They had been delayed from their departure from Scalvoris for various reasons Pash had yet to completely understand, U'Frek having summoned them to his service at the very end of Vhalar, just as he and his lover were preparing to leave the island on their somewhat well-planned adventures that took them boldly, willingly sailing all across Idalos. That was the thing about plans—they changed. Thankfully, the seafaring minstrel was an easy going sort, one who understood that tides shifted and winds changed. Such was the way of life, and yet this time, everything all felt as though it was for a reason. He just had to figure out what that reason was, he admitted to Kali'rial in the cold.
The weather was far more foul than he'd anticipated, and thus he'd decided to make sure they were further prepared. He decided to order a second set of sails and extra rigging, but the early Zi'da snow had prevented him from going to Almund or even Egilrun himself, though the proprietor of The Spirit of Adventure had assured him he'd get it all sorted out for him. That was good, for the tall Biqaj was honestly still processing what had happened in dreams for his Maker, especially the Favor U'Frek had bestowed upon himself and Kali'rial. He assumed Arlo was equally blessed, but they'd yet to see each other since waking.
Pash considered all of his unfinished business, despite himself and his dark-haired huntress having said their goodbyes. Perhaps there was more for him to do?
His thoughts turned through the seasons since his arrival in Scalvoris—Ashan, Ymiden, Saun, and Vhalar—each of them carrying with them a variety of experiences, though his lover was the steadfast and beautiful constant, their relationship now his treasure, there was always more to each season's story, some good and some bad. His wandering thoughts turned to Delta and he realized he'd never been able to see her after all that had transpired on the Immortal's Tongue in Ymiden. Memories of that particular trip were still tangible, as if he could still feel the emotions of her tangle, that experience never truly forgotten. His Empathy-marked fingers strayed to scratch listlessly at the scar on his left bicep from Yolande, though he couldn't help but run the same hand's palm past one of the newer, still-pink scars that stood out against his tanned skin hidden under his thick wool shirt from their return to that wretched place in Vhalar.
Perhaps Delta was gone from the Order already, ships passing in the night. He'd failed her, and in his distractions, failed to bring closure to their struggles.
Deciding he had the time, Pash found himself at the Order, first seeking out Faith because he couldn't help but grin at the life she grew, but second to inquire after the Biqaj slave and what had happened to her over the seasons. Did he feel guilty that she was still in the Order? Yes—an ache swelled like an icy wave in the harbor against the hull of his chest—but he was offered a visit and readily agreed.
When the green-cloaked acolyte led him through the Order's halls, he followed quietly, unable to help but notice the levels of suffering and need the Order served. These weighed heavily on the sensitive Biqaj, who didn't need Empathy to feel the many emotions that swirled like eddies in the faces of those who were in the building. He waited outside the door while the young girl asked permission of Delta, tucking a stray hair or two back behind a pointed ear and running calloused fingers along the back of his neck, the calm that seemed so ever-present in his tangle a comfort.
The acolyte reappeared with a smile, "She said she'd see you, Pash. I'll be back shortly."
"Thank y' much." The tall Biqaj smiled warmly, stepping into the room with a broader sort of grin for Delta. Her shyness was expected, whether out of embarrassment or fear, isolation or just her personality, and he took it in stride while holding up his calloused, Empathy-marked hands in a gesture of good will,
"Well met, yourself, Delta. It's good to see you again, though perhaps it's been too long. That fault is mine, and I'm sorry. I've meant to bring myself to see you for seasons now, and it burdens me to see you still in the Order instead of out in the world, colder than Chrien's heart though it is in Zi'da." Pash offered his apologies in a subdued baritone, the language of their people much more comfortable than his broken Common. His tide pool gaze washed over the small room while he hovered a respectable distance because of her reluctance, his offer of understanding kindness despite being the touchy, hugging type. Instead, he hooked a thumb in the strap of the lute he wore over his shoulder, having left his ever warm cloak in the coat room in the foyer of the Order,
"It's been my hope to come see you, especially since the winds have shifted and I will be setting sail soon." Pash didn't think about the faint, blue steamy glow that emanated from his person or the aura of calm that the growing spark within him broadcast to the world. He didn't think much about the strange, colorful marks that stretched like threads under the skin of his fingers, reaching for his wrists. These things were all now a part of who he was, changed from the unprepared sailor in Ymiden into a more confident, seasoned bard in the last season of the arc, too comfortable in his own skin to consider what others saw,
"I'd ask if you've been well, but I can only imagine the struggle. Will you be here much longer—in the Order, that is?"