• Memory • Ghost Ship

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

20th of Ymiden, 708
evening

He had been away from the Andresmarie for two trials now, had told his mother and the others that he was exploring the woods around Ne'haer looking for natural deposits of whitestone. He had a statue to make and place, and he didn't usually use stone as a medium so it was going to take a while, and as Hart wandered the streets of the city, bottle of liquor in hand, he wondered what it was he was actually doing. He wasn't drunk, not even close, and yet as he walked he swayed, and found himself doing things that he would not usually otherwise do.

Trying to steal a ship, for example.

He came upon the shipyard not really as an accident and though he had no claim to anything there, and though he had no right to even be there he meandered in. Looking around, but for now at least it was quiet; after usual operating hours. People had probably gone home to their families. He leaned over the side of the dock and, casually, poured a bit of the bottle he held out into the sea and nodded his head to U'frek as if the immortal himself was there watching.

Hart didn't normally speak aloud to himself but he didn't normally do a lot of things. "I swear it's for a good cause," he said to the air, or maybe the god.

Then he paused. Waiting for a reaction. None came.

The sky was clear and beautiful with clouds only near the horizon, dark against the brilliance of the nearly-setting suns. As Hart strolled down first one dock then the next he admired each and every ship, as if a rich buyer daintily perusing all that which he could afford. He stopped by a large ship he would never be able to man himself, a tallship judging by the masts, and searched for a rope ladder to climb up the side but all such things had been put away for the night. Instead he turned and began looking through the smaller stock.

There. He felt something inside him catch and danced on light feet over towards a certain sloop. It was small enough to be manned by one or two people, but that wasn't what Hart was concerned about.

It was beautiful. The hull was painted a smooth, pearly white, not quite matching the perfect, unstained cream of the sails. The ship was so well-painted, so even in gloss that it caught the reflections of the colors in the sky and the water below like a pale mirror. Hovering, a ghost on the waves.

Drawn to the boat, Hart leapt easily from the docks to the railing, and then clambered over, almost losing the bottle in the process. Once on the deck of the ship, he gave a low whistle and checked first the rigging, then went to the helm. Standing with his eyes closed and one hand resting on the wheel. Just getting a feel for the ship; for its weight and balance in the water.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

He’d snuck away after supper again, after helping with cleaning up and making sure no one else needed him. His grandfather had given him another of his challenges again—this time to write an entire song—and Pash needed to be away from the busy chaos of his extended family in order to focus on such a task. So, he'd simply shouldered his lute that he'd received for his birthday a few trials before, the beautiful mother-of-pearl inlaid instrument his grandfather had made by hand for himself over thirty arcs ago, and slipped out into the dusk when no one was particularly paying him any mind.

He had familiar places he liked to hide, and however tempting it was to just end up at some hole in the wall tavern near the docks, Pash kept walking until he'd made it to the shipyard where he worked with his father. They'd just about wrapped up a few more ships, and the tall youth knew he'd be testing at least one of them out at sea in the next few trials, so for now the yard should have been quiet and peaceful. While the youth had also been known to sneak dates onto the quiet, unfinished ships after hours for the thrill and privacy, he was alone and inspired this evening instead.

The shipwright’s son had his own key, and he let himself into the gate of his father’s workshop, which really they shared despite how much the young Biqaj had come to loath the work, very aware that he was just not made for large-scale craftsmanship.

Closing and locking the gate again behind him, he made his way past stacks of lumber and well-organized work areas, trailing calloused fingers over the seasoned wood. He wandered through the skeleton of a large hull in the dry dock area before making his way down toward the water where a few boats rested in near to total completion. Two were awaiting sails and one was simply waiting to be tested out at sea—Pash’s favorite job that his father, Traek, now let him do on his own without supervision. It was to that sloop he headed with his lute and his ideas, hoping to be somewhere quiet without interruption to come up with something worthy of his grandfather’s discerning but somewhat abstract teaching methods.

Whoever had ordered the ship had requested a fascinating but difficult paint job on the hull, and when the young Biqaj spotted it, sparkling in the last of the suns’ light, he hoped he’d never have paint something with so much white again—

Pash heard the whistle and his tidepool gaze was tugged upward to see another young man close to his age on deck, hands on the wheel of the almost-finished ship. He smirked, realizing that he wasn’t looking and that the young musician could still go unnoticed for a few more bits. The other youth looked alone as far as the shipwright’s son could tell, with dark hair and similar height. He’d never seen him around the shipyard before, either.

Once he felt close enough, he put fingers to his mouth to whistle loudly, hopefully loud enough to startle the stranger out of whatever daydream he was having at the helm of someone else’s ship, adding in Rakahi because it seemed most appropriate, ”Hey! We’re closed, you know.”

While he attempted to speak with authority, Pash was very aware he currently did not look the part of his day job—he was not covered in sawdust and he was carrying a musical instrument, not carpentry tools—but he was determined to at least sound the part, ”I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt because I’m nice … if you’re looking to buy something like this here fine sloop, you should come back—”

He was over the gunnel and onto the deck before he’d finished speaking, hauling himself onto freshly sealed wood (sealed by his hands under the Ymiden sun) that had yet to be brined with the constant wash of the sea. The sun-warmed deck still felt warm on Pash’s bare feet as he crossed his deeply tanned arms over a mostly bare chest, “—tomorrow.”

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

A sharp whistle woke him from his reverie and, guilty perhaps, Hart nearly dropped the bottle he was holding. For a moment he juggled with the container, trying to stop from letting it spill down upon the newly-shined wood of the deck. Finally he caught good hold of it again, more luck than anything, and when he looked up someone had joined him on the ship, facing towards him with arms crossed.

"Sorry," Hart said softly. He put his hand back on the wheel because it had been comfortable there. Not seeming all that frightened by the new arrival. It was a boy perhaps a year older than Hart himself, or so he guessed. Tall and bronze and brown-haired. Despite the instrument in his hand, another work of beauty like the ship, the boy was obviously a biqaj.

Eyes drawn to the instrument, Hart asked, "May I?" Asking to see it. He was concerned with anything of art, and like the ship the lute was finely-crafted, an obvious act of love. He really wasn't concerned about being caught here, though he was somewhat sad he couldn't have taken the ship for himself, if only for a while. If push came to shove and the boy was unfriendly, Hart could always go off the side of the ship.

Though he had been told politely to leave, something had Hart hold firm, relaxed in place. "Are there rentals?" he asked, though he knew he had no money. Then, hesitating before pivoting topic, "Do you believe in destiny?" It was a strange question, and perhaps would have been cheesy in any other context, though from his tone it was clear Hart meant it earnestly.

"It's only," he said, just as softly, "I need a ship for a while. And I saw this ship, like a ghost in the water, and it spoke to me. In a way there's a ghost I'm chasing, and it feels right that I would have been pointed here to find it. So would you tell me, does this ship yet have a name?"

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Pash rolled his bare shoulders in an overly-expressive shrug when the dark-haired youth apologized, beginning to grin, “Whatever. You’re not sailing off with this thing without getting through me first, so I don’t care. It’s all good, I suppose.” He had no idea the other youth’s intentions, but judging by the bottle in his hand and his somewhat strange conversation, the shipwright’s son didn’t feel like he really needed to be too concerned. Perhaps he should have been. He was here for inspiration, anyway, so surely he wasn’t the only one who needed somewhere quiet and hidden sometimes.

The stranger asked to see his lute, which admittedly caught Pash off-guard. His lagoon blue eyes shifted to whatever he was drinking and he slipped the instrument off his shoulder, offering it in momentary trade, relinquishing one object for the other, “My grandfather made it, and then gifted it to me for my birthday, a few arcs back.” He added, totally willing to be distracted by talking about the instrument instead of coming up with his assignment with it. The lute itself was well-made and probably at least two decades old already, stylized wave-like designs inlaid with mother-of-pearl on the front. Pash obviously valued it, for he didn’t take his eyes off of it even when taking a swig from the other young man’s liquor with a hiss,

“Nah, this is a shipyard. My father and I build boats, we don’t rent them. Maybe we should?” Pash laughed and wondered how much of this stuff the dark-haired Biqaj had been into. He squinted into the bottle when Hart asked about destiny, throat still tingling from the liquid bravado inside, “Sure, I guess. I believe the Immortals take notice of us mortal things and sometimes make plans that allow us to be necessary in some bigger story or series of events, but I also believe what really pisses them off is that we can tell our own stories and completely upend their best fated paths.”

He looked up, somewhat chagrined at waxing poetic, and quickly took another swig lest he say anything else ridiculous and abstract too soon. The other youth seemed to already have his thoughts far out at sea, but not in the necessarily all-there sort of sense. He was looking for something, or so it seemed to Pash, for he could feel deeply the sense of urgency in the other youth’s strange questions,

“Nope, no name yet that I know of, though maybe the buyer has an idea already and just needs to see it before they say it out loud. I’m supposed to take her out and make sure she’s sound, and then I’m sure we’ll paint the name on nice when she’s claimed. The, uh, hull request is rather unusual, isn't it? She'll look amazing on the water as the suns set and at dawn …” The aspiring musician grinned while he spoke of how lovely the glossy white hull looked, perhaps a little proud that he and his father had accomplished such a conversation-worthy paint job,

“… eh, while I wasn’t going to do that tonight, I could.”

Pash shrugged again, tide pool gaze drifting from the ship back to the dark-haired Biqaj still holding his old but well-loved lute. He needed some inspiration, after all, for he had a song to write. The shipwright’s son assumed the other youth in front of him wasn’t a murderer or a thief on the run, considering he wasn’t armed and he seemed, well, distracted instead of frantic. What he wasn’t sure of is how angry his father would be if he took the boat out for a few breaks—or more, who knew?—with a stranger just for the muse of it all,

“How long’s a while? And what kind of … ghosts?” Pash was hoping the other meant metaphorical ones. Not real ones. He could deal in story and metaphor. He wasn’t sure he could actually deal with the dead but still lingering, ”I’m Pash Vy’Ryn, by the way,” he said with a grin as he offered the bottle back, ”And while you’re kind of trespassing, I’m willing to play along—thank the Immortals you ran into me instead of my da or my uncle.”

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

Hart handed the bottle over to the other young man when he reached out to trade, murmuring, "Thank you," when he was handed the lute. For a moment he turned the instrument in his hands, looking from top to bottom, judging the shape and smooth carving of wood and the fine, almost delicate work done on the inlays of pearl.

"It's beautiful," he added after a moment, glancing up to see the other take a swig of the gin and hiss at its strength. Perhaps the older boy had not been expecting someone like Hart, young and slight besides, to be drinking something quite so heady. Hart smiled, the expression only in the corners of his eyes, then nodded at the lute and said easily, as if he was comfortable judging such things, "Your grandfather is an artist and a fine craftsman besides."

The other began to speak of the immortals, prompted by Hart's earlier question of destiny, and the seaborn tilted his head to listen, expression thoughtful as he carefully shifted the instrument in his grasp and ran his fingers lightly over its strings, though not with enough force to invoke a sound. "You like stories," he guessed when the other finished, then, when the boy asked about the ship's paint, "Yes. It's too bad she doesn't yet have a name, but even nameless she is a thing of beauty... it's what drew me to her." Again the same smile, a warm expression. "Perhaps it's a fault but I cannot resist things of beauty." He made a step then, as if to cross to the side of the ship but hesitated, realizing the lute was still in his hands as the other continued.

"She'll look amazing on the water as the suns set and at dawn... eh, while I wasn’t going to do that tonight, I could.”

"Would you?" The question was asked in earnest and now he leant to offer the lute back and accept the bottle that was offered in turn, taking another quick swig himself.

"How long’s a while?"

"Depends," Hart said. Eyes crinkling again though his mouth didn't smile. The other boy would see Hart was serious when he next spoke. "How long til she needs to be back?"

"Pash Vy'Ryn," he said then, pronouncing the name as if to test it, "My name's Hart Qy'Akor." Perhaps he sensed something in the way Pash had said ghosts, because Hart ammended, "Not real ghosts, I'm afraid." It would be an odd statement, but again said in earnest; he looked out towards the waters. "Thank the immortals," he repeated, and what was it Pash had said earlier? Immortals take notice of us mortal things... "Thank the immortals indeed. I would hazard there's a reason why you and I met." He had offered a small sacrifice to U'frek from the bottle he held; had U'frek sent him this boy in return, instead of the boy's elders?

"To be blunt," Hart said a moment later, and though it seemed something had changed in his voice, perhaps that it wanted to rise in anger, there was only emotion there, maybe sadness, "The ghost I chase is vengeance, of a sort. I've heard tell of a ship sighted around these parts, one that flies a pirate banner, a black flag that looks to have been woven from the stars. If I'm not wrong the men aboard this ship ended the life of someone I hold dear. My sister; her name was Jovy." He glanced down, running a hand over his knuckles.

"Perhaps if they had just killed her," he said, and then paused. His mouth tightened,
"Sometimes I wish they had just killed her, that she would not have known such pain." His sister had been full of light and had died in darkness. After she had come home, bruised and battered, there had been no life left in her and yet she had lived on. Just long enough to waste away to nothing before him, no matter how he had tried to bring back her will to live.

"I'd just like to look for them," he said, voice soft again. "Perhaps speak to them, if I ever find them. But I don't have a ship to call my own and I can't take my mother's. It would hurt her, to know I was going after these men." Now his mouth did quirk up in a smile, but he shook his head and this time the expression did not reach his eyes. He finally looked up to meet Pash's gaze. "It could be dangerous. Not really the sort of thing you had imagined when you came and found me here, I think. But if I'm not wrong," he took a deep breath. Judging Pash now as he had judged the lute before, with eyes that searched as if for the finest of detail, "I think you'll come with me. At least for this day."

"So, Pash Vy'ryn... what do you say?"

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Pash was easy-going in many ways, some of which could occasionally be to his detriment. He was curious, insatiably so, hungry to experience new things and share them with new people; and while normally the word pirates would have (and should have) changed everything about the conversation he was having, Hart folded the ugly word so gently into a story that was very personal and clearly very raw that Pash hardly seemed to blink at it. He was quiet, however, for a few extra bits as he took in the rather disturbing story the younger man had told, a story that felt true and not the ramblings of someone crazy … well, someone who shouldn’t be so crazy with sorrow that they would even propose stealing a paid-in-full vessel that belonged to someone else and chasing pirates without an obvious weapon between them just to … just to look at them.

Whatever Hart needed, Pash was unsure that he was seeking his peace in the right way, but the shipwright’s son was susceptible to getting caught up in other people’s emotions and devouring their stories as if he was actually nourished by them.

Instead of telling the other youth to get out of his boat and go home, to take his bottle of fiery alcohol and put it to good use elsewhere, to chase ghosts on someone else’s damn ship, a slow, thoughtful kind of smile washed over his tanned face, lagoon blue eyes becoming brilliant emerald in his mischief.

“Look, I’ve got four siblings, not to mention my cousins and such, so if my father kills me, not even my mother may miss me.” The tall Biqaj held up his already calloused palms in joking self defense, “Does it have to be this boat? This one?”

Pash bit his lip, knowing the answer before the other Biqaj even replied. He understood. It was in their silvery blood.

“You’ll be paying for any damages, is that a deal?”

He swore a bit then, in his head, under his breath, before turning toward the ropes that held the pearlescent ship in its dreamlike state to the shipyard’s private dock. He didn’t wait to see if Hart would help him, more worried about making sure that the rigging was properly hung and the uninspected ship was actually alright to sail. It was his job, after all, to see if each finished vessel was sail-worthy, though he wasn’t doing it on his father’s watch and he wasn’t doing it when asked. He would have to ask forgiveness instead of permission, and it wasn’t going to be pretty when he did,

“We have to be back before dawn, and we’re not out there to fight anyone. Right? Just your peek, and then we’re headed home. You can chase pirates with blades on your own time and in your own boat … or, better yet, get the guards after them.”

OOC

Thanks for being patient. I had to get into Pash’s head a bit, especially before leaving home. It’s a little short, but I’m confident you can roll with me. Teehee.

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

OOC: Sorry for taking so long! ^_^'

Despite his words earlier, which had flowed with the confident ease of someone who spoke of fate, Hart let out a short breath when Pash responded that he would help. “Does it have to be this boat? This one?” the other boy asked, and Hart inclined his head just slightly, almost cautiously, not otherwise answering.

Yes. This boat was the one.

Pash seemed to understand. “You’ll be paying for any damages, is that a deal?” and Hart inclined his head again, this time in thanks.

The shipwright's son got to work taking in the sloop's mooring lines, and Hart, still wordless and now with a flutter of apprehension, quickly took another emboldening swig of gin. At the same time he and Pash began to check the rigging, and together they ran through lines and sails, making sure everything was in its proper place.

It was, and Hart motioned that Pash should take the ship's wheel if he wanted, a common sailor's courtesy, especially considering that this was essentially Pash's ship.

"The schooner we're looking for is called the Sol'Enaq," Hart said. He thought of it as the death of the soul, though more truly the name referred to the sun's death, a mixture of old Common and Rakahi. "Last the ship was sighted it was about two breaks out of the harbor towards the southwest," he continued as he helped Pash cast off. Doing his due diligence, he made sure they cleared the dock before he returned to the sails. "There's a little island down that way, so perhaps they've been taking land there." He wasn't exactly certain; all he had were the rumors he'd managed to drum up.

He knew it was a while to get there and it took an equal amount of time back. That was of course not counting the amount of time it might take to sail around the area in order to sight the foreign ship.

They would have to be watchful of the stars. Right now it was sunset, fading quickly to night. There were a good eight hours before earliest dawn. So if they spent six or seven hours they could be back at the docks well by first light of morn. Hart was certain it could be done.

What happened if and when he met the people who had caused his sister's death he was less certain about.

But he had two breaks to think about that, that or nothing at all, or nothing but small talk to keep his mind off his decision. And so for a while he did nothing but let the other, older boy direct him around the ship as they pulled further away from Ne'haer and off towards sea-- or, more aptly, deeper onto the dark expanse of the lake. "U'frek guide," Hart murmured.

"I like art as well," he offered when they had cleared the harbor. He had never really given a reply to the other's warning that they wouldn't be fighting the pirates. Hart had no intention of fighting them. Instead he looked to the lute the other had held, and rested himself against the side of the ship with his back to the waves. "I can modestly say that I sculpt. Sometimes I draw, but mostly only to map out a sculpture. Other times it's mapped only in my head." He smiled again, that faint look that was mostly in his eyes. Unlike most purebred and half Biqaj, Hart's eyes did not change color from their usual bright, sea blue.

"And you? I assume you play-- do you write as well?" Write music, he meant.

"Have you ever traveled outside Ne'haer?" he asked after another moment's pause. Hart had in his fifteen arcs been all over the world, having traveled on his mother's ship all his life. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as he asked, as if to squint at a memory. "You should hear the music in Melrath," he said. "Different than the music here." He tried to think of a description but there weren't really words for it. The best he could offer was, "It's like smoke. Sort of slinky, or maybe raspy's the word." He considered for a moment longer. "It's not loud, but all the same you feel it in your chest." You feel it with your soul.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Pash swallowed the swell of doubt and worry once Hart confirmed that this ship was the one the other youth felt necessary to steal. He shoved the sloop away from the dock with a sandaled foot, listening to the name of the ship they were looking for, though of course it wasn’t even remotely familiar. He had family that actively hunted pirates, tough Biqaj like Yarik, and while he said nothing, he wondered if he should share this kind of information with his uncle or not.

“I’ve heard of some hiding spots that way, just rumors really, but us shipwrights talk more than shop.”

The aspiring minstrel smirked then, moving to raise the halyard line and get the mainsail catching the breeze, trim and full of wind. Once the two of them had come about to head out of the harbor, Pash wordlessly agreed to steer. He knew his way around the waterways closest to Ne’Haer, though if they strayed too far, he’d have to rely on direction and not familiarity to get back home.

Pausing with a bit of jib line in his hands, the tall youth prayed without words, calling upon U’Frek and seeking safe travels in his cold, salty domain. He prayed for smooth sailing, calm seas, and protection from Hart’s pirates, whether they were real or imagined.

“It’s a bit rocky close to that island, if it’s the one I’m imagining I remember, so we’d best be careful not to get too close.” The youth added, hands on the wheel, finding Hart’s assistance about the ship somewhat pleasing if only because usually he had to manage all the things himself. This must have been the appeal of a crew, after all. Pash was tense while they made their way out of the harbor, though darkness was falling and there certainly weren’t many out on the water, he ran the very real risk of being seen by someone who worked for his father and knew the boat or someone who would simply recognize him if they got too close by accident. So, the tall youth said very little, slowly relaxing once they were out into open waters, though the weight of what he’d just agreed to had settled like something heavy into the hull of his chest.

“The only sculpting I do is bending beams for a ship’s hull, but the art’s not lost on me when I see it.” Pash finally smiled, cautiously, curious about this other boy haunted by pirates and mourning a lost sister, “Is your family on board with you making? My father’s taken arcs to convince—“

The aspiring musician chuckled, finding it humorous that his father objected to what his grandfather had introduced him to. Once his maternal grandfather had opened the doors to sound and music, Pash had never been able to look back. Building ships had become a chore he felt bound to, and it really had only been within the past arc or so that Traek had begrudgingly come to recognize and accept his eldest son’s talents lay more in music than in building ships.

“Aye, I play. I write a little, but usually find myself either playing by ear or making it up as I go along. I’ve never, uh, formally written a composition or anything. Just maybe jotted stuff down for my own reference.” The tall youth admitted shyly, far too spontaneous and distractible to be a decent composer, but talented enough to memorize musical works and improvise his own on the fly. His handwriting was also abysmal, having never even completed Ne’Haer’s formal schooling—his father had brought him to the shipyard instead once it became apparent the boy needed a less structured environment in order to learn more successfully. As much as he had no desire to follow in his father’s footsteps as a profession, the man had been patient with him and the whole shipyard a good teacher.

“I’ve traveled a bit, though, not enough. I’ve never been to Melrath, but it sounds like I need to go.” Pash smiled, relaxed now that they were slipping farther away from shore, “I honestly can’t think of too many places I don’t want to see, hear, or experience. My travels have been mostly for ship-building reasons, as my father is pretty much settled in Ne’Haer with his business. I’ve got family at sea, though. A few more arcs, and I’ll join them. I’ve no interest in staying a shipwright. There’s too much out there for me to be stuck with a hammer. I want to play and sing across as much of Idalos as I can reach—”

The tall youth glanced to the budding stars for direction, adjusting their course accordingly. While he didn’t normally speak of his dreams and wishes so unabashedly to anyone, especially not of the nomadic, musical desires of his heart, it felt easier to confess them to someone else he was stealing one of his own boats with. The barrier of formality and legality had been broken when he agreed to unmoor the unfinished vessel from his father’s shipyard, so the secrets he shared with unfiltered enthusiasm felt safe out in the open water in the darkening night. It was clear by the warmth in his voice that the aspiring musician had high hopes to see all he could, but even higher hopes to experience it all. Curiosity bordered on hedonism, and his hunger was not just a physical one.

“What about you, Hart, did you grow up traveling? Are you not from Ne’Haer?”

The evening wind was just strong enough to speed them along, though unless it shifted, their return trip home would be sailing against it and thus be slower.

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

OOC: Gods, I am the worst. Sorry for taking so long! I'm still trying to figure out exactly who Hart is; he's a tricky one. He refuses to be what I want him to be.

Pash was quiet for a while, and Hart found himself watching the older boy. It was dark on the deck of the ship, the dark of falling night, and Hart didn't think Pash would notice as he glanced over, trying to make sense of the other's quietness without bothering him.

To Hart, Pash seemed... anxious, maybe, though he did not object to the trip nor speak of his qualms aloud.

Instead, as they pulled out of the harbor, his words flowed freely, perhaps more freely than they had at the shipyard, an odd counterbalance to his quietness before. Now Pash spoke of his life and his art, and Hart found it easy to respond in kind.

"I've been all over," the seaborn said quietly; he didn't feel the need to speak too loudly out on the water, when they were far from the bustle of the city. There was only the creaking of the boat and the constant whisper of waves, both against the hull of the ship and further out. "Been to every coastal city in the east, and near every one in the west," he said, east and west referring to continents. "Though I've never been down south. And we've missed some of the far northern cities as well." He smiled. "Mom doesn't much like the cold."

"My family... mostly we charter people wherever they want to go, but my mom has always liked treasure hunting," he said, hesitating just a trill before the last couple of words. He glanced at Pash, checking for incredulity, and said, "It's not as interesting as one might think. More than anything else it's like finding a lost person: a lot of research and rumor, and sometimes you come up short."

Shipbuilding was different, there was something solid about it, something tenable, respectable even, and before Pash had mentioned it Hart had never thought of shipbuilding as something that might be close to sculpting. But now that the idea was there, shipbuilding was sort of like making a living sculpture, wasn't it, a piece of art that could be useful rather than a statue or decoration just for show. Hart liked the idea. Pash had said his father had taken arcs to convince about his music, which seemed strange, considering; Hart's mother had always been more accepting.

"I've always been able to do as I liked. But we don't have a lot of time or money for sculpting and even less room on the ship. I'm gonna start working commissions when I can, though as of yet I've only ever worked on my own projects. I've been thinking of doing a sculpture underwater." He gave another brief smile. "Weird, I know."

It was full black night now, and for a moment or three after perfect darkness had fallen Hart gave pause, watching the horizon where the last rays of the twin suns had slowly vanished.

When he next spoke Pash would be unlikely to be able see his face. But Hart's voice sounded... different. Not as easy. A shade more hesitant, perhaps.

"Pash, I'm... I'm really glad you agreed to help me with this. But I don't want to make things hard for you. You don't think you'll get in trouble, do you?" He was thinking back on how quiet Pash had been as they sailed through the harbor. "If anyone asks I can take the blame. You can say I'm a madman and I wouldn't leave without the ship. And you had no choice but to go along."

Honestly, it wasn't all that far off from the truth.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Off Topic

My turn to be the loser and let this fall far below my radar. Apologies. Hahaha. I promise to do better so we can get this finished and be awesome.

He listened as the other Biqaj spoke, Pash scanning the now-dark sky and letting his tide pool gaze wash over the constellations. He found the North Star first, glancing over his right shoulder to get his bearings where it shown brightly. The hint of a smile tugged at his features as Hart described his travels. It was a jealous smile that lingered even as he sought out a familiar shape of stars to the west, turning the white sloop slowly until their course was set between the wings of the Parrot, a westerly constellation his uncle Yarik had once pointed out,

“I’ve not been past Bayward, and here you are so well-traveled. My parents aren’t the traveling type of our people, though my uncle was a pirate once. So he says. He’s … he fights them now.” Pash grunted, envy a sharp edge to his maturing baritone, “I get to putz around Lake Rea and the harbor in other peoples’ ships, but for now, I’m still my father’s apprentice in the shipyard.”

He didn’t begrudge his parents and he didn’t feel as though he wasn’t free. Traek had, after all, pulled him from Ne’haer’s rigorous school system, aware the boy hadn’t been thriving. He’d put him to work, teaching him by living life together both in the shipyard and at home, taking personal charge of the distractable boy’s education. His parents cared for him and while he knew his father had expectations of his eldest taking over the family business, which were only typical family obligations, Pash also knew he wasn’t made to be a shipwright. Music was his voice and his hands moved over the courses of his lute in a way far more beautiful than they ever did with a hammer.

It had only been a handful of arcs since his grandfather first introduced him to his lute, though music had always been a part of his life—singing, dancing, rhythm, and playing instruments were a normal part of his clan’s entertainment and he’d enjoyed it all his life. His earliest memory of music, however, wasn’t human at all; instead, the sound of whale song in the open sea had forever filled his senses and that melodic sound surely ran in the silver of his veins.

His father had tolerated the obsession, hopeful his eldest would settle on a calling more comfortable in the shipyard, but the ever-moving, ever-curious Pash had found music his sustenance much to Traek’s chagrin.

His acceptance had been slow.

“It’s taken several seasons for my parents to be comfortable with my love of music, and I know my father still isn’t sure it’s the choice I should be making. I’m looking forward to traveling, to playing my lute all over Idalos, even if that means leaving home—“

A sculpture under water? How would that work? Pash chuckled at the suggestion, “You’ll have to learn to breathe under there, then.”

Once on the open water, Pash glanced up again and began to shift their course, drifting away from the wings of the Parrot, Biqaj gaze searching out the shapes the brilliant stars in the sky made. He turned them more a northwesterly direction, putting them between the brightest star and the bird, underneath the faint glow of the Littlest Bridge, the collection of stars usually invisible when the moons were full.

Hart became serious and the shipwright’s son quieted for a few bits, weighing his sincerity with the fear that still washed in the hull of his chest. His father would be beyond angry come dawn, and yet it didn’t matter. This stranger’s story compelling, his hurt tangible, and the adventure far too irresistible for Pash’s insatiable curiosity to ignore,

“I think my father will say I could’ve taken you in a fight. That I should have.” The taller boy grinned, the warm depths of his voice not a threat but a boastful wager of their relative prowess, “And I’ll be in unfathomable trouble, but trust me, it won’t be the first time. Mad, though? Are you? Crazy, that is. Drunk, maybe, but why didn’t you take this to the Blades instead of to my shipyard?”

It was a legitimate question in his mind. If his sister had been murdered and he knew of the ship. Real vengeance was never as worthwhile as justice, the boy imagined. Maybe he was wrong?