#gambitstart

They almost always volunteered to take watch, no matter who was around -- especially the night before the Gambit made its way into some town or another, when their nerves were at their worst. If they had it there way, the Gambit would never stop in any town, but... if that were the case, they’d have a harder time holding onto members. They’d learned that quick and early. 

So they sat by the campfire, trying to take their mind off of the days to come, the fire at their face, their back pressed up against the cool stone of Andesite’s leg behind them. Soft footsteps headed their way, intentionally quiet but not sneaky, not dangerous-- ah, yes, of course. They glanced up from the fire at their companion, pulled from the soft trance of their own thoughts.

     “Couldn’t sleep?”

Traveling with a group was still a little foreign to Llyr. Arriving at Balgud, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. It seemed the others in the group all had plans or destinations of their own in mind. Either that, or perhaps he had just gotten distracted by a sight and the next thing he knew, he was separated from the others. He was fairly certain, though, that he wasn’t the first to break off from the rest of the group. So it was probably fine that he had lost track of them. He would just catch up to them later.

In an effort to look like he had something to do, like he had purpose, Llyr stopped at an archway. The architecture was impressive, that was genuine. He ran a gentle hand up one of the beams, delicate and ornate. To think this had been mined out of the very earth... Discreetly, he cast Detect Magic, more out of idle curiosity than anything else. Nothing -- at least in the immediate area, the town was devoid of magic. Some distance away, at the edge of the spells reach, there was a faint pulse of an aura, but that was likely Ophelia, or Sylvar, or one of the others of the Gambit.

Looking up, he shielded his eyes against the slant rays of sun. To think -- all this done with likely no magic at all...

It was no surprise to sense a great amount of evil, mostly petty, in any great city they all traveled through, but the concentration seemed strange here. Not because it was in a greater amount, but that he could tell often times that it was turned inwardly, against their own, instead of outsiders coming in to take advantage of the riches below, as he would’ve assumed. It was strange, he had thought a great amount of community would be bred in a place such as this, protected from outsiders, the ability to create a safe haven of sorts. But instead it had bred greed for the riches and hatred of that which was other, leaving their own neighbors out in the cold for their own benefit. It was nauseating, and even as he wandered carefully through the marketplace, in search of signs and not much else, he could feel his eyes burning, wanting to see the vileness, and to destroy it.

The temptation to take the silken scarf from over his eyes, to see the wanders of the city clearly instead of slightly obscured, to understand why someone might hurt their own for the glory of the city’s riches, was strong. Phoenix shook his head slightly, trying to will the urge away.

“This city could be a mecca of good, if it wanted to; protected from outside influence, under the sight of a powerful god. And yet...” he muttered under his breath to no one in particular.

Traveling through the desert had been an experience. One Khovakri wasn’t a big fan of, but an experience nonetheless. It was as vast as the ocean but filled with burning sand and void of any life. It was... terrifying, really. How people could live like that. The mountains were harsh, yes but life blossomed around it. This place was just empty. 

That is why it was such a surprise to find an entire civilization under it. Balgud, the Buried City of Dwarves. It was a marvel, a place so large and imposing it was almost intimidating. Of course he could speak for hours about the injustice he saw brewing on the streets, some people owning more than what they need and some others working day and night to earn enough to eat. It was unfair, a ridiculous system, and yet he was a simple outsider. It would do him no good to try and change things, when things would clearly never change. 

What he could do though, was sight-seeing. Ridiculous, really. Not something he would admit to the rest of the Gambit, but life had been so simple back at home. No large cities, no riches, no temples. That is why he found himself standing in front of the greatest, most beautiful building in the city surrounded by dwarven guards that clearly weren’t very happy with him. 

“Yes, I understand I cannot go in. No need for that,” Khovakri shrugged and put his hands up as a sign of surrender to the guard threatening him with a spear. As he turned around to leave though, he came across a familiar face that approached him with a steady step. “Curious folk, these dwarves. Are they always this friendly, or is it just me being too tall for them?”

To say that he was shaken by the sudden appearance of such a defining part of his life before was a vast understatement. Since he had been pulled from death, he had not allowed himself to think of what the Gambit, what Bren might be doing now. Years had passed, the living moved on, even if it felt like a mere blink of an eye to him. And now, on his mission to save himself for the man who had killed him, he was confronted with all that he could not forget, but did not want to remember. Because it had been good. The time he had spent with the Gambit had been the first time in decades he had felt truly alive, truly free. And Bren...

Nightjar had little desire to dwell on what those thoughts meant now, on how much he had changed, even as feelings remained, and so he found his way to the tent supplying food and drink, more than eager to indulge in the famous mulled wine, an appropriate distraction. Some old habits died hard, or perhaps were reborn, though, and Nightjar could practically feel the eyes on the back of his head as he took a seat, ordered a round and dinner. And if there was one thing he had learned during his decades as a spy, it was how to stop another spy.

“Don’t just linger around the edges, join me!” he all but called, glancing over his shoulder, to gesture with a gloved hand to the one watching him. “The mulled wine is delicious, but it’ll taste better with a drinking companion. We’re here for a good time, after all, not a long time.”

Bren wasn’t much one for shopping, generally, unless it was for new arrows in places known for innovation, or for basic supplies, but they’d heard tell of the magical masks crafted in Farthorpe to celebrate the solstice, and had always been curious what the masks could do. It was one of the few reasons they’d been looking forward to stopping in the town; their familiarity with magic was basic at best, with only a few spells in their arsenal, but a good enchantment they could put on or take off at will....

      “That one’ll help you blend in, anywhere you want to go,” the woman at the stall said, pointing down at the mask Bren was holding: a barely humanoid face made of thick-barked wood, two narrow slits where the eyes would be and no space cut out for a mouth. They ran their fingers along the grain of the wood, sensing the magic within it.

     “What do you think?” they said, turning to their companion just as they stepped in place beside them at the stall. “Is it worth it?”