is still close by. He turns back to Gwyn. "Can you ask its name? I can tend to the wounds, but the wing...” The wing, strong and light and fragile all at once. He wants to ask if you can fix a torn wing; if losing a wing means death for a winged being. But he’s afraid of what Gwyn might say, and afraid of knowing too much. Instead Gavril sinks to his knees, pulls votive candles from his bag to focus his spells and keep the three of them warm. 

[gavrileontidis]

tatsuokon​:

Gavril is, at least, a good sport about all of this. Probably the only person in the Gambit who would react this way to Tatsuo’s incessant annoyances, balanced on a tightrope of his own between being delighted by Tatsuo’s antics and refusing to tolerate them. He’s not sure whether to be surprised or completely and utterly unsurprised, as he watches Gavril down the cocktail in one remarkably quick go, until nothing is left but the tall, empty glass and a faint, cool, menthol-y kind of scent in the air around them.

He looks a little proud of himself, as he looks back from the drink to Tatsuo—a glint in the eye, a softening in the tension of his shoulders. No telling if that’s the alcohol already getting to him or just him finally falling into a better mood. Either way, Tatsuo won’t look a gift horse in the mouth: this is exactly what he was hoping for, stopping Gavril from brooding like he always seems to be. 

      “Keep up? I’ve hardly started,” he answers, with a laugh, and when the bartender passes over the drink he accepts it with a smile and a nod, takes a moment to swirl it in its glass and inhale the scent of it before he drinks—there’s some spiced scent to it that’s unexpected, from the color, and tart, like a mulled cider or something of the sort, and the glass is cool to the touch. 

And a weight to the glass. There is a surprise at the bottom.

     “I do love a surprise,” he says, nudging Gavril’s shoulder with the elbow of his free arm. “What do you think it is? D’you want to make a bet?”

There’s a pleasant rhythm to their back-and-forth that Gavril doesn’t often feel with the Gambit; it reminds him of Soar, of having a brother to egg you on when you’re sledding down the mountainside on huge strips of bronzewood bark. Bad decisions are best made in pairs. He’s fully committed to this now, reaching for the second drink and taking a sip. This one tastes more like the wine he’s familiar with, deep and spiced and warm. The heady scent clings to his lips and clouds his thoughts. 

A bet, Tatsuo suggests. Gavril sinks his chin into his palm thoughtfully (and to rest his heavy head). The music swirls around them. “Why not?” he says, and smiles - his best, dopey, innocent smile. “If I guess right, you have to join the dance competition. I’ve every confidence you’ll do us proud with those fencer’s feet.” 

The glass sits in the palm of his hand, the weight of it shifting back and forth. There’s something moving - scuttling in there, little scratchy movements at the base of the glass. “Some sort of insect?” he wonders aloud, and takes another tentative sip. The movement stills. He holds the glass again and it picks up with a slow, steady beat.

“No,” he mutters. “A clock ticking? Lights, I’ve no idea.” He drains the rest of the drink and stares into the bottom, where a tiny stone replica of a beating heart sits, perfectly keeping time with his own pulse. Does it skip a beat, right then? Gavril can’t help a small smile at such magic, so unlike his own; at the temple they said such enchantments were frivolous and wasteful. But perhaps that was what made them magical. He covers the bottom of the glass with his hand and waits for Tatsuo to make his guess.

[gavrileontidis]

cassian-penvenan​:

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. 

Fahryst isn’t the best place for this little reunion, or whatever Darcassian had in mind. Five days of bright-hot sun and festivity make a lousy backdrop for this redemption arc (however convincing, considering the lengths he went to for that gemstone). Gavril can think of better places – farther into the bleak north, perhaps, where the days are shorter and the people less obnoxiously jolly. Everyone hides old wounds in those parts; Cassian’s wan face would fit right in.

A little time, he says. “Would you rather be forgiven or mourned?” Gavril asks, and it comes out harsher than he intends. He doesn’t want to tell the Gambit anything – he’s just a bad liar, and in their shoes he would want to know.  

A trade-off he didn’t expect when he was chosen: Gavril is always, always thinking about how the people around him might die. Lisaya keeps track of close calls like a ledger. Sometimes he jokes to Gwyn that it wasn’t worth it, slinking back to Them, trading freedom and his right hand to save her life. It’s a terrible joke. He doesn’t regret it.

The white Camellia is more Lisaya’s hand than his own, threads of light re-forming where his wrist ends and where They begin. With his other hand Gavril draws a yew leaf from his pocket. As Cassian inches closer, he can feel the stiffness radiating outwards. The Lodorwind healers probably had a better bedside manner. “Relax,” Gavril says, and hovers his hand around the other man’s shoulder.

It’s not a question of whether Cassian deserves to be healed. He just wants to know if it’s possible. Purity is Lisaya’s balliwick, and They can trace the vindictive curse that snakes through his blood. It feels raw and wrong – something misplaced, scraping beneath the skin.

“I’m going to touch you, if that’s okay.” He taps a finger on his own neck to indicate the jugular vein. He is a better healer than when Cassian left them; he knows where poison drains into the rest of the body. “We can try to neutralise whatever’s in your blood, somewhat. Slow it down. And we can do something for the pain. I’ll need to gather materials.” Gavril makes a mental list of what they can procure around Fahryst, or the next town over. If he tries hard enough maybe he won’t have to lie to the Gambit at all. “It might not be much, but it’ll see you through next winter. Your call.”

[gavrileontidis]

ovidofpouthena​:

…

They let a sympathetic grin spread over their face as their words about the Academy land perfectly as expected, and they glance at Gavril with the same smile, knowing this is not at all what he was asking from them. “I did, I did. Many moons ago, as you might guess from the grey in my hair, but I look back on my time there with a mixture of fondness, and abject horror. Luckily, I never fell victim to the horrible blue socks, but I have many friends who did,” they nod, putting a hand over their heart, that soon turns to a dismissive wave as Gavril goes on.

There are plenty of arguments to make here against his particular way of thinking. They personally belief that a life without hope is not such an easy one, even if that hope is distant. Hope helps people keep trying in the face of despair. They would have given up long ago, perhaps would have let themself be caught by Henryk’s men and thrown in a dungeon if they had not held onto delusional hope. So they simply shrug when Gavril looks to them for backup. “I think this fine young person knows what their friend needs better than either of us,” they hum.

It’s no surprise that Gavril isn’t particularly keen on helping give someone false hope, but the moment that Kolra mentions finding someone else to help, they make the choice for them all, not planning on losing out on the reward because of Gavril’s insistence that fear is more powerful than luck, or hope, even if it is false. A depressing sentiment, in their mind, that they and Iago alike would like to argue, if they weren’t standing here about to lose out on a pretty sum of tal. They wave their hand, give Kolra a smile.

“No, no, there’s no need for a sorcerer. A compromise. Gavril here can speak with your friend, make his arguments, I will supervise so it is not too harsh, and I can perhaps offer my personal belief in him, since a human does have beliefs,” Ovid says pointedly, looking at Gavril. “And then, if he still wants to take a bead after, I will make certain it is the golden one. How does that sound to the both of you?”

Kolra looks between them, a little skeptical, then lets out a sigh. “I suppose that will do. Just be gentle with him, he’s had a hard time.”

He lets Iago speak for the both of them, stony-faced. Compromise is the start of a slippery slope - give an inch and they’ll take all your tal, is the saying around the Carvers’ Quarter in Urnundr. But Gavril can’t help it; he’s swayed by Ovid, too, and the many faces they wear, each as interesting and skilled as the last. Meeting Ovid once again cemented his belief that who you were born and who you become are in no one’s hands but your own.

“I will do the compassionate thing,” he concedes. Kolra opens their mouth, as if to ask what that means, and snaps it shut again. They nod and vanish around the corner, almost too quickly. Gavril turns and realises the young man approaching them now must be Razia, wearing robes that match Kolra’s - and by the lights, those are blue socks peeking out below the hems of his trousers. 

Too soon - Gavril hasn’t readied the right words yet. He isn’t good with them, not the way Ovid is. Certainly not as good as Iago. “You do your thing and I’ll do mine,” he says to them, quietly. 

Razia looks between the two and flashes a smile, winning and earnest. “Had a go yet?” he asks. Gavril simply holds up his red bead from the day before, and Razia pulls a sympathetic grimace. “Tough luck, friend. I’m hoping for a gold one. Well, aren’t we all? But it’s my third year, now, and the most crucial yet. But there are three colours, and third time’s the charm.” 

Tough luck, sure. “Well,” he begins, the words coming slowly. “Not quite. There are almost certainly fewer gold beads than red and white in the jar. Which means your odds are lower than a third - maybe even closer to a fifth of a chance. And it is chance, not some prophetic message. It’s a silly way for a god to articulate itself.” That might not have come out as gentle as he intended; Lisaya is bristling, and Gavril senses Laimyre’s faint displeasure burning the back of his neck. 

“Ah... thank you?” Razia says, disconcerted. “That’s certainly something to consider.” He holds five tal in his hand and seems to hesitate, before the temple’s donation box. “It is,” Gavril affirms. “You should take as long as you need to ponder the consequences of taking another bead.” 

[gavrileontidis]

zhenyafen​:

They frown up at him. “I’m not taking that bet.” Because that’s a horrible thing to say. Because you’re probably right. What Zhenya knew of love was very little – the stuff of fairytales, stories her mother would read when they were still young and skimmed from the royal libraries once they’d grown older. But she knew the ugly, real shape of love, too. How it could be spun around a finger like silk or ribbon, brandished like a knife. How it could twist you into something cruel and unrecognizable; how it will cut you open if you let it near. 

Zhenya worries at her bottom lip. A poor habit, but a nervous one, watching Gavril fiddle with the trinket. Maybe this whole thing was a terrible idea. She’d lead them both on a wild goose chase for a ghost and string poor Basil along after them. But they’d accepted now. The only way out was forward, to some kind of an answer, even if it’s unhappy. A small, miserable part of them said it already was. 

She doesn’t get to voice her idea – ask around, see who might’ve spotted him – fool’s errand that it’d be before Gavril catches something. Lords and ladies, how had they missed it? By being a romantic idiot. Zhenya held out their hand, not inclined to lean into Gavril’s personal space without warning. 

“Show me?”

-

Zhenya might be the most sombre of the Gambit apart from Gavril himself, and he likes them for it. Her dark eyes belie a cruel past - one he doesn’t know yet, and one he doesn’t intend to pry about until Zhenya wants to share. That’s another thing they have in common: a healthy skepticism of everyone around them.

Which makes it even more surprising that they’ve both agreed to this gormless task. For tal, Gavril reasons, to himself. Think nothing of the tear that formed in Basil’s eye as he fretted for the safety of his fiancé. “It’s not malicious, as far as I can tell,” he thinks aloud, and places the pendant in Zhenya’s outstretched palm. “But it’s... confusing. What do you make of it? If we know what kind of spell it was, we might be able to trace it.” 

He’s still unsettled by the trace of arcane magic; a kind of magic he can’t comprehend. Painfully at odds with Lisaya’s divinity, which aims always to reveal, to illuminate. Was it cast by Cedar, or did someone else have it in for the happy couple? Lights, he hoped they wouldn’t have to give counsel to poor Basil. 

The trinket relinquished, he casts his eye about for anyone who matches Cedar’s description. But the crowds around the merchant tables move far too quickly, distracted hands picking at the carnival’s novelties and haggling over prices. A good reason to loathe crowds even more than Gavril already does. His eyes close, shutting out the sensory overload, and that moment of darkness brings certainty. “He’s alive,” Gavril says. Small comfort, but it’s something. 

[gavrileontidis]

syvashkastrilko​:

Nothing quite like a holy scolding. Vashka stiffened, avoiding the priestess’s stern, suspicious glare hard enough to catch Gav’s somewhat abashed side-eye. Somewhat. Not enough to stop Leontidis from questioning her, with a boldness that Vashka couldn’t imagine. As they spoke, he listened, tongue bit. The silver dust glimmered; hopefully he could clean that glove enough. His hackles were prickling from the nearness of the stuff. But not from the temple, again - and perhaps this, this was why. A frost-dragon’s bone. Made a relic. Stolen, Laimyre’s shrine left undefended in any magical sense. If anything, the sanctum should be more warded than ever after such a theft. Shouldn’t it? Unless…

We - what? Vashka twitched to attention, wonderings shoved aside as he stared at Gav and the almost-promise he’d just set down. Really? Gavril would care so much, about a relic that wasn’t even his own? (Then again, maybe he’d care less if it was. Vashka couldn’t make sense of the cleric’s loathly love for that god of his.) But here he was, offering to serve another order’s interests. Strange. 

The high priestess was judging the pair of them, plainly now. And this was fair, wasn’t it? Utter strangers, in her divine house. Not quite pledging to solve her problems. “You might,” she replied, slowly, weighing her options rather openly. And finding them wanting. Back a bit straighter - more the Zholatin he was taught to be, iron-spined and soldierly - Vashka bowed his head. “Yes. It would be an honour, to - to be of any assistance.” There must be something they could do. 

Gavril had some sort of idea, right? He glanced aside at the cleric. Back to the high priestess, as she sniffed, arms still crossed. “How very fortuitous, and generous,” she squinted, tight-lipped. “That you should appear, in this needful hour, and make such an offer. With no thought of reward, I’m sure.” Vashka nodded, obviously. This was good work, to be done for its own sake. Then again, he felt as much about… a certain amount of what the Gambit got up to, anyway. “Is there anything else you know, that could help? As we look,” he started, earnest about it. The priestess huffed; that fragile old jaw twitched. “Please,” Vashka tried, gently. “The more we’re told, the closer we are to bringing your relic home.” Hopefully, at least. 

-

Vashka stands with his back straight and shoulders in a line - like a soldier, naturally, and commanding the respect of one. The priestess seems somewhat reassured by the figure he cuts next to Gavril’s scruffy, flinty presence. He looks up when Vashka mentions no thought of reward - that might be his plan, but Gavril doesn’t work for gods and priests for free. In fact, he’s already decided to sell the frost-dragon bone as soon as he gets his hands on it. Not in Fahryst, but he knows some buyers around Port Teoceres who would pay a neat sum for a bone, holy or otherwise. 

Of course he’ll tell Vashka - it would be disingenuous not to. But only when they’re out of earshot.

The priestess sighs and sags a little, a glimpse of her desperation. “You have the divine in you, yes? Then you already know everything there is to know. It’s... imprudent, to speak about these matters so openly.” Gavril thinks back to the silver and talc - a spell to see into the ethereal plane, he remembers now. It makes sense for the thief, or thieves, to look for the temple’s wards. Evidently those same wards have been disabled, such that he can call on Lisaya here. But it should’ve been a temporary effect - the wards would’ve reactivated within hours.

Unless. He gives Vashka another meaningful look, since they can’t discuss it here. “The relic leaves traces of its nature,” the priestess adds. “But the trail stops short just east of here, outside the temple grounds.” The workings of another spell, he thinks, and nods. “Thank you, custodian of Laimyre. We’ll see what we can do.” She inclines her head once, gathers her robes and sweeps away. 

Eastwards, then. When he’s sure that they won’t be heard by other temple visitors, Gavril says, “The jaw-bone is no mere relic. I believe it’s the source of the temple wards.” He pauses and scans the crowd. “I don’t think they were after the jaw-bone at all. Pretty clever of them - the coffers must be flush at the end of the carnival.” Gavril isn’t opposed to the idea of robbing a religious institution, but it all depends on the intentions of the thief. He does see the trail the priestess mentioned, imprints of divine magic that end abruptly at a crossroads next to the temple. 

[gavrileontidis]

zhenyafen​:

location: around the merchant tables status: for @gavrileontidis​

Zhenya watched the stout shape of Basil the halfling disappear into the crowd, brows furrowed. In their hands, a rough description of this Cedar and a small trinket Basil had received from him some months ago. This was a hopeless task. More than teeming with people, the thought of trying to identify, locate, and then convince one halfling to follow them seemed a fool’s errand. Still, Zhenya found herself accepting, and alongside Gavril no less. 

They turned to him with an expression caught somewhere in the realm of confusion and extended Basil’s trifles. A lost lover … it certainly was romantic, in the traditional sense. No shortage of possible endings or explanations jumped forth in Zhenya’s mind. Perhaps this Cedar had been stringing Basil along, that seemed perhaps the most obvious. Perhaps something, or someone had stopped him from meeting his love. But that was the stuff of stories, and Zhenya sent it from her mind. There was a task to be completed here, or at the very least an attempt to be made.

“I can’t do a location spell on this, or anything like that.” It seemed these days everyone had a different idea of what their magic did, and Zhenya was eager to nip that in the bud before Gavril thought to ask. “We’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way.”

-

He isn’t sure how he’s been roped into this - was it him or Zhenya who had agreed to Basil’s frantic request? Probably Zhenya, Gavril thinks. This really isn’t in his wheelhouse, but it is rather amusing. “Odds the fiancé decided to stand him up?” he asks, as soon as Basil is out of earshot. “I’ll bet five tal.” But his companion is already on the case, so he sighs and takes the proffered trinket from their hand. A chain and a wooden pendant carved with an unfortunately poor rendering of Cedar’s likeness - at least, he assumes it’s Cedar. Their initials are scratched on the back. 

“I could locate objects, but only if they’re familiar to me.” He lowers the pendant and raises an eyebrow at Zhenya. “What’s your definition of the ‘old-fashioned’ way?” Maybe they can build a magical compass that only points to Cedar. If not, Gavril thinks, they could wander Fahryst asking for sightings of him. But that seems impractical; by the time they finish, the five days will be over and miserable young Basil will be on his trek back to Lodorwind. 

It does seem like a shame. 

“Hang on.” Gavril lifts the pendant again, lets it dangle between the both of them. “Look. I thought that was meant to be Cedar’s face, but it might be a sigil.” Not one he recognised - he wasn’t well-versed in arcana, but the piece of wood did have the strange, uncanny weight of something imbued with magic. Running his hand over its surface, he detected neither good nor evil but a trace of misdirection. 

[gavrileontidis]

tatsuokon​:

      “Better on this tightrope than any other I’ve ever been on,” he says, energized by the grin on Gavril’s face, a rare reward for his constant badgering. “I’m thriving today, Gav. And yes, you can buy me a drink, thank you for asking.”

He’s all but dragging Gavril up and out of his chair, then; thankfully, there’s a tavern not all that far, its clientele spilling out into the street in a pleasant, raucous mass, its windows and doors thrown wide to let the warmth and the sun into what looks like it is ordinarily a rather drab place. He hasn’t been to this one yet, which is great: he’d like to try them all, before their brief stay in Fahyrst is up. He passes easily past the crowd, his slight form slipping between clusters of people happily drinking and conversing, pulling Gavril’s stouter form behind him to fend for himself.

And then they’re at the bar, a smiling woman with red and gold feathers in her hair—no, he realizes distantly, the feathers are her hair, though her facial features belie some human heritage as well—standing ready to take their orders, a wide array of strange shaped glasses and cocktail ingredients spread out before her.

     “What can I get for you gentlemen?” she asks, in a strong local accent, and Tatsuo grins, pulling a bag of tal from his pocket, ready to count out coins.

      “My friend here and I are buying drinks for one another, to celebrate. Tell me, can you make him something that will perk him up a bit? He’s been burning the candle at both ends, and we’d love to keep him up until the sun goes down.” And then, delighted, a moment later, adds: “All the better if it’s colorful.”

The woman smiles, nods, says “I’ve got just the thing for you,” and immediately sets to work, tossing a few herbs together in the bottom of a glass, pouring something clear and pungent over them and swirling them until the liquid turns bright green with swirls of deep blue. She pours that glass into another, adds a few more things, shakes them together with remarkable flair, pours the entire thing—now foaming, somehow—into a tall, slender glass, garnishes it with a swipe of her thumb, leaving behind a trail of gold in its wake, and slides it across the bar to Gavril, where Tatsuo can now see that the liquid itself appears to be moving, swelling in and out just slightly along the surface, like ocean being pulled the tides, though it smells faintly of the earthy sweetness of pine. 

He drops the cigarette when Tatsuo pulls him to his feet, and makes a small noise of protest. As they approach a nearby tavern flooded with carnivalgoers, Gavril starts to regret his decision; but the crowd swiftly re-forms around the space he leaves behind, leaving no gap for escape. It seems the only way out is through. 

So he trails after Tatsuo, barely keeping up in the sea of light and colour and sound, and leans against the bar when they arrive. Solid wood to hold onto. He hovers close behind while Tatsuo orders for the both of them, arms folded across his chest. When the bartender grins, Gavril returns a smile looks more like a grimace, and rummages in his bag for the right amount of tal. 

At least he has a good poker face - he won’t let slip to Tatsuo how annoyed he is with his own choices. The drink she slides over the bar looks alive, somehow. No trace of divine magic, but some other enchantment - the herbs she used, or the glass itself? Gavril leans close to inspect the gentle pulse of green and blue, the liquid’s flow and ebb. The elders of the Sterling Temple say curiosity begets temptation. But standing in the press of boisterous patrons thoroughly soaked by this time of night (or day?), Gavril decides he’s rather sick of the elders, and has been for years now.

“To your health - of mind, body, and soul.” He lifts the glass to meet Tatsuo’s before bringing it to his lips carefully. It’s mild, to his surprise. Notes of sweetmoss, salt, smoke. It courses down his throat and spreads to his limbs - strangely cooling, like a gentle stream of water down his back. There must be an intoxicant in there, but it’s not one Gavril recognises. 

A few moments later Gavril reaches the bottom of the glass, and the bartender raises a knowing eyebrow. “That was - refreshing,” he says. “Thank you. Perhaps one more drink?” Looking at Tatsuo, he feels strangely triumphant as he holds the empty glass aloft. “Try to keep up.” A half-orc’s metabolism has its uses. The bartender obliges with a crowd favourite: a viscous, deep purple drink flecked with silver flakes, served in glass with an exorbitantly long stem. “There’s a surprise at the bottom,” she says, and pats Gavril’s hand maternally before turning her attention to another guest. 

[gavrileontidis]

cassian-penvenan​:

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.” 

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?” 

[gavrileontidis]

A YEAR PRIOR / QUIET TAVERN, URNUNDR / @aubreyluckers​​

The city hasn’t changed. At least, not his part of the city - the grimy side streets in the Carvers’ Quarter, one shifty apothecary after another. Gavril does the rounds, not for sentimental reasons; it pays for people to know you’re still alive, even if you haven’t shown your ugly mug around town for two years now. A reputation counts for something in Urnundr’s seamy underworld. 

One of his old buyers hands him a sprig of rare mulliflora, foraged in the far woods of Fallon. A token of goodwill, they say, eyeing the limp glove where his right hand used to be. Plenty can happen in two years. Word’s spread, they add, of your band of merry men - the Gambit, passing from town to town, making misery or pleasure as they choose. “Mostly we make money,” Gavril says, shrugging. “And we don’t ask too many questions.” It has, in fact, been long enough for him to think of the Gambit as a we, even if he doesn’t trust any of them to do the right thing in a crisis. 

They agreed to lodge at the Cat and Salamander, an inn close to Briggan Academy. The area is crowded with cheap taverns popular with students. But at this time of the year most are home for Shend, a week of rest that starts with the third full moon of winter. Gavril roams the campus for an hour, before he meanders back to the inn and sits in the tavern downstairs with watered-down beer and a cigarette in hand. Perfect way to spend a cold evening in a familiar city and a one-time home. 

He knows the bartender but not her name, because she never speaks aloud. Only gestures at his emptied mug, and Gavril nods for a refill. He considers asking her for work just to pick up a few tal where he can - even if it’s carrying crates from the brewery a few streets down, since it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it. 

He doesn’t look up when the door swings open. Some of the Gambit pile in, bedraggled from one mission or another, by the looks of it. A few head up to bed, and the rest call their orders to the bartender before settling around a table in the corner. Gavril nods hello but keeps to his bubble of quiet, until he sees a familiar face among them. He freezes and just stares for a moment, doubting his own eyes.

[gavrileontidis]

gambit meets char & gray’s text post archives / part 2

[gavrileontidis]

gambit meets char’s text post archive / part 1

[gavrileontidis]

ovidofpouthena​:

They’ve been watching other people draw beads with a vague interest for the better part of an hour, a break from the drinks to give them a chance to clear their head, along with plenty of information to be gleaned from watching how others take the beads they draw, what meaning they prescribe to each of them, self fulfilling prophecies in their mind. There are secrets to learn in the Temple of Laimyre, and not secrets of a religious nature, they think, never having been one for any particular god themself, their current face in agreement on that matter.

They hold a belief in some higher power as a vague concept, yes, but their own powers make all of that feel a little too abstract to them to really settle on what, when they’re ever changing themself. If they found themself face to face with a god, they would certainly enjoy taking their face, to understand better what it’s all about.

The beads, though, are horseshit, as Iago thinks rather crudely. But amusing. All the more so when Gavril enters to pick another bead, soon after approached by someone who clearly does have a more concrete concept of higher powers.

And it certainly does make the day more interesting, what they hear. Gavril catches their eye, clearly looking for an intervention, but they simply shrug, listening for a moment longer, before finally approaching, once they hear talk of harmless trickery. 

They allow Iago’s instincts to take over easily, as they put a hand on Kolra’s back.

“My friend here, while good intentioned, has clearly missed your point. Simple lectures on probability have no power over such certainty. I would be happy to aid in bolstering your dear friend’s self-esteem. It is a fragile thing, I’ve learned, especially while at the Academy. Those professors can tear you down with such adept specificity you must wonder at times whether it’s learning, or simply personal vendetta founded in feeling like failures themselves,” he waxes on and on, with a deep sigh and a shake of his head. He doesn’t know, of course, none of their faces have gone to Chargues Academy, but Iago has heard enough whispers to paint a picture of his own, especially when there’s the potential of a few tal for the two of them involved. “For a price, of course.”

-

He’s relieved when Ovid steps forward as Iago and interjects, rescuing Gavril from a longer conversation with the desperate Kolra and their even more desperate friend. But the relief doesn’t last - surely they’re making promises they can’t keep, or ought not to keep.

“You went to the Academy too!” Kolra beams and flashes the school pin on the collar of their shirt. “Wonderful coincidence. You’re so very right about the professors, they haven’t changed at all. Did they make you wear the bright blue socks, too?” They explain to Gavril in an aside, “If you fail that year’s final exams, you have to wear them for the rest of next school year. I’ve come terrifyingly close to it myself.” Pulling the hem of their trousers up, they reveal a pair of dark grey socks.

“The Academy sounds like quite the trial,” Gavril says, drily. “Now, if you’re done fraternising, I’m sure your friend could be persuaded to give up on this absurd delusion.” Another temple visitor squeezes past their trio to drop a few tal temple’s donation box and grabs a bead; they secrete it away carefully, as if afraid of revealing its colour to the world. Gavril’s almost tempted to invoke Lisaya’s blessing, to see if it would work in another god’s temple and supersede whatever spell lies on the beads. Lisaya, understandably, is not fond of the idea.

So instead he sighs and rubs his temple. “It seems rather detrimental to your friend, to give him false hope,” Gavril says. "Fear is a powerful motivation, don’t you think? Whereas a golden bead might encourage your friend to take his luck for granted.” He gives Iago a pointed look that means back me up, but he can read the flash of mischief in his face. He should stop going places with Ovid, Gavril thinks; they always end up involved in some kind of knavery together.

Kolra looks between the two of them - one winsome and sympathetic, the other brusque and stony. “I think Razia just wants to feel like he has a shot,” they say, at last. It’s reasonable to want someone to believe in you, even if it’s a bead.” 

“A bead doesn’t have beliefs,” Gavril says. Kolra sighs. “Listen, I’ll just ask the next sorceror who comes this way, alright? Razia’s going to be here any moment now.”