coming in from the cold.

SYVASHKA STRILKO Zholatin. The Guardian. Kazne. Vashka, please.

[syvashkastrilko]

cassian-penvenan​:

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

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

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

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

Well, then. Settled, wasn’t it? Almost. With a deep-chested sigh - not tired, not of this, anyway, just a bit bemused - Vashka fell into step side by side with his off-kilter acquaintance. “Cassian. You’re no inconvenience.” For all his brisk moods. Wherever they’d gone. What had happened, in those months Penvenan had been so far away, getting looked after? 

Wasn’t for Vashka to ask. So, he didn’t. “It will be nice, I think. Spring is beautiful, here - everything has waited so long to live again. Come,” he waved them on, the mare trailing behind as they ambled into the street, unbothered, certainly, by how little she was going to have to do today. Good, anyhow; she deserved some respite, too. Cassian, as well. If a stubborn stroll was as close to bit of real rest, then, fine. As a healer, Cassian’s healer, he was only doing his duty.

The roads were jostling with all manner of folk, more raucous festival-goers than fresh travelers, now; Farhyst had well and truly settled into the spirit. Distant strains of fiddle and pipe curled away on the crisp air, eager conversations in a dozen tongues passing them by as they made their way against the flow - away from the town’s usually humble square, off towards the gates and the flowering hills beyond. “Have you seen this, before? The endless days.” Vashka glanced over, down, genuinely curious, searching for something lightish to talk away the time. “It lasts for months, in Majezeme. The long nights, as well...” he sidestepped, letting a trail of giddy children barrel by, heedless. With a wistful sort of smile, Vashka carried on down the cobblestones. “We’re not so happy to see it. There’s no celebrating, like this, until the end.” He eyed Penvenan, hushing himself. Rambling, again. More nostalgic, the further north they went. Or, maybe, he was trying to fill the quiet between him and this new, less familiar Cassian. Just in case. 

[syvashkastrilko]

ovidofpouthena​:

…

They watch closely, as is instinct, but keep themself from reaching out too deeply, hold back on that familiar pull to give them a better understanding of everything going on underneath the surface. The look of curiosity on his face is one that they know well from their time with the Gambit, the look of curiosity that they can easily circumvent elsewhere, where they don’t allow their true nature to be known, don’t let their inclination to include all of themself in conversation to slip through, but instead take on one identity at a time. But the Gambit is safe, and if this person, this Vashka is with the Gambit, then they are willing to offer him honesty, especially as their own curiosity sits at the top of their mind, as he takes a sip, and passes the wine back. Ovid gives him a little hum, the smallest nod of approval; smiles don’t sit right on Zephyr’s face, better to offer friendliness in other ways. 

There was always an inherent trust they held for those around them, something deep in their nature as a doppler that was often overlooked by those who spun tales about the danger of their race. Empathy they couldn’t help but offer, the benefit of the doubt given to most anyone they met, only wariness offered in the rarest of cases. And the Gambit was no different. They all have to have some ounce of trust for those they travelled with, and it was a strange utopia of sorts, that all who joined, however long their stays, seemed to adhere to that, not breaking the trust, despite differences that would easily lead to bloodshed in other parties.

“Ah, Majezeme, the Land of Giants. It makes sense, then. We are familiar,” they hum in understanding, a clearer picture offered from that one tidbit alone. So they have a fairly good guess as to what this curse must be, but they know better than to assume. Better to offer their own honesty first. “You are very kind, thank you. Unfortunately we did not find what we were looking for, but we are long used to coming back empty-handed, if not usually with such a hassle on our way back. Hope is a strange beast, one that makes us act without thinking through thoroughly, at times. We are in search of others of our own kind, you see.”

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.  

[syvashkastrilko]

gavrileontidis​:

Distracted as the priestesses are with running an unusual security operation, Vashka’s investigation goes undisturbed. Gavril trails him towards the nave, and joins him in a crouch. When it’s just the two of them, Gavril forgets how tall they both are, and how far away the ground tends to be. He squints at Vashka’s upturned glove, and the smattering of metal and dust. Silver and talc - material components - they were trying to see something -

He opens his mouth, the spell on the tip of his tongue, when a priestess of Laimyre approaches. “What are you doing?” she says, in a tone that makes Gavril feel instantly rebuked - the tone of weary mothers and older sisters, and he’d had both. He doesn’t know what to say, simply shoots Vashka an inscrutable look that really means oops. 

“What went missing?” he asks, turning back to the priestess. She fixes beady eyes on him and folds her arms over robes of blue and cream. “Respectfully, custodian of Laimyre,” Gavril adds, and resists the urge to roll his eyes. These oblates were always so prim about etiquette, especially from fellow Chosen. 

“The same to you,” she says, but still watches the both of them warily. “A temple relic was stolen last night. Rather a shame, since we get many visitors desperate for a sight of the frost-dragon’s bone. But we’re working to recover it as best as we can.” Gavril looks over his shoulder where the glass case still stands, empty. If a frost-dragon’s scale can fetch a pretty penny, he can’t imagine what a bone might be worth. But he wonders if perhaps the priestess is holding her cards close to her chest; the bone doesn’t seem like just any old relic, not if it had been taken by a spellcaster. 

“We might be able to find it.” The words tumble out of Gavril’s mouth before he can stop himself. By light, what has he committed them to? Laimyre could be obsolete, for all he cared. Religions rose and fell, but tal and dragon bones persisted. The priestess looks at Gavril and Vashka in turn, her brows rising into the hood of her robes. 

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

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

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

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

[syvashkastrilko]

[syvashkastrilko]

Jessica Parker Kennedy

GRAV KARALIENE GAN MIRIJZA

Isolated and forbidding, Majezeme is often imagined as an artless, dreary place. A stroll through its grandest city, Mirijza, tells a rather different story, and Karaliene is the author. A grav - a regent of a Majezem city-state, beholden to the First Throne but largely left to their own day-to-day devices - Karaliene ascended her high seat young, after her mother’s passing. Since then, she’s poured her resources, wisdom, and fine taste into transforming what was once a rich but unremarkable coastal outpost into a handsome, thriving port. Her dealings with Lodorwind and fellow gravs are notoriously shrewd, her hard-handed bargaining backed by the simple fact that Mirijza is the only ice-free harbour of any size along the far northern seaboard; without her leave, the great ships that weather those rough waters would be left quite literally in the cold, their journeys vastly more dangerous, difficult, and time-consuming. 

And so, Karaliene’s thumb rests confidently on the throat of many southern merchants, her spit very much in the eye of more than a few ambitious inland gravs. They need her favour. Some resent it. She’s made her share of enemies, and has, on special occasions, paid the Zholatin abbots handsomely to assemble a personal guard to protect herself, her beloved wife and children, and crucial Mirijzan emissaries. Vashka was assigned to such an escort for one of his first missions beyond the abbey, and Karaliene remembered him well; he was just so good with her little ones, and she and her gravna quite enjoyed his stories of the far-off Majezem hinterlands. She requested his service several more times - before his curse sent him running southward.

[syvashkastrilko]

Keiynan Lonsdale

AJOMI ORUKA 

The great port of Mirjza isn’t somewhere Zholatin have much reason to stop, on their travels; there’s no marauding beasts here, in the loveliest city Majezeme can boast of. But, now and then, the tevs and their karviri do drift through. Vashka surely remembers his first visit, though he was only a child. He’d never seen so many people, or so much... life, really. The fortresses he’d been raised in were quiet places - ascetic, roughhewn and simple of furnishing. In Mirijza, though, travelers like Ajomi brought the wonders of the outside world through the harbour gates. 

Oruka was an alchemically inclined elven artificer, long-lived and wise. They’d journeyed far to learn the secrets of their craft, and they demonstrated, gleefully, to the inquiring locals - with oranges and sweet lemons grown using arcane fertilizers and glass houses that could best the northern winters, colourful smoke-flares for signaling across the frozen landscape, and sparking, brilliant fireworks. Difficult to forget, indeed, though they never spoke; Vashka was just another stunned set of eyes in the crowd, crammed in with his fellow trainees. He was disappointed to discover that the abbey libraries held no readings on the far-off places Ajomi had spoken of. But a Zholatin had no need to hear of such things, anyway...

[syvashkastrilko]

paul rudd

VIR DUVLAN KALTSANIS

Zholatin are, broadly, known for a few things - besides their work, obviously. One is a certain sense of humour, dry as the powder-snow and, sometimes, just as cold. Duvlan, one of the not-so-senior virtevsi - training officers, among the order - was certainly wry, and more than a little morbid, but not so hardened as most of his peers. His lessons were in tracking (finding trouble, as he put it), and, like most of the abbey’s instruction, difficult: hours, days, weeks scouring the wilderness, each test harder than the last. And all throughout, those dark, zverm-quick jokes. Looking back, though, it’s his bloodthirsty passion for the hunt that Vashka recalls most, with a twist of discomfort. Kazne, in particular, were Duvlan’s favourite quarry. Hideously cunning, he called them, a sickly, eager gleam to his eyes. Good fun. 

When Vashka was still new to field service, Vir Duvlan was slaughtered while stalking an especially elusive kazne. His bones - what could be found, at least - were returned to Skrejip Sar, another martyr of their long fight. Then, Vashka was shaken; now, with a twinge of something like guilt, he’s glad Kaltsanis isn’t around to come hunting him.

[syvashkastrilko]

daniel dae kim!

TEV AIVIN GRELA

A legend in more ways than one, Tev Aivin has been on Vashka’s mind rather often since he escaped the abbey. Centuries past, Grela was a seasoned Zholatin with decades of fine service to his name; in line to be abbot, but unwilling to hang up his spear, even as he weathered year after year of battle. And that, in the days of even grander, more terrible beasts than the north knows now. His dedication was a shining lesson to all, lauded; there was easy talk of Aivin becoming sveta, a godly one, once his bones were ready. He was even worshipped as such by the people of the land, greeted with joy whenever he rode into their outposts and villages, the claws of some terrible majves hanging from his belt. More trophies. More garlands. More blood, on the snow. 

His deeds were the stuff of song, but it’s his most gruesome mistake that the abbots remind their soldiers of. For even Tev Aivin, great, devout, strong, could not overcome the curse a kazne left behind. He’d thought so, and insisted he still had good work to do - that the mindless horror of the kazne was not inevitable, that their power could have greater purpose than what it was put to by warlords and witches. The order declared him a heretic, already hex-mad. Aivan, mad in some fashion, at least, fought himself free and took to the wilderness... where he lingers still, some say, a kazne grown great and monstrous with time. Back in the order’s bloody halls, the Zholatin tried to scratch him from the annals, to hush the tall tales. But when a giant falls, the world shakes. Too famous - and fearsome - to forget, Grela has lingered in memory and folktale across Majezeme. And, perhaps, in the mountains, gathering a beastly army of his own... if you believe such stories, at least. 

[syvashkastrilko]

cassian-penvenan​:

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[syvashkastrilko]

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?” 

[ovidofpouthena]

a few years back, outskirts of vierfort, a small military town near urnundr      ( @syvashkastrilko​. )

Another whisper followed, another whisper without truth that they could find. They had been gone longer than usual this time, the rumor of another doppler leading them halfway across Lolander, only to come up empty handed, and run into too much trouble on their road back to the Gambit. It’s always a bittersweet feeling to come back to them, a strange, unintended constant in a life that is nothing of that sort. There are times when they consider giving up their hunt, just as it seems so many of their kind do, instead settling amongst others, easily hidden, living comfortable, content lives without much danger, without much excitement, too. They long for that comfort again, but the itch for understanding is stronger, and the Gambit makes searching for that easier, to do so in the company of others who are searching for something, too. 

But everything changes, even if the name remains, and it’s not a surprise that this time when they arrive back, a day spent in the town before heading to camp, seeing who has stayed, who has left, who has come in their absence, they arrive back to new, unfamiliar faces. There are ground rules, unspoken as some of them are, in the Gambit, some more difficult for them to keep than others, namely no questions. Naturally they have dozens of questions for any one person they meet about them, unable to keep themself from reading those base level feelings as their very being reaches out, the urge for a new face strong always.

And it takes only the slightest thought of claiming one of those faces, the instinctual urge to reach out, to understand immediately that there is something cursed about this new member.

So when the campfire is made, and others start breaking off to sleep, Ovid makes a point to stop him, curious, as they always are about such things. “Would you share a drink? We missed introductions earlier, we would hate to seem rude to a new face,” they say, offering a wineskin and a smile. “Ovid of Pouthená.”

[syvashkastrilko]

There. With a hoarse yawn, tucked into the crook of his elbow, Vashka gathered up the last of the firewood he’d been splitting. Done. For now. Not that they’d really needed more kindling, but the day’s ride had been easy, and... and he needed to tire himself, to have any chance at all of sleeping. Without dreams, preferably. The Gambit had given him so much, over the past few months; so very much. But they couldn’t slay a nightmare. So. He’d just have to manage, on his own. 

Slinging the cord over his broad shoulders, Vashka made his way back into camp, carefully, quietly. Between tents - a-murmur with comrades not quite at rest - and past the horses, whickering dozily where they stood, to the fire that would burn through the night, kept up by the watches. He cracked a knot out of his neck, then started unloading. Then stopped, eyes ticking up to find... someone he didn’t know, actually. Vashka went still, prickling for a moment. Just a moment. They were obviously of the Gambit, to be here. How had he missed them, though? We? What a strange affectation. His head tilted, curiously. Ovid of Pouthená. Someplace Vashka had never been, but that was many places, most places. But Ovid, though; yes, he’d heard this name spoken around other campfires. So this was an old comrade, returned. Which - which was better, really, than an entire mystery. Wasn’t it? 

Vashka decided it was, for his own peace of mind, brushed the cedar splinters from his gloves, and stood. “Ah - I would. Thank you.” Not much, though. No, that wouldn’t be wise at all. Taking the wineskin, he smiled right back, hoping it looked more certain than it was. “Vashka.” Taking a short sip, he passed the wine back, gratefully. “Very good. People with better boots would drink that, in Majezeme.” There was no hiding his of. Not with the size of him, or that Old Majet sound he had. Those had told the rest of the Gambit where he came from before he could even try to lie. Well-traveled people, these. And Ovid, especially so, from all he’d been told. “How was your journey? It went well, I hope?” Nobody had said what, exactly, they were doing out there in the world. Or perhaps the rest of the party simply didn’t know? Another oddness to adjust to - in the Gambit, it seemed no one owed anybody an explanation. At the abbey, your time was not your own, and had to be accounted for. But things were different, here. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. Too late. 

[gavrileontidis]

TEMPLE OF LAIMYRE / DAY TWO, FAHRYST / @syvashkastrilko

There are few people in the Gambit that he actively seeks out for company other than his own; one of them is Vashka, a solid, quiet presence even in the midst of the raucous carnival. The Temple of Laimyre opens up before them, cream-coloured stones turning orange in the sunlight. It lacks a roof and walls, ringed with columns twice Vashka’s height. It’s nothing like the Sterling Temple - cloistered and dark to keep the wind out and the heat in. There’s a whiff of frost-flowers on the morning breeze.

Almost makes him miss the monastic life. He glances at Vashka, something close to a smile on his lips. Laimyre is a god he can get behind - bringer of the wind that erases your tracks in the snow, of the days between winter and spring. Unfortunately, you can’t pick your gods. Lisaya pricks him on the back of the head for that thought.

As they enter, a priestess bids them halt. In fact, all the pilgrims are being stopped at the gate and compelled to turn out their bags and pockets. Something’s wrong; he scans the hall and finds, at the head of the temple, an empty stand with glass littered at its base. He tugs the right glove off and draws Their light to him, the hand taking shape, and casts a discreet mending spell. The glass reforms into the shape of a small case. Empty. 

“I shouldn’t be able to do magic here,” he wonders aloud to Vashka, but keeps his face impassive. “The priestesses don’t want us to know - they’ve lost something.” The other temple visitors seem unperturbed, paying their respects to Laimyre and blithely admiring the blessed beads. “What are you picking up?”

[syvashkastrilko]

The shrines of the south - and it was almost all south, from Majezeme - were often so... much, compared to what he’d known. Every god, gilded. Well and good, for those who showed their love that way. But strange, to him. The further they went, though, towards the tundra, the more he knew his way. Fahryst’s temple was the most like his own that he’d seen in... years, maybe. Not that it mattered. He’d have come anyway, and paid his respects just the same. Only seemed right, to honour the spirits they passed by; to promise, in their house, to do his best to bring no harm to their people, and beg a little favour, as he tried. For what good that might be worth. 

This stop was different, though. Not for Gavril’s company - that was usual enough. (Even if he didn’t quite grasp why Gav cared to come along. Frankly, Vashka didn’t entirely understand his companion’s particular kind of reverence, or lack thereof. And at this point, he was too afraid to ask.) This temple wasn’t right, though. Vashka glanced the cleric’s way, followed his eyes, and his magic. No; he shouldn’t be able to call Lisaya, standing on Laimyre’s ground. And, really, Vashka himself shouldn’t feel so at ease. Most anywhere genuinely divine in nature chewed at his edges, these days. Just enough to let him know he wasn’t all that welcome. A temple, to a god he didn’t know? Surely should have stung a bit. And yet, here... just the breeze. 

With a smile and a word of thanks to the priestess who’d gone through his pack, Vashka pulled away, into the nave. What was he picking up? He sniffed, something on the air out of place. Chalky. Nobody stopped him as he made his way towards the case. Crouching, he brushed a gloved hand across the smooth flagstones. Where all that glass had been. Gone now, thanks to Gav, and under it - ma suda. He’d twitched back, eyes wide. Slower, breath held tight, Vashka stood, and turned to show Gavril his glove. The leather glimmered in the spring-like sunshine, streaked with powdered metal. “Silver.” Thank all the gods listening that it’d been his glove, not his hand. Or they might’ve had a rather bigger mess to clean up. Vashka rubbed his fingers together, frowning. A familiar texture, past the silver dust. Faintly slippery. A green-white sheen. “And... talc, I think.” Yes. From those long ago lessons in the alchemical workshops of the abbey. “Not a spell I know. But a spell.” No doubt, there. Silver and talc. What was that for? 

[knightgale-deactivated20170222]

[syvashkastrilko]

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

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

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

[syvashkastrilko]

triton, genasi

🔱 triton: What is your relationship like with water or the sea?

“Water? That is... difficult, to say. We have a word for this, what water is to us. Staru. Means, ah, an in-between place? Always changing. Where strange things are possible, and you are further from and closer to all the world, the living and the dead and the rest, at the same time. So magic done in water is... easier, in a way - but not, in others. Because of the cold. You suffer. We were told this makes the magic stronger, flow better. Sacrifice. I do not know how true that is. The rivers, here, the lakes, they are much gentler, and seem to serve the same? Maybe they are not so powerful, but. I don’t know. They have helped me, still. When I need it most.”

“We use the sea this way, too - but it's different. For magic. And for me, a little. The sea took my family, when I was very small. But it takes many families, in Majezeme. If we hated the ocean for that, we’d hate the mountains and the snow, too. So I don’t. But I still like the waves better from the shore, I think. I had never sailed before the Gambit. My first time, I was sick as a stray dog. The whole way. Terrible. The sky over the ocean, though - this is wonderful. Like being on the snowplains again.”

🔥  genasi: Share a memory in which you felt truly empowered.

Here!

[syvashkastrilko]

genasi, dragonborn

🔥  genasi: Share a memory in which you felt truly empowered.

Here!

🐉 dragonborn: Give at least (one) unpopular opinion on something.

“I would rather not, I think? I don’t wish to upset anyone at all. Or cause trouble. If there were some wrong, to remedy? Then, I - I’d try to speak to whatever difference there might be, between us. But there’s nothing! Nothing like that. So. Such thoughts, I will keep them to myself. Thank you.” 

[syvashkastrilko]

changeling, genasi

🔮 changeling: Share a childhood memory.

"Another, then... the first time I heard the lakes breaking. They freeze, in the highlands. Then, in spring, as the rivers rise again, the ice cracks and clears. Slowly. So slowly, then all at once. The sound, it’s like nothing else in the world. There is a story, to explain: the lake spirits, they wake up badly. Understandable, after a long winter spent sleeping in the cold mud. They become restless, impatient to see the sky, feel the breeze again. And they fight each other. This is what we hear. The young ones, at the abbey, we’d lie on the ice and listen. Dare to see who would go out furthest. Which was very stupid.”

🔥  genasi: Share a memory in which you felt truly empowered.

“Truly? When I found I could heal, still. By magic, by the powers I was taught to use, to help people. My abbots, they told me I would lose this, after I was changed. That I had failed, I was weak. Undeserving. And I believed it. I had no reason not to. But they were wrong, and with the proof of that, I... I began to wonder what else they may have been wrong to say. And what else I could be.”