The Prisoner’s Dilemma
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𝐄𝐕𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐒𝐈𝐘𝐀 𝐌. 𝐘. 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐀 |
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Koldovstoretz, Respect C Yurt |
“the call of distant paradise, a subtle itch beneath the skin” |
hihi2/15/2026 | WC: 669 |
𝕶oldovstoretz wind didn’t howl.
It preferred to insinuate itself, thin and aristocratic, into the seams of fur and wool, pilfering what warmth it might from the heat-charmed depths of Evpraksiya’s coat; it was nearly sufficient to render her nostalgic for home. The youngest Vinogradova paused before the azure yurt to which fate—or the much more plausible administration—had consigned her. Its canvas shone luminous against the pale snow surrounding the yurt, could not but feel gratified at being spared the indignity of tents; a yurt was fit for the civilized, whereas tents were for everyone else. Cattle, perhaps? Saints preserve her, she shivered at the thought and burrowed herself further in the gentle embrace of her peacoat’s obliging fur collar. After her summer tribulation she’d acquired a distinct distaste for lotteries of any kind, especially when it’d landed her with a series of hooligans and children.
This time however, this time would be different, she was going to Koldovstoretz either way that was made abundantly clear in the letter from Nadezhda but she was not going to be departing alone. When her dear friends continued in their difficulties despite her most commendable exertions (for which she maintained she had received far too little gratitude), it’d take her a while to come to a solution, but the Koldovstoretz Olympic games provided her with an answer. There could be no evasion within the boundaries of a yurt and Evpraksiya would abide no more of that nonsense, proximity after all, would insist upon civility. They would all sit down and communicate their grievances as proper ladies are apt to do, and what she’d mistake as a litter of unruly mutts she’d have to wrangle into behaving.
Behind her winter boots trailed three suitcases of oxblood leather, their bronze corners catching the lamplight streaming out from the open yurt door as they followed her within. One after another they proceeded—ducklings in a most orderly file—until they halted where Evpraksiya had paused in front of where she supposed she’d be dwelling in the yurt. She would never demean herself by the vulgar exertion of unpacking. Instead, she removed her gloves—pale fingers faintly blushed from the cold—and idly tapped the bronze handle of the nearest case.
At once, the clasps clicked obligingly open.
Really, what ensued after was naught but an ostentatious parade of wealth and magic. The hedonistic fruits of ungodly wealthy families who, with all other avenues of flaunting their wealth overdone and dull, turned to making a show out of unpacking; Silk blouses glided toward their appointed drawers, accompanied by skirts and stockings acting their leads in the material waltz. Peacoats disengaged themselves from the luggage and settled upon the coat hanger beside her bed. Evpraksiya permitted herself the indulgence of smoothing her hand across her favourite—the one adorned with the generous bow—it’d been the most darling gift. A spare pair of furlined boots glided next to where her kitten heels took residence beneath her bedside, peeking out at the world as they stationed themselves like a pair of sentries. Books, spines in Russian, French, and Latin, arranged themselves in chronological order upon her shelf though two—differing in tongue and temperament—found themselves in a kerfuffle where neither could communicate which one came before the other and made peace in the most heartwarming manner when they sat side by side. A tear nearly slipped from her eye at the moving scene.
Even the air within the yurt seemed to have warmed perceptibly. Outside the window, snow cascaded in measured diagonals over faraway distant pines; somewhere beyond, the suggestion of a Bulgarian cheer, though she couldn’t say with any certainly if it was a remnant of her practice from before she’d stepped into the floo ringing through her ears or elsewhere that would require consultation with a healer.
Evpraksiya giggled at the thought, as she slid a book from her shelf, plucking the ribbon bookmark out of its place, a smile making itself home on her lips.
Respect, after all, begins with fortuna’s cloying grin.
“the local Chianti isn’t bad. Oh, my friend, just stop / who cares how high the mountains are in our personal hell / all these conversations don’t go anywhere”
@Elena Clark, @Giovanni De'Luca, @Camille de Varenne, @Esme Hestridge, @Stella Bianchi, @Charlotte Winfield
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❝The devil's voice is sweet to hear❞ | xxx STA 7 │ EVA 10 │ STR 0 │ WIS 8 │ ARC 5 │ ACC 10 LOVELY CREATURE |
The Prisoner’s Dilemma
LOCATION: KoldovstoretzTAG: @Esme Hestridge @Evpraksiya Vinogradova |
cvcvcvℭ𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔢 𝔡𝔢 𝔙𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔫𝔢 |
DATE: 15/2/2026WORDS: 1008 |
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ACTIONS: Arriving to gurt with EsmeNOTE: Got permissons to lightly godmod Esme. Coat |
STATS: STA 5 | EVA 6 | STR 4 | WIS 8 | ARC 7 | ACC 5 ABILITIES: LOVELY CREATURE |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
The Prisoner’s Dilemma
| E | ✧  ✧location. koldovstoretz, respect C yurt. date. 15th of february, 2026 mentions. @Camille De Varenne, @Evpraksiya Vinogradova.  The Koldovstoretz landscape was striking. The ground was blanketed with a thick layer of ice and snow that crunched under the soles of Esme's winter shoes. Not even the sun was gentle here: when it peeked out from layers of billowing gray clouds, it beamed down with what felt like inadequate warmth compared to its brightness. Little frozen crystals shone under the harsh rays, and the wind seemed everpresent. It was quiet in an oppressive sense, creeping through and replacing the calm of the pine trees and icy glitter with a pervasive, bone-deep wind chill. It bit at her skin, causing her cheeks to redden as snowflakes fell on her face and stuck to her eyelashes and hair. The skies of Russia were far different from those back at home. In England, she associated the dull hue with white cliffs and the sound of water hitting rock; in Scotland, she could at least recall the viaduct and its pretty views of the Black Lake. Here, the air felt at once empty and suffocatingly full of winds that had little care for her coat, with its delicate filigree pattern and fur lining. Her gloves, a delicate white, did little to prevent her fingers from going numb as they held Esme’s wand, which she was currently focusing on: a “Wingardium Leviosa” cast the moment it was time for her and Camille to get to their lodging, helping Esme’s luggage along gracefully. She had taken care to arrange their living situation, of course; it was only natural. Camille, as dear of a companion as he was, and certainly dependable in social situations, capable of convincing even Esme to step out of her shell, was not so steadfast and dutiful when it came to more logistical tasks. Esme was happy, then, to be entrusted with finding a lodging appropriate for both his and her own high standards. She had already known she would want to be sharing one of Koldovstoretz's yurts with her cousin, who would in turn be inviting some of her friends, as well. It was fine company, from what she had heard, and was overall happy with. Esme trusted Camille would be, too — after all, moods could be soured so quickly by an unwelcome presence. In spite of Esme's meticulous planning and what she thought to be perfectly agreeable company, she quickly noticed that her friend's emotions had spoiled before they had even come to their yurt. Indeed, Camille seemed off — and though, again, he had many a great quality she appreciated him for, subtlety was not one of them. The cold did not do anyone any favours, and so, she sympathized, only watching with a mild expression as one of his suitcases got trapped in the snow, considering what to do. Camille had been muttering curses under his breath since their walk from the portkey's location began, honest as ever about all that displeased him. Esme really did enjoy that about Camille — there was no guess work involved in their friendship, little social pretense she felt pressured to partake in. He was honest with what he liked, and Esme liked not having to interpret small cues to find his preferences out. So, she opted not to offer help levitating his baggage along, sure that he would have asked had he needed her assistance, and not wanting to offend his own spell-casting capabilities. Still, Camille's frustration would have been impossible to miss even if one was blind and deaf. Esme's eyes flicked for a split second to the offending wheel that he had just kicked, before moving up to his face. She rushed her pace along as he walked with renowned vigor, obviously wanting to get to their yurt quickly. Esme shared in the sentiment. “Are you quite alright?” She still asked plainly, for politeness' sake if nothing else. Her question was met with a response that was only a generously described third as full of humor as it was full of exasperation and exhaustion. Camille, unsurprisingly, complained about the cold and the suitcase, and, perhaps a slight bit unexpectedly, this time, about his ice skating partner. Now, Esme was many things, but stupid, or at least entirely ignorant, was certainly not one of them — she had assumed Camille would be participating in figure skating before he had even told her. It was a graceful, beautiful sport, befitting of a dancer of Camille's station, and she was happy to attend the event to cheer her friend on. She had, however, seemingly missed that Camille would be doing figure skating with a partner. Before Esme could go through all of their conversations on the topic and evaluate whether she had, indeed, forgotten such a crucial detail, or whether it had never been relayed to her, Camille spoke again. With a swift “Nevermind,” and comment on the yurt's appearance, the conversation was moving on; and whatever the result of her analysis would have been, Esme was here to be supportive and spend time with those close to her. Camille's partner mattered far less than her friend did, and she need not spend too much time dissecting the matter. Deciding so, she simply shrugged, giving a sympathetic smile to Camille before following suit towards their yurt. The door swung open and Esme was hit with a pleasant warmth, entering quickly after Camille did. And though she was grateful for the opportunity to finally take her ear muffs off and lay her wand to rest as she levitated her luggage out to a yet unclaimed bed, the thing that struck her most was the change in lighting. The window of the yurt let in something gentle, an enchanted and equally enchanting view of the Pyrenees brightening the space beyond the dull grays of snow clouds that were actually billowing outside. Though a different range entirely, it brought forth memories of skiing trips in the Alps with Stella and her extended family, and Esme smiled at the thought of spending more time with her favourite cousin here in Koldovstoretz. In truth, lost in the view and her own thoughts, Esme did not pay much attention to the person already inside before Camille called her attention to it. Still, she opted to uncloak and settle down first, putting her coat away and sitting atop the bed she had claimed, settling into the new space. A moment after Camille greeted Evpraksiya, Esme did the same. “Evpraksiya. Lovely to see you again.” She nodded, a polite smile on her lips. “Forgive that I won’t shake your hand. These are truly inadequate in the face of the weather, and my hands are positively freezing,” Esme added, pulling her gloves off and lifting them for Evpraksiya to see for a moment before placing them neatly in her bag.  wc. 1130 notes. weeeeeee ✧✦✧ |
H |
thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
The Prisoner’s Dilemma
| ──────────────────────────────────────── It was decided. Giovanni hated portkeys. Convenient they were yes, but at what cost? He was surrendered with the particular discourtesy all portkeys seemed to possess, his stomach churning slightly at the abrupt sensation of being both folded and unfolded all at once, as though the world had briefly misplaced his spine before deciding he might still have use for it. Never again if he could help it. If he wasn't concentrating on not hurling up his last meal, Giovanni would have rolled his eyes. But instead, he blinked with the enthusiasm of someone just awoken from a deep slumber and attempted to adjust to his new and unfamiliar surroundings, the heart of Russian wizarding students, Koldovstoretz. While the cold here was bitter, it did not whip against him violently. Instead, it possessed a sort of slow authority akin to something ancient and entirely unconcerned with the comfort of visitors, teasing almost, as it moved easily through thick wool and charmed lining alike, brushing against the skin beneath his collar. As he swept his gaze panorama, everything around him seemed to be cast in shades of cerulean, alabaster and powdered cobalt. His boots left shallow prints in the thin layer of powdered snow beneath him, a fluffy spectacle of pristine white that seemed almost immune to the dirt and grime from the soles of students winter shoes. His own pair, boots of fine dragon hide, were lightly scuffed at the toes where he had not bothered to shine them, for lately, every time he reached for the polish, he’d found himself abandoning the attempt and letting the imperfection linger, only because he knew how it would vex his mother into oblivion if she saw him lacking assiduity in his appearance. Giovanni knew it seemed childish, but the thought often gave him a private satisfaction whenever it crossed the forefront of his mind. |
Exhaling softly, he watched the way his breath dispersed visibly into the pale afternoon air. Though he disliked it intensely, he had to admit, winter had a way of refining him into something sharper, for against it, his skin took on an almost pale quality, tan and olive almost absent, shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced than usual, giving him a slightly gaunt look that only suited him. The darkness beneath his lashes was no longer only from sleep deprivation, but also from the fitful demands of a body growing towards adolescence, limbs lengthening, muscles extending, and facial features refining into an older, arresting kind of handsomeness. His dark hair, slightly too long now, had fallen with an uninvited disorder across his brow, stirred by the wind and the portkey’s indignity, and to brush it away would have been futile, for recently anyway it seemed to take permanent residence in his line of vision. The coat he wore, a dark green tailored with speciality barely months before, now seemed just slightly inadequate to contain him; his shoulders broader, lifting the fabric from his wrists a fraction higher, and knowing this, the chill took advantage.
Taking her arm to ensure Elena beside him was steady, although, he was probably doing her more harm than good, threatening to throw her off balance with him, (again, fuck them portkeys), he cast a glance around the grounds as he walked, where students were clustered in uneven groups, trunks thudding unceremoniously into snow, voices rising in French, English, Russian, shouts of laughter and reunion, tones skittering between complaint and excitement. Somewhere, among the bustle, Giovanni thought about how Archer was probably here, making his way to his own yurt, uniting with his own yurt-mates, or perhaps, more characteristically, wandering the grounds alone, absorbed in his own quiet explorations. Though Giovanni told himself he would find him later, he couldnt help but let his gaze waver from group to group of people just in case. His boots made uneven crunches across other students' footprints in the frozen earth as he approached, the yurt now in sight, and he Giovanni turned to catch sight of Elena beside him, and was confused, momentarily, to find the space empty. Wait, what the fuck?
Smack! Oh.
Powdered snow scattered down the back of his neck, inviting a pillowy chill that melted as it made contact with the warmth of his skin, threading itself through the dark hairs at his nape. He stilled for a second, caught in the chill, before turning, slow and deliberate, to find Elena a few paces away, her shoulders drawn up against the cold, her expression alight with a bright, unrestrained satisfaction that rendered her entirely unapologetic, the beginnings of laughter already betraying her. For a second, he simply looked at her, something unreadable passing over his features, before he bent without comment, gathering snow in his gloved hands and packing it together with quiet, meticulous precision, eyes sharpening with challenge as he raised his head to look at her. And at the sound of her sharp, anticipatory intake of breath, followed by a half-laughing protest as she stepped sideways, already turning to flee, he followed, his stride longer, but measured to purposely seem like he fell behind her, allowing the chase to exist for its own sake, basking in the sound of her laughter carrying lightly through the cold air as she ran ahead, and there she was, bright and familiar. Elena.
When he finally threw it, the snowball struck her cleanly enough to scatter against her hair, and he shouted in gleeful triumph, watching it catch and fall through the soft honey strands and break apart across her shoulder, and for the briefest moment, something in him shifted, not in reaction to the act itself, but to the image it created, something fleeting and half-formed that reached backward rather than forward, calling to mind another winter, another figure turning with laughter caught somewhere between breath and voice, and though the memory did not fully settle, did not fully form, it carried with it the unmistakable echo of Lorenzo, quiet manor gardens, muffled authoritative tones, wollen gloves, each memory persistent despite his absence, and Giovanni found himself, if only distantly, wondering what it might have been like if he were here now, if that laughter belonged not to recollection but to the present. Lorenzo, Lorenzo, Lorenzo. Giovanni stumbled slightly on an uneven patch of ground. Where was Lorenzo now? Did he perhaps see the snow too? Did he perhaps remember like Giovanni did?
He dusted the remaining snow from his gloves onto his cloak, watching it melt into the fabric with the thought of Lorenzo passing as quickly as it came, dissolving into the cold air as he closed the final distance between him and Elena, who was bent slightly at the waist, breathless with laughter, her face lit with an easy, careless triumph as she declared something that might have been victory, though by what measure it was impossible to tell, and he exhaled softly in response, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching at the corner of his mouth despite himself, his own breath uneven though he made no effort to acknowledge it, his attention settling on her properly now, taking in the faint flush of her skin against the cold, the way a loose strand of her hair had fallen forward and caught briefly against her lips as she caught her breath, and it was this, more than anything, that drew him closer, he took a step forward, his hand lifting with an ease that spoke more of habit than hesitation, as he brushed the strand away, his fingers grazing lightly against her skin before tucking it back into place behind her ear, the gesture unthinking in its familiarity, though it lingered just a second longer than it needed to, as though something in it had quietly shifted without either of them quite deciding it should. (just realised how long that sentence is but idc just shhh grammar doesnt apply to me.) He wondered quietly if she felt it. Then, as though neither wished to acknowledge it, the moment folded neatly back into something familiar, and his hand withdrew, his gaze slipped purposefully elsewhere, and whatever had hovered there softened into something lighter, almost easily dismissed, as Giovanni turned his attention toward the yurt just ahead, clearing his throat and stepping forward to reach and pull aside the entrance flap, the motion smooth, composed, touched faintly now with something looser than before.
“Shall we?” he said, his voice low and even, his gaze following her briefly, not lingering, but not entirely indifferent either, before he looked away.
________________________________________________________________Taking her arm to ensure Elena beside him was steady, although, he was probably doing her more harm than good, threatening to throw her off balance with him, (again, fuck them portkeys), he cast a glance around the grounds as he walked, where students were clustered in uneven groups, trunks thudding unceremoniously into snow, voices rising in French, English, Russian, shouts of laughter and reunion, tones skittering between complaint and excitement. Somewhere, among the bustle, Giovanni thought about how Archer was probably here, making his way to his own yurt, uniting with his own yurt-mates, or perhaps, more characteristically, wandering the grounds alone, absorbed in his own quiet explorations. Though Giovanni told himself he would find him later, he couldnt help but let his gaze waver from group to group of people just in case. His boots made uneven crunches across other students' footprints in the frozen earth as he approached, the yurt now in sight, and he Giovanni turned to catch sight of Elena beside him, and was confused, momentarily, to find the space empty. Wait, what the fuck?
Smack! Oh.
Powdered snow scattered down the back of his neck, inviting a pillowy chill that melted as it made contact with the warmth of his skin, threading itself through the dark hairs at his nape. He stilled for a second, caught in the chill, before turning, slow and deliberate, to find Elena a few paces away, her shoulders drawn up against the cold, her expression alight with a bright, unrestrained satisfaction that rendered her entirely unapologetic, the beginnings of laughter already betraying her. For a second, he simply looked at her, something unreadable passing over his features, before he bent without comment, gathering snow in his gloved hands and packing it together with quiet, meticulous precision, eyes sharpening with challenge as he raised his head to look at her. And at the sound of her sharp, anticipatory intake of breath, followed by a half-laughing protest as she stepped sideways, already turning to flee, he followed, his stride longer, but measured to purposely seem like he fell behind her, allowing the chase to exist for its own sake, basking in the sound of her laughter carrying lightly through the cold air as she ran ahead, and there she was, bright and familiar. Elena.
When he finally threw it, the snowball struck her cleanly enough to scatter against her hair, and he shouted in gleeful triumph, watching it catch and fall through the soft honey strands and break apart across her shoulder, and for the briefest moment, something in him shifted, not in reaction to the act itself, but to the image it created, something fleeting and half-formed that reached backward rather than forward, calling to mind another winter, another figure turning with laughter caught somewhere between breath and voice, and though the memory did not fully settle, did not fully form, it carried with it the unmistakable echo of Lorenzo, quiet manor gardens, muffled authoritative tones, wollen gloves, each memory persistent despite his absence, and Giovanni found himself, if only distantly, wondering what it might have been like if he were here now, if that laughter belonged not to recollection but to the present. Lorenzo, Lorenzo, Lorenzo. Giovanni stumbled slightly on an uneven patch of ground. Where was Lorenzo now? Did he perhaps see the snow too? Did he perhaps remember like Giovanni did?
He dusted the remaining snow from his gloves onto his cloak, watching it melt into the fabric with the thought of Lorenzo passing as quickly as it came, dissolving into the cold air as he closed the final distance between him and Elena, who was bent slightly at the waist, breathless with laughter, her face lit with an easy, careless triumph as she declared something that might have been victory, though by what measure it was impossible to tell, and he exhaled softly in response, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching at the corner of his mouth despite himself, his own breath uneven though he made no effort to acknowledge it, his attention settling on her properly now, taking in the faint flush of her skin against the cold, the way a loose strand of her hair had fallen forward and caught briefly against her lips as she caught her breath, and it was this, more than anything, that drew him closer, he took a step forward, his hand lifting with an ease that spoke more of habit than hesitation, as he brushed the strand away, his fingers grazing lightly against her skin before tucking it back into place behind her ear, the gesture unthinking in its familiarity, though it lingered just a second longer than it needed to, as though something in it had quietly shifted without either of them quite deciding it should. (just realised how long that sentence is but idc just shhh grammar doesnt apply to me.) He wondered quietly if she felt it. Then, as though neither wished to acknowledge it, the moment folded neatly back into something familiar, and his hand withdrew, his gaze slipped purposefully elsewhere, and whatever had hovered there softened into something lighter, almost easily dismissed, as Giovanni turned his attention toward the yurt just ahead, clearing his throat and stepping forward to reach and pull aside the entrance flap, the motion smooth, composed, touched faintly now with something looser than before.
“Shall we?” he said, his voice low and even, his gaze following her briefly, not lingering, but not entirely indifferent either, before he looked away.
permision to godmod elena granted
mini gio idea credit : cirrus nam
banner credit : the lovely camille de varenne
ooc note: guys yes, before u say anything, ik my code is fucked up, dont speak to me about it i want to die.
ooc pinterest . ency . playlist . owl |
*ੈ✩‧₊˚Star-pale, celestial, neither flesh nor blood.⋆⭒ ࣪ .⋆
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The Prisoner’s Dilemma
 
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| ❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧-𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤, 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.❞ ☘︎ STAFF ACCOUNT ; ᴍᴀʟᴀɪᴋᴀ ᴏᴍᴇɴᴜᴋᴏ |