For all his cheerful, loud, touchable hedonism, Pash was incredibly susceptible to broodiness, often falling back into the depths of his own mind in a darker expression of his immature selfishness that he’d never really had to outgrow when hurt or uncomfortable as an easier way to keep himself from actually dealing with the situation at hand. He’d already spent more than a season attempting to escape from dealing with all that had happened in Rharne, and his hiding place was poor. It showed. It left things exposed to the suns’ light and burned. Brooding and self-directed anger were, perhaps, also just the flipside of being creative—he was, without being able to articulate it properly in words, his own worst critic. He’d already spent plenty of trials blaming himself, critiquing all that had gone wrong between himself and Ari’nne and all the poor choices he’d made leading up to his decision to invite magic into his own life. Letting go was easier, it was true, but he found his heart of hearts reluctant, rebellious.
He was not, however, on the way to a party with the achingly lovely daughter of Delroth just to stand around and lick his wounds—Immortals, no—and Zana clearly would have none of it, not one trill, reminding him with her quipped response, her elbow, and her momentary silence along the beautiful stretch of shore as the sun set that he would be wasting not just his time but hers to do so. And what a time he already knew it could be.
Still, her touch was generous, unwarranted, and possibly undeserved. She wanted him after all—his time, this trial, as far as possible from her normal expectations—and this was his opportunity to show her things outside of her usual life choices.
Seeing him stupid was not part of the plan.
Pash was not so lost in himself to be blind to Vyrja’s subtle judgements, for unfortunately the seafaring minstrel was used to breaking the unspoken rules of his own society at least in this particular respect. He needed variety, he craved interaction, and his insatiable curiosity found him completely uncaring about who he mingled with in terms of clan and race. This particular offense was nothing new to the shipwright’s son, and he knew by the way she glanced at Zana that she was curious about his decision to bring an outsider as an obvious date when he could, on a good evening, have his choice among the Biqaj. Zana, again, was observant and coy, her broken but bold Rakahi bringing a broad grin to his face and her arms around him stirring a warmth of confidence and desire in the hull of his chest.
“Aye, I build for Brujo.” Djet answered with a smile, dark eyes traveling over the blonde in curiosity and interest, as if she felt familiar and as unconcerned as possible that he was checking out someone else’s goods while standing next to cargo of his own. His accent was surprisingly absent in Common, having worked hard to sound completely natural in his fluency, “Though I’ve asked for arcs now for Pash to convince his father, Traek, to take me on.”
Pash smirked at the blonde’s mention of Elijah, unsure as to whether her phrase about sailing was a coy euphemism or if it was an honest account. She was surely far too blunt to need such a metaphor, though he couldn’t help but brush off Djet’s not-so-subtle employment suggestion to briefly interject, not entirely embarrassed that they now shared the strangest of connections and all the connotations that entailed, “Elijah Ki’ouj? He’s a friend o’ mine, y’know. An’ you’re welcome on th’ Muse with me any time y’like.”
The seafaring minstrel hadn’t seen the man for a few arcs, it was true, but he’d done his best to keep in touch. Turning back to Djet, Pash kept himself from ruining their conversation by telling him his father’s opinion of the older Biqaj—that his somewhat serial infidelity and flaunting of it made Traek assume the man was utterly untrustworthy—”I’ve let him know, but it’s hard ‘nough for me t’ change his mind on things concernin’ me, let alone ‘bout some’ne else. B’sides, y’know I work twice ‘s hard ‘s y’ do an’ I’m only visitin’. Ask again once I set sail from here. He’ll miss me. He always does.”
Pash couldn’t help but tease, Zana’s touch emboldening the already quite loquacious bard to perhaps show off a little more than usual, watching the older man fume wordlessly at the suggestion that the younger, musical Biqaj was a better shipwright. Maybe he was. Instead, he turned and began walking again, as if to keep his tongue from getting him in trouble.
Vyrja chuckled, the man’s stray glances to the outsider’s attractiveness not unnoticed, and yet she invited the pair to walk with her with a wave of her hand while she answered the blonde’s question as if to dismiss it all into the salty air, “Me? I keep the books for my clan’s merchants. I make sure all the nel and goods go to all the right people and places. Someone has to be the brains, you know?”
Her smirk was clearly aimed at Djet’s back as the four of them walked until they found themselves at the edges of a gathered crowd, but the woman shrugged as if her own comment was obvious. The main bonfire blazed gloriously, a broad-shouldered man with grey hair and a beautiful, colorful tattooed landscape of a coral reef across his bare back was tending to it, tossing a few more logs into the flames as if they were mere pieces of parchment. There were a few other Biqaj of various ages sitting around their instruments near the bonfire, tuning and chatting, but not yet playing. One or two waved in Pash’s direction, the tall Biqaj apparently well-recognized among his native social circle. There were some folk tending to the food and others standing around chatting in little groups in the sand. Vyrja opened her mouth and began to ask how Pash knew Zana and what she did in a curious, prying sort of tone, only to be interrupted,
“Pash!” Torim’s voice rang out above the crackling fire and the crowd. The man was perhaps only an arc or two older, short and broad-shouldered enough to be called burly, grinning as he made his way toward them, still speaking at a volume as if there was music playing that he had to be heard over even though there clearly wasn’t. Still, he sailed right on in for a rough hug which the taller Biqaj obliged with a laugh, though his hands didn’t stray far from Zana given their proximity. The shorter man grinned at the pair, dark eyes noticing the blonde but it seemed as though he was more interested in studying the two of them together, “Ye said ye weren’t coming! Luff my sails an’ drink me bilge water, ye didn’t bring anythin’ pretty for me, too?”
“Nah. Y’ can get your own. I do th’ pretty work for you all th’ damn time. To-trial, I’m takin’ off bein’ your man in th’ crow’s nest.” The seafaring minstrel's riposte came with a clearly baiting smile, though wordlessly he wondered what all his antagonist of a second cousin would remember of the birthtrial celebration he’d arranged.
He was not, however, on the way to a party with the achingly lovely daughter of Delroth just to stand around and lick his wounds—Immortals, no—and Zana clearly would have none of it, not one trill, reminding him with her quipped response, her elbow, and her momentary silence along the beautiful stretch of shore as the sun set that he would be wasting not just his time but hers to do so. And what a time he already knew it could be.
Still, her touch was generous, unwarranted, and possibly undeserved. She wanted him after all—his time, this trial, as far as possible from her normal expectations—and this was his opportunity to show her things outside of her usual life choices.
Seeing him stupid was not part of the plan.
Pash was not so lost in himself to be blind to Vyrja’s subtle judgements, for unfortunately the seafaring minstrel was used to breaking the unspoken rules of his own society at least in this particular respect. He needed variety, he craved interaction, and his insatiable curiosity found him completely uncaring about who he mingled with in terms of clan and race. This particular offense was nothing new to the shipwright’s son, and he knew by the way she glanced at Zana that she was curious about his decision to bring an outsider as an obvious date when he could, on a good evening, have his choice among the Biqaj. Zana, again, was observant and coy, her broken but bold Rakahi bringing a broad grin to his face and her arms around him stirring a warmth of confidence and desire in the hull of his chest.
“Aye, I build for Brujo.” Djet answered with a smile, dark eyes traveling over the blonde in curiosity and interest, as if she felt familiar and as unconcerned as possible that he was checking out someone else’s goods while standing next to cargo of his own. His accent was surprisingly absent in Common, having worked hard to sound completely natural in his fluency, “Though I’ve asked for arcs now for Pash to convince his father, Traek, to take me on.”
Pash smirked at the blonde’s mention of Elijah, unsure as to whether her phrase about sailing was a coy euphemism or if it was an honest account. She was surely far too blunt to need such a metaphor, though he couldn’t help but brush off Djet’s not-so-subtle employment suggestion to briefly interject, not entirely embarrassed that they now shared the strangest of connections and all the connotations that entailed, “Elijah Ki’ouj? He’s a friend o’ mine, y’know. An’ you’re welcome on th’ Muse with me any time y’like.”
The seafaring minstrel hadn’t seen the man for a few arcs, it was true, but he’d done his best to keep in touch. Turning back to Djet, Pash kept himself from ruining their conversation by telling him his father’s opinion of the older Biqaj—that his somewhat serial infidelity and flaunting of it made Traek assume the man was utterly untrustworthy—”I’ve let him know, but it’s hard ‘nough for me t’ change his mind on things concernin’ me, let alone ‘bout some’ne else. B’sides, y’know I work twice ‘s hard ‘s y’ do an’ I’m only visitin’. Ask again once I set sail from here. He’ll miss me. He always does.”
Pash couldn’t help but tease, Zana’s touch emboldening the already quite loquacious bard to perhaps show off a little more than usual, watching the older man fume wordlessly at the suggestion that the younger, musical Biqaj was a better shipwright. Maybe he was. Instead, he turned and began walking again, as if to keep his tongue from getting him in trouble.
Vyrja chuckled, the man’s stray glances to the outsider’s attractiveness not unnoticed, and yet she invited the pair to walk with her with a wave of her hand while she answered the blonde’s question as if to dismiss it all into the salty air, “Me? I keep the books for my clan’s merchants. I make sure all the nel and goods go to all the right people and places. Someone has to be the brains, you know?”
Her smirk was clearly aimed at Djet’s back as the four of them walked until they found themselves at the edges of a gathered crowd, but the woman shrugged as if her own comment was obvious. The main bonfire blazed gloriously, a broad-shouldered man with grey hair and a beautiful, colorful tattooed landscape of a coral reef across his bare back was tending to it, tossing a few more logs into the flames as if they were mere pieces of parchment. There were a few other Biqaj of various ages sitting around their instruments near the bonfire, tuning and chatting, but not yet playing. One or two waved in Pash’s direction, the tall Biqaj apparently well-recognized among his native social circle. There were some folk tending to the food and others standing around chatting in little groups in the sand. Vyrja opened her mouth and began to ask how Pash knew Zana and what she did in a curious, prying sort of tone, only to be interrupted,
“Pash!” Torim’s voice rang out above the crackling fire and the crowd. The man was perhaps only an arc or two older, short and broad-shouldered enough to be called burly, grinning as he made his way toward them, still speaking at a volume as if there was music playing that he had to be heard over even though there clearly wasn’t. Still, he sailed right on in for a rough hug which the taller Biqaj obliged with a laugh, though his hands didn’t stray far from Zana given their proximity. The shorter man grinned at the pair, dark eyes noticing the blonde but it seemed as though he was more interested in studying the two of them together, “Ye said ye weren’t coming! Luff my sails an’ drink me bilge water, ye didn’t bring anythin’ pretty for me, too?”
“Nah. Y’ can get your own. I do th’ pretty work for you all th’ damn time. To-trial, I’m takin’ off bein’ your man in th’ crow’s nest.” The seafaring minstrel's riposte came with a clearly baiting smile, though wordlessly he wondered what all his antagonist of a second cousin would remember of the birthtrial celebration he’d arranged.
