* — the hunter

avariel + shadar kai / elven monster + bounty / hunter — as penned by eva

[gwyncrafven]

— ovid:

…

They like how the name sounds as she says the words, cementing their identity as their own. No one and everyone, a we in a single body. Even as she watches them closely, clearly trying to make sense of the strangeness she has seen and continues to see, they feel secure in that knowledge. And this is the sort of conversation they rarely come by, so few knowing what they truly are, for their own safety, having been taught cruelly quickly after coming into their own that the fear others feel of that which they don’t understand can bring such intense pain. Ovid likes watching her, can practically see her thoughts turning as she tries to figure them out, and they’re happy to allow it just now.

“Ah, we do not mean others, when we use those words. We mean ourself only. We are many in one body, ever changing, ever shifting. We are ourself, who came before we realized our powers, and the dozens of others whose faces we have worn before now, and we will be the others whose faces we wear in the future, too,” they explain, although they’re a little more than aware, in Auberon’s face, that the words sound like a riddle, their usual way of speaking that they had learned even other elves found ridiculous at times. Something they can’t curtail the instinct for, though, as them, just like it’s difficult to push past the wariness to offer Gwyn the information she deserves for having saved their life from an existence as a deer. 

A hum escapes their lips as she goes on, her curiosity clear, and something they relate to well, always in search of information themself. “It is a fair question you pose. You ask for facts, we understand this,” Ovid says, tilting their head slightly as they look at her. They let Auberon’s instincts prevail here, just in the way that they fall into their pattern of speech, strange as it is, when wearing their face. “We only have a feeling, and old wives’ tales, whispers of others existing around the Fade to go off of, though. There are stories, far and wide, of others of our kind, although most parts of them are more fiction than fact when it comes to what we are capable of doing. We are not monsters, despite what other hunters might tell you. Dopplers, have you heard those stories before? Stories of monstrous shapeshifters who take a piece of your soul when they steal your face?”

gwyn knew there was something about the situation that struck her specifically, memory flickering back to the grey figure that pieced itself together once pierced by a sliver of silver. and despite how the wording may initially come across to most, it's their use of 'worn faces', in how they describe it when they speak of it. it seems to snap it all mostly into place for her, finally. a flash of clarity in the darkness where the dots were gradually connecting, now. “.. i see.” her pace isn’t quite as quick in this instance. the gaps were still filling in. “sounds to me, you have quite the inventory.” guessing the years that may belong to them, presently, there was a wonder of the catalogue of faces exactly. what manner they chose to use them and when, their process of operation. 

they mention a time before the realization forms of what and who they were, and that too, stands out for her. more than most anything else. and it occurs to the hunter how strange that must have been, how startling. to suddenly possess something you never quite imagined should be, that is. it could be the same for others perhaps, within their crew of outcasts. it wouldn’t surprise her terribly. she tries to consider exactly what that may have seemed like for ovid in particular, however, coming into such gifts without a guiding hand. or at least one that happened to share their talents properly. in her own life, gwyn herself had been rather fortunate to avoid this fate.

"i know the stories.” the hunter confirms at the question, and it makes sense now why there were only tall tales to rely on for them as well. though she’s known them as vexlings too, the very term doppler all but seals away any doubts or warring remnants of such, a firmer knowledge held in regards to what she was presently across from. they were more than your average shifter; she’d been right to assume so. they were something far greater. “rumor has it, that soul you capture embodies everything you might think: voice, manner, skills.” it’s nearly too subtle, but her words are still slick with admiration, marveling at the mere thought of what could be accomplished with such ability. and better still, she’s seen it in action. briefly, at least. “you aren’t monsters.” she agrees in the end, quite certainly. her lips curl into a knowing smirk. “you’re survivors. a rare talent. maybe even worth killing for.” whether she means for the talent they possess or the doppler themselves, gwyn chooses not to clarify.

the curiosity doesn’t just die out right then, however, another set of questions residing at the tip of her tongue. her stance seems to shift accordingly, however, now that she has more familiarity with the matter. just a touch less guarded, a hint of concern seeming to bleed through when her lips part again. “is it strange? having so many identities, so many memories locked away like that? painful, even? do you ever feel … lost, perhaps?”

[gwyncrafven]

— gavril:

-

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. 

gwyn’s aware, vaguely, of the oddity in her query. she was a slayer of beasts first and foremost, and yet there seemed a care in her voice for the creature before her. of her great enemy. her first impression of what could cause such detriment to a dragon of such scale and force was that of like kind. or something remarkably similar. the damage spoke for itself in that way, lent itself to such a forgone conclusion. And yet, even further in the depths of her mind, another consideration angled towards that of dragon hunters if there’d been a horde of them or even that of her mother’s kind, another part of herself. the ranger hadn’t considered the avariel since their abandonment, however, and had little intention of entertaining thoughts of them now so openly. that and, the avariel weren’t exactly known to leave their prey alive. with the beast being so close to civilized territory, this would also speak more strangely of their recent habits in her absence than gwyn would prefer to consider. there was enough of that strangeness already, really. 

there were just too many unknowns to be appreciated. it sort of had her head spiraling, her attempts to guess for answers she may never fully possess.

gavril’s voice breaks her thoughts, however, and sets an ease to a growing discomfort. a name, he says. she could do that. “tell us, who are you?” slipping into draconic tongue this time, as she was more mindful of her words, the beast stirs in what appears to be recognition, finally. the language of choice familiar to them, and they weren’t so broken now that they couldn’t return acknowledgement. that was a hopeful sign, perhaps. “.. abeloth.” its voice is low, slow. it was obvious the pains it went through to mutter the words, to give effort to anything that wasn’t about its immediate survival. “abeloth, the great.” .. the hunter had to fight the impulse to roll her eyes. dragons and their pretentious ways. never failed. “.. if you’re to try to kill me,” they start again, and gwyn’s surprised at the catch in her throat at the suggestion. “do go on and get on with it.”

with a mind towards how it reacted before at her companion’s attempt to approach, however, there was doubt in how easy that’d be still. in how much it might still fight back. in how willing gwyn was to start in the first place. this wouldn’t be an honorable death, after all. and there’s conflict in her mind now, a warring of purpose. of what’s to be done with what lies before her. “.. you wish us to kill you? are you so ready to lose what little you have left?” abeloth seemed affronted by the mere suggestion that they could, which was intended, or what it preferred, its features shifting in such an evident way. it was a fine tell. “i wish for peace. and quiet. given how savagely that’s been stolen from me .. well. i imagine my wants count for little these days.” it isn’t an answer that offers much, a petulant edge in their exhaustion at present, but it gives her something. she was always better with something. “you make your choice, girl.” and at this, the dragon seems to settle into itself a bit more, coiling further inward as though no longer interested enough and much too tired to concern itself with their actions. “and i shall make mine.”

finally, her gaze shifts downward, to gavril and the warmth he offered. “abeloth. that’s his name.” she comes to kneel beside him, hands hovering near the candles as the cold seems to finally seep into the fabric of her dress. or at least in a manner she’s willing to finally acknowledge. “i don’t know how much i’m willing to trust the trouble they may cause later, if any, but ... i also know they’re no threat to us now. and in no state to fight properly — they’re in a lot of pain. weaker than they wish to mention.” it’s nearly decided before she realizes, and the question almost doesn’t need asking. because she knows her friend and what he’s capable of, has enough confidence for the both of them in what could be done. still, the question chooses to come, though it hardly seems familiar. it was worth hearing directly. 

“how confident are you in your ability to heal them?” and she shifts accordingly to face him fully, away from the glow of the candles. “the wing, specifically. how much trouble will it be?”

[gwyncrafven]

— tatsuo:

.

He follows readily behind Gwynera as they begin their trek out of town, through the fields to the north, the air growing notable colder as they approach the edge of the permafrost, the wide expanse of tundra visible just over the horizon. He does his best to keep up, pushing himself to match her confident stride—it isn’t hard, he’s used to this in a way he wasn’t years ago, with all the time he’s spent with the Gambit, used to rushing across uneven terrain, used to pushing himself past what once would have been his limits. He’s determined not to make her feel like he’s slowing her down, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find he doesn’t.

It’s hard to tell if her confidence is something instinctive—a deep-learned understanding of nature, or navigating through open fields, of pathfinding among the rocks and snow—or if it’s because she’s already been up this way from town. He knows she’s gone off up north on a few other little outings with members of their motley crew. But either way, he’s impressed with how quickly they progress, how soon they find themselves staring first at the eagle-like rock, and then the mouth of the cave, glittering in the long sun. 

There are a few crystals—which must be the thing they’re here for—visible from the mouth of the cave, not quiet close enough to touch, but he begins to make his way towards them, only half-slowed by the sound of her words, the question she asks him.

      “Oh,” he says—he hadn’t realized he hadn’t mentioned the details, but they do seem a bit silly, and he does his best not to feel self-conscious. She’ll be making a few dozen tal regardless of the purpose of the crystals, after all. But a part of him has to admit that it’s the question that drives him closer to the mouth of the cave, several steps ahead of her now. Inspecting the small flakes of crystal, chipped thin and almost transluscent, that litter the ground there, fragments of the larger crystals deeper within. 

     “Contravere wants to use their magic properties in one of his drinks. Something about freezing unfreezable liquids, and the way the different… densities of fluid react?” He glances back at her, and shrugs a little; he’s not a mixologist, nor a chemist. 

And then he stoops down, carefully picks up one of the small flakes and holds it between two fingers, waits a moment to see if his enchanted gloves will do the trick. He can feel the cold, through the enchanted leather, but it isn’t any worse than holding ordinary ice with bare skin. Hopefully it will stay that way.

     “Well? Are you coming?” 

for all the time that she’s been among those of the gambit, gwyn can’t readily recall many occasions where tatsuo had been alone in her company. this had, perhaps, been purposeful on her part. in situations where it might seem nearly unavoidable, typically, and likely appreciatively, someone like adrik would serve as a buffer between them, providing an air of civility where gwyn may otherwise be prone to less cordial action. so needless to say, there were fewer instances still where she might see the former prince in action or dedicate much thought to him at all, frankly. his confidence in her ability to accomplish the task at hand aside, it surprises her somewhat to see how he keeps pace and time with her. he doesn’t dawdle needlessly or ask for unnecessary rest, and the hunter, honestly, isn’t entirely sure she’d grant the request to begin with unless it seemed absolutely necessary so his stamina is fortunate.  

her break in step as they close in on their objective doesn’t appear to slow him as much gwyn might prefer, her query seeming to speed him along, in fact, in examining the translucent stones nearest the pair. the answer he gives isn’t .. what she expects either, maybe, though she also isn’t quite sure what she assumed of the journey’s purpose to start. still, it nearly floors her, how simple a thing it seems, and it’s difficult to shake the surprise from typically unreadable features. once the thought settles in her mind, it summons something akin to a smirk in the end, a near chuckle bubbling past her lips that would surely find itself easier had she been with anyone else. “.. i’m not sure whether to be insulted or impressed. is this the sort of thing you risk very often?” she didn’t know him well enough to guess how silly his excursions may usually be, as it was.

his testing of how well his gloves perform gives enough satisfaction to the both of them, it seems, any odd effects apparently mitigated by inherent magic and she struggles now to find any other reason to hang back anymore. she parts her lips to .. offer something, perhaps. another question or lame excuse — anything to keep from crossing the threshold. and then, upon realizing she has nothing, seems to grit her teeth in preparation for moving forward until something catches her attention.

it isn’t much of a tell, really, and if the hunter hadn’t been searching for excuses it might sooner be possible that she’d miss it initially, but her ears catch it before her eyes do — the sound of ice fracturing.

spinning back on her heel and briskly moving away from the cave’s opening to prevent the worst in that moment, gwyn notes the cracks trailing her quieter steps, soon merging with an enormous, gradual heat. she knows, right then, why there were no footprints and why the trail seemed so easy. “this better be one hell of a drink.” the thinning ice nearest the burrowing threat forms a near puddle now, a residual effect of the growing warmth beneath, before a scaly, centipede-like creature breaks upward like a torpedo, erupting from its own cavern of tunneled ice below and crashing in the ranger’s direction. clearing the way in the nick of time, gwyn calls back to tatsuo who still lies within earshot. “grab what you can and get going.” this wasn’t a matter up for debate. the beast minded him less, at present, and it was best to take advantage while they could. no sense in leaving empty-handed.

“i’ll cover you.”

[gwyncrafven]

— ovid:

…

A name. It should be something simple. They could offer the name they were given at birth by a mother who decided it was impossible to love them any longer upon realizing what they were. They could offer the name of the face they wear now, that ancient elf who acted as something of a parental figure for a time after they had lost their home to their identity. But neither of those feel right. They are not who they thought they were, and they are not Auberon, even if they wear their face just now. No, they need a name of their own, a name for all these disparate parts of them that make them exactly as they said, no one, and everyone. Somehow they had not thought to consider that until she had asked. But now that the question is posed, they do not need to think to give an answer. 

They incline their head slightly, but graciously, the sort of regal grace that comes naturally from Auberon. Habits that become theirs when in their form. “Gwynera of Tahlos. Gwyn. It is a pleasure. You may call us Ovid…of Pouthená,” they offer, the smallest smile slipping over their lips at how right that feels, to claim their own identity. Ovid, many, shifting. Pouthená, nowhere in an old, long forgotten language that Auberon knows well.

It’s impossible not to notice she way she shifts, the way she looks at them, and they cannot blame her for her wariness after what she saw, when they try so hard to keep their nature hidden precisely because of the reactions that it garners. But she deserves honesty, because she has already seen them in their truest form, unlike most others, and she saved them, even if she doesn’t realize that the injury did just that.

“We have never met others, but there is a deep pull in the center of our chest that tells us there are more like us out there, hiding in plain sight. Our father was like us. That is who we are searching for, although we do not know where to begin, in truth,” Ovid admits slowly. There’s a wariness in Auberon that they don’t posses themself, that keeps them from telling her outright immediately what they are.

gwyn notes, with some interest in fact, the manner in which their company behaves when asked to offer some sort of title. as if they are unaccustomed — the way they pause and seem to consider, either her or the words themselves. it isn't something she's crossed very often, that kind of uncertainty. in due time, however, it seems they manage to bring a name forward. "ovid of pouthená." the elf repeats, letting it roll off the tongue as though trying to pull meaning where there may very well be nothing. somehow, in what she views of the one before her now, this seems rather unlikely. ".. pleased to make your acquaintance." for how long it might remain so, exactly, remained to be seen, of course. that said, gwyn much preferred having something to work with, even in something like a name, than nothing at all.

the hunter settles on what she can decipher, in time. in the peculiar use of phrase just then for instance, and before as well. let's the gears turn and tick as the former woodland creature, now person gives insight into their loneliness yet offers surety of other life in the same breath. her lips part once more after a moment, attempting to break it all down in a sensible fashion. "you've never met another your kind, and yet you use the terms 'we', 'us'. 'everyone'." she begins, her gaze never faltering in its considerations of the before her. ".. that's rather unusual. particularly when referring to one's self only." there's another question there, hanging between them and it is purposely unspoken on account of how obvious it seems. she’s curious how much they’re willing to give her.

"more to the point, how are you so certain of others, your father, if you've never met them? there must be more than a feeling." gwyn liked to operate on some level of fact after all, with something tangible. a trail or something even minutely concrete. she couldn't imagine having such faith in whispers and imagined hunches, but she also knew there were others who were built far differently than she.

[gwyncrafven]

POLITICIARA / DAY THREE / @belxofdeljor + @hephireus

the gambit moving forward on ovid’s whisper of a gathering was not such an odd thing that it deserved to be questioned; they’d made do with less from sources rarely so reliable. and this was easy money. frankly speaking, however, catelia was rather far removed from the heights of fahyrst’s northern permafrost, or even the arid wasteland they’d bothered crossing from just some time ago. their winding canals and vibrant towers glimmered with the wealth of its noble kind, and had gwyn been the sort for it, one might daresay it was worthy of a healthy dose of envy. the way these figures built themselves up, made use of their good fortune in such a lavishly deplorable fashion, however, happened to leave something of a bitter taste. and after enduring the likes of the masquerade and all its needless splendor ( with little offense meant to calliope as she quite adored them ), the hunter found herself in need of more like minded company. or, in the very least, a quiet space in which to indulge quieter thoughts. a stiff drink wouldn’t be so bad either. 

failing in her efforts to track down gavril or that quiet space, however, she’d come to find something similar in bel. and a gig on the side, no less, as tales of shadowed figures haunting the locals in the depths of slumber whirled about and made their way into the light. at the behest of a doctor seeking remedy for his ailing clientele, and promising fair compensation, the pair traversed the city grounds by way of animal or shadow, gathering what details they could from any willing party 

this would lead them to where they were now, from the outer ring of the island in the pitch of near darkness to the lofty estate of some well-to-do marquess. the heart of the politiciara, as it was so called. hushed steps make their way through the crack in the front gate, eventually stumbling upon the collapsed form of a wretched-faced woman who one might presume was the lady of the house. “well,” deft fingers shift towards the noblewoman’s neck in a quick kneel, catching a swell in pulse. “not dead, at least.” a wary gaze sweeps over their surroundings in an effort to pluck any detail from the abyss as she settles on her companion, finally. “certainly down for the count, though. anything?”

[gwyncrafven]

— calliope:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[gwyncrafven]

— tatsuo:

It sounds like she’s saying yes. He’s pretty sure she’s saying yes Honestly, it’s hard to tell with her, sometimes harder to read her words than to read her expressions—she’s got a sort of cryptic way of talking around the point without saying exactly what she means, a talent he’d never entirely gotten the hang of, something his mother had always tried to teach him before finding him too blunt, too eager to get to the point. Gwyn says something that might be a yes and might just be a dig at Tatsuo and more likely than not is both all at the same time, and he slips his hands into his pockets, waiting to see if she’ll go on.

      “Landmarks, yes,” he says, and okay, that sounds more like a yes. He’s getting somewhere. “Up north,” he recites, Contravere’s words easily memorized—he’s always had a strong memory, not necessarily for meaning but at least by rote. “Just past the line of the permafrost, there’s an outcropping of rock that looks like an eagle, and below that, a cave, filled to the brim with crystals.” 

At a certain point, he just as to agree that it’s a yes and operate under that assumption. If he’s wrong, he’s sure she’ll let him know rather quickly, and at least then he’ll be out of his misery and can be on his way to go find someone else willing to hunt down weird crystals with him. Better now than never.

      “I’ll need to change out of these clothes and back into my armor first,” he adds, gesturing to the yellow and pink costumed silks he’s wearing now—not exactly adventuring garb, neither when it comes to protection nor to the weather further north than this. And then he pulls one hand out of his pocket, waving his fingers as if drawing her attention to the pair of gloves he rarely takes off. “But at the very least my gloves are charmed with a pretty strong protection spell, so I ought to at least be able to handle carrying the rocks with them.” 

"oh? .. useful." it's honest commentary, perhaps even a note of surprise lying beneath the almost compliment. it’s a resolution to a problem unspoken and proof the one before her could actually tackle a task or two. she doubts he would have made it this far otherwise, even with adrik on his side. gwyn doubts they'd deal in dead weight, as it were, so surely there were other occasions worth noting these last years.

the wingless ranger permitted tatsuo the opportunity to properly dress and discard his silken fabrics accordingly, the pair eventually making use of their newly allotted time by traipsing through the aforementioned northern brush. it was territory more familiar to her now, certainly, and she seemed to move in such a way that would indicate as much. the crisp chill of the air builds with every step and trailing breath, gwynera taking the lead as necessary until they reach their point of division, a marvelous sheet of white — jagged and unsettled — sheltering equally rougher terrain. a careful glance surveys the area before them — the slopes and ridges, any breaks or unwelcome footfalls. dark, sharp hues mind every passing detail until note is given to a particular formation of stone and rubble, further along their path of wilderness. cautious treading would permit sights on their second landmark, in time, sitting prominently and spectacularly among the mass of boulder and earth: their perched eagle. in a slab of grey. and just a while further, should be an opening that resembled their lovely cave. 

already, it seemed, a smattering of something bright and shining danced just out of view; this is where the ranger took her pause. hesitating, just as they neared the threshold of what looked to be a larger-than-average cave’s opening, even at their distance. while hidden just enough, it almost seemed too easy, their journey here. and while this should have, perhaps, just been appreciated, gwyn had traveled long enough to know when something was worth suspecting. 

.. if it really could be something so simple, however ..

her gaze flickers to tatsuo, momentarily. she’s struck with a thought, just then, though perhaps it’d been in the back of her mind for some time. “i never asked, but is there any specific reason they need something so rare?”

they were nearly there, after all, and while she’d be paid regardless, it’d be worth knowing why someone like tatsuo would take such risks. that, and, she wasn’t terribly big on caves, really. it had nothing to do with what lie inside so much as how .. enclosed they were. even without wings, the hunter struggled to justify her presence within one. and any occasion, such as now, where she might sooner think she could be over such an irrational thing, had proven entirely false. every single time. and so she gave herself a moment .. or three. to indulge in something useless, distracting.

[gwyncrafven]

— gavril:

Far out from the city’s bustling center, they reach the edge of the permafrost, marked by bronzewood forests that slowly thin out further to the north. Gwynera’s estimation of a mile seems accurate, and Gavril follows the path she chooses in pursuit of the great creature. His insight doesn’t extend to beasts; he can only read people. And right now he can sense Gwynera’s unease, mingled with anticipation. 

“I’m the last person you should accuse of a lack of faith,” he says, perfectly straight-faced. “Although - can you blame me? You’re dressed for a royal cotillion, not a hunt.” In a strange way it suits her, if she were a princess. The memory of her face rises, unbidden - far younger, filled with light and framed by feathers. Gavril sinks into silence for a moment, loses himself to the sounds of the woods and Gwynera’s trail. 

Until she speaks again, and the corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “You have,” he agrees. “And I’m indebted to you for it. But I’d enjoy the afternoon walk much better if we got some tal in the process.” Gwynera stops short, and he nearly bumps into her. He leans closer to inspect the tiny, glittering piece, about the size of a finger. Could be nothing. Could be everything. It seems frost-dragons do shed and moult, just as he’d heard; and as they cast off their old shells, so do the seasons change. Easy thing to make a ritual of. 

He glances at Gwyn, and feels a dull ache begin around his spine. There’s pain in these woods. Lisaya calls; They want Gavril to do his duty, as healer and Chosen. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s meant to heal, only that it lies ahead, deeper in the woods.

This time he leads the way, pausing for a moment to ready a spell. They don’t have to go far - just a few yards down is a break in the thicket of trees, littered with broken branches and trunks, and the indent of claw-shaped footprints in the hard soil. It doesn’t take a hunter to read the signs, but Gavril looks back at Gwynera anyway. “Onwards?” 

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?”

[s2yumissyous2]

[gwyncrafven]

— ovid:

They had realized it was a mistake in the split second of shifting before they had lost their ability for most conscious thought. It had been a blissful few weeks, oddly enough, life as a deer wandering through the woods with a few others, only caring for food and water, no other worries, but their sense of self was lost in a way it was not when they took on the faces of others of more intelligent species. In fact, they had realized a moment too late that their curiosity in this case might be the thing that made them lose themself entirely, a terrifying thought, when they only recently had come to hold any real sense of who they are. 

Luckily, though, their pack had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they were a young deer, unable to run fast enough when an expert hunter’s arrow had been shot towards them, piercing their shoulder. For once, it was fortunate that the arrow had been silver, a doppler’s weakness, the only thing able to force them from their form to reveal themself, and so all at once, the unsuspecting hunter had turned a deer into a strange amorphous creature, only for them to pull the arrow from their shoulder and shift to a face that made them feel a little less naked than their true form did. Apparently whatever god of fortune that was watching had been feeling merciful, because they were then able to slip into the group for a short time, while their deep wound healed slowly, painfully, the silver having done a number on their shoulder.

It’s not a surprise to feel the hunter’s curiosity, even without speaking her questions into the air. They’ve kept their nature quiet, but they’re expecting to have to reveal it after what she saw. And so they broke that seal, giving her a little knowing look before slipping away from the rest, knowing she would follow with all the wisdom and insight of this body, even in the pain. Certain as the sun rises, she follows, as they wait in a clearing, savoring the way this face connects them to nature, the way the forest feels like it’s breathing along with them.

“No one. Everyone,” they say simply. “Thank you for the aid. If it were not for you, we would likely still be stuck an animal. It was a fine few weeks, but we much prefer walking on two legs, now that we’ve tried both. Who are you?”

there was still a vivid image of what had morphed and shifted before her that time ago. and while there'd been something about the creature that felt off while trailing them through shadows, the collapse into nebulous grey of what had once been a young deer pierced by her bolt of silver was as far from expected as anyone could guess. the very human features that followed, that consecutive altering of one form to the next until one was finally settled upon, gave her little more to go on.

and their answer now, of course, was less helpful. less in the vein of very direct that gwyn often preferred, tilting her head in a fashion that barely betrays her brimming curiosity. "well, i can't exactly call you that, can i?" the breath of amusement that would typically be permitted behind such words is nearly lost in the beginnings of vague annoyance, her mind practically racing in its efforts to make sense of what's before her. there were few beings that came to mind that drew similar enough comparisons, as it was. shifters, naturally, were the first considered but there was something very different about this one, if that were at all the case. most shifters couldn't change from one species to another and then to another again. they also didn’t have a choice, typically.

".. gwynera of tahlos." though there were those that knew it, she rarely gave her last name. she didn't have an immediate answer as to why. perhaps she disliked what it reminded her of. "call me gwyn if you'd like." a shrug rolls along her shoulders, half-hearted, with her gaze keeping to her immediate company as though fearful of what might happen should she let them out of her sight. ".. are there others like you?" the question falls incompletely, almost, because there are a string of other words, other questions that draw her interest just as easily. .. why a deer? had they always known they could be a woodland creature? could they be any creature? how often did they shift? how long could they stay — the mention of weeks gives her a general idea of what to expect there, however.

regardless of what lie beneath, in the depths of her wandering mind, there is no follow-up given to her initial ask. the hunter decides to keep things as simple as she can, taking it piece by piece, step by step.

[gwyncrafven]

— calliope:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[gwyncrafven]

— syvashka:

Late afternoon, in the hills near Fahyrst, the day before the carnival. With @gwyncrafven.

Almost like home. Almost. Vashka took a deep, brisk breath, faintly sweet with frost-flower, crisply cold. The snow crunched beneath his boots, dry stuff; there was only a little coming down, hardly drifting in the odd gust of wind. Good. Their trail should be easy enough to follow back to Fahryst, when it came time for that. The trail they were on, though - not so simple. Not a trail at all, so far. A squall the night before had cleared most traces. So they’d started where the monster struck last, and followed snapped branches, broken icicles. No tracks, yet. Thin signs, spread out. But between Gwyn and him? The job would get done. 

Filing down the side of an embankment, Vashka went slow, the two hunters within a few sword’s-lengths of each other. Didn’t want to stray too far, out here. Especially not knowing what they were dealing with. A snow-covered beast. A young majves? Smaller, come south for some reason? Wasn’t unheard of. Zverm? Maybe. They tended to keep to dusk and darker, though. Krajeja? Sounded bigger than those, whatever it was. Or… well, no, no, it shouldn’t be kazne. Not with so many people attacked, and none killed, or changed. The curse didn’t seem to take too often below the tundra; so much was unsure, though. It was possible they’d find a too-familiar creature, at the end of this. Not likely, but possible. Many things were. 

He just had to hope. Something clunked and scraped against his boot, under the snow - not stone. Vashka stopped, and dug down a little. Until a sizable ribcage started to spike into view. With a low whistle, a hawk-like sound for signaling, Vashka called Gwyn back a few steps. Reaching further, he hauled up most of a spine, picked clean. Of what? “An elk, maybe? Or horse…” he murmured, bending to look closer at the bitemarks, gouged into the bone. Too bad there was no flesh left on the kill, or a skull - more to read. The snap of the spine wasn’t especially clean; Vashka touched the broken vertebrae, gouged by fangs. Of different sizes, he could see now. Scavengers, he’d guess. Foxes, wolves. He didn’t point the patterns out, trusting Gwyn would notice. “All cracked for marrow. If this is our beast, and they were so hungry as that - why not eat anyone from the road?” The battered fairgoers had all escaped with a bad scare, scrapes, bruises. The most anybody had lost was an ox, ripped away between the snowy pines.  “Perhaps this one has particular tastes. What do you think, ah?” 

whatever a city may offer in return, gwyn often realized there really was nothing like the wonders of nature. the crisp air and fallen patches of dry snow were a welcome sight, something comfortable and freeing in the way buildings and endless pavement could never hope to be. tal aside, she'd been willing to take on the offered task if for no other reason than to be back among familiar surroundings. .. and others deserved the chance to enjoy what time they had without further interruption, perhaps. following the mostly absent hints left behind in what should have been an easier trail to manage, however, it had a way of making anyone feel just a bit hopeless. she and vashka were a persistent kind, however, and so they made do with what they'd been allowed — the pair seemed to be pushing forward well enough in spite of the presented obstacles, in fact. namely, in the loss of what they'd be facing.

the mention of snow-covered and the general, vague descriptions permitted by those shaken to their bones in various assaults, did not give them much to assume. the impression of a creature more common to these parts in some fashion, at least by gwyn's views, did seem an early contender though. they didn't sound spooked necessarily by the sight of the humanoid, for starters, so they weren't as uncertain of their whereabouts as you'd guess. the fact that the figure in question hadn't mauled or devoured a single person, opting for an ox if little else, seemed to point in this direction as well. something starving would sooner go into a mode of survival regardless of cost or logic. they knew their appropriate food source and were clear enough of mind not to cross that boundary. .. perhaps this daylight .. what they were experiencing now wasn't typical, after all. internally, it could shift things.

when vashka calls on her in that familiar whistle, her straying thoughts return to him and what he's stumbled upon. the variety in markings point to multiple rather than a singular culprit, at least towards the end. "it would line up with what we know, so far." she considers at the mention of particular tastes, a passing glance given to the find again. there’s desperation painted there, in the cracks and remains. "they wanted every morsel. there's barely anything left.” potential scavengers aside, it just seemed a little too clean. “i imagine this animal has more to offer nutritionally than you or i would, as well. they know exactly what they need." she wondered, now, if there were others like this poor creature around, buried from their sights. ".. so if they aren't the ones starving then something surely is."

[gwyncrafven]

— tatsuo:

She answers, which is almost more than he expected of her, even if that answer is just a request for elaboration. The mention of money seems to have done its job well enough, and sure, maybe he would have liked to keep some of the reward money for himself, but if he really needs to he can beg a few tal off of Adrik to keep him going until he comes across something else that he doesn’t need Gwyn’s help for.

     “Well, I’ve got a job offer,” he starts, and realizes that he’s mostly just stated the obvious so far, which isn’t the most promising start. He’s not sure he’s ever been nervous talking to someone the way Gwynera makes him nervous—like he’s doomed to fail, no matter what he tries, so the usual easy confidence he operates with most of the time completely abandons him at the sight of her. “One of the… Carnival workers needs something, from up a bit north of here, offered to pay pretty well for it. He gave me a set of landmarks, but you’re better with directions than I am.” 

He takes a second, trying to read her expression, to gauge her reaction, and gets pretty much fuck all from it, no sense of if she’s about to tell him to fuck off or if she’s about to tell him that sure, she’ll go hunt down a weird cave full of rare crystals for a rather flamboyant bartender with him.

     “It’s something called giant’s tear,” he adds, after a beat. “He only needs a small amount, but I’d imagine if he wants it there’s some demand for it. Likely we could take a little extra and sell that, too. Two birds, one stone, and all that.” 

frankly speaking, if he hadn’t made the offer to surrender every piece of tal, gwyn may have permitted him a spare coin or two. as it stood, however, the suggestion was made of his own volition and so it would remain as stated, more than likely. there were, after all, consequences for one’s words as well as their actions.

more than the reward however, his mention of what he needs and why, rocky footing aside and vague manner aside, keeps her wheels turning. a giant’s tear. this rarity was noted for a few effects, most attributed to legend rather than fact. the idea that it may freeze on contact presented an issue worth addressing in terms of how they may carry it about, for instance, if at all true. still, this wasn’t the oddest request she’d received. and gwyn was someone who preferred to be prepared for most occasions where feasible, with a mental tally given towards the pack resting against her back now and what remained following her ventures with syvashka and gavril, respectively. 

“there was rumor circling of a fool’s errand into the north,” she notes initially, her own journeys excluded and her features impassive in a way that seemed reserved for her would-be traveling companion alone. she took a fair bit of pleasure in making him sweat a little; she was not above saying. a gradual consideration is eventually given towards tatsuo themselves before a motion’s made as though she’d proceed with him, in the end. “seems they have a few willing participants on their sides, all the same.” it was a 'yes' without going so far as to say so, hardly of the mind to permit such satisfaction. mostly, her agreement arose in the curiousness she now held for what this would actually accomplish. no one requested something so rare without due purpose, though she’d rather not spoil the surprise for herself just yet. 

“.. you mentioned landmarks?”

[gwyncrafven]

— gavril:

Of course it would be her - it’s almost like the mention of a dragon, any dragon, summons Gwynera from the woodwork. Although not often in a white dress that makes Gavril want to avert his eyes for propriety’s sake. He nods thanks to Varthé before falling in step with Gwyn, quietly pleased to have a reason to leave the city within hours of arriving. Fellow misanthropes made the best companions.

The request startles a laugh from him. “I’ve a pipe packed with crushed sunberry leaves in my pocket, if you’d like to keep warm,” Gavril offers. Liquor isn’t his wheelhouse. “You’re the expert - how long would you say the trek is?” His thick, grey-hued skin, the inheritance of all arctic orcs, sets him in good stead for the journey northwards. He’s less sure about Gwynera’s dress, but it seems she has no plans to change. 

They take stock - light armour, Gwyn’s crossbow, his mace, a day’s rations in his backpack. “You don’t plan to hunt, do you?” he asks, as they walk. Not in that dress, Lights forbid. “Scratch that - we’re not going on a hunt. We’re going to scour the forest for frost-dragon pickings and leave before we get singed. That’s the plan.” 

As if Gwynera ever stuck to their plans. The crowds of Fahryst peel away, and the landscape turns gradually from well-paved streets to roughshod road bordered by clusters of Haelion pine. The silence is restorative; just the clod of their boots, and birdsong trailing around them. Now, Gavril ventures to ask, “You believe her, then? That she might have been the first creature to lay eyes on a frost-dragon in some three hundred years.” They’re badly-equipped for it, but something about walking into danger with Gwynera feels - normal, for him. He trusts her to protect the both of them, and he trusts himself to fix the cuts and bruises (or worse) that result. It feels like a return to form. 

gwyn knew better, of course, but it was a worthy shot either way. “mm. .. maybe.” sunberry was a peculiar thing. never too sweet or finicky in preparation, easy to digest and manage on longer treks. and quite warming, as gavril had mentioned. .. before the question of distance might even reach his lips, however, gwyn is scouting. searching. for signs, for life. for proof of something grand and miraculous in the tiniest scattering of detail. even miniscule markings mattered — a snapped piece of wood, an uncharacteristic scent, a ghost of a footprint be it beast or otherwise  — any lead would do. particularly with the manner of creature they were following. the remnants of what she’s given now as they traipse forward into the wilderness and further away from the likes of proper civilization though, indicate a longer time of it than she’d like. the longer they’re away in such an ill-prepared fashion, the higher potential was for encountering further risk.

“a mile or so more, maybe.” already, though there was something odd in the air. something near impossible to place right away. it made her antsy, guarded. deliberate in how she chose to venture forth with her already ruined dress, but also .. more than a little excited.

a perfectly arched brow trails her companion’s directive, a smirk blossoming already in clear defiance for what she knew to be an appropriate response. “you know, if i were at all the type to be easily insulted, i might take offense at your lack of faith in me and my lovely gown.” while he hadn’t gone so far as to mention it, a kindness few would afford her likely, it was plausible that much of his concern lie there specifically .. gwyn’s actual tendencies aside, of course. the right material could mean the difference between a sweeping victory or sound defeat, after all. anyone with good sense would tell you as much. and while the hunter would like to believe that she could be stark naked and still make do against all odds, gwyn also knew her healer of choice had the smarter idea on hand. .. probably. still, it wasn’t very often these days the opportunity arose to take on her fated enemy under such circumstances. it was only natural for her to be a little too gung-ho, even under the veil of apparent composure. 

it takes her no time to offer her impressions of their dryad friend upon being asked. “i believe that she believes it, and would appreciate anyone giving her the chance to prove it, perhaps.” the earnest nature of the girl alone, the way she lit up at the mere prospect of someone investigating — those were tells of someone less likely to deceive. “besides, if it ends up she’s wrong,” and even at the idea of this, the elf seems rather at ease still, the makings of a curl to her lips as they walk in tandem. “at least i’ve snuck you away from the city for a bit, right?”

just after however, a pause greets gwyn’s steps, the surrounding woodlands seemingly grow just as quiet in response. her sharp eyes catch a flicker of something just inches away now, a knee taken down into a forward kneel as delicate fingers graze the forest floor. the hunter plucks something slight and shimmery, nearly buried. 

a silver chip of a scale, almost feather-like. it was just the one alone, but .. it was something, alright.

[gwyncrafven]

THE MARKET / DAY FOUR / @calliopeofvalmyar​

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

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

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

[gwyncrafven]

FLASHBACK / ON THE ROAD, SOME YEARS AGO / @ovidofpouthena

gwyn had only been around these .. strangers for a short while. not enough of an introduction given on her part for them to know much about her beyond the bare minimum, despite the passing weeks between them all, and they had mimicked her in return. she knew the comings and goings of a few, here and there, some distinguishing markers and tendencies in the mess of them. the hunter knew they wouldn’t come for her in the night either, most likely, and honestly — that was enough. she’d venture a guess it mattered less so long as she pulled her weight, paid her dues. they were a means to an end, people she’d fall away from just as quickly and as simply as she’d arrived — and yet.

and yet, there was one in particular that drew her focus that evening. that seemed to draw her gaze every once in a while, in fact, holding the sort of sly look in their own eyes that seemed to know more than she liked. that made her wonder, perhaps even to her detriment. still, there was an impulse to follow, to figure them out. and that’s exactly what she’d chosen this late evening.

gwynera snuck away in the same instance they eventually had, trailed them to a thicket of brush and dark, angular wood nearest their camp, rather light of foot as always. appearances aside, her caution was innate, something easily gained in her time, and perhaps even more to do with how little she knew of the one she’d tracked. despite the glimpse of familiarity. their manner and make eluded her, what they might be capable of was even less apparent. it was all too likely she’d find herself walking right into a trap, frankly, as things stood. that said, it was a pleasant enough surprise to find them waiting quietly in the grove, as if anticipating her instinct to follow their offered lead. the pair is isolated enough now to allow them privacy, yet not so far removed that it’d draw immediate concern from any party. it is at this moment the longstanding question finally finds its voice, breaking from its tidy trappings.

“.. who are you?”

[gwyncrafven]

— tatsuo:

a few days into the Carnival      just off the main square, Fahyrst ( @gwyncrafven· )

The man at the bar—who had introduced himself rather grandiosely as Adarius Contravere, mixologist extraordinaire—had told Tatsuo it would be the perfect drink, the drink to beat every other colorful, elaborate cocktail he’d sampled over the course of the past few days. Which, really, was a tall order: he’s sampled quite a few already, and many of them pretty memorable. But Tatsuo is curious, so curious, curious enough that, without really realizing he’s done it, he’s promised the man he’ll fetch a giant’s tear stone, made note of the directions ( up just past the line of the permafrost, there’s an outcropping of rock that looks like an eagle, and below that, a cave, filled to the brim with crystals… ), and left the tavern in search of someone to drag with him to find the stone.

It feels like fate—good fate or bad, he’s not entirely sure—that he comes across Gwynera first. If you’d asked him which member of the Gabmit he’d trust most with a vague sort of venture off into the wilderness and find something rare kind of quest, she would have been his very first answer. If you’d asked him which member he’d want to go with on one of them, his answer would not have been quite so fast. He doesn’t deal well with coldness; oh, he can stand when people don’t like him, but he’d much rather they be upfront and angry about it, heated. Gwyn, he can never get a read on, can never bring himself to understand what it is that makes her distrust him.

Still: there she is. Certainly, she’d have no problem finding this cave that looks like an eagle or whatever Contravere had said. And there was tal to be made.

     “Gwyn,” he calls, racing a few steps to catch up to her ahead of him in the road, falling into step beside her before she has a chance to stop him.

     “Are you busy, right now? Or have you got time for a quick jaunt into the permafrost?” And then, because he already senses she’s about to tell him no and he can’t bear the rejection, adds: “I’ll let you keep the reward money. If you help.” 

gwynera rarely considers how draining this atmosphere can be on her. when they pull into new towns, busier ones like this, where demand is higher and the tal easier to come by in various steps, there's an eagerness to fulfill. to aid. to wander. even in these later days. and she assumes she might get used to it, the livelier motions of the crowd spilling about in droves, the way the constant, beaming light and festivities made it harder to consider rest — not that she was prone to much of the kind to start, mind you. yet, as is her way, the hunter still tends to shutter back between borders and sidelines, always. this is moreso the case when she no longer finds herself useful. 

having procured her drink of choice, her intention is to hide away again of course, buried someplace dark. somewhere quieter. enjoy things from afar. that wish seems to slither further away from her grasp, however, as tatsuo makes a point of bounding over and indulging in what she perceives as mindless conversation. something she's less keen on. there's a spike in irritation to trail this understanding, naturally, in what's now apparently lost to her. though, her features give nothing of the kind, her pace quickening as though in an absent manner. her efforts are made in vain, all the same. she's held to listen.

the way his voice dances through gwyn’s ears now, grates on her. it seems he's learning to anticipate her reactions towards him as well, as he doesn't give a moment to reply first. to refuse outright. it's smart, because her impulse nearly screams to do so. money, however, is a good way to keep her interest. .. not that she's certain how much she appreciates his knowledge of this. " .. go on." she offers finally, expecting further explanation of what might need to be done.