Pash listened to the explanation of the map symbols, most of which made sense, though he was used to navigating the open sea by starlight and a compass, not some narrow space by parchment.
The tall Biqaj looked to Delta when she spoke, noting Varn didn’t feel the need to translate, or that he at least lacked the interest. Preferring better communication for everyone’s safety, he summed it up, “She wants to know ‘f th’ folks here expected to be rescued. If somethin’ were t' happen—as 't clearly did—these folks prob’ly weren’t—“
He paused in his rough translation, just for a trill or two for everyone else, but for what felt like many more bits to the fledgling Empath, overwhelmed for a moment by the barrage of bright yellows and deep blues that made up the threads of fear and terror that had woven themselves into the thick tapestry of Yolande’s emotions. It was more like a wall of cords than a well-woven, wearable fabric, a wall that the minstrel could not see past or weft through at all, and it was enough to stop him talking, eyes wide and tide pool irises rimmed with the gold that crept in when he concentrated. Instead of translating anything else, he muttered a string of curses that would most likely make Varn laugh and Delta blink (she didn’t seem the blushing type of woman at all), keeping it all in Rakahi because there were no translations to be had.
Ah, yes, and he frowned again. It was unfortunate.
About to pick up where he left off, Padraig had the chest open and revealed its secrets before he could open his mouth again. It was all Pash could do not to say more colorful things, shaking his head with an exhale of all the discomfort through his teeth. This was a mess, but really, anything involving the Immortals surely couldn’t be contained within a well-defined reality, no matter how much mortals liked himself fantasized that was possible.
They may as well already be in the Emea for how this was all playing out. And if that was the case, waking up about now would be fine by him.
He chose not to discuss his vision, for obvious reasons. Not everyone liked a mage, even one who wasn’t. And he dare not add his magical abilities to the volatile, shifting, hallucinogenic open air and further scuttle their somewhat crippled ship of a group as it was.
“—So, even though they knew that someone would be comin’ after them, they purposefully hid things. No’ left it t’ be found, no’ jus’ ‘cause they weren’t runnin’ away. It doesn’t seem like they want t’ be found, either, if’n y’ask me.”
When Yolande added her bit about spirits and ghosts, Pash briefly considered it time to pack up and go back to the boat. One hand reached out of habit for the strap of his lute to find it missing, and in the discomfort of feeling naked and unprepared, he fiddled awkwardly with the unbuttoned buttons of his shirt instead, “Y’ what now? Well, a’right, I’m jus’ gonna personally let that be a'right considerin’ th' whole strangeness o' this place an' o' this situation, but I’m also gonna ask a serious question: if here—reality as we know 't—an’ th’Emea touched, right … or ‘f somehow there was jus’ th’Emea an' no' a bit o' reality, then there wouldn’t be ghosts, right? Because ghosts ‘re folks who don’ leave the, er, uh, physical world, when they’re s’posed to, eh? So, what does that mean for here?”
He had no idea how to word his idea in any way that he could think someone would understand. He thought of cave diving and finding a pocket of air hidden away inside. Or sailing out in the Orm’Del sea and finding a sand bar where currents met. This was that air pocket. The Immortal’s Tongue was perhaps a sand bar. Of Emea. It didn’t make sense. He knew nothing of the after life other than what was contained in songs, what came from the mouths of drunkards, and what had just been laid out on the proverbial table between all of them by Yolande herself.
Clearly, if she had grown used to something so terrifying … the absence of such a thing would be just as frightening.
Why did she see such things? He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know (okay, maybe he did), but made a mental note that if he didn’t die this trial, he was going to have to ask someone he trusted more questions—that would be Faith, not their guide. However, that was really all the musing that the seafaring minstrel was mentally capable of before he worried himself. Holding up both hands he shook his head, not caring if the rest of the group disagreed or not. Maybe they all wanted to go home just like he did, but maybe they also wanted to bring this crazy ship to port like he did, too.
“I think we could spend all friggin’ trial in here an’ still have questions. Might as well punch th’ shark in the nose already instead o’ dippin’ our toes in th’ water hopin’ for nibbles.”
He wanted a drink. And he felt an inappropriate need to sing a few horrible shanties to feel better about this all.
The tall Biqaj looked to Delta when she spoke, noting Varn didn’t feel the need to translate, or that he at least lacked the interest. Preferring better communication for everyone’s safety, he summed it up, “She wants to know ‘f th’ folks here expected to be rescued. If somethin’ were t' happen—as 't clearly did—these folks prob’ly weren’t—“
He paused in his rough translation, just for a trill or two for everyone else, but for what felt like many more bits to the fledgling Empath, overwhelmed for a moment by the barrage of bright yellows and deep blues that made up the threads of fear and terror that had woven themselves into the thick tapestry of Yolande’s emotions. It was more like a wall of cords than a well-woven, wearable fabric, a wall that the minstrel could not see past or weft through at all, and it was enough to stop him talking, eyes wide and tide pool irises rimmed with the gold that crept in when he concentrated. Instead of translating anything else, he muttered a string of curses that would most likely make Varn laugh and Delta blink (she didn’t seem the blushing type of woman at all), keeping it all in Rakahi because there were no translations to be had.
Ah, yes, and he frowned again. It was unfortunate.
About to pick up where he left off, Padraig had the chest open and revealed its secrets before he could open his mouth again. It was all Pash could do not to say more colorful things, shaking his head with an exhale of all the discomfort through his teeth. This was a mess, but really, anything involving the Immortals surely couldn’t be contained within a well-defined reality, no matter how much mortals liked himself fantasized that was possible.
They may as well already be in the Emea for how this was all playing out. And if that was the case, waking up about now would be fine by him.
He chose not to discuss his vision, for obvious reasons. Not everyone liked a mage, even one who wasn’t. And he dare not add his magical abilities to the volatile, shifting, hallucinogenic open air and further scuttle their somewhat crippled ship of a group as it was.
“—So, even though they knew that someone would be comin’ after them, they purposefully hid things. No’ left it t’ be found, no’ jus’ ‘cause they weren’t runnin’ away. It doesn’t seem like they want t’ be found, either, if’n y’ask me.”
When Yolande added her bit about spirits and ghosts, Pash briefly considered it time to pack up and go back to the boat. One hand reached out of habit for the strap of his lute to find it missing, and in the discomfort of feeling naked and unprepared, he fiddled awkwardly with the unbuttoned buttons of his shirt instead, “Y’ what now? Well, a’right, I’m jus’ gonna personally let that be a'right considerin’ th' whole strangeness o' this place an' o' this situation, but I’m also gonna ask a serious question: if here—reality as we know 't—an’ th’Emea touched, right … or ‘f somehow there was jus’ th’Emea an' no' a bit o' reality, then there wouldn’t be ghosts, right? Because ghosts ‘re folks who don’ leave the, er, uh, physical world, when they’re s’posed to, eh? So, what does that mean for here?”
He had no idea how to word his idea in any way that he could think someone would understand. He thought of cave diving and finding a pocket of air hidden away inside. Or sailing out in the Orm’Del sea and finding a sand bar where currents met. This was that air pocket. The Immortal’s Tongue was perhaps a sand bar. Of Emea. It didn’t make sense. He knew nothing of the after life other than what was contained in songs, what came from the mouths of drunkards, and what had just been laid out on the proverbial table between all of them by Yolande herself.
Clearly, if she had grown used to something so terrifying … the absence of such a thing would be just as frightening.
Why did she see such things? He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know (okay, maybe he did), but made a mental note that if he didn’t die this trial, he was going to have to ask someone he trusted more questions—that would be Faith, not their guide. However, that was really all the musing that the seafaring minstrel was mentally capable of before he worried himself. Holding up both hands he shook his head, not caring if the rest of the group disagreed or not. Maybe they all wanted to go home just like he did, but maybe they also wanted to bring this crazy ship to port like he did, too.
“I think we could spend all friggin’ trial in here an’ still have questions. Might as well punch th’ shark in the nose already instead o’ dippin’ our toes in th’ water hopin’ for nibbles.”
He wanted a drink. And he felt an inappropriate need to sing a few horrible shanties to feel better about this all.
