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[wyndomkind]

ezekind​:

The problem is that Wyn is right. He usually is. It would be different, if he was so certain of himself and wasn’t right, but he generally makes sound decisions, ones that are the best for both of them, all things considered. Ezek trusts him, trusts Wyn with their life, and if Wyn thinks this is a good decision, thinks they can join this Gambit and save some money and find somewhere they like enough to stay, then Wyn is almost certainly right about that. They’re sure his god has told him as much, too—and there’s always been something compelling about that, to Ezek, the idea of having a god who tells you when they approve. Ze’karzen only ever showed: if you had her favor, you made it across the Rift in one piece, and they had crossed the Rift more times than they could count.

But the idea of it still unsettles something in their chest. They don’t know which way this group is traveling, but there are only so many options for where they might be going, if they’re looking for work: south to Kredia, which would be the best option; north, through the desert; or inland. And they cannot ignore how uneasy it makes them, the idea of leaving the coast, of moving away from the world they know, the water, the shore. 

It isn’t that they’ve never been inland. Of course they have, though it has been admittedly rare. Their people came from the water; they do best, around it. Within sight of the sea. Maybe it’s more superstition than it is fact, but they worry; the idea of trekking through a desert alongside a misfit group of travelers feels like anathema to them. They let their conflicted feelings play out across their face, as they think it through, working bit by bit through the benefits, contrasting them against the detriments.

     “I don’t love the idea of giving up control over where we go,” they admit, after a moment. And then, as they so often do, they concede, too: “But if you trust them, if you think it’s a good idea, it can’t be that much worse than what we’ve been doing.” 

...

He watches them openly as they consider his proposition. It’s a skill he learned quickly, how to read every little expression that crosses their face, and they offer them openly just now. He can see the apprehension, and understands it, prepares to let this be the end of it. But it gives way to something else, something willing to consider it. And he can’t help the hint of a smile that plays on his lips as they speak after a pause.

“No, neither do I,” he agrees, with a nod. “But I believe for once the benefits outweigh the risks. And if it’s any consolation, the ones I’ve met seem young, willing to listen. I think swaying the path in our favor would be no trouble if we give good reason. The desert, for example, we'll tell them we’d rather stay away from the desert. Too hot, not enough water, even less ice, the sort of magic it would take to make it comfortable, not worth the trouble if they want our expertise, which I’m certain they do.”

It’s a tangent, one he only realizes he’s on once he’s halfway done with the complaints. Wyn waves his hand, as if to brush off that matter, no need to get into what he knows Ezek already knows, agrees with, here and now with a larger matter than their dislike of the desert is.

“But they seem trustworthy enough, and it’s always better having others we can call on for aid than expecting to run into enemies who outnumber us at any port city here or especially across the other side of Haelion. And as it is,” he shrugs, not wanting to make this sound like the deciding factor, because it’s not, but wanting them to know, “Ulegelu agrees with the choice. It’s the first He’s offered even a hint of a path since we came to this city.”

[wyndomkind]

ezekind​:

There’s a way of talking that Wyn has, one that Ezek’s grown far more than used to: he takes a while to get to the point, like he’s working himself up to whatever he’s planning on saying rather than just saying it straight out. Justifies himself before telling you what he wants to tell you. When they first met, Ezek had found it endlessly annoying; they’d been used to people like them, who would just tell it to you straight, no politicking or moralizing or anything like that. Now, though—especially separated from the structure and government that Wyn had been a part of back then—they see it as something more like an endearing, if at times exasperating, quirk. Just another piece of what made Wyn who he was.

But right now, it’s killing them, the waiting for him to spit it out, and watching him as he hangs his hat and coat at the door, Ezek can tell he knows that it is. 

They frown, just slightly, as they wait for him to come out with it, as he goes on about structure, as he starts talking like Ezek is already supposed to know what he bloody means, but they don’t say anything, don’t press him on it, and finally, as he always does, he says it, and—The King’s Gambit. It sounds familiar, the name, though it takes him a second to place it, to connect it to something Gavril had said, while they were fighting off an infestation of poisonous amphibians, something about a group of adventurers traveling together for safekeeping. At the time, it hadn’t exactly sounded optimal, to them. But… there is a look of such hope on Wyn’s face, as he says it. 

     “The King’s Gambit,” they repeat slowly, deliberately. From the way Wyn has said it, they get the sense that this is already decided; they just need a moment to get used to the idea, before they follow his lead.

     “And where are these people traveling to?”

...

He knows that it annoys Ezek when he does this, when he makes them wait, but he likes watching the impatience that flashes across their face even when they don’t verbalize it, the slight frown that creases well worn lines across their forehead. There’s no need for it here, really, except that he likes doing it. It’s a simple proposition when it comes down to it, and an easy thing to decide on an answer to. Funny, how the choice to pick up and join a group of strangers is an easy yes or no now, when making the choice to change his entire life, offer even a hint of trust to those he doesn’t know would have been unfathomable not too long ago, before Ezek. Nothing feels quite so daunting as long as Ezek is there, choices are simple enough, when they include them. Which is why this is simple. If Ezek isn’t interested, then he isn’t either, no need for debate in his mind.

When the point is finally made, Wyn can’t help the way he watches them for any indication of what they might be thinking about the possibility. He had never heard of the group before, but that’s no surprise, Bleaklow something of an isolationist realm, only venturing out to defeat the enemies the Lord in the ice commands, or those that threaten the icy peace of the land. But he wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve heard of them, considering the extend of their travels.

“They’re adventurers, they travel wherever there’s potential for work and coin, follow leads they pick up where they are,” he explains with a small shrug. He’s well aware that it’s not so different from what they’ve been doing, moving around, taking the work they can with their particular skill sets. But a group provides security in a way that the two of them traveling alone can’t no matter how capable they both are, especially along costal towns only, where it’s just as likely they’ll run into enemies as friendly connections. And a group provides opportunity. 

“If we join them, we can leave whenever we find a place we like enough to stay...or once we have enough saved for a ship, a good ship, of our own.”

[wyndomkind]

belxofdeljor​:

Meeting Vashka in Catelia was a surprise. A nice one, yet not one Bel expected when she made her way to this terrible city. Yet whatever deity or luck or destiny had guided her this way - the spirits, perhaps? They always knew better than she did anyways -, had changed the course of her journey for the best. The King’s Gambit was a rambunctious name for a ragtag group of assassins and outcasts, yet it was her ticket to safe travels, a warm meal, some easy tal and some company while she sought what she was after. Hells, she might even enlist them to help her fight for her home. 

It was…. an interesting offer, but one she wasn’t sure she could accept. What if they drove her away from her goal? What if they sailed to far off lands, too far for her people to move to? What if they were allied to the Lord who wanted to take her home away from her? What if she got killed, trying to help them? What would her family do then? She thought, and she listened to Vashka and she smiled with the warmth that filled her heart at the sight of an old friend… but she waited until he walked away to let out a long, tired sigh, slumping back in her chair. 

Her thoughts and insecurities, however, were quickly interrupted by a man in decent clothes, with an air of authority and power around him. A… genasi? Not like any she had seen before, that was for sure. Curious, she turned towards him yet she kept her face blank, not quite trusting of him just yet. She knew better to trust those who had power in their hands. Diplomats and nobles were all the same. 

“There’s a lot of noise in the market, sir. You must’ve been curious about what my friend and I were talking about,” she sassed at him, grinning cheekily as she crossed her arms over her chest. “The King’s Gambit, you mean? No, it is not. I do not know much of its origins, honestly. I was just asked to join in. Why? Do you have business with them? A blood feud? A duel to the death?”

...

It’s lucky that she’s willing to humor him at all, despite the intrusion, but he’s not one to miss an opportunity, and he easily smiles back at her as she teases, better a friendly jest than hostility to the interruption. And she gives him a name. The name is unfamiliar to him, but it brings up something deeply so. A little humming in his ears, in the back of his mind, and a sudden rush of cold, as if he’s been submerged in the ice waters of Bleaklow, a pleasant feeling in and of itself, but more importantly a message from the Lord in the Ice, a way forward, if he chooses to take it. A way forward that He approves of, a small sign he hasn’t had in what feels like too long, despite prayer, despite all the same rituals followed as if he were still in Bleaklow, still commanding their fleet of ships in His name. 

It’s a newly satisfying feeling, one he’s had several times over since making the choice of Ezek, over his own men, his country, his home, the acknowledgement of the Lord in the Ice that he hasn’t lost his favor for that choice, that He still watches over him, still guides him. And here’s a chance to listen.

He puts a hand to his chest, in apology. “I’ll admit that I was, indeed. You’ll have to forgive me,” Wyndom says, but he’s still smiling, all the more interested hearing that she herself was only just asked to join this group. “No, no, nothing of that sort, although that would be more interesting, wouldn’t it? I’m simply curious. In search of the next step forward for myself, and my husband, as it were.”

A pause, as he regards her. He’s always prided himself on having a good sense of intention when meeting people, after years spent commanding a navy of young and old alike, and she seems strong, with warm intent. “I’ve forgotten my manners, I’ve been away from civil society too long, Admiral Wyndom Kind from Bleaklow,” he offers, with a slight inclination of his head.

[wyndomkind]

the admiral

name: wyndom “the cold” kind gender, pronouns: trans man, he/him race: ice genasi alignment: lawful neutral age: 47 faceclaim: tobias menzies

STR (13)    DEX (10)    CON (11)   INT (15)   WIS (08)   CHA (12)

there are no choices in his life. born into a long line of naval officers, serving the vast, ruthless realm of Bleaklow in the frozen tundra of Haelion, from the first moments of his life––still, quiet, cold––warmth is a rare thing, something that feels foreign, when it is found. a blessing from the permafrost, he’s called, a gift from the god Ulegelu, the Lord in the Ice, a sign his family’s service to god and country were being rewarded, elemental amongst humans. Wyndom is raised as close to royalty as someone might be in a realm of equals, planetouched, blessed, but with purpose. still, he follows the footsteps of every other ancestor before him with a sort of blind ardor, rises easily through the ranks of Bleaklow’s navy, except with the power of the ice itself on his side. there is no resting on the laurels he was born with, though, and his years of service are marked by hard work, a sense of focus that seems inhuman, is inhuman, with it a coldness that matches, respect garnered through a strange combination of tradition and otherness.

his reputation proceeds him, wherever he goes, not just defending Bleaklow, but conquering the ships that threaten their peace, hunting down those who are against the Lord in the Ice. he’s as ruthless as the realm he was born in, gifted his own ship, along with command of the fleets, after a war hard won on the treacherous waters of the Rift. the Grief of the Cold, it’s called, along with his own monicker, bestowed from elemental abilities aiding the victory. and then he nearly loses it to pirates, making a mistake he vows never to allow again, underestimating the untrained, the unlawful. it becomes an obsession, these pirates, one that those around him become more and more uncomfortable with; he calls it a divine mission from Ulegelu, they call it delirium. he knows they’re right. and yet that does nothing to stop the strange fire lit within him.

it’s a diplomaticmeeting that changes it. asked to meet face to face with his enemy, Bleaklow’s enemy, to stop a pointless war, the one deemed worthy of stopping the Cruel Return, ordained by god himself, after all. and it feels like supreme irony from the Lord in the Ice that it comes to a meeting, when he wants a fight, but he does what is expected, as he always has. only when they meet, face to face with this Will of the Rift for the first time, he meets their eyes, and suddenly it all feels wrong. there is no personal malice to what they do, simply the need to survive in a world that didn’t give them the benefit of purpose without choice. and it makes him wonder if purpose without choice really has been a benefit. and then, there is a choice. the choice between his men, and them, and for the first time, he has the chance to choose for himself, instead of every moment preordained. and so he chooses them. and how strange it is that they choose him, too. and he chooses them again and again after that, chooses them over god, and country, exiled to repent, repentance he doesn’t feel that he needs, as long as he’s with Ezek. will continue choosing them until his last breath, no matter what that means, even if it’s a life traveling without home besides their arms.

played by Roman

[wyndomkind]

Perhaps he shouldn’t be quite so thrilled with the prospects he’s found, when they’re vague at best, and perhaps a trap at worst, but there was no denying the sign of not one, but two encounters so close together, the faint hum in his ear telling him that the Lord in the Ice sees a path forward here, if he takes it. The first sign of anything Ulegelu has offered since arriving on the island, too far from the ice, too warm, city too focused on the affairs of the few elite. More importantly, though, he thinks this is something that would be as good for Ezek as it is for him. Nothing will give them back all they’ve lost, but in the absence of a ship, a crew, there are other possibilities, this one being one he certainly hopes they may find intriguing.

It’s late when he finally makes it back to the room, and he only makes it a step into the room, greeting not even leaving his mouth as he takes off his hat, shakes his hair, droplets of water scattering in the warmth, before Ezek notices. Wyn rolls his eyes fondly, takes his sweet time making them wait, as they try to get him to speak, to hang hat and jacket up carefully before looking back at them, perching on the edge of the desk in the corner.

“I’ve found us structure. Or, more of it, anyway; I think, perhaps, I could give them more of it with some work, tighten the proverbial ship,” he explains, with a wave of his hand. Ideas are already turning over in his mind, but that’s not the point here. He may long for the organization that he misses so desperately from commanding a fleet of ships, but that doesn’t matter if Ezek isn’t interested in joining up with a group of very disparate, so-called adventurers ranging from the little he’s seen from cursed giant from too close to home and young, but sweet druid, to apparently fallen prince, or something of that sort? Unclear.

Perhaps it’s not as much structure as he’s making it out to be. But he’s always enjoyed a challenge.

“Well, it’s better than this uncertainty, at least,” he concedes. “A group of travelers. The King’s Gambit, they call themselves.”

a room above a tavern in the merdociara, Catelia, late      ( @wyndomkind​ )

They make it back to the room before Wyn does. A long day’s work patching up ships on the docks that had thankfully ended somewhere before dinner, so they’d come back and eaten, gone back up to the room they’d been renting and pulled one of Wyn’s books out of his things, absently flipping through it to kill the time. It isn’t really interesting at all; they keep losing track of where they are on the page as the words drift by them. They’ve never been a big reader, still haven’t managed to pick up the habit even with Wyn around, despite their best efforts. But it’s as good a way to kill the evening as any.

Still they’re all too eager to set it down when they hear the key in the lock and the door push open. They set the book down beside the bed and sit up, watching Wyn as he makes his way into the room, and wonder vaguely how late it actually is. 

      “I know that look,” they say, when he’s finally closed the door behind him and turned to face them. They arch an eyebrow in his direction, appraising. Taking a moment to read him, his familiar expression, familiar body language, trying to guess at where he’s been and what he’s been up to. Trusting that whatever it is that he’s about to tell them, it will be better than staying here patching up ships on the docks.

     “Come on, out with it. What have you gotten us into this time?”

[wyndomkind]

morning, a marketplace in the merdociara, catelia ( @belxofdeljor​. )

He’s doing something of a supplies run, restocking what they carry to prepare for the inevitable departure. The city itself is nice enough, and there’s plenty of work for both of them to be able to get by, although perhaps not the sort of work he thinks he’s best used for. But it’s much too warm, the air oppressively heavy even with the breeze from the canals and oceans surrounding them, and he’s been trying not to complain about it, but, well, even he doesn’t have that sort of willpower at all times. 

(There’s a joke in there somewhere, at the top of his mind, about extending the stay despite the discomfort, rejoining the political world, joining the assassins but stealth on dry land, on uniced land has never been a strong suit of his, and he’s heard the way Ezek’s joints crack, never mind his own.)

There isn’t much he needs, anyway, something he had only realized once the luxuries he had lived with were gone, luxuries he hadn’t realized were anything of that sort, even his former ship feeling homely compared to the fortresses of Bleaklow. But what he does need is organization. Structure. And those are two things that their lives have been lacking in any real sense, despite his attempts at keeping to the same sort of schedule he had lived for the past thirty odd years of his life in the navy. They’re always in search of something useful nowadays, as much as enough coin to stay comfortable, so Wyndom can’t help but eavesdrop when he hears someone talking about a group of adventurers. He waits until the woman is alone again, before cutting in, slipping easily into the sort of authoritative charm that won diplomatic battles.

“My apologies for intruding, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” he offers, although he isn’t particularly sorry, just interested. Hat removed for good measure, for respect. “This group the other mentioned, it isn’t Catelian, is it?”

[wyndomkind]

“Is there anything that you need?”

“Sleep.”

[wyndomkind]

“God wants you to live. He wants you to live…”