• Memory • All ashore that’s going ashore [Cassandra]

[Pash Raj'oriq]

122 Ashan 714

Late into the evening

Pash wasn’t sure how it had all started, already well into a night of drinking and far from sober enough to notice exactly who pissed who off first. His bleary guess was his cousin, Torim, who was known for luffing into the excitable side when drunk. Their carousing had been a welcome distraction, the seafaring minstrel barely washed home a handful of trials from Rharne, from Etzos, to here. Back to Ne’Haer. Home with his heart aching and his mind confused, home with his tail between his legs like a beaten dog. His family, his friends, they were always glad to have him, it was true, but not once in all his arcs had he been such a mess.

Being the proper trouble that he was, good ol’ Torim’s immediate solution for a broken friend was to drag him through taverns, to make sure he spent a few evenings as drowned as possible, and then promise him a few trials to recover before doing it again. Maybe the shorter, broad-shouldered Biqaj was attempting to wash away hurts and bad memories or maybe the other man just didn’t deal well with feelings, preferring actions to words.

Pash, on the other hand, had too many feelings—oh so damn many—and some of them weren’t even his anymore, thanks to the spark that now lived its life inside his very existence.

Thanks to her.

By the time the bar erupted into the fight, by the time Torim made his last snarky comment to the table next to theirs, hissing a string of Rakahi curses loud enough that the tired dockhands had finally had enough, well, Pash wasn’t quite in the mindset to start swinging. They had been too loud, it seemed, the tall Biqaj and his friends and his cousin, joking and telling dumb stories about the ships they’d repaired over the arcs. The three dockhands were just there to drink their sore muscles away and crawl off to bed after a hard trials work, Pash knew. He could tell by the sheer volume of alcohol they ordered—almost a rival to his own table—and he could tell by their weary faces … but once they were all far too sunk for their own good, things got ugly. Quickly.

In a blink, the little hole in the wall tavern by the docks shifted from rowdy to chaos, and Pash found himself up from his chair by the blistered, meaty paw of one of the very angry dockhands, a human who nearly rivaled him in height and probably doubled him in girth. The blond-haired beast of a man was yelling, but the seafaring minstrel had stopped listening. The upward motion from his seat had shut him off, snapped a beam in the hull of his chest, and sent the hot, angry waters of unfiltered hurt flooding into his thoughts. Damn Torim and his big mouth. Damn it all for having too much to drink. Damn himself for having far too many feelings, especially when they were so unreliable.

Pash’s tidepool gaze hardened into stone, grey but bright above flushed cheeks and grit teeth. Planting his sandaled feet, he shifted under the dockhand’s grip, the other man not prepared for the motion of both the tall Biqaj’s open palms shoved at his chest,

“I jus’ wanted t’ drink.” The salty bard hissed, his own accent much stronger when slurred and far from sober, “No’ get into a fight.”

“M’ bad. Now, we get to fight, too. Not a bad night, eh?” Torim laughed, clearly enthused by the developments, dark eyes gleaming as he brought a knee hard into the stomach of the dockhand that had started it all, his calloused fingers curled into the poor sod’s hair. The two of them had fought together, sparred against each other, and trained for arcs under Yarik’s father, learning their peoples’ hand to hand on the beach and on the docs and in the shipyard and at sea. And yet, honestly, bar fights couldn’t exactly be considered a controlled experience, especially when one’s mind and body did not quite obey under the weight of so much alcohol.

Pash blinked and the tall human who’d decided he didn’t like landed a hard left against his ribs, the seafaring minstrel forced to stop talking and start defending himself. He grumbled a few Rakahi curses of his own, sizing up the heavier man with a groan. Stepping closer instead of stepping back, Pash twisted to one side as the other man was pulling his hand back for a swing, landing the calloused ball of his palm into the human’s kidney area as he kept the motion of his step to move past him, to get behind him, to keep the man moving.

The dockhand didn’t quite turn as fast as he might have sober, having to stop the motion of his swing and physically will his body to pivot, only to meet Pash’s other hand, knuckles first this time, in the face. The tall Biqaj winced, the man’s face proving hard and his knuckles unconditioned, and the rest of their scuffle became a drunken blur from there, one that would have just left them bruised and battered had the angry dockhand not decided he wanted to up the stakes.

Torim caught the flash of metal first, a glimmer in the corner of his dark eyes even as the rest of the tavern joined the bar fight much to the loud displeasure of the barkeep. He wasn’t fast enough, moving to shove his taller cousin out of the way, only to stumble against a turned over chair and the slippery mess of spilled ale. He caught himself against a table instead, shouting a winded warning that was a few heartbeats too late.
“It’s gonna be fine, Pash. Ye ’ll see.” Somehow they’d managed to crawl from the tavern, and the seafaring minstrel found himself in a bit of shock. Torim supported him on one side and another friend from the shipyard supported him on the other, and all three of them were staggering like wasted fools through the streets but in much more of a hurry than usual, practically dragging him as he found that his body had no interest in cooperating now that he was bleeding, “I know someone. Who knows someone.”

Torim seemed confident. Matter of fact. Whether it was because he was or whether it was because he was sorry or whether it was because he was still so damn drunk, Pash couldn’t tell. All he could tell was that there was silver everywhere—On his hands. Staining his shirt.

That dockhand bastard had pulled a knife and he’d not been ready. At all.

The problem with being cut by a blade in combat was one often did not feel it soon enough, especially in the heat of the moment, especially surrounded by the chaos of an entire bar fighting, especially drunk. Pash still felt nothing, but he saw his own life everywhere like so much liquid stardust.

Did it matter? Did he care? Maybe he did. Or maybe this was what he came home for. Maybe this was what he deserved.

“Talk t’ me, ye pretty fish.” His cousin’s voice carried over his dark musings, and a meaty hand shook him when he probably shouldn’t. Had his eyes closed?

“I’m not your pretty fish, you arse.” Pash grumbled, feeling ill. How long had they been walking? Where were they? He looked around and somewhat recognized where they were. The Order? At this break? Immortals, how ridiculous. Why not just take him home? He couldn’t have been cut that bad. That dockhand was just as drunk as they were.

Torim seemed to know what he was doing, slumping his taller, bloodied cousin against their friend, who grunted at the weight of him, and picking up a few loose pebbles from the cobblestones. He then began to toss them at a particular window with practiced ease, squinting and wobbling and missing several times before a few of them found their mark,

“Cass!” He hissed loudly, dark eyes darting only once or twice to keep an eye out for patrols, for the trio really did make a sorry, silvery mess of themselves, “Oi!”

[Cassandra Nji'Gwar]

Her dreams had been ones of the sea as of late. Each time she closed her eyes, she could see the waves lapping at the shore, leaving foamy kisses for the swimmers of Ne'haer. She could hear the men, humans and Biqaj, shouting back and forth in Rakahi. She understood some of the words. Her father used to speak in Rakahi when he was mad, or was talking to people he didn't want Cassandra to grow up knowing. She loved those dreams, every time she dreamt them, she woke up feeling refreshed and happy.

However, she'd only been asleep a break. She'd spent the night poring over her father's medical notes. Having lost him only a season ago, the wounds were still shallow, and it sent her careening towards crying to think about him. She'd cried herself to sleep most nights since that trial, and now she wanted to do everything she could to try and bring him back. This is what he'd prepared her for. But she still had to sleep, even if it were only for a few breaks a trial.

After a few of the stones bounced off her window, Cassandra was rent from her sweet dreams. Instantaneously, irritation flooded her, rising in her like the tide in her dreams. She sat bolt upright, confused and groggy in her post-awakening stupor. She rolled from the small bed, its neat bedding cascading to the floor. She was in her undergarments, but did not seem to notice as she strode to the window. She cast it open and looked down upon the men, a severe frown forming over her full lips.

"Who-- Torim? Have you any idea what break it is? What do you want?" She hissed down to Torim, before looking over. She saw the other two, one of them being obviously supported by the other. The frown intensified, if that was even possible. She turned her eyes back to Torim, and though he couldn't see them from that distance, they flashed violet in annoyance.

"Of course. If I do this, it makes us even. You understand me?" She sighed and turned back to the room, shutting and shuttering the window behind her. Torim was the only living soul that knew her secret, and she had been waiting for an opportunity to ensure that the man wouldn't expose her. Torim had brought the injured man to her; he must care about his safety. She hastily pulled on her garments, rushing down through the Order dormitories to push out into the night below. Somewhere along the way, she'd grabbed her medical kit, and she sped towards the three men. As she drew close, she could see the silvery Biqaj blood. A wide gash across his torso was leaking the life-giving substance through the shirt he was wearing. She knew it wasn't life-threatening, but the man was being much calmer than he should have been for that kind of pain. And then she smelled them.

"Drunk, Torim? Have you no sense in your damn head?" She cast him a scowl then turned back to Pash. He didn't seem too concerned with the wound, but she needed to clean it and pack it and sew it. He wasn't going to like it.

"What's your name, Seq'at?" She called Pash the colloquial Rakahi term for "cousin", in this case meaning one of Biqaj descent. It was a common practice among the Biqaj of Ne'haer to refer to those who weren't in their clan by Seq'at or Seq'lath. It was a part of the slang that the Biqaj had been developing culturally for ages, and it was often used to by strangers to show their familiarity with the Biqaj customs.

"I'm Cassandra." She smiled at Pash, before casting another scathing glare at Torim. "That Zyem'at brought you to me because I'm a healer. I'm going to clean, pack and stitch the wound. Is that agreeable?"

[Pash Raj'oriq]

“Who cares what Immortals-be-damned break it—Even? Tsu—”

Torim let the last sounds of his disapproval linger on his tongue before he grumbled a few curses in Rakahi at the price she was charging, narrowing his dark eyes and shifting his grip on Pash who was, quite honestly, annoyingly heavy when drunk and injured. He preferred having a healer in his debt at his beck and call, and the thought of buying his silence forever—especially about Cassandra’s type of magic, let alone any kind of magic at all—made the broad-shouldered shipwright uncomfortable. Still, the silver blood on his feet belonged to family, “—vrelore. It’s a deal.“

Conversation. The woman’s exchange with his cousin tugged at Pash’s attention, but everything was still foggy, the blur of shock and alcohol making the whole experience feel very distant and abstract, though the battered and cut parts of him should have been hurting but didn’t,

“Even for what?” He questioned, lolling his head in a comical fashion toward Torim curiously.

“Nothin’.” The other Biqaj growled just as Cassandra appeared through the doors and into the street. She scowled at him, as if she was somehow in position to judge him. The older man bristled, “Qes, drunk. It was a bar fight, an’—“

“—’t were m’ fault!” Pash blurted loudly at the blonde woman who looked really unhappy to see them, wildly hooking a thumb in the direction of his chest and offering what could only be called an apologetic smile, “Jus’ th’ drinkin’ part. He was tryin’ real hard t’ drown m’ broken qua’ma. Th’ fightin’, that were his fault, s’ true. She’s smarter ’n prettier than y—”

“Shut yer hatch.” Torim hissed, but shrugged, dark eyes warming to an almost honeyed color as he replied to Cassandra’s unhappy expression, chagrined, “He’s right, though.”

The seafaring minstrel usually was right, or, at least, he used to be, especially whenever his cousin was involved. Now? He wasn’t so sure. He must’ve been wrong to end up here like this, back in Ne’Haer, alone and broken. He should have seen through it all. He should have made better choices, but now it was too late. His feelings were still his own, but so now were everyone else’s. Everyone but Ari’nne’s—

The blonde woman asked his name and he blinked, somehow assuming they all knew each other in his rather inebriated state, lagoon blue eyes slowly coming into focus on her face, “M’ name’s Pash. Hmm … Cassandra,” He hummed an echo of her name after she said it, briefly distracted by the sound of it as if it were music, then realized he was supposed to be listening to the rest of what she said, “Wound? Oh, damn.” The tall Biqaj’s tide pool gaze washed downward over his person as if he’d forgotten in the moment that he was, indeed, bleeding. He made a noise of surprise, eyes widening, before he nodded and looked back to the woman, “Don’ be so nice t’ Torim jus’ ‘cause he’s m’ qy’akot. It's no' worth it.”

The shorter Biqaj began to say something in disapproval, but Cassandra said stitches and it finally dawned on Pash that he should be hurting—not just battered and bruised, but also cut and stinging. His eyes darkened like stones and he let a pained noise escape his lips to interrupt Torim’s riposte,

“Mezo! You’re gonna d’ what now? Here ’n th’ street? It’s no’ that bad—” The tall Biqaj made a move to stand without the support of his cousin and his friend, only to realize he was, indeed, quite inebriated and a new, sharp pain further reprimanded his sudden urge to escape. He hissed and leaned heavier on his shorter, bulkier cousin, much to the older man’s frustrations, and offered an uncomfortable but resigned sort of grin, “—a’right. Qes. I don’ have much ‘f a choice, eh?”

Off Topic

Thanks for giving me an excuse to play with my Rakahi Pidgin. I appreciate it. For everyone else reading, it can be found here and is clearly still a work in progress.

[Cassandra Nji'Gwar]

"Ze, not really. Torim, get your jhi'nat over here and help hold him up. I need the torso to remain straight so that the skin doesn't fold while I'm applying the salve. Pash, I need you to bite down on this leather strap. This won't feel nearly as good as the drinks do. Ot djal?"

She offered the thin piece of leather and pulled a small vial from her medical kit. She pulled the stopper from it and gave it a ginger sniff, smelling the contents to ensure she'd grabbed the right one. Milkthistle, the most common numbing agent the Order worked with, smelled vaguely like mint and ocean breeze. Fitting, she thought. She grabbed a white cloth from the bag as well, tipping a bit of the salve onto the cloth.

"Ready?" With that, she pressed the milkthistle to the wound. At first, it would feel very, very hot as the thick substance coated over the long slash. Pash would equate it a hot knife pressed to his side, which likely would have done the job itself. The feeling persisted for a few trills before a chill came over the wound as the milkthistle began to numb the pain. Pash could still feel the burning sensation lightly left in the wake of the first wave, but now the chill soothed the wound. The crimson streak on the white cloth indicated exactly how much Pash was bleeding, and the sight alerted him to the severity of the wound.

"This isn't good, seq'at. You said it was a tavern brawl? What's the world come to if you can't have a good, well-natured brawl without some it'qaj drawing a blade?" She frowned. She wasn't a fighter herself, but she'd been in a tavern many time when a brawl broke out. Nine times out of ten, they remained "gentlemanly". It was indicative of the way the city was going that a coward drew a blade in a bare-knuckle brawl.

"You did well, Torim. This wound itself wouldn't have killed him, but I can only imagine the gutter he'd have ended up in. In his condition, it would have festered by morning." She wasn't sure of it, but she needed to berate someone, and Torim was the only one she knew. She knew the Biqaj wasn't harmful to her, perhaps more of a nuisance, but she needed him to know the stupidity of his actions.

"Okay, Pash. I need to let the milkthistle settle for a few bits. You mentioned your qua'ma being broken. The drunkenness must have been because of that. It sounds like Torim's kind of solution." She cast a sidelong glance from blue-lavender eyes, scathing at Torim. "You're lucky he didn't hit anything important."

[Pash Raj'oriq]

“Y’know, they’re no’ good later, either.” Pash admitted in a baritone moment of inebriated levity about drinking and the well-known aftermath of far too much of it.

The blonde was digging through her supplies in the dark on the street, so this must have been just how field medicine rolled: cobblestones and the warmth of fading Ashan, the potential for a few passers-by. Torim took on his cousin’s entire, hardly steady weight with a grunt, not really at all sober himself, and sent their third man to make sure patrols didn’t decide this scene was too indecent or suspicious despite just how far into the night it was.

The taller Biqaj eyed the leather he was handed, but complied to the request, his expression a mix of suspicion and anticipated discomfort. There was a flicker of realization that things were going to be more than just a little uncomfortable, that he certainly wasn’t as physically numbed as he would have preferred to be at all. But, no, he was not ready, and he made sure to let that be heard in garbled noises that would have otherwise been words had nothing been in their way with a volume that was probably not favorable toward any form of secrecy, especially considering being loud was part of who he was and what he did for a living. Pash didn’t struggle, though, either because Torim was as strong as he was stupid or the seafaring minstrel somehow miraculously summoned the endurance or the discipline for just this trill or two to force his body to obey. He simply made sure to vocalize his discomfort without a hint of shame.

Pain was unfortunately both an emotion and a sensation, and the fledgling Empath could only manipulate the former, not the latter, and even then, he was quite aware of his limitations. The experience of intense physical pain was a curious one nonetheless, and his currently more liquid-inspired hedonistic self couldn’t quite help but find the discomfort interesting, even if it gnawed away at the fog of drunkeness far too much for his liking. Just when he was quite sure the burning would become real, that Cassandra’s intentions were surely to char his tanned flesh instead of fix it, the soothing chill of numbness crept over the wound, all be it far too slowly.

Pash made sure to spit the leather out at his cousin’s feet. Luckily, he was kind enough to keep all he’d had to drink where it belonged—inside—despite how it threatened otherwise after the searing heat of whatever the healer had at her disposal.

“Dockhands—gy’at.” Torim grunted, as if the two words explained everything. To the pair of shipwrights, they did. He was a regular and took it upon himself to know the folks he did business with, the folks he drank with. Sure, he’d been harassing them and they’d been annoyed with the sheer volume his table was capable of—really, that was usually Pash’s fault anyway—but it was fine to settle things with a fight so long as you didn’t feel the need to draw a weapon. They hadn’t been Biqaj, that was for sure, and if they’d been just passing through, then there were no consequences to casualties left behind. That was the way things went, and he frowned as he adjusted his stance under the taller Biqaj’s weight once he calmed down.

The older, shorter man was just drunk enough to put up with Cassandra’s berating, but he rolled his dark, bloodshot eyes at her warning just so she knew exactly how he felt about it, “O’ aye.”

“Eja’yoama—can’t blame him for all ‘f it.” Pash was occupied with watching his own blood, which appeared to shimmer in the moonlight much like his own inked skin did, and while he was already a talker in general, it was easy in his current state of mind to have even less of a filter than he already did, if that were at all possible. He was somewhat distancing himself from the feelings of concern as the blonde woman let them both know the truth of the situation, knotting away the threads of his own rising panic and fear, though attempting Empathy while not quite sober was a somewhat strange experience, his own tangle a blurry mess of colors that threatened him vibrantly with overstepping. He blinked, slowly, stormy gaze rimmed with gold, “I took that—her—on m’self, didn’t weather th’ storm, an’ then I came home with th’ cargo an’ a hull takin’ on water,” He was clearly speaking in metaphor, slurred though his words were his thoughts were taut and crisp like sails in the wind, “Torim jus’ can’t stand t’ see me poutin’ s’all, an’ he’s missed me, I’m sure. I drank. I’m no less th’ jhi'nat ‘ere.”

He wondered for a brief trill what parts of him would have been the important ones, annoyed at himself in a selfish, brooding sort of way for telling a stranger where the real pain was—a feeling, nothing the healer could sooth.

“Stitches can’t fix e’erythin’—” Neither could far too many drinks, “—they’ll fix this, eh?”

[Cassandra Nji'Gwar]

Cassandra was impressed with Pash's attitude towards his heartbreak, though it didn't make the situation any better for Pash. Still, though, the blonde medic's eyes turned a liquid silver, like Pash's blood, in understanding. The only way to weather a storm that's already battered you is to roll with the blows, which Pash was doing. Cassandra could see there was pain there, but Pash was right... It was something beyond her purview.

"Qes, it should. It'll at least stop the bleeding. The salve itself should keep it from festering, but you'll need to keep a wrap on it. I'll give you instructions and a small vial of medicine that you'll have to apply. but you'll get better. I can help as much as I can, but... Time heals everything."

The last bit was pointed, aimed directly at Pash's aching heart. Not that she knew too much about love or its thornier side, but she could empathize. And with the drunkenness loosening Pash's tongue, there was no better time to than try and help.

"That being said, I wouldn't recommend letting Torim make any more choices for you. This cut isn't too serious, just bloody. But the next one could hit an organ, which is well beyond my abilities thus far. Okay, seq'at, you ready for the painful part? Because I'm going to have to put a lot of pressure on the wound, and use a needle."

She reached into the bag and removed a needle and some very thin surgical thread. She held it up in front of Pash and tried to look encouraging.

"Once I stitch the wound, I'm going to put the medicine on it and then wrap it in clean cloth. But this part... This is the part that most don't like. Ready?"

She didn't wait for reply. Instead, she placed her right hand on the wound and pushed slightly, causing a jolt of pain to surge up Pash's side. She anticipated a knee-jerk reaction, and didn't yet put the needle to his flesh. Once pain calmed down, though, she slipped the needle through the skin and connected it to the other. pulling the thread through. The little knot she'd tied caught and stayed, and she continued the process. Each pass hurt as much as the last, and Cassandra's fingers grew sticky with silver blood. Still, she stayed focused on the job at hand.

"Pash, I'd recommend you talk. About anything, really. Just keep your mind off the pain." She quipped, still watching her hands as she sewed. "Torim, I know it's hard for you, but... Just... Be quiet and listen to him. He needs to keep his mind off this."

And she continued sewing, going slowly since she was not exactly skilled in this. She was an initiate into the Order, a hoodless Green, but she did owe Torim. And, she found she was growing to like Pash more and more as the bits passed too.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

“Time, aye. M’haps m’ lesson should be patience, but I’m no’ good at waitin’.” His crooked smile was knowing; the double meaning not entirely lost on the seafaring musician’s inebriated mind, if only because his profession dealt more with poetic wordplay than direct meaning anyway. Pash was quite drunk and injured and already had a way with words that made it sound like he had it all together, but he didn’t. Not really. In this moment, especially after knotting away some of his own more fearful emotions in order to be less of a mess at the sight of his own blood, it was perhaps a bit easier to be literally out of his own head, to look at all the things from an distant point of view. Too bad he wouldn’t remember a trill of it.

Well, maybe the stitches part.

Torim was a doer, not a deep thinker. The seafaring minstrel was both family and friend, only a few arcs apart in their births and spending much of their youths together getting into trouble and growing up. The broad-shouldered Biqaj was not very good at dealing with his own feelings, let alone the feelings of someone who, indeed, had far too many all the damn time. Pash had never come home such a mess, so Torim had reacted accordingly—and Pash, needful as he was, especially when broody over anything at all, was always willing to relenquish control of his plans for the pure risk of it, especially if the promises were forgetfulness of his current rather personal burdens and fun diversions of the more familiar kind instead. Tonight would have been fine, really, and had even been almost distractingly nostalgic and cathartic, drinking far too much with folks he’d grown up with and built ships with and gotten in trouble with over the arcs. Even a little bar fight would have been fine, honestly … it wasn’t as if Pash didn’t have any pent-up steam to blow off. But, well, there was that gy’at with a knife. That sort of ruined things. Just a little.

“I should sit.”

He declared loudly at the sight of the needle and thread. It wasn't as if he was any good at standing still sober, so what was presented as necessary in his current state so that he wasn’t stitched any more than he had to be would have been basically impossible while standing. So he sat heavily, both relieving Torim of the burden of his unstable self and providing Cassandra with a somewhat more ideal surface with which to work on. It required the blonde to sit or kneel as well, Pash leaning back on his hands and clumsily arranging himself cross-legged so as to not kick anyone once there was a needle in his flesh.

“Y’keep askin’ if I’m rea—zeeeeh I’m no’!” Immortals, that all hurt, the blonde’s hand putting pressure near his wound and while he managed not to writhe or squirm away, he curled calloused fingers against cobblestones and gravel and whined through grit teeth.

“O’ by Chrien’s Ire, ye got no idea how much he talks all the time anyway.” Torim grumbled, though he was mostly teasing. He’d already looked away, dark eyes staring down the street or at the comforting stars in the sky instead of looking at the stitching, instead of watching a needle through silver-soaked flesh, finding it all sort of nauseating. He did put a hand on Pash’s shoulder—whether it was because he cared or because he wanted to contribute to holding him still, he certainly wouldn’t have admitted out loud, “What sorta vrung can ye tell me that I don’t already know?”

It was pure bait not impatient rudeness from the mouth of his cousin, though anyone who didn’t know the two together could probably have mistaken otherwise. Pash managed a slow smirk through the pain that had already changed his breathing and made hot tears well in his now amber eyes, “Really? Vrelore. I’ll sail that ufnajot with y’ right now, but remember no matter what y’ hear, we’re qy’akot, Torim.” The baritone of his voice broke on the word. He had nothing better to do but confess, despite the fact that there was a third party present. By her hearing, she was perhaps now included in his statement, as if whatever he was about to say required some kind of personal decision. If his cousin had brought him to Cassandra, then there must have been some kind of trust there, though he was ignorant to the score they had settled with his silver blood between them. Pash watched her work in her slow, deliberate way, her lack of experience obvious with his very sharp discomfort. She was admittedly much easier on the eyes than his relative, though her touch in this moment was disappointingly far from pleasurable,

“I’m vja’at.”

His connotation was much more defiantly positive than the normative use of the Rakahi word, admitting his magical nature without shame or regret, despite how everything he continued to say while the blonde continued her stitching was punctuated by ragged breaths and incoherent noises of pain in rhythm with the motion of the needle, “In Rharne, when I met Ari’nne, I told y’ she were different. At th’ time, I didn’t think so deeply ‘bout it, ‘cause let’s b’ honest: there weren’t deep thoughts ‘r much thinkin’ at all in th’ beginnin’. M’haps no’ even in th’ middle. But she could turn a stoic crowd t’ throwin’ nels an’ stop a drunk from swingin’ at her face, but it were jus’ so different. She was no’ th’ musician I am—no’ bad, mind y’, but I’m better—but she were pretty an’ Immortals could she jus’ always say th’ right thing at th’ right time, no’ matter th’ time. Lookin’ back, other parts o’ me were clearly at th’ tiller, but also I was m’haps jus’ part o’ th’ game she played with e’eryone, part o’ her game o’er me. Still, I wanted that—all ‘f it, your imagination go where ‘t will—an’ for nearly two seasons, I asked—” The seafaring minstrel whined a few words in very obvious suffering, perhaps because his words had affected the process of his healer without knowing, the needle in his bloodied flesh already unsteady enough as it was,

“—I begged.”

Torim cursed in Rakahi words that would have made anyone blush even if they didn’t understand a word of it, uncaring of present company for reasons only he knew anyway and shifted where he sat, eyes drawn from the sky to bore into the back of his cousin’s head in shock and confusion. He moved his hand from touching Pash as if the taller Biqaj was suddenly contagious, hugging his knees and chewing the inside of his cheek, “Yer playing with me. Stop.”

“I’m no’. It’s true, but y’ should know. Now’s as good a time ‘s any.” Pash closed his eyes and hissed sharply through clenched teeth, “By th’ time Ari’nne finally agreed t’ initiate me, t’ share her magic with me, t’ make me somethin’ else, I was m’haps so blind, strung along by howe she played me like a lute, an addict t’ th’ feelin’s she could bend t’ her will, I didn’t at all consider th’ consequences—only t’ come t’ see in th’ end that all I found intoxicatin’ ‘bout her was jus’ part o’ her toyin’. But, qes, now that’s a tale y’ didn’t know, an’ now y’ sure as Faldrun’s ass be fiery no’ gonna tell m’ da’at ‘r anyone else a word.”

There was no way in all of Idalos Torim would speak of such a thing to Pash’s family. His family, too. No one. Ever. That much both of them knew. That was his gamble, his risk, and they both knew each other well enough. But had now been the right time? Maybe. It was quite easy to say whatever came to mind as his drunkenness was washed away by the surging tide of so much sharp pain, and he’d wanted to tell someone for so damn long now. Yes, he’d told two someones, one on purpose and one not entirely by accident. It’d been easy for the past fistful of ten-trials to just pretend all that ached was over a person, that he wasn’t attempting to unravel his entire self from a tangle so complicated, he was afraid he’d never feel the same again. But things were not as simple as he wished, no matter how many taverns or how many parties Torim would attempt to drag him through while he was at home.

Was Pash so broken because of this woman he’d thought he cared about or because of the magic it seemed to involve? Now, the broad-shouldered shipwright was unsure, and the thoughts that swam the racing currents of Torim’s inebriated mind were not at all helpful. He was clearly angry, face already flushed with too much alcohol and already willing to pick a fight with dockhands just for the fun of it. Had his cousin not been so wounded, he most likely would have had a go at him, wrestling out how all the taller man’s words were making him feel in this moment. Did he trust his cousin less? No. Was he afraid? A little. His understanding of magic was limited to his experiences, and those were few, but at least he was in good company.

Sort of.

Standing, Torim cursed some more—mostly at Pash—in slurred, incoherent combinations and walked away for a moment, work-hardened hands digging into his dark mess of hair as he muttered and processed.

“Oi. Y’ missed there.” Pash squeaked, tears on his cheeks.

Stuff and Things

I am not sorry for all the words. Mmmmmm. Do with them what you will. Mwuahahaha. Also, yay for smoothing the corners of my backstory. Finally.

[Cassandra Nji'Gwar]

Her needlework grew increasingly more erratic as she focused more on Pash's confession than the task at hand. Admittedly, she could have done better with intense focus, but her interest in Pash's tale only grew with every passing word. Even upon hearing that he was vja'at did nothing to change her opinion, though she watched as Torim's distrust and anger grew. She and Torim weren't close, but they'd been together socially quite a few times, and she knew when his inebriated teasing started to turn into violence.

She remembered the trial Torim had seen her animate the Marrow. She thought she was alone, having left the group of people gathered outside the Crest Break. Her father had just died, and she had not felt all too much in a party-going mood, even at his wake. He wanted a burial-at-sea, and the party in the Crest Break was to celebrate his life. Torim and Cassandra both knew that the party was his choice, something he'd planned long before his demise, but Cassandra could not stand the revelry. Her mother, Nevea, had decided not to attend either, and so Cassandra made the excuse to check on her to slip out.

Cassandra had never asked Torim after, but she was convinced that he'd been coming out to console her in hopes of perhaps attracting her attention in the future. Her vulnerability, however, was not what Torim discovered upon entering her familial home. Her father, whose body had been put out to sea, was lying on the table as a pile of bones. She'd taken a body from the mortuary and replaced it with her father's, a classic switch. Her father had done it multiple times throughout his career as an undertaker, keeping the more in-tact bodies for his experiments.

Torim had never been quiet in his life, but he was in that trill. And then, before his eyes, Cassandra raised the bones. They snapped together and climbed to the height of Bryj, minus all the mass that made the man substantial. Tear streamed down her face in that moment, and it was Torim's gasp that alerted her to his presence.

"Hm? Oh, eja'yoama!" She snapped from her reverie, returning to the present to see that she'd inserted the needle at a sharper angle than she'd anticipated. The sharp instrument jabbed into Pash's wound, and she withdrew the needle in horror. So far, she was surprised at how well the stitching looked, considering her distraction. A few more loops through finalized the stitching, and she tied it off and cut it with a small knife from the bag. With an apologetic smile, she looked into Pash's amber eyes with a clear sapphire blue in hers, denoting her apologetic feeling.

"Okay, seq'at, I'm going to have to clean the blood off and allow it to dry before I dress it. So that'll give us a little time..." She wiped off the wound, gingerly applying pressure around the stitches. She was mildly impressed with her handiwork, though it was nowhere professional quality. Still, it would hold Pash's flesh together unless he overexerted himself or got into another barfight and stabbed again.

"I've never been in love myself, but I'm told it's unlike anything in this world. Music of the heart, Quanobo." She smiled reassuringly, still dabbing the wound. She was looking at Pash's face, though, as Torim walked away. Her mouth curved downward into a frown.

"S'hard to come to terms with something like that. Give Torim some time. Maybe let him punch you, seems to be his way of handling his business." The wistfulness in her voice meant she knew from experience.

"Since he already knows, I suppose he doesn't need to be present for this. Pash, I'm also vja'at. My esh've isn't quite so romantic, but there is something to it, I think."

She flew past the idea that Torim already knew she was a mage, instead preferring to launch into her story without question. She knew it was likely for Pash to have questions, but she wanted to answer them all at once, rather than break up her story. Without much more hesitation, she dove in.

"My father was always a curious man. Even when I was a small child, I remember him spending long breaks in his laboratory, doing his job meticulously. He was an undertaker, a profession not many Biqajs take. But for him, it was his passion. Preparing the dead... Nobody seemed to have such knack for it as Da'at. His corpses were as beautiful in death as they were in life. It was as if their last few moments were perfectly preserved, and they went to meet their gods as they'd praised them in life. Cassion as my witness, Pash, I can attest to the truth of it. They were... perfect. It was impossible, but they looked as if they'd never even died. They just were resting."

Cassandra smiled softly, her eyes turning a hazy grey in introspection. She still kept her gaze leveled with Pash's, and he could tell that she was being honest with him.

"The first thing I remember is him taking me into the lab with him. It was always colder in their somehow, as if he'd kept ice in a box to chill the room. 'Better for the bodies', he'd told me. And then he began to show me, a girl of a few arcs, how to keep a body. He said that the only thing more precious than preserving life was preserving death, and that if one could figure out how to make the dead so life-like, you could bring them back. Even as a noch, I knew his words were fantastical. I mean, how could any mortal steal from Vri his bounty? But my father spoke of it with such fondness and certainty that I believed him in my child-like wonder. And so this went on for arcs, with him teaching me about medicine and anatomy in my spare time."

She sighed audibly, coming to sit backwards like Pash was doing, resting on her arms with her legs crossed. Pash could see the hint of plain undergarments underneath the gown she was wearing, but she seemed more unconcerned.

"My mother was not pleased, but she never fought my father on it. Even to this trial, she swears that he asked for her trust, and she gave it to him unconditionally. So she would go about her wifely duties, fixing his dinner and cleaning, and I would assist him in the laboratory. Each corpse looked so resplendent... I couldn't believe his skill. And every trial, he'd say, 'Ly'oat, if you treat the dead well, they will do the same in return. You can use them for all sorts of things.' He said that, and I always thought he was being funny. My da'at did that sometimes, you know? 'Mezo!', I always thought. Looking back on it now, I wish I'd paid more attention to his words. I dismissed the advice as a joke, as nochi do."

Her voice was far-away, and warm tears gathered in the early-morning-hazy grey of her eyes.

"And as he neared the end of his time, he told me his true siera'ma. It wasn't to any gods, but to an ideal. He thought that there was a way to truly preserve life. Even once one died, he hypothesized that it was possible to re-instill into them their life. He tried, constantly, with those bodies on his table. He tried every medical and surgical way he could imagine. In the end, he sought out magical means. Tia'mjat. Transmutation. And when he told me that he'd found his true success in the magic, he'd romanticized how lovely it was. He'd said that the understanding of the natural world was aided by the vile magic, and I reacted much the same as Torim has just now. But, seq'at, he convinced me. Morality is aided by the imagination, but truth is concrete. That's what he told me. And when he broke his Spark and imparted it to me, I came to know that Transmutation isn't evil. It's a tool, a step towards my father's eternal goal."

She frowned as she finished, staring at Pash. The skin around the wound was likely ready to be treated and covered, but she was too invested in the story and Pash's reaction to remember to do it.

Off Topic

I'm not sorry for the words either, then.

Just so that I know what each is: Esh've = tale. Ly'oat = daughter. Tia'mjat = Transmutation.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Torim stalked off, mumbling into the dark, perhaps not at all in the state of mind to hear what Pash had to say and certainly not to process any of it. He needed to move, to walk around the building in the cool evening, to keep his wits about him. His understanding of magic was purposefully limited; it didn’t touch his life and it didn’t need to. Now, it did through a face even more familiar than Cassandra’s, through a person he couldn’t just cut ties with and forget as family.

Strangely enough, her expression didn’t falter in his telling and the tall Biqaj was not, at first, sure what that meant. Clearly, she was listening and, clearly, Pash’s words affected her concentration because he was the one feeling the discomfort for it. And yet, for a moment she said nothing but a few quiet apologies, and he was left to pretend not to feel nauseated while he glanced at her finished work in his flesh while she attempted to clean the silvery mess with a relieving sort of gentleness.

“Love’s prob’ly better when it’s honest, so don’ take m’ word for anythin’. I wouldn’t know, either.” The seafaring musician said simply, bitterness congealing on his tongue like so much blood in the sun. He’d been honest, at least once in his life, about matters of the heart, and yet love still seemed elusive. He smirked, having kept his cheer just long enough, only to find himself annoyed by sentiments, even if they were sincere. It was brief, only because the blonde didn’t give him any moment to revel in self-pity, no, she just sailed right through—

Vja’at. From her lips and not his.

Pash blinked. Torim knew? Is that how they were now even, his cousin and Cassandra? Immortals, he must have just completely set fire to the older man’s mind with his words. His heart felt heavy, like an anchor in his chest. Inhaling sharply as if to ask his question, he held it in instead, unable to help wincing through the cleaning process. She kept talking, quiet and furtive because they could’ve been alone for bits or trills, depending on the whim of his friends, her grey-eyed gaze insistent on holding his attention in this moment, one confession heavily tugging at the tide of another.

She spoke of the dead, though. Her father. Biqaj circles were small enough, though he’d been mostly away for almost six arcs now, occasionally sailing home but his connections weren’t the same as they’d been in his youth. He didn’t know her family name, so he couldn’t put any familiar pieces together.

Was she even talking about magic?

Not the magic he knew, it became clear, but somewhere in the middle, he could feel where the current of her admission was going.

The blond shifted to sit back from her handiwork and if Pash’s tide pool gaze washed anywhere it shouldn’t without invitation, he hid it well, too much lingering curiosity distracted by the lines of thread that held together his own tanned flesh. He listened, though, her words towing the line between disturbing and interesting. There were so many facets of magic he didn’t know, disciplines he probably would never comprehend. In his limited understanding, dead was dead, and he’d been taught to respect that, to allow the rightful passage of things to their rightful places, both to honor the Immortals whose domain it was as well as to honor the lives of the one who had ceased to live.

There was magic of the mind, magic of the dead, magic of the elements, and magic of change, but the truth was that magic simply changed everything, irreverent of the domain.

Magic changed everything. All of it.

Ari’nne had admitted that; she had warned him. And it did, from the inside out. To some, it was an act of rebellion not just against mortality, but the Immortals as well. Did Pash believe it? No. Not entirely. There was a tale left untold, and he longed to hear how it ended if only because now he had become a part of its telling.

Tia'mjat—that word had strange connotations that he admitted he didn't entirely understand, though he knew the root, change, was contained within. Often, the magic was associated with madmen, with greed, though it seemed as though Cassandra's father had very different obsessions than the normal mage of his kind. The syllables together twisted the tongue. Magic was a tool, but it was also alive. One could wield it, but the spark was somehow not a passive object that did nothing. Not at all.

Cassandra was staring at him, expectant.

He had no judgements to give, their shared experiences different in intricate ways and yet to the outside observer the same. Pash was quiet for too long, his silence most likely uncomfortable for the blonde as he let himself wander over her face, her person, in a way that would have perhaps otherwise been intrusive in his curiosity had not her story now hung between them, slowly pooling his thoughts together in a way that felt more like pouring a full pitcher into a shot glass in his now far too sober mind. He’d not told a soul about magic before, terrified of the consequences, and yet here on the street in the dark at Immortals knew what break he’d told two simply to keep himself from dwelling on so much pain.

What could he tell her? What did he, himself, want to hear?

“I can’t say I understand m' spark any more than I understand anyone else's—I’ve only experienced what I've asked for—Empathy, qua'lina, the bending o' th' heart.” He offered in hushed baritone, shoulders sagging, the hint of a smile given his current condition and their reasons for even having this conversation, “Cassandra, I’m ‘f th’ mind that what’s ultimately vile ‘bout any magic ’s th’ one who wields it.”

Because if he didn’t believe that, then all magic was vile and therefore he was, too. But he wasn’t. He just wasn’t. Changed, but surely his heart was the same, underneath all the cold brine he still felt like he was drowning in. The lens was different now, but light just as bright as it had been. Right? Morally speaking, their potential for evil was equal, regardless of the spark they’d willingly accepted, regardless of the paths they’d chosen.

There was always a choice.

A choice Pash desperately believed he still had and would always have.

The choice to do the right thing.

He sighed, the ache in his chest threatening to overwhelm the lingering sting of his sewn up wound,

“An’ Torim knows? I’m th’ coin between y’ two, eh? Tsu, I’m no’ worth that much, last time I checked.” He chuckled, looking away from the blonde to search down the dark streets with a smirk. His cousin was going to do more than give him a punch in the arm and call it a night. He just hoped he didn’t end up with ripped stitches. Pash’s lagoon blue gaze returned to Cassandra and his smile bordered on the coy, the concept of debt in some ways not entirely unappealing, depending on the implications. She didn’t need to buy his silence on the matter of magic, obviously, and he was no longer leaving trails of stardust through the streets of Ne’Haer,

“An’ us? We’re meja? Even?”

[Cassandra Nji'Gwar]

Cassandra's liquid eyes found Pash's, and she smiled. The drunken Biqaj was more open-minded than many she'd met, and that was impressive for such an open race. She looked down at the wound, quickly rummaging through her bag to find her bandages. The blood was already starting to congeal around the thread of the stitches, which were adequate but nowhere near perfect. A little rivulet had started down his side but quickly dried. Cassandra wiped it away hastily, sending a little jolt of discomfort through Pash. When she looked back at him, though, her eyes were mischievous, not apologetic.

"Ze. Ze mes'me perto." She grinned at him. Not even close. "I just stitched up your side. Torim and me? Meja. You? I don't think so." Her grin was wicked and sly, and she patted the cool medicant salve around the sore flesh of his wound. It cooled him even more in the night air, which wasn't too warm to begin with.

"But there's no need to pay me back right now, seq'at." She stood from her haunches and stretched her hamstrings, which had grown sore in the time she'd assumed the posture. Long, willowy legs floated in front of Pash's vision as she stretched, and when she returned to an upright position, her flaxen hair fell to her shoulders again. She looked over at Torim, who was still pacing off to the side.

"Torim, as you know, can't see anything past his own nose. Fact is, I've barely spoken to him since. Hence my surprise at finding him, and you, outside my window. He must be truly desperate if he wanted a Vji'at to help. Or..." She winked at Pash. "He wanted an easy way to hide his blunder from the trial. Either way, we'd be meja and he'd be free to go." She cast a wistful glance Torim's way again.

"Can I ask you something about Torim? What made him so... Stubborn? Naturally, we're a freer folk, but he's just... ji ena'phant." A current, that is. He goes one way, and rather swiftly. The term isn't used often, even in the slang of the Biqaj, and it typically denotes a very close-minded person from another race. But in this case, Cassandra felt it necessary.