The cold caress of frost greeted Gwyneth as she stepped from the warmth of the Dancing Hare's hearth to winter's snare once more. Breath turned to steam as it parted ruby lips to coil aimlessly above Gwyneth in hazy tendrils before sharp gusts blew them from existence. The woman's focus went awry with them for but a moment before her crystalline eyes turned back to the path she had come from.

There was more confidence in her gait than she had prior for Gwyneth knew where this path led - back to the stable where she had left her equine companion. Vakarian was not the only one Gwyneth had on the journey to Verthold despite Malavai's unspoken concerns for her safety during travel to and from their hometown. Two servants had accompanied her. It was not out of personal gratification that she had requested their joining, but rather to aid those Gwyneth sought to encounter in the depths of Vertholt's slums.

The servants were collected in due time along with the supplies they had been instructed to gather before they had left Southpeak some days ago. The ride had been uneventful in itself. Proper precautions were taken, but truth be told, one would likely face more danger in a city during the middle of the night then they would camping out in the wilderness. Gwyneth utilized the time it took the pair to organize the supplies into manageable burdens to change into a more humble garment of tawny wool then took her share of the goods that the trio would be transporting.

The moments in which Gwyneth found herself away from the Towers of Anul during her youth spent with the Order of the Sun often led her to the back streets and alleys of Vertholt. Even one so young as she had found her path in the light of Novalia, a light she wanted to spread to others. Those days wandering the streets of the homeless were passed by sharing what she could with those she felt were the neediest. When she was no longer required to stay within Vertholt, Gwyneth still set aside time during her visits to find those forgotten people tucked away in their streets so firmly avoided by the rest.

It was those very same streets that Gwyneth led her companions to with a pace rooted in familiarity she had lacked among the taverns and market stalls. The residents of neglect who had lasted longer than was common for their ilk were quick to recognize the vivid strands of tresses that broke away from the confinement of their braided bun to frame the soft angles of Gwyneth's face which was only partly shaded beneath the fur hood of her cloak that had only been raised to defend against the elements. None among the onlookers were not so fortunate to have such a barrier though some pulled tattered blankets around their shoulders, most of which were remnants of Gwyneth's last visit.

Recognition turned to muted excitement that slowly spread even to those who did not know who Gwyneth was. It did not take knowledge of her person to realize that she and those with her were carrying bundles of blankets and sacks bulging with food that threatened to spill out over the bunched tops pulled partly shut by straining strings. By the time they stopped in the center of the street most populated by these unfortunate children of chance, the latter had already started to group up in twos and threes near them.

Gwyneth was unafraid of the phenomenon even as the groups grew with added numbers surging from connected alleys and abandoned buildings that encircled the congregation. They bustled with movement as a single entity for the sole purpose of staying warm as they watched Gwyneth with hungry eyes. It was a hunger that extended beyond their empty stomachs. It reached the pits of their souls, craving attention, salvation. Gwyneth came like a summer storm at the apex of a drought. She offered them what they needed and asked for nothing in return, but salvation was not hers to give, even with all the hot food and warm blankets she bore, but more than one had escaped the slums to serve even in the smallest capacity at the Temple of Novalia south of Southpeak, for though Gwyneth did not preach, when asked why she did these acts, she would simply reply, "For Novalia.'

What had started out as quiet murmurs turned to indistinguishable chatter that broke over itself like surf upon a beach. Gwyneth handed her load to one of the servants as the other started to set up a small fire and a large pot before she held both gloved hands up in a gesture of silence. The noise tapered off to nothingness and Gwyneth allowed herself a small smile before she began to address them.

"We have plenty of food and blankets for all of you today. Those of you needing new blankets, or have old blankets that need mended, may line up here." Gwyneth gestured to her left and the servant she had handed off her pack to before continuing. "Those of you who would like to eat first may line up here, but it will be a few moments before the vegetable stew is ready." She gestured to her right this time to the servant who had gotten the fire going and was waiting for the water to boil. "And those of you who are sick or injured may come to me and I will do what I can to mend you and your loved ones."

The routine was the same each time Gwyneth set up temporary camp among them. Some rushed to embrace the warmth of fresh blankets, others snatched up prime places in the food line, and the rest came to the Lady of the Phoenix with their ailments. Gwyneth had taken up her station within the small unused building behind where she had left her servants to dish out the supplies. It wasn't for her own relief from the cold, but so her patients could enjoy shelter for the time being before soldiers drove them from the homes they didn't own.

Regularly the duo halted their 'mission' trek in search of more supplies and food. While the 'siblings' traveled lightly, it was always essential, like a basic need to stock up. He didn't frequent the slums of Vertholt much when he passed through on his journey, but it was at times unavoidable. Gavin was a man of servitude -- even if the slums housed hooligans, there were still many defenseless, many innocent who were helpless and deprived; and, he wasn't surprised if the bandits preyed on the weak. Often he traveled the area alone, wishing for his sister to stay behind at one of the middle-wealth inns or locations. Still it was quite dastardly, how those of the same economic status and impoverish society couldn't pull and stand together -- to actually make a difference. But no, it was never that easy, never so simple. A dog eat dog world, quite a wicked realm they lived in, Gavin would say.

Least, it wasn't ordinary to see someone helping the poor; to Gavin's knowledge, not even the King would extend his hand or his wealth to those less fortunate. Perhaps he thought only the thugs lived in the slums? Maybe they never mentioned the malnutritioned children in reports? He wasn't sure, honestly, but people here needed help. And in winter? Bah! Just atrocious. Hm, possibly it was foolish to say something that he necessarily had difficulty doing. Gavin had issues, especially of trust... so, if the scenario to help another came up, he'd be slightly hesitant. So long as he wasn't blindly tricked or deceived, then maybe... It was debatable if he, too, needed saving. He just figured naught a soul cared for the majority but themselves; at least, until today...

Blade holstered upon his right hip, his adjacent hand grasping the pommel gently, Gavin trekked the blissful-white streets. He was a little shocked he'd find it so... peaceful, so seemingly innocent. Winter snow was utterly beautiful; cold, dreadfully frigid and nippy, but cold. In fact, he desperately wished he possessed some sort of face cloth so that his nose wasn't reddened by the cold, his eyes dry and watery with each chilly gust and his ears numbed by frostbite. Well, he was likely exaggerating, but winter was a harsher season than the others, he felt. His leather-plated boots crunched the snow under the soles, his breath like labored pants. Not that it'd help much, but he felt as if it'd retain the warmth; he'd hate for it to be stolen. His clothes aided with insulation, somewhat. Between the fur along the neck of his vest-shirt and the layers of underclothes, he could stand in the cold just fine... but there people, they couldn't.

His short, sandy hair blew with a gust of wind that rolled by, whipping him in the face -- his chocolate oculars closed briefly, to save themselves from any irritation. All in all, it felt like a brisk slap in the face, truthfully. As his eyes fluttered open, he noticed a gathering. People, the needy who inhabited the slums... they were flocking to something? Or someone? "What in the-" He cut his words, eyes focused on analyzing the situation. His feet resumed motion, picking up pace, if only slightly, moving in unison like those that soon surrounded him -- although he stood out like a sore thumb. If it weren't for the fact that he was tall, coated in better clothes and in general not looking impoverished, then yeah, he certainly would have blended in -- but he wasn't. Eventually though, they piled and crowded a few people. Who were they? He didn't want to push through the mass of people, and he definitely didn't want to look greedy or impatiently rude -- so he merely stood there, listening in regards to what the woman had to say. And, well, upon further inspection, he realized that she wasn't of 'poor' status. She couldn't be. Was she summoned by the king to help? He didn't know.

A fire was in the process of being started, he could eventually see small puffs of smoke... Were they cooking? For the people in the slums? What astonished him either further, one would ask? The way she asked for silence and the reaction absent completely of sound. It was a united gesture of respect. "Huh," His posture leaned back slightly, hand still rested upon his pommel. Surely, this wasn't a sight one saw everyday. It was good, not as if they feared the woman. He was left impressed. His lip furled, not quite as if to snarl, but to smirk slightly, grin subtle but evident upon his visage. "We have plenty of food and blankets for all of you today. Those of you needing new blankets, or have old blankets that need mended, may line up here. Those of you who would like to eat first may line up here, but it will be a few moments before the vegetable stew is ready. And those of you who are sick or injured may come to me and I will do what I can to mend you and your loved ones." Neither concerned with food or warmth, or even an ailment for that matter, Gavin watched as the people obeyed politely. He was stunned, shocked that this was even happening. He felt compelled, inspired... maybe this was a sign from the Makers, but he naturally felt driven to help. Inni would be pretty pissed if he didn't return soon, but he just had to find out!

Where Gwyn meandered, others followed. Gavin also sauntered in the direction of this building. He patiently waited in line, occasionally glancing back to see if his shield was in the way of anyone -- not that it would be, but he felt a bit cramped; this big, tall man moving along a line in a shallow and short door-frame. He didn't want to say stress was piling, but he was maintaining composure and serenity, for now. He certainly hoped he wouldn't have an episode... but, there weren't any mages or anything around, eh? Fingers tapping against the pommel of his sword, his eyes scanned the surroundings, brow raised. He couldn't believe it. He felt inclined to talk to this 'savior'; gather more information. He didn't linger much on her features before, not that he'd check her out. He had manners. He was a gentleman!

Complacency born out of need quashed any discord that might have brewed between the hardened souls of the destitute. That wasn't to say such a thing never happened. There had been more than one occasion in which scuffles had broken out over things as simple as places within the serving lines. Gwyneth had been able to calm or contain each situation that had presented itself through one means or another; Aegis had found its presence welcomed in those rare moments that words had not been enough to quell tempers. No threats had been made for the petite woman followed the path of a pacifist, but being able to put distance between an angry pair by erecting barriers was usually more than enough to do the trick.

This morning had yet to see any arguments spring from the gathering, but the day was still young. Strained patience moved the chronic waiters through time as Gwyneth was content to while it away inside with her assigned work. Most of those coming to see her were suffering from the obvious - illness brought on by the cold. The symptoms were easily treatable with concoctions of common herbs, most of which Gwyneth had picked from her own garden before she left or the trail from Southpeak to Vertholt during her journey.

The easiest way to give the first 'treatment' of sorts was to make the simple mixtures into hot tea using water from the freshly boiled snow one of the servants had portioned off from the stew's supply. While they drank, Gwyneth worked on making several smaller batches of the same mixture into more concentrated potions to be taken later on so that they did not simply fall back into the same sickness after their hot brew within the shelter of walls. These remedies were among the easiest, but others required more care. Festering wounds called for cleaning and one in particular needed more boiled rags than Gwyneth had on hand.

"I'll be right back, little one," she said as she gently patted a child no more than eight on his head wild with unkempt hair. Gwyneth rose from where she was kneeling, lifted her hood back over her head, covering both her hair and the curved tip of Aegis rising around her neck, and went to the door where most had already parted from her path. She was used to the sunken eyes and grim looks focused on her every movement. No matter how disheveled or dirty these people were, Gwyneth was not shocked. In fact, the only thing to draw her attention in surprise was the presence of a well dressed and hearty man amidst her broken flock.

She stared longer than was typically acceptable, her gentle blue eyes widened slightly in surprise before she turned her gaze down humbly and said, "Please excuse me." Had her cheeks not been reddened from the cold, it was likely they would have blushed in shame from her gawking behavior. For all Gwyneth knew, this man had just fallen on hard times and could not afford or find the care of an actual healer. It was not her place to judge those who sought her help. His presence still had startled her, throwing her off of her practiced poise and routine amongst the obviously homeless.

Still, Gwyneth could not linger. Caring for the child came first. She pushed past the rest in line with gentle determination then returned with only the slightest glance toward the unknown man. She set about cleaning the wound with tender touches. Frost had numbed most of the pain the child was experiencing and Gwyneth had bribed him with a piece of sweet fruit that he greedily bit into. The distraction of food allowed her to work quickly and efficiently. Soon enough she sent him on his way to join another line with a poultice set about his arm with his mother carrying more of the mixture for later.

The next few were simpler cases. Stitches here and there, tea, potions, herbs taken directly; none had come forth yet that Gwyneth had turned away. It had happened before, wounds too grievous for her minor training and bag of tricks to fix. In those cases, Gwyneth had sent them on to the healers from the Order of the Sun with payment to take a patient not of priority to their cause, the military, or even the kingdom. The only thing she asked in return of these people was that they not repeat what she had done.

Gwyneth took a moment to herself to wash her now un-gloved hands in melted snow set aside for such a thing and wiped her brow with an unused cloth. More of her fringe had come free from the braided bun at the base of her neck, but it was neither the time or place to restrain them. Her brief break over, she turned her attention to the line of those still waiting for her attention which was now headed by the towering stranger. One way or another, he was one of the lost. They always seemed to find her, regardless of status.

"Please, come in out of the cold and tell me how I can help you."

The slums were always such a confining, such a depressing place. Just being in there sucked the life out of you, it drained your sense of freedom, of self-worth, it made you want to look down at the cold, hard and filthy streets, their stony surfaces long since covered by dirt, grime, moss and dried splatters of blood. The people who lived here didn't really live. They merely existed, like a bird does after breaking its wings. They could survive, they may even be able to find food and shelter each night, but every breath taken was nothing more than a reflexive action. They had nothing to strive for, nothing to hope for, nothing to fight for, so they merely survived, day in and day out. The people in here were even worse than animals, for even an animal can appreciate the beauty of the world around it. Not those unfortunate soulds however. For them, survival was merely the only thing they could do other than die. Their worldview was like a grey monochrome canvas; empty, lifeless, dull. Some would even wonder if just letting these people keep existing like this was a humane thing to do. By all accounts, to be reduced to this state was something worse than death, and indeed no small number of people who 'lived' in these parts had simply allowed death to take them at some point, finding comfort and peace in its cold, but also eerily gentle, embrace.


And then Ephraim, Son of Clavicus the peasant, citizen of the village of Archos and the self-proclaimed 'Crimson Blade' comes into the picture. What exactly would one think, if they saw the youth in the middle of such disrepair, such abandonment, such apathy born from suffering? For starters, they would think that he looked horribly out of place. Ephraim would look oddly tall next to the hunched, carcass-like figures of the slum-dwellers. Even more clashing was his countenance, the way he stood and the way he carried himself. Amidst this mass of dusty-grey and muddy-brown, this person that barely even qualified as a man was painfully colourful and bright. It was nothing like the brightness of the Lady Gwyneth, which was like a warm glowing flame attracting the tired, hungry moths that hid amidst the shadows of the partially collapsed homes. Ephraim was like the sun, a painfully burning and scandalously colourful sun that stuck out like a sore thumb. His bright red hair, kept always loose, had a wild charm to them that the reserved and elegant Lady of the Phoenix simply lacked. Unlike her, who invited others to her gentle warmth, Ephraim looked more like he was going to burn them up with his presence alone. His was full of life and energy, and that only made everyone else seem even worse than they already were.


This horrible, off-tone note of strength and happiness in this bleak musical piece of despair had....actually managed to pass by unnoticed. But how was that possible? Even covered in his thick coat, his poise and aura should be enough to distinguish him as an outsider. So how did he manage to escape the ever so numerous, but always open, eyes of the slums? Simple. He stuck to where the broken bird never looks, the place where the mole has long since forsaken - the sky, or rather the roofs if you want to be more precise. It was this soul-crushing aura of defeatism that made this tactic possible, for no one even thought about looking up at the sky anymore. Everyone could only look at the ground anymore, as if the remembrance of a wild, free and endless sky was something they couldn't handle anymore. Maybe they were right, maybe that was their problem - those broken birds did not want to be reminded of the fact that this world was still beautiful. Adapted to their misery, they no longer stared up because that would only make them realize that where they stood was even uglier than they initially though - and that would completely crush them.

But, why was he here? Why was the Crimson Blade here? Was he remisencing about his past? Highly unlikely, he was not born here and the slums are not a place to produce memories that people like to recall. Maybe he was hounding a target? Certainly there was plenty of 'game' for someone of his profession. He didn't look like someone who was currently on the hunt, so unless it was rouse directed at a hypothetical stalker, he wasn't working right now. The slums were also not the place for shopping, or strolling, or girl-fishing. Sure, pretty girls could be born here, but they never lasted long, the bandits and crooks that infested the dunghole made sure of that. So again, why was he here?

The only conceivable answer was a single word; curiosity. One of his dreams was always to explore the land and see all sorts of different things. As part of a flourishing agricultural community, extreme poverty and extreme wealth were equally alien to him. Certainly, a castle and a room filled with golden plates, finely-carved chairs and dining tables large enough to lay a giant on were things he had never seen, but a land plagued by disease, starvation, crime and grief was just as foreign of a concept. Maybe that was why he was here, to lay his eyes upon the uglier, more pitiful side of the world. What he hoped to gain from this was unknown, but the fact is that he is here.

'This is just sad....' he thought to himself, staring at the streets below with a pair of bright emerald eyes. He had just about had enough of this depressing, gutter-smelling borefest. But then, just as he was about to turn around and leave, his eyes caught sight of something rather unusual - smoke. It was just a little bit, and it seemed to be nearby. While a fire in the middle of a cold area full of homeless was hardly big news (hey, they weren't made out of snow you know, sometimes they got desperate enough to start a fire even with the risk of attracting vagabonds and the authorities), everything in this place was so colourless that even the smallest of flames would look like a godsent gift (and now he sounded like a pyromaniac in his mind, but whatever).


A few steps there, a few jumps here, oh hey watch out for that loose plank, you don't want tripping and falling through this halfway rotten room, and there it was. "Hm. That's....interesting..." he mumbled to himself, looking at the bizarre spectacle across the street. He grouched lightly along the ledge, his coat still held very closely to his being. Sure, he may end up looking like a bird of prey if he perches like that, but screw looking suspicious, it was too cold to take off the coat or the hoodie and he wouldn't settle for anything other than the best possible view.

Gavin actually became a bit concerned for his own health as he realized people were actually pretty sick. His shoulders shrugged upward, head dipping to almost bashfully hide, as if that would somehow help. Well, some coughed and sneezed, but others had wounds, ailments he ultimately watched Gwyn treat with home remedies. Genuinely, Gavin was appreciative that she bore no 'mystical magic powers' when it came to the treatments -- she was using natural concoctions to mend the wounded. Thank the Makers she wasn't a mage... it made her more human in his eyes, although the helpless probably viewed her as a descendant of a God or Goddess. As long as the idea inspired positive hope, Gavin couldn't judge much -- he found relief and comfort by believing in the Makers above, too.

Curiously, he resumed his observation, even as she approached his position after realizing there was a lack of supply in the building -- not that she was coming directly for him, but he was near the doorway to access outside, after all. But as much as he patiently awaited for his turn, it was evident he stood apart from the crowd of deprived people -- he was an uneven board of wood that would cause someone to trip and stumble amongst the flat surface of a floor. Because he was watching her work, he discovered a return of gaze in his direction, causing him to fidget. They shared a stare, almost as if locked onto one another -- it was strange, he felt... weird? Tingly, even? Brow raised, it took him a moment before registering her request, face expressing the realization belatedly. "Oh," he muttered under his breath, stepping out of her way. Bah, what a fool, what an idiot he was! Nervously, he rubbed the nape of his neck, gazing back at her as she gathered the supplies. He couldn't shrug off the feeling that he somehow surprised her? He certainly hoped he didn't scare her or anything -- he meant no harm, no foul. As she returned to the building, he attempted his very best to not look as if he was observing her, though it was probably too conspicuous.

He made less of an effort to 'hover' over Gwyn's work, in a sense, taking more time to survey the people moving in and out. He even offered a nod in respect and a smile, just going out of his way to be kinder, more approachable. He felt he might have needed to atone for his bizarre appearance of just being here, somehow. Oh, the inner-workings of his mind were just unusual -- probably. At least, by the time he turned his uninterrupted gaze on Gwyn, he'd then comprehend it was his 'turn'.

Walking forward, feet unintentionally stomping along the old, creaky flooring, he'd expel a sheepish laugh, gloved-hand returning to the nape of his neck. Smiling softly, he'd state, "Well, actually -- I couldn't help but notice what you were doing here," He paused, gaze wandering the room and the items at Gwyn's disposal, before those chocolate-oculars returned to the female with fiery tresses. Now that he was in closer view, he couldn't help but note how remarkably stunning she was -- erm, what? He would perish the thought; at least tried to -- it was rude to think of her as such. "Uh, I was actually going to inquire if you'd need assistance with anything - Milady---?" His voice trailed, as if asking for her name. The hand that rested at his side rose to shake her own, if she permitted. "Gavin. Gavin Roxburgh."

He didn't know of the man on the rooftop, he couldn't see from the inside of a building -- lest he had x-ray vision -- which he didn't.

Novalia's light had revealed many things to Gwyneth during her work for the goddess over the years. It was ironic that the same now kept her from noticing the vagabond voyeur perched across the way. Such knowledge was inconsequential the woman's current focus and she could not be bothered by what she did not know and those who might have informed her were absorbed in the more important matters of obtaining warmth, food, and care.

One man did warrant her consideration, the one before her - Gavin Roxburgh as he was so introduced by owner's tongue. Gwyneth allowed him to take her delicate hand within his own, the latter engulfing hers with the sheer difference in size. Her grip matched demeanor, gentle but with attentive firmness. She smiled with her usual amiable intent reflected throughout her features as she pulled her hand away and let her arm come back to rest comfortably at her side.

Signs of her awkwardness had since disappeared from the reaches of that fleeting moment. She was all grace and good manners once more and introduced herself in kind. "A pleasure to meet you, Ser Roxburgh. I am Gwyneth Eventine, matriarch of the Eventine family hailing from Southpeak and priestess of Novalia." Length reflected requirements born from blood and oath rather than personal quirk for while her person might not be known among the lands, her family was one of the high nobles and her actions called their integrity, as well as that of Novalia, into focus with every little thing she did.

"It is truly an honorable offer you make. These poor souls have not often seen kindness from the hands of strangers." Her stare shifted from where it had lingered upon Gavin back to those still waiting to meet with her. It was a short relief from the slight incline of her neck that it took to speak with Gavin, but soon enough returned to the required stance to fix her bright gaze upon his once more.

He had the look of someone who had seen many things during his life. The scar on his lip could have been from anything, but his warrior's garb had indicated combat to Gwyneth who had helped treat soldiers in the past. Whatever the man's story was, it was written in his eyes as everyone's was. Such a thing was difficult to unravel for a mere mortal and Gwyneth was nothing but in comparison to the one she served. She could assume much however, and piece it together with whatever she learned from him along the way.

What she had seen of him so far was intriguing. His curiosity and compassion reminded her greatly of Marcus. Gwyneth's countenance grew distant for the briefest of the moments, shaded by tangled memories both sweet and painful. She broke herself from the past and her expression was cleared away by another smile, like the sun freeing itself from the binding of clouds. There were things to do for those who lived and ghosts would not keep her from them, especially with another willing hand being offered. Maybe later she would even inquire as to why he was wandering the desolate streets of the slums, but for now she would put his eagerness to work.

"If you truly want to help, I need more clean rags." Gwyneth looked to the large roll of fabric she had brought back from her earlier absence. She had cut loose enough to clean the boy's wounds, and those of the people who had needed stitches after him, but it took time from Gwyneth that she could be using to tend to patients. If someone else could work on breaking the cloth into more manageable pieces for her work, then it would speed the process of moving people through her station so they could partake in the food and collect their blankets outside. "All you would have to do is cut the cloth into smaller rags and soak them in the hot water." The servant tending the food outside had come periodically to replace the water as it had cool with fresher and hotter liquid better suited for Gwyneth's purpose.

"If you'd rather do something else, I'm sure that we could find something more suited to your tastes and abilities, Ser Roxburgh."

After getting tired of looking at the people lining up to eat (and it didn't take very long, mind you), the cloaked youth turned his attention towards those entering the building. Having not seen the lady within, at first he was perplexed to see a bunch of tired, starved bums walking somewhere with no food. His confusion was but a momentary crisis, however, as he soon noticed that these people had troubles even more pressing than a roaring gullet. In any case, there was someone else in there, someone who was providing medical services (for free to boot). He raised his eyebrow, stretching out his neck in order to see who, just who, was in there. Hopefully someone more interesting he liked to think, for the duo outside had some terribly dull faces. He probably wouldn't even remember their names by the end of the day, if he ever bothered to learn them anyways.

Regardless, he was soon faced with another little problem - the building's interior lay outside of his visual range. The house's walls, musty and worn as they may have been, performed their duty most admirably, protecting the privacy of those within. Ephraim was going to have none of that, however! Faced with the brutal dillema of choosing between spontaneously gaining the ability to see through walls (a longtime fantasy of men worldwide) and choosing a different vantage point, Ephraim ended up settling the more rational approach. Making a quick scan of the building's front, he easily found a square, gaping hole that used to be a window, but now was good for little other than helping people peep inside.

He sighed lightly, stood up and, with his heart bleeding from the pain, he distanced himself from that adorable little perch point. Ah, young love, how fleeting it is in reality, yet how vivid and longlasting it is in memory. In any case, it didn't take him long to reposition and set his eyes on the 'target'. Unfortunately, his new 'base of operations' wasn't as nice as the one before, but a man has to compromise sometimes. His emerald oculars scanned the interior to the best of his knowledge, his sharp gaze identifying two specific individuals. One of them was a man, quite tall and bulky, wrapped up in clothing that seemed to be expensive. Was he some sort of knight? In Ephraim's eyes, Gavin was quite the knight. If this had been 8 years ago, Ephraim would've most definitely squealed like a little girl at the sight of a knight, but around this period he found noble-looking warriors like that a lot more boring than he used to. Maybe he could try prodding him a little, these people tended to hold their pride close to their hearts, and sometimes the little rogue liked to make them angry with offensive comments. But even so, even with the prospect of amusement, he did not linger on the figure of the male, but switched to that of the female.

'....Jackpot.' he thought to himself, the left corner of his mouth rising ever so slightly. Now, while the young man had not the eyes of a hawk, he had a lot of confidence in his ability to spot-out beauties even from distances where others would not. In this case, he could most definitely spot a few of Gwyn's more delicate features, like the shape of her nose, the softness of her cheeks and so forth. This one was a truly regal lady, one that fancied providing charity. Maybe she was truly pure at heart, like those princesses in fairytales whose pristine spirits could be matched only by their pristine looks. Gwyneth, of course, did not look like a princess in Ephraim's eyes, for she looked more like a woman than a girl. Then again, he wasn't exactly standing right next to her. He could've been wrong. There was no way he was of course, but sometimes fate likes to play games. But in what sort of way could he approach her?

She was busy, first and foremost. She was busy with work that was truly worthwhile. Ephraim had no quailms with interrupting a woman drinking in a tavern or a maiden picking flowers, but to interrupt charity for the sake of flirting would just be in bad taste, not to mention selfish. From what he could tell she was hitting it off quite well with that other guy too - er, she wasn't hitting him anyways. Should he really start to feel as if this was some sort of competition? Was it really mature to get worked over a 'fight' that hadn't even started, that didn't even exist? But then came the other question - did he want to lose the fight before it had even begun? Heck no! Ephraim of Archos, Son of Clavicus, the self-proclaimed Crimson Blade and protege of the famous Bard 'Dualstrike' Alrikson never backed down from a fight! Though he did run away when things looked hopeless for him. But that's another point!

His previous smirk having turned into a grumpy frown rivaling those of 'that sourpuss of a bear', he puzzled his puzzler in search of a devious scheme - and a devious scheme he puzzled indeed! It was as good a plan as any, for something that he struggled for about 20 seconds that is. Standing up once more, he raised his foot and slammed it on the construct below. The impact, while nowhere near the grounds of rock-shattering, was more than enough to cause a few pieces of the gradually collapsing roof to fall down to the street below, casuing a lot of commotion as a few stray rats were sent running to their holes, their terrified screeching piercing through the soundless streets. After that, Ephraim quickly perched over like a carrion bird trying to look as sinister and suspicious as he could (the heavy cloak which concealed all of his features sure did help with that). Now all he could hope is that those two people giving out food would be cautious enough to get startled. Then they would see him, approach him and...well, he'd see how things play out and improvise along the way. All he could hope was that they would get agressive.

His grip and handshake were nothing short of being firm, but not to injure or harm the lady. His smile was soft, warm and friendly, lingering for perhaps longer than he would have liked. He didn't let the gesture continue for a lengthy period of time though, retracting his hand after that polite handshake. Gavin paid careful attention as she introduced herself, wrist flickering as he spoke. "Ah, Novalia. Although a lesser deity, I feel she's important -- these are dark times; it's good that you're bringing hope in those dusky recesses of the realm." Gavin studied about the mythology of the realm and the Makers above; it wasn't surprising, if one knew the man, that he had a pretty basic knowledge for most, maybe extensive awareness for the main Gods. He was a religious man, after all. "I do apologize, Lady Eventine -- I'm not entirely familiar with your household, although Southpeak is very beautiful... and quaint, in a way." He traveled there on few occasions, but more-so as a pit-stop for another town and city. Still, he regretted not meeting the head of Southpeak, not quite sure that he was looking at her, standing in front of her, in that very ironic moment. "But, the pleasure is all mine." His smile flashing to a lop-sided grin, Gavin rested a hand on the pommel of his sword once more, shrugging. "I live to help -- to serve, even if it does mean some sort of community service." When in need, he always tried to step in and aid as much as possible; he doubted that he'd be walking blindly into something terrible, so this gave him even greater incentive and cause to offer his support.

He couldn't help but notice a tinge of pain in Gwyneth's face, but spoke nothing of it. However, those cerulean orbs did gaze at him, so he had to wonder if he offended her, somehow. Or did she possess a sad thought? He didn't know, but was relieved to find a smile upon those ruby-lips again. He waited for but a few moments, thinking that the woman was probably dwelling on ideas of what Gavin could do to help -- he was right, for she offered a job: gathering more rags that were clean. It seemed simple enough for the man. His chocolate gaze mirrored hers, looking upon the rolled fabric as she, too, did. "Cut the fabric into smaller pieces and soak'em in hot water? Sounds easy enough." He wouldn't complain, "This is great, thank you." He began to move over to the fabric, realizing he could probably use his sword's edge to help with the process. "Though, if there's anything else you'd have me do later on, don't be afraid to ask." He offered a gentle smile, only to turn back toward the door to hear a little bit of screaming... in terror or shock?

People scrambled from the line, people either flocked inside or moved out of harm's reach. Fortunately, he was tall enough to witness what seemed to be happening outside. Was the roof caving in? But... why? It wasn't as if someone was roughly prancing around in here. He rubbed the nape of his neck with one hand, the other tapping the pommel of his sword. Debris was falling? "Excuse me." He spoke sternly to Gwyneth and then to people in his pathway out, moving to intercept whatever danger lurked outside. He'd leave evacuating what few people entered the building to Gwyn; even if he glanced back to make sure she was safe. Once he was outside, he turned his gaze skyward, squinting his eyesight as his right brow raised. "What the..." A person? What did they want? Why would they even do that?

He stood among the many of homeless and needy, waiting to see what all the fuss was about.

There was a distinct absence of pride in reaction to Gavin's response to her title and Novalia's place among the pantheon. His words, both of knowledge and a lack thereof, were filed peacefully without retort as more pieces to the puzzle that was this tall stranger who had simply walked into her life in the strangest of places. What reply her lips poised to make was directed toward his attitude of servitude, but words fell away unspoken as commotion rippled through her flock outside and debris clattered down inside.

Fear was void along with the missing pride, leaving Gwyneth's face neutral aside from concern with those around her. Gavin moved first to exit, leaving the lady behind in his wake, but she did not linger within, instead moving to usher those still grouped at the front to a less dangerous spot outdoors. "Is everyone safe," she questioned of her temporary flock, the semblance more uncanny as Aegis had come unsheathed from her back and cloak to rest within the slender-fingered grip of her right hand.

"Lady Eventine!"

The exclamation of her servants bubbled over the gravel voiced replies of the homeless, most of whom had seen far too much in their rough lives to show any emotion at such a minor disturbance other than irritation at their care and feasting being interrupted. Gwyneth mirrored this stoicism as she raised her left hand to indicate desired silence from the pair. "I'm fine," she said before they could fuss over her well being leaving them free to direct her attention to the source of the commotion rather than confront it themselves.

Duty demanded that Gwyneth step alone before the congregation as her eyes found their prize. Much like the homeless, Gwyneth had seen far too much in her life to fear a singular figure, no matter its intentions. The only exception to such would have been the colossal mountain of flesh that was a giant, but what stood before and above was not such a monster. The situation lent itself to many interpretations. Gwyneth's own was that of a childish personality. It was not night when true trouble rose from the pit of the underworld, so to cause a scene with no weapon at the ready in broad daylight among a gathering of people who had nothing to live for and nothing to steal, well, it seemed to be a call for attention rather than anything serious.

Regardless of any assumptions made of the mysterious cloak and owner, Gwyneth was neither careless or rude. Aegis remained in hand and her voice was calm, polite, even pleasant, as she spoke. "Pray tell, kind stranger, is there something that we can do for you? If you are hungry or injured, we can offer treatment and food. If you are looking for trouble, I will have to politely request that you look elsewhere."

Relief washed over his muscular frame, seeing Gwyn and the poorer folk retreat from the old, probably unstable building. It was strange, it was a feeling he often possessed... but something was different, as if he'd find extra remorse if something had happened directly to her. That couldn't be quite right, so he shook the feeling off. When she herded the flock of sheep at her doorstep to stay away from the building, Gavin moved to stand next to her, both awaiting a response from the cloaked silhouette of a man. It puzzled him why he didn't answer right away. Was he being dramatic? Adding flare to the situation? Gavin didn't quite know, but if this stranger meant any harm to these people, he'd be the first to defend them. "What could this... 'person' possibly want?" He whispered more-so to himself but within earshot for Gwyneth, even as he turned his attention to her for a brief moment, eyes peering at the shepherd's crook. Huh, a shepherd herding the sheep... how ironically amusing. But... it should have warned him of something he disliked, he mistrusted -- but it didn't signal the alarm, didn't flare within his thoughts. A mage wasn't on his mind right now, not that he'd even be sure Gwyneth was one, anyway.

Crossing his arms, his chocolate oculars reverted back to the man upon the roof, wondering if he'd speak anytime soon. He was a patient man, but he certainly hoped the figure wouldn't cause any trouble, especially to a people in desperate need. He was ultimately prolonging their care, and Gavin was finding that absolutely terrible.

[Ephraim skipped due to posting time rules; he'll be able to reply next round]

Time bent its essence to the sway of perception unique unto each individual. Gwyneth felt no stretch of the metaphysical fabric in awaiting a reply from the stranger who roosted atop his recently claimed perch that decayed underfoot even as he stood there. Yet when her focus was called upon Gavin by the words he so quietly spoke, time became immeasurable, spanning an eternity within the scant seconds her gaze lingered upon him.

More and more, this man pulled her memories of Marcus to the surface. His profile brought the newest wave of retrospection, but the intensity of the situation did not allow for Gwyneth to stay in the past anymore than she had when she first felt the tug of nostalgia in Gavin's presence or the newer emotions rooted in the depths. The twisting aeon of perception relinquished its hold on time and Gywneth returned to her previous vigilance, offering no reply for she had no answer to the absently voiced question.

Well...this wasn't what he had in mind. This wasn't what he had in mind at all. While he did intend to make enough noise to attract the attention of the people inside of the makeshift clinic, he was hoping that the two people serving food outside would rush over to him. Instead, the woman seemed to approach him just fine. Were these people not her guards or something? The red-haired woman looked not like your average priest, so he was certain that she belonged to some upper class in society. Such an individual -and especially a vulnerable, peaceful-looking woman like her- couldn't possibly be travelling along these downtrotten, scum-infested streets without some sort of protection. Yet they weren't jumping in front of her in order to defend her from a possible assault.

'Sheesh...you really should be more paranoid in shitty places like this, y'know? I could be some sort of cuttthroat aiming to slice her neck and steal her clothes. Heck, this place smells so bad I bet there would be at least one sod sick enough to pay a hefty shiny for a piece of fabric that's been in contact with a woman NOT covered in sores.' he thought to himself, left eye twitching slightly. Then again, perhaps it was that this woman did not require protection? He saw no weapons on her besides that walking stick of sorts, so unless they were counting on the good sir knight to jump in front of her if things went south, she must've been decent enough to hold back at least one person.

Therefore, he had two possible options - no, three. In one case, the woman below truly possessed no way to defend herself, and was being just flat-out suicidal, possibly seeing herself like some sort of martyr. In another case, perhaps she was a lot stronger than she looked, and had trained in the usage of the staff long enough to be capable of splitting a man's skull in half. Neither of these two options seemed plausible however. The woman seemed not like a delusional fool enraptured with their own messianic self-image, nor like a tough martial-artist with the strength of a giant and the skill of a legend. Which meant that she must have been one of these Gifted he had heard about! Sure, if he combined the few tidbits of knowledge available to the peasantry along with what he had learned about the world during his time with Bard, this robe-wearing, staff-wielding lady might just be capable of causing a house to explode with but a single glare! Or something like that.

But wait, how long had he been standing there, talking to himself inside his head? Long enough for everyone to start giving him weird stares. No, wait, that was fine. He knew how to patch it up. He might be able to even make it work to his advantage! After all, he had decided, not too long ago mind you, that he was going to improvise as things went along. Why be paralyzed because things did not go along his expectations? If anything, this made things even more fun!

His lips forming into an obscured smile yet again, he slowly turned his head in order to look upon the red woman. A pair of bright, green and wild oculars locked into her own, right before he hopped down from his perch point. Showcasing some phenomenal mobility, he slid down the moss-covered wall of the abandoned building, only to kick off at just 1,5 meters (about 5 feet) off the ground. This allowed him to somewhat divert the impact of the fall, though he was forced upon a crouching position regardless the moment he landed. But still, that was fine. It only added to the atmosphere.

"It is neither the need for food nor the need for medicine that have brought me before you, my fair lady." he spoke in a suave tone, his hooded head still facing the dirty ground. Slowly standing up, he'd then throw back his hood with a sudden move of the hand, almost as if trying to brush something off of his head, something that wasn't actually there. With the top of his crimson many now fully exposed, and his youthful and energetic face beaming with what could only be described as a wolfish, almost predatory even, smirk, he slowly started to walk towards the woman.

"I am but a lowly man, travelling the world in search of new horizons. Brought to the capital by the winds of chance and the scent of fortune, I decided to brave the streets of the slums in order to gaze upon the uglier, more unfortunate side of the world. It is true, my fair lady, not 3 steps within this place I had lost all hope of encountering something....something bright, and beautiful. I was wrong." he continued, starting in an almost grandiose manner with his hand against his chest, only for his voice to gently decrease in volume and passion with every graceful step towards her. Eventually, the cattish rogue found himself not 3 feet away from the female (provided that no one tried to stop him by getting in his way), at which point he stopped and performed an intriquate bow. Despite the several unnecessary movements that could make this gesture seemed hilariously theatrical, maybe even mocking to some, there was a genuine air to his poise.

Raising his head up in order to look upon her face while keeping the rest of his bowing body still, he gave her his most charming of smiles (or so was the intention) before adding a few final words. "Ephraim of the humble village of Archos, son of the even more humble peasant Clavicus. To whom may I owe this wonderful surprise...?" he asked, ready to kiss her hand if it was offered to him. It's only proper manners when meeting a lady!

It wasn't surprising to see Gavin jump only slightly as Ephraim lowered from his perch atop the building. He didn't see this person as someone who could be trusted. Gavin really didn't want the silhouette of a person to bring harm unto anyone, especially the woman kindly helping the needy. He wouldn't strike, only should the need arise; but his hand was grasped along the pommel -- it was a habit of his, if one knew him well enough. He'd participate this affair as a listener, a spectator, unless the Lady needed assistance or hailed for him to get involved.

If it wasn't the food, treatment or the blankets that brought the 'suave' and 'charming' figure here, then what was it? He observed the man who was crouched low, even when he stood and ruffled those majestic locks of crimson tresses -- the thought almost made him expel a serious laughing fit -- Gavin was ultimately unamused. And, well, that was because his intentions came to light. Brow raised and lip curling into a scoff, Gavin watched the young man flirt with Gwyneth, only thinking how ridiculous the man was. Firstly, causing such a dramatic scene, only to grace it with charm? That only rang one thing within his mind: the man was a phony, was a 'charmer'. He wanted nothing more than to fancy the woman, least Gavin suspected that was the case.

Even if the woman retained her nobility and kindness, Gavin wouldn't falter with interfering should he find a single expression of disgust on the Lady's visage. It kind of irked him, to see a man trying to weasel his way into a woman's 'heart'; maybe it was just the way the swindler moved, or was it something else? Tugged gently at the heart? He didn't know, didn't think it was possible, so he just stood and watched, wondering how Gwyn would accept this introduction.

The enigma's physical prowess went unlauded by the lady though there were noises of surprise roused from the meekest among those who still gathered behind her. The vulturine aspect of the situation which had formed at first perch was compounded by the stalking approach and melodramatic reveal of character.  Gwyneth's servants which had first waited behind their mistress chanced to move between her and the wolf in sheep's clothing that sought to move among those she tended, but Gwyneth raised her empty hand as a sign for them to halt. The lack of concern for her own safety shown within her gesture of refusal was directly in opposition of her other hand which tightened its grip around Aegis. As it was, the man was allowed his passage.

Placid neutrality marked her visage in place of her usual amiable expressions given the mounting tension of the situation though this was assuaged somewhat by the honey coated words that dripped so easily from Ephraim's lips, as he was so introduced. Gwyneth watched him intently with her steady blue gaze meeting his own wild eyed stare. Though similar in their features, perhaps even more so than Gwyneth even shared with Malavai, the two were as opposite as day and night. Everything about Ephraim spoke to Gwyneth as untamed, more raw than the childish side she had assumed earlier. He was the type of person who gave her more pause to interact with than did the homeless. A wildcard. None of her unease translated to the surface. Years of diplomacy and cat and mouse games of nobility made her more than capable of navigating through almost any social interaction without pause or faux pas. on her behalf. It was a matter of fact that Gwyneth had encountered similar personalities among the high born, though it was true none had been in such a location with nearly so elaborate of an entrance.

Gwyneth met his introduction with a half curtsey rather than presenting her hand to him. He was a stranger, admitted of commoner blood where she was a noble, and she was a widow. Had she been a maiden as she was once upon a time, she might have offered it to him, but time had taken care of that. At the very least, her neutrality gave way to the gentle upward curve of her lips so native to her face before she replied with words that would be familiar now to the other man who stood at her side, unspoken to, but certainly not forgotten. "A pleasure to meet you, son of Clavicus. I am Gwyneth Eventine, matriarch of the Eventine family hailing from Southpeak and priestess of Novalia." It seemed unlikely that Ephraim would ask of Gavin's identity given his hunger for her attention, but Gwyneth did not want to leave him rudely out of the conversation after he had put himself in what might have been danger before any of them. "And this is Ser Gavin Roxburgh," she added as she gestured to the taller man at her side. As introductions were traded, Gwyneth's servants had started to usher the crowd away from her and back into their respective lines. It was not a difficult task, though the multitude of eyes never fully left off of their watch.

The crimson-haired trickster had to admit, this woman might just be more than just a fair face. Aside from being fairly courageous at letting such a painfully suspicious individual get close to her, she also had enough sense to keep her protectors close. Even so, Ephraim couldn't help but think that there was something else, something dangerous about her. He couldn't help but remember the feeling he got when he laid eyes upon Gwyneth's staff. There was no way this was an ordinary noble lady who would actually keep her retainers behind and beside her, even when they tried to move in in order to protect her from what could very well have been an assassination attempt. No, this woman could most definitely defend herself, she just had to. His gut-instinct told him so, and he always trusted his instincts. After all, as someone who had little actual experience in warfare, he had to rely on his talents instead of his wisdom.

After a few more seconds passed, Ephraim realized that she would not offer him her hand. Her reason for doing so was unknown to him - maybe she was shy, maybe she did not trust him, maybe she didn't like offering her hand to people she didn't know well. The reason could be anything, and he didn't particularly care. A cautious lady in the middle of the slums was a smart lady, and he really liked smart ladies who were also pretty. After all, dumb broads with pretty faces were good for eye-candy but, if you were to approach them, the nonsense they'd spout out could be so skull-crushingly horrendous that even the -supposedly- shallow Ephraim was sent to a bathroom-break of indefinite duration. The gods only knew how much stupidity existed in this world. But that was not the time to whine.

Standing up, he'd give her -and Gavin, for courtesy's sake- a most beaming of smiles. With the grey and lifeless backround that the homeless and the slums provided, his overly cheerful smile was almost painful to look at, for it was just that much out-of-place. Momentarily he conteplated on using one of the previous schemes he had thought of, namely 'accidentally' dropping some throwing knives on the ground below. He decided not to however, for perhaps he shouldn't try to bite off more than he could chew. In the end, his goal was to approach the woman, get her name and make a strong impression, maybe even find an excuse to help her just so he could observe her for a bit. He was a curious soul at heart after all, ladies-man or not.

"Eventine you say? Why, even my humble self has heard of that name! Indeed I am in the precense of a most esteemed individual, so with all due respect, I ask that you accept my most sincere of apologies. I did not mean to disturb your work, but to see even a speck of kindness in this troubled place was such a surprise, I just had to investigate. Maybe I could repay for the commotion I have caused in some way...?" he said, his tone becoming far more relaxed and tame than before. Following his outburst of energy was a powerful but steady flow. It was like unearthing a river - once you strike the stone apart the water comes out gushing with force, but after a bit it calms down a little. Similarly to that, with his right hand earnestly placed above his heart, Ephraim's apology came off as far more mature than his theatrical entrance. Hopefully, the fair lady would give him the chance to redeem himself instead of driving him away.

The servants of the Lady even attempted to brush the man aside, but Gwyneth was kind and tolerable enough -- he assumed -- to indulge the man to some degree. In a sense, Gavin could see that she didn't want to seem weak, didn't yearn to allow others to protect her. It was apparent, through the knight's eyes, that Lady Eventine sought to be portrayed as fair, as someone who could stand on her own and equally treat those who were of lesser or greater value, essentially. She was the Shepherd tending to her flock of sheep -- if she backed down, let her own herd tend to the wolf, it would simply look unwise, unjust. In that regard, it made sense, Gavin supposed, chocolate-oculars and perked ears tentatively alert.

It was hard to tell what the Lady was pondering about the situation -- she upheld such a calm, placid expression upon her visage that it was unreadable to the man. Yet, she failed to return the gesture of Ephraim's handshake, but did to one of his own? Maybe she found Gavin more realistic? Not that he was trying to hide -- much -- but he wasn't lying, wasn't boasting a charm for some hidden intention or purpose. He was simply here to help, was all; while Ephraim, the man of mystery, was unpredictable, his reason for being out in the slums unknown. Though, to retain her politeness, Gavin watched her curtsey. It wasn't an entirely useless effort for the crimson-haired man, now, was it? His soft eyes briefly widened as she introduced him to the man, but he wouldn't stutter or reject Ephraim. He'd give him a decent amount of respect and assume it was due; though he was a careful and cautious one, he wouldn't blindly walk into some sort of trap. No sirree!

He could see the crowd of people dispersing from the conversation, but didn't react or make much of a note about it. Instead, he bowed his head slightly in respect when introduced, muttering. "Pleasure to meet you." Not that it mattered much, given Ephraim's attention focused on Lady Eventine. He didn't care, so long as he was polite, he would have no regret. Returning to the back-burner, he was surprised to find Ephraim searching for an apology via volunteering his services. Squinting his eyes subtly, he surveyed the man; he simply didn't appear to be the type to do good deeds without hounding for some sort of reward. What was the catch?

"I accept your apology and your offer with thanks," Gwyneth replied, allowing her smile to linger. It was rare for one, much less two, individuals not of her order to offer their services in aiding those less fortunate. Daily the lady prayed for Novalia's compassion to spread over the people of Akatokiyami, to touch their hearts and soften their hardened facades. Moments like these made Gwyneth feel as if those collective hours she spent in that meditative state were rewarded.

"Ser Roxburgh is already helping me tend to the injured," Gwyneth added, partly for her own benefit as she considered how the newcomer could assist their efforts in a capacity suited for both himself and the situation. The day's goals were not overly difficult and she already had her servants' assistance with her efforts, but more hands could always speed up the process and Ephraim seemed to have energy to spare. "If such a task is not beneath you, it would be most helpful if you could help pass out blankets to those that do not have them. That way my servant could focus on mending those of the ones who still have their own. Alternatively, you could help pass out food or cut up vegetables so more can be made. I've no doubt that we're running low on the stew that was first made. The choice is yours and either option would be of great help."

The crimson-haired young man had to think about that a little bit. How exactly he wanted to help? Usually he helped people by a waving a sword in the general direction of things that wanted to harm them (and, you know, occasionally landing a blow). He had to think of something that he was good at. Or rather, something as close to the things that he was good at and, honestly, there just weren't that many things that he was good at. He was neither mature nor well-educated. Of course he knew how to read, how to write, do basic mathematics and so on which was more than your average peasant could say about themselves. But that didn't mean he could understand scientific books or anything of the sort. He also was not very good at medical care for he only knew enough to provide emergency first-aid to himself, plus whatever he picked up when he helped nurse a recovering Bard all those years ago (which he wasn't all that good at). What's more he could not provide moral support to all those despairing plebians, he just didn't have that soothing presence that defined people like Gwyn. So, what exactly was he good at?

First, it was fighting. Ephraim was a natural-born armsman who favoured the blade. What he could hold up he could use to terrifying efficiency. He was also good at cheating, had some basic negotiating skills, could sneak around better than the average person (not that he was as good as a professional assassin or thief) and he also knew how to survive in the wild. To be frank, this was just not his element. So what could he do? The best answer would probably be...

"I think I'll go with cutting vegetables. Not exactly as grandiose as slaying a giant or a dragon, but cutting is cutting!" he said, trying to sound as nonchalant about it as possible. He doubted that this was the right time to brag about being good at cutting-up stuff. Regardless, knives were blades in the end, so he should have no problem with them. It wasn't like he had never used one in the past either. He had experience. He just wasn't a cook.

In any case, he would just stand there for the moment. As simple as it would've been for him to hop over to the pot and start cutting whatever veggie was unfortunate enough to cross his field of sight, he had to remember that this was a group effort. He should stand there and await confirmation, as well as orders. This was a job in itself, even if he wasn't going to be paid in coin. Besides, there was a good chance he would get an opportunity to show off his true skills. This was the slums after all. The smoke of the fire could be seen from some distance. Gangs and thugs ruled these streets and Gwyneth had quite the bounty with her. Medical supplies, blankets, food, a pretty face, a mature body and barely any people to protect them. It was entirely possible that some scoundrel was already gathering up likely-minded individuals with the intention of violently claiming what they liked to consider already theirs. With some (un)luck, this could become very bloody.

Gavin didn't say much, discussion not entirely thrown in his court, so to speak -- Gwyneth and Ephraim were talking about Ephraim's duties within this round of volunteer service, not his own. He'd patiently and quietly observe, head occasionally turning to gaze at the servants who returned to their duties and poor citizens flock back into controlled lines. He didn't see the need to return to the building just yet -- he was, in a way, accompanying Gwyneth; assuming their conversation was over and finished, he could return to the stationed area and cut rags for medical bandages. But, seeing as the discussion still continued, Gavin was there, merely listening, one hand rubbing the nape of his neck out of pure habit and routine. At least he was thankful the new male didn't intend to cause chaos or ruckus -- peace was nice, definitely.

As this thread has not been posted in since April, it is now closed.

Rewards allocated as follows:
Gwen - 7
Gavin - 7
Ephraim - 5