savor the taste of fabricated wealth

ovid of pouthená. doppler. 40. any pronouns. somebody told me you had a boyfriend who looked like a girlfriend that i had in february of last year

[ovidofpouthena]

calliopeofvalmyar​:

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

In their mind, thought pleasantly hazy, always swirling anyway even without the help of wine, thanks to their many selves, the night before them is all but set now. It’s lucky, they think vaguely, that Calliope came across them a ways into the evening, after they’ve done much of the work they set out to here already, because they plan to be thoroughly distracted from those sort of secrets for the remainder of the night now. It’s a thrilling thought, all of the different ways this might go, each of them just as appealing as the last, no matter the degree of what they might find together. It’s been a while since they’ve indulged like this, and doing so with Calliope, whom they find interesting enough even without the beauty and charm he possesses, makes their heart sped, clearly an idea they’re glad for. And watching him drink from their glass only confirms that, an intimacy there suddenly between them that has little to do with the close proximity alone. He’s inviting them in, a rare gift they think perhaps he hasn’t given in recent time, one that makes them all the more eager to accept it.

They hum at his assessment of their explanation, before bringing the glass back to their own lips, taking a small sip all while keeping their eyes trained on him. There’s intimacy in the gesture, sharing a sip of the same wine, from the same glass, lips connected through it. And the easy warmth that comes from the slight intoxication they’ve nursed through the night makes instinct want to take over, so they allow it just now, knowing somehow that Calliope won’t mind the very slight change. But Iago wants to play, he wants to follow this line and see exactly what sort of trouble they can find here, and perhaps give the nobles something to talk about during their next grand party all the while. In Iago their instinct for a more subtle drama comes out, something a little slow, and languid, but just as satisfying when it’s discovered.

It’s something they would very much like to show Calliope, if he wants to take it. And from his reply, from the soft words and the nearly savage smile accompanying them, they’re certain that he does just as much as they do.

“Sweet trouble as gratitude, hm?” they hum, tilting their head slightly as if considering this proposition deeply. Because it is a proposition, at its core. They have a job to do, collecting secrets that could prove useful, but they’ve already done more than their fair share of pulling that weight, their unique skillset especially while wearing Iago’s face something that makes it oh-so simple to draw secrets from wine-stained lips, and jeweled fingers. That’s not the sort of sweet trouble they think either of them have in mind just now. They take another sip of wine, letting it all linger in the air, the anticipation half of the entertainment, being so close, the clear tension in the air between them. Iago is patient, they are patient, but the hunger that twists their stomach makes that a little less true for all of them.

“Perhaps we might find a more private corner to talk. It is a selfish ask, but all the gratitude we could ask for comes from more time spent in your presence. But we promise you plenty of sweet trouble, for stealing you away from the crowd. There are secrets to be shared, we think, and we’ve heard there is an art gallery upstairs that’s sure to thrill,” Ovid says, voice low. They offer their arm for him to take, to lead elsewhere, whether the gallery, or elsewhere, they don’t have much mind. As long as they can follow this thread with Calliope, see precisely where it may lead. “Perhaps we can open your eyes even more so.”

[ovidofpouthena]

gwyncrafven​:

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?”

...

They can see the understanding cross her face as they slowly reveal just what they truly are. There is an instinct for caution, an itch at the back of their mind preparing to shift, if need be, if danger suddenly appears, if she believes those tales hunters tell about their kind. But Auberon quiets those fears, thinks so simply that understanding can come from many places, that they might find some of it here, despite their own wariness out of protection. “We have more faces than we could ever wear. We would have to shift every hour to give them all a chance at life through our eyes and understand all they each have to offer,” Ovid explains, taking to pacing around the clearly slightly, now that honesty is at the forefront.

Tempting as it is to reach out, to see what she thinks truly about this revelation, they temper that instinct, something they’re slowly trying to learn to do, having realized the hard way what reaction that can garner from someone who does not wish to share their mind. They nod, at her unspoken question of what they are capable of. “That is true enough,” they confirm of that rumor. “When we wear a face, with become that soul in more than just appearances. As you said, skill, manner, voice, as well as memories, feelings, although we are learning slowly to separate ourself from those private thoughts. Some things are not ours to take without permission.”

They tilt their head to the side as they regard her, the smirk on her lips as she agrees that they are not monsters, but survivors, talent worth killing for. The wheels turn in their own head, wondering how she means those words, but Auberon senses no threat here, simply an observation. She is correct, after all, there are many old wives’ tales of potions using parts of their kind meant to help others possess their skills, knowing that no form of shapeshifting is quite so complete and powerful as a dopplers. And conversely, there are plenty who would kill because of the danger they think they are, with such strong abilities, those who fear the idea of someone using their face for evil. But dopplers are gentle creatures, unless put in harm’s way. Gwyn is correct, dopplers are survivors at their core.

Her next question makes a slight hint of a frown crease smooth, ageless features, as they consider it. “Strange? No, it is simply our nature,” Ovid hums carefully. “Painful? At times. It is difficult not to become overwhelmed with the memories, and emotions our faces have felt. It is...one of the many reasons we wish to find another of our own, so that they might teach us how to separate ourself better. But we do not feel lost. We know who we are. But...we are much younger than we appear in this form, than all the wisdom we possess just now. Ask us the same question again in a decade, or when we wear another face.”

[ovidofpouthena]

gwyncrafven​:

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.

...

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?”

[ovidofpouthena]

calliopeofvalmyar​:

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

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

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

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

He’s always been a fool. 

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

...

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

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

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

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

[calliopeofvalmyar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ovidofpouthena]

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

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

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

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

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

[ovidofpouthena]

tatsuokon​:

He’s grateful that they take the cue to move on, to slip back into the easy, shallow, casual tone of two friends speaking about nothing in particular at all, glad to leave behind the conversation of homes and loss and everything else that came with it. He knows they see right through him—they always do, and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to, but he oddly doesn’t mind how well they know him, even if that means knowing the pain he hides from most of their other companions—but they have the decency to let him keep at least a bit of his pride in tact at the end of the day. 

     “Me? Well,” he says, sitting back a little, leaning his elbows on the back of his chair like he’s considering the question. He really isn’t planning to do much besides drink, unless Adrik drags him off somewhere interesting. The party part of this thing is very much up his alley; the religious aspect of it somewhat less so. It hadn’t been particularly fashionable to worship any particular god in the Northern Kingdom of the Blossoms, and he’d never quite found it in himself to seek out any stake in faith or any kind. He believed in fortune, but he didn’t believe anyone, or anything, could change what it had in store for you, or predict what it would decide it would do next, and when. Nothing could have predicted the turns his own life had taken. “Fortune will have its way with me, whether I spend money on a lovely string of beads or not. It really rather enjoys playing with me, I think.” 

He feels himself suddenly restless. Ovid’s company is as good as anyone’s, better than most, but there’s an energy to the place that makes him want to keep moving, instead of lingering on anything. He can feel the pull back towards his maudlin mood from moments before, and he’d hate to risk indulging in it again already. So instead, he pushes himself up, taps their glass as if to say enjoy the rest, and gives them a teasing little bow. 

     “I think my money’s better spent on drinks. But if you find something spectacular up there, do let me know. i’d love for something to surprise me.” 

[ovidofpouthena]

aubreyluckers​:

lucky snorts. “ isn’t that what i should be asking you? ” fortunately for lucky, drusilla was the easiest face for her to look at. it’s quite fitting that she found ovid flirting with a stranger, no doubt plying them with wine in order to get whatever secrets they were after. lucky’s somewhat curious as to what manner of information ovid could procure from this man and makes a mental note to pry for more information later.

“ down in the market – the one with those dancers, you know the ones, with all that fire ? anyway, there’s a stall with a mirror for sale. the mirror… i don’t really know how to describe it. plain old thing from a glance, but the mirror itself does not reflect. if i had to hazard a guess, i would believe it might be a scrying tool of some kind. but the mirrors i’ve seen before don’t speak before they’re spoken to first. so, it’s obviously some kind of enchantment,  could be a simple message spell or something more complex like –”

she cuts herself off, catching herself before she launches into her list of theories. oddly, ovid would probably be amused by lucky’s ramblings, but it was getting late in the day and she couldn’t be certain how long this shifty merchant was going to stick around.  

“ you see, it told me it had a secret to share, if i were to take it to ‘the top of the tallest tower’. ” and no, lucky had no idea where this ‘tallest tower’ may be. one step at a time. “ you’ll see for yourself. plain and simple, i would like to acquire this mirror. the merchant, however, has put an outlandish price tag on the damned thing. now, i don’t particularly care for whatever this mirror supposedly has to offer - maybe you would, who knows. i just want to take it to zhenya and have them break it apart. ”

lucky sighs, “ i doubt you’re above, uh, other methods of procuring this mirror? ”

...

They hum, a little laugh in their voice, the sentiment true enough, especially when they’re wearing Dru’s face. But they listen with interest as Aubrey explains the predicament, and immediately their interest is piqued. A mirror with magical properties, that may have some sort of strange enchantment. Aubrey goes off on a small tirade about some of her theories, and an amused smile slides over Dru’s face, along with the itch to shift to someone who would better understand a magical object, and be able to figure out exactly what it is. That stops for a moment, though, as she mentions a secret to share, and the tallest tower. Immediately they think of the tower they had spoken with Tatsuo about. They can see the plan forming in their minds eye as she speaks

A nod, same thoughtful smile on their lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, dear. But our other methods must be worth something, if you’re asking us to use them,” Ovid teases lightly. “We are more than happy to help you procure it, if you allow us to take this mirror to the top of the tallest tower to see what secrets it has to share, before you shatter it and take your seven years of bad luck, instead. We’ve heard the view is absolutely stunning, after all. Two birds, one stone, as they say.”

Glancing around, their eyes land on an alleyway private enough for their use. “Give us one moment. Drusilla, unfortunately has a deep fear of heights, and if this merchant is shady as we would except of someone peddling mysterious objects for high price tags, we may need a different skill set for this.”

They hold up a finger for Aubrey to wait for them, and hurry away, ducking into the corner for the split second change it takes for a new face to come forth. It always feels like relief to shift, holding onto one face for too long unnatural for them, but they’re already planning to come back to Dru as soon as this adventure is finished, to find their sorcerer again, and continue to pick his brain. Zephyr feels strange for this festival, but the strangeness is what they’re counting on working in their favor for this particular task. They only take a moment to adjust the swords on their back before coming back into the street to find Aubrey.

“Alright. Show us to this merchant, and we’ll get you this mirror.”

[ovidofpouthena]

tatsuokon​:

Their touch pulls him out of his reverie, grounds him back in reality, where he is trying his best not to be a pathetic brat longing for a place he’ll never return to, a reality where he has made the best he could with the situation he had, learned to scrap and to survive and found people who make it easier to get through each day, and through each night.

Maybe Ovid is right. Home in others. Isn’t that what the Gambit is, in some small way? He may not love all of them, may not even like some, but he trusts them all, because he has to, because he must, because this entire fragile enterprise is dependent on just that. Because the Gambit has wandered the Fade for hundreds of years, a place for people who have nowhere else to go but are willing to put their trust in strangers.

Maybe Ovid is a home, in a way, in all their strangeness and fascination, reliable and steady even as they are ever-shifting. Maybe Adrik is, too. Gavril. Vashka. Zhenya. Calliope. Even Gwyn and Lucky, who wouldn’t give him the time of day but who, he’s fairly certain, would save his life given the chance. 

He’s grateful, though, at the change in tone. Their little laugh, familiar to this face. The teasing he’s so used to. It’s easy to fall back into something like normalcy, as they do it, to pretend he hadn’t gotten very suddenly maudlin, very suddenly lonely, at the invocation of the idea of home.

      “Oh, it’s fine, it is my fault, isn’t it? I should ask for a refund. Who sells drinks at a festival that are designed to make you sad? A travesty, honestly, now I owe it to you to pick the mood back up, don’t I? Tell me, Ovid, have you been to the tower yet? I haven’t, but I’ve heard it has quite the view.” 

...

There’s plenty more to say on the topic of home, and what that means for all of them really. It’s the sort of philosophical, yet emotional question that makes the urge to shift to Auberon bubble to the surface, and the melancholy ache in knowing that is a face they can only use now on the rarest of occasions, when they know for sure that the elf themself is in the Valley of Asphodel, far away from any potential trail to suggest there might be two Auberon’s wandering around. But it’s not something to reflect on just now, in the middle of the festival, any more than they already have. So they push that urge to the side, just as they let that longing for home fade for the moment, as it seems Tatsuo is happy to try to do, too, and they push on happily.

“Positively cheated out of your tal. You’re lucky we adore you, or we might make you buy us another drink to make up for it,” Ovid teases with a hum, raising an eyebrow. 

They’ve heard many people talking about the tower and its supposed view to the edge of the continent. The thought of that height makes Dru’s stomach turn, but they’re interested in what one might find at the top. “Not yet, no. We haven’t made it past the drinks, in honesty, but there’s time to see it all. Dru’s never been fond of heights, but we think Zephyr might enjoy it. Perhaps some secrets lie at its top, something that can only be seen there. Wouldn’t that be a terrific tale to tell?”

Another sip of the drink, more able to push through the warm nostalgia, the singing, to focus on the conversation now that they’re used to it. “And you, Tatsuo? Are you planning to spend the whole festival drinking your way through the tents, or are you someone who believes in the fortune of pretty beads, perhaps?”

[ovidofpouthena]

gavrileontidis​:

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.” 

...

They have half a mind to do what Kolra clearly wants, asking what, exactly, the compassionate thing is in Gavril’s mind, but they know better than to linger on the conversation at hand any longer and risk losing out on the reward that they long for. The issue of what he may or may not say to break this poor boys spirit is something they can deal with in time. Already, though, they’re trying to figure out how best to make certain he draws a gold bead, when he inevitably makes that choice anyway. They think the best course of action here will be to slip away for a moment, shift to one of their many faces who possesses magic, and guarantee the golden bead––and the reward money––easily.

Only a vague nod, and a wave of their hand to Gavril’s words, mind already far ahead of the conversation they’re likely going to have to salvage when he breaks the poor kid’s spirit without any ill intent.

The moment Razia approaches, they give themself the rare indulgence of openly reaching out to the top of his mind, his feelings. He’s hopeful, genuinely so, and exceptionally earnest, the sort that they think this bead pulling was made for, those who will prescribe their own meaning to whatever the get and call it a higher power sending a sign. They agree with Gavril on that, but they don’t think there’s harm in it, unlike him it seems. They simply smile, and nod, offering their own mimicked look of sympathy, as Gavril does his thing. It takes a great deal of effort not to contradict him outwardly, though, but fair is fair.

“But isn’t all of life chance?” Ovid cuts in at last, looking between them. “My friend here has a point, of course, there is logic here, probability at play, not only divine providence. But there is meaning in chance, and gods have funny ways of showing their intentions, at times. Better, I think, to realize that meaning is not so black and white, maybe, than to forfeit chance altogether, when you might find what you’re searching for.”

They’re not completely convinced that what they’re saying is helpful, either, but Iago certainly is. The look on Razia’s face as he considers both of them tells them they’re only confusing him further. “Oh...yes, of course, that’s true, too...” he trails off, shifting slightly, frown only deepening.

Another method, then. “All of those threes, though, that must mean something, yes? I don’t pretend to know the will of any god, but it seems if there was a moment one might make their will known for you, it might be now,” they reason.

[ovidofpouthena]

calliopeofvalmyar​:

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

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

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

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

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

...

They don’t miss the teasing in his words, the way their eyes have a little glint of something else sparkling in them when he looks at them. It makes them curious, makes a slight smirk cross their lips in response. A thought of potential, a worry of the danger of that potential. They don’t let themself think too deeply on it in this moment, though, with a mission at hand, and a performance to give. It is harder not to let thoughts stray that way, though, as Calliope fixes a strand of their hair, looking at them closely, before offering an arm. And they have to wonder what’s behind those eyes, what he’s thinking. Temptation, again, to reach out an understand, if this is simply for the show, something amusing, and entertaining as they enjoy this little situation they’ve found themself in, or if it’s something else entirely, something more genuine.

That thought makes their heart speed a little, and they know they can’t attribute that to Clarion, as much as the instinct to flirt back is theirs in this moment.

“Only now the prettiest pair in the Fade? Hm, perhaps we’ll have to use Clarion’s face after this, then,” Ovid hums with a little breath of a laugh, before taking their arm, carefully shifting the lute to their other. They start off, towards where they know already the stage is located, the tent around to prepare. Still a little time before then, they’re tempted to use this time to follow this instinct, see just what it is that Calliope may be thinking, perhaps have another drink––that comes from Clarion––but they know they need to focus. It is still a job, after all, no matter the fun that will come from it.

“And beautiful music we shall make,” they say, raising an eyebrow, as they glance to him. As they walk through the crowds, they’re recognized, and the boost of ego is unmistakable, something they could certainly get used to enjoying, in a face like this, but they’re more focused on Calliope, giving only a vague wave, an indulge kiss blown to the adoring public, as they find their way to a more private area.

“It has been a good while since Clarion has performed a duet. It seems they aren’t as used to collaborative storytelling as we are,” Ovid explains, the slightest feeling of resistance to the idea in Clarion, but one they ignore. “Shall we warm up? Perhaps we can find what secrets they hold to fame, pick their brain?”

[ovidofpouthena]

tatsuokon​:

Fair is fair, unfortunately, and he should have expected that this would be coming, but festivals like this hardly feel like the time for introspection—something he’s really rather been trying to avoid on the whole for… okay, several years now. Trying not to think too deeply about everything that lies beneath the surface of his thoughts, trying to pretend nothing does lie beneath the surface of his thoughts. Not that he’d been one for introspection before he’d had to leave his home. His mother had always told him he was atrocious at writing poetry that had any feeling, as if somehow that was a greater disappointment to her than his abysmal understanding of political nuance. 

But on the road, trying to survive… there hadn’t been time for it. Before Adrik, he hadn’t had the space to think about anything more than he needed to to make it through until sunrise alive and with his limbs in tact. He’d gotten rather adept at refusing to think about what he wanted, other than a hot meal, and a cold drink, and someone to talk to. By then, it was habit, not to think about what he wanted that he couldn’t have. Not to long for things.

He hadn’t longed for anything, before the palace burned. Anything he wanted had been only a simple request away. He wanted, and then he had, without enough time in between to develop a longing. Now he’s afraid if he starts, he’ll never stop.

     “There’s no point in longing for something that doesn’t exist anymore,” he says, and maybe he means it to sound flippant, or confident, but that’s not how it comes out—it comes out quiet, and raw. Sticks in his throat more than it should. Even if he could return to what used to be the Northern Kingdom of the Blossoms, it wouldn’t be home anymore. It would have the flowers, and the mountains, but it wouldn’t be home. 

     “I miss it, but the place I miss is gone.” 

...

Perhaps it’s not truly a fair question to pose, and they could guess that it’s certainly not the sort of introspection that Tatsuo was looking for when he brought them the delicious cocktail. But their curiosity is something that they can rarely temper, even on the best of days, with people they don’t trust. With those they do, it’s almost an impossibility, any tact that they’ve gained over years spent at courts, collecting different faces full of it all but forgotten in favor of gaining insight into others the old fashioned way.

It’s an interesting position to be in, after all, having been to Tatsuo’s former kingdom, time spent there learning secrets privately, publicly on a diplomatic mission, and now seeing where he is, what happened to his home. It would be a lie to say they don’t understand why people would revolt in any given kingdom they’ve seen. The divide between the few and the many too great to suffer indefinitely. But they also understand intimately what it’s like to think of a home you cannot return to, even if you wanted to. They know it isn’t easy for Tatsuo, know that it’s something he would rather not think about, because it’s how they feel about the village they grew up in.

The rawness in his voice makes their heart ache, the empathy always tenfold in Dru’s skin, just as every other emotion is, happy or sad, or anything in between. They reach out briefly, put a hand on Tatsuo’s wrist, gentle.

“We know,” they say, voice unusually soft. “We find new homes, with time. Homes in others. Just as dangerous as making a home a place, but easier to hold onto, too. Easier to keep close.”

The slightest pause, before they pull their hand back, to their drink, and take a sip. Ovid shakes their head, lets out a little laugh. “There must be something in this drink making us a little soft. We would apologize, but it’s your fault for bringing it,” they tease, trying to lighten the mood again.

[alolanmawile]

location: a quiet tavern, fahryst

for: @ovidofpouthena

1600 tal.

even lucky’s tuition didn’t cost that much.

the mirror itself is probably worth nothing more than a few coins, it’s the spell that makes it unignorable. a spell that lucky is struggling to identify, which means she has to have it. does she even care about this tower crap its peddling? not particularly. but it’s a mystery, at the end of the day, and curiosity has yet to kill this cat. lucky can but pray that this mirror will lead her to something worthwhile, on account of it’s ludicrous cost.either that or the damned thing’s cursed.

paying for the mirror is out of the question, unfortunately, and lucky isn’t one known for her thievery. one glance at the merchant and lucky knew that there’d be no easy ‘mage hand’ swiping today. so there are several options - adrik’s out for the day (omething about a missing kid) and nobody has seen where darcassian snuck away either. and unfortunately, since lucky was one to keep her acquaintance list short and sweet, that left one other viable option.

now, finding the doppler was always a task in itself; lucky had to search for four faces, not one. and those were just the faces lucky knew best. most of the time it was ovid who found her. to call ovid a friend would be a vast overstatement. but over the last year or so, the two have managed to forge a somewhat uneasy bond. it’s not that ovid was particularly unfriendly; there’s just something about them that puts lucky on edge. however, lucky does her best to ignore that feeling and focs on ovid’s usefulness instead.

she ends up finding the doppler quite easily, despite the fuss, chatting away with a nobody in the tavern some of the gambit has been staying in. lucky interupts their conversation without hesitation.

“ ovid? ” she asks, and doesn’t wait for a reply, “ i, uh – i require your assistance, if you wouldn’t mind. ” 

[ovidofpouthena]

It’s been a particularly useful day. 

Drusilla has always had a face and a presence that invites those around her to fill in the blanks with exactly what they want to see, and they’ve always been skilled at assessing that, and using that to their advantage to gain information and secrets either useful to themself or useful to be traded later. Today is no different. They’re tempted to attribute the turn of events the day has taken to the luck of the festival. A particularly dashing sorcerer with news all the way from Velergard had made eyes at her while she danced. So Ovid was indulging him, while subtly picking his brain about the happenings of Velergard, hunting for signs that they might be upping their search for them. All the better to keep them safe. No one would suspect a wanted criminal would hang off the arm of a passing court sorcerer, after all. All the better to collect pretty trinkets along with it, a ribbon of lucky turquoise beads, his coin, some well needed ingredients that they could use as Iago for poisonous affairs. 

And now drink, plenty of it.

Enough that they don’t realize until they hear their name, decidedly not the name they’ve given the sorcerer. They turn quickly, jostling the sorcerer to keep him from realizing the difference, but the copious amount of cocktails also seem to be doing their job.

“Aubrey, good day to you! Or...is it evening? My how the time flies while in interesting company,” they grin, offering the handsome sorcerer a little knowing look, skirting over the name issue. Flattery can get you everywhere, and his smile back at her tells them it’s done just that. They hate to leave, when they know there’s more to get from him, but the fact of Aubrey asking them for help piques their curiosity, knowing how much knowledge she has herself. And they’re fairly certain with the amount of cocktails he’s had, the sorcerer won’t be making it out of the inn any time soon.

“Of course, I’m at the disposal of any friend in need. Wait for me” she says, taking a last bit of the cheese he had ordered, then patting him on the cheek, and standing. Once they’re a safe distance, Ovid looks at Aubrey. “What trouble have you gotten yourself into, little one?”

[ovidofpouthena]

calliopeofvalmyar​:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ovidofpouthena]

tatsuokon​:

There are any number of things about Ovid that have always fascinated Tatsuo—the way they change faces, the way they know so much about each face they use, the way self seems to mean something different to them than it does to anyone else, philosophical questions that he once found boring when his palace tutors tried to get him to ponder the meaning of identity and life when he’d much rather read trashy novels outside under the blossoms; the way they navigated the world with a kind of confidence and understanding that felt earned rather than given, the kind of thing his mother had tried to instill in him and he’d never quite managed to grasp.

It was why he’d gravitated to them, upon finding them again in the Gambit. Not simply because they were someone who had known his home, had known the place as it should have been instead of as it was now, and not just because he was curious how someone could change their face, but because they were so… adaptable, so flexible, so ready to slip into the shape they needed for any situation. Something he longed to be able to do: to disguise himself, to become someone new, someone more suited to this life. 

It sounded like what they were searching for, looking for others of their own kind, was almost the opposite: stability, certainty, a groundedness that being so many people at once precluded them from finding alone. He could understand the urge for it, the need.

     “Or perhaps, like you, they also don’t know quite where to look. Perhaps they keep overlooking you as well.” Like ships in the night, two dopplers unknown to one another, passing by, each looking for one or the other. “It would make sense, no? That if you feel the need to search, they might too?”

He won’t pretend he has an answer for them, or advice. They know as well as anyone does that Tatsuo doesn’t have much to offer anyone anymore, except that he’s decent with a sword and generous with what little tal he manages to accrue. But if Ovid had wanted advice, there were wiser friends to turn to. Tatsuo could give hope, and persistence, and curiosity. Maybe that was better than advice. 

     “Maybe rumor isn’t the way to seek them out. I don’t know anything about magic but… well, maybe someone does. Maybe it would be a different way of looking.” 

...

If given the choice, they would never trade who they are, despite how difficult it has made things at times, despite the search they’re not sure has an ending. But even they can admit that it gets tiring, that they wish they might find true understanding. They’re lucky to have the Gambit, people like Tatsuo who understand even on a small level. It makes it easier to keep going. 

It does make sense that at least some others might be looking, too, unable to deny that pull towards other dopplers, despite the danger. They have never been able to figure out how many of them there might be out there, all of them too inclined towards a life of blending in, of peace and comfort, a feeling they understand well themself, rather than the trouble that comes with making their skills known. But someone out there still has to be looking, and more of them have to exist, perhaps not in as grand populations as humans, or elves, but they came from somewhere, they have an entire family they don’t know. A family who might understand them, instead of casting them out for what they can’t control.

After so many years, it feels a little foolish to still hope for that. They’re not so young anymore, and they worry that they wasted years in Henryk’s court, becoming too comfortable after they realized if there was another doppler there, they didn’t want to be found. Years spent there, only to be cast out again as soon as their true nature was realized. 

Ovid nods slowly. “It would make sense. We think about that sometimes, the likelihood that we’ve been with another doppler before, and neither of us realized. Perhaps we need to find a way to make it clear without the danger of risking our identity,” they reason, titling their head to the side as they consider the rest of his words. “Perhaps you’re right. We’ve only ever tried rumors, in the absence of magic being able to detect our difference, but...perhaps there’s another was. Another sort of magic none of us have. Perhaps it could show us the way home.”

A thoughtful pause, another sip of their drink. “Fair is fair. What do you long for, Tatsuo? Do you long for home, too?” they ask.

[meira-thewitch]

location: Fahyrst, center of the carnival

status: OPEN

Meira gave a polite nod to the priestess in the stall as she walked away, drifting back into the current of bodies that wove through the festival like a rushing river. The string of glass beads she had just purchased felt cool against her skin, woven around her wrist and fourth finger in ceremonial fashion by the devout woman selling them. Luck seemed like a worthwhile investment for someone in her current line of work. The second she touched she could tell there was only the faintest hint of magic dancing within them, but she had enjoyed speaking with the priestesses in the temple of Laimyre. The witch had always taught her to give a healthy respect to gods she did not worship, as it was always better to earn their benevolence rather than their ire. She broke free from the crowd to turn down an alley, the stone walls draped in luxurious red fabrics that glittered in the amber sunlight, a savory smell of unknown origin luring her in. But a small stall lined with baskets of flora caught her eye before she made it to the food vendors, and she decided to take a glance at what was being offered before finding herself a hot meal. As she delicately fingered her way through a basket of Adders Tongue, she felt a presence move in close behind her. While not too concerned for her wellbeing considering a festival with hundreds of people was going on around her, Meira turned around rather quickly. "Oh! It's you."

[ovidofpouthena]

It’s rare for them to wear Zephyr’s face during a celebration of any kind, the face out of their most familiar that has the least inclination towards any sort of frivolity, knowing well how they had dragged him to a celebration or two themself when they traveled together. But it’s a good visage for going unbothered, and today they’ve resolved to try to hunt for information the old fashioned way, blending into the shadows, instead of stepping into the light and coaxing words from loose lips. As of yet, after all, the best they’ve managed as Iago and Dru is a hoard entertaining, but thoroughly unhelpful gossip about this city itself. And they were right in their assumption, already having heard more helpful tidbits from various places around the Fade, thanks to the act of brooding quietly. But still nothing of other dopplers.

Ovid resolves, instead, to see if they might find some noble or distant royal in need of a shadow for the night to make a few tal, to make up for all the drinking they’ve done the past few days. As they slip through the crowd, though, instead their eyes land on a familiar figure, and follow her quietly, interested to see hoe she’s been spending the festival, feeling a certain amount of responsibility for her well being and entertainment alike. “And it’s you,” they hum, offering as close to a small smile as Zephyr does. They nod to her wrist. “Pretty beads, any truth to their power?”

[ovidofpouthena]

syvashkastrilko​:

They’d been north, all that way? His smile drew wider, surprised, honestly. Few people bothered to brave those mountains, nevermind the tundra beyond them. None without reason. Compelling reason, usually of the kind you could count in tal. But they didn’t quite seem the type. Somehow. Perhaps he was assuming too much, though. They were all mercenaries, here - more or less. The horses needed oats, quivers wanted filling. None of them had mentioned work so far as his homeland, though. What had taken Ovid into such a place?

Wondering - he always had so many questions, damn - Vashka reached to stoke up the fire, the logs crackling as he worked. As Ovid explained. Vashka was paying attention, and closely; enough that he maybe, hopefully, managed to brush aside the confusion slipping over his face. They’d left the Gambit in search of their own kind? Of all the quests he’d heard of since this odd crew spared him, that was… different, and terribly sad. No treasure to liberate, no vengeance to take. Just what sounded like an awful loneliness, and hopes that led nowhere. To be long used to that. And keep trying. And keep returning, to these people. Keep choosing them, as a home. Something about that snagged, low down in his chest, a snare of a sentiment. About as painful. 

What did this mean, though, their own kind? They didn’t stand out as any more unusual than most everyone around here did, to him. Not that Vashka wasn’t keenly aware of what might lie beyond appearances. But. The Gambit trusted Ovid, as they trusted Vashka. So, that… well, perhaps that didn’t say much at all. Still, he must be missing something. Puzzled, he considered that long, wolf-white hair, and the genuinely golden gleam of those eyes, in the firelight. Just for a moment, trying not to stare. Realizing he certainly was, over-warm and embarrassed, watching the sparks instead. Stories were best when given, anyway. And Vashka certainly had no right to ask, when he held his own so close. Mostly because he was still trying to decide how to tell it. A story was, of course, all in the telling.

Until then, though. Vashka pushed a sap-sticky round of pine into the flames. “I’m sorry. For your disappointment.” He truly was. To be alone, in whatever ways they were. A hard lot. “There is so much world to search, though,” Vashka started, with as much brightness as he could muster. “More than I ever knew. Maps just - don’t make sense of it? You know, everything is…” he trailed off, waving aside whatever doltish, well-meant point he’d been stumbling towards. Yes, Ovid, they knew. Knew so much more than he did, of the world. And this could only be the smallest of comforts, anyway. Perhaps so small it wasn’t much worth saying. But. As the fire popped and hissed, Vashka stood, and just… tried to be some sort of encouraging, really. “They must be somewhere. Looking for you, maybe. I - I’ll wish you good hunting, for now. High roads and higher spirits.” As they said, back home.  

...

Usually, they do their best to keep knowledge from other faces from slipping through, and it’s easy enough, too much contained within them to sift through, overwhelming when they try to access knowledge not of their current face. But here, with the Gambit, they want to know what any new member might have experienced to get here, just as much as they want to be able to offer understanding, familiarity. And they have faces who have ventured that far, only one or two, but they’re there, and they have many tales to tell about Vashka’s home that make Ovid curious to know more. They offer him a smile, as he strokes the fire.

They can feel the questions from him, even before he looks back at them as they mention their kind, as he clearly tries to assess their appearance. Not something they mind at all, hoping, too, in Zephyr’s body that perhaps Vashka might recognize something to tell them what he is, answer the question that they’ve been trying to find for their friend in exchange for using their face for a good while. But there are more questions than answers in Vashka’s eyes as he looks back to the fire. Ovid lets out a low hum at his words, and takes a deep sip from the wineskin themself. Optimism is hard to feel in Zephyr, someone who had seen so much cruelty, has been given so much cruelty despite trying to help so many. Two sides of the same coin, Ovid has always felt; Zephyr is what they would be if their otherness was more obvious.

Corking the wineskin for now, they shrug lightly. “It’s true. The world is vast, terrifyingly so at times. It feels nearly impossible to search it all, but we have a good many years left of being spry enough to keep the hunt up, we think,” they nod, with more certainty than Zephyr feels. It’s why he’s off in the mountains, after all, resting away from the world. Searching for years with no answers takes its toll. “Thank you, we hope that is exactly what they’re doing.”

A pause, thoughtful, as they consider Vashka this time, no attempt to hide it. They’ve spent so much time trading information, the Gambit is no different apart from the need for more honesty, trust. They extend the proverbial olive branch. “You’re wondering what our own kind is, aren’t you? We’re used to curiosity...This face is one of many; this face, in particular, we’re not certain of his kind yet, but he is a dear friend we are trying to help,” they explain slowly. Another pause, watching him closely to gage his reaction. “We are a doppler.”

[ovidofpouthena]

gavrileontidis​:

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.” 

...

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.”