• Memory • An instrument of sand and stars

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Those lips that love’s own hand did make,
Breath’d forth the sound that said “I hate,”
To me that languished for her sake.
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet,
Was used in giving gentle doom:
And taught it this anew to greet:
“I hate” she altered with an end,
That followed it as gentle day,
Doth follow night who like a end
From heaven to hell is own away.
“I hate,” from hate away she threw,
And saved my life saying “not you.”

-Shakespeare, Sonnet 145

Ymiden 714

To say that Pash was nervous would have meant he had a reason to be, but as he reminded himself for the millionth time, the tall Biqaj was simply reading far too deeply into everything. The burning truth that he was not normally an over-thinker (no, unfortunately, he was normally quite the opposite) was not lost on the seafaring minstrel, either, and yet, he found that he couldn’t help himself. Perhaps it was still because unseen emotional wounds still ached in the hull of his chest, perhaps it was because he wasn’t sure if playing such a game as Zana had invited him into was quite the wisest choice no matter the thrill of distraction, or perhaps it was because he knew who he was and how he could be swept up in other’s stories so completely.

Not that the mortal born was at all playing a game. No, she had asked for a favor: a vision, a glimpse into a life that she had not chosen and that did not belong to her. She had, in all simplicity (no matter how difficult that was proving to achieve), asked for a date: an experience, but nothing like those she sold. Somehow, however, she seemed to trust that the seafaring minstrel’s capabilities instead. He was, after all, a performer of a different kind.

He was also not a customer—just a man, really—but hopefully, a friend.

It was Ymiden, the hot cycle with long days and warm nights, and as a Biqaj, Pash had a calloused finger on the pulse of every beach celebration from Ne’Haer to Bayward (much to his father’s chagrin, though he’d always been that way … now, as a well-traveled adult, he simply was better at it). A shipwright’s son who’d been put back to work while he was home healing his hurt feelings and piecing his mental self back together, knew of every boat launch worth celebrating from Orik’s Shipyard to his own. The only issue was a cultural one, and one he did not know how to explain so he ignored it completely—Zana was an outsider to his people, and while a celebration of any kind was usually an open one, often involving the local community and not just local Biqaj, he would be noticed. He would hear about his choices later, not that he cared. He’d traveled for so long, been so far away from home, and frankly cared so little about such inclusive rules that it was, to Pash, almost a non sequitur.

His goal was the same as always: to show the blonde, who also happened to be a prostitute, a good time—no strings attached, no expectations, no requirements. Pash should have been a capable candidate. It felt very strange to feel otherwise, but he did.

And so he stood in the street during the golden hour of long shadows and perfect lighting, waiting like a nervous youth despite everything he had told himself not to worry about, no instrument to hide behind, not that he had anything left to hide, anyway. He’d worn a shirt—and by Zanik, buttoned it—under his worn leather vest and tied back his sun-kissed hair from his sea-swept face. He wasn’t even new to this sort of thing, just wounded, unstable, and strange. He smiled, though, expectantly waiting for his date to arrive where he said he would meet her, running back over his very minimal plans in his too-busy mind.

[Zana]

She was not nervous.

She was not.

She was, in fact, Delroth's daughter and she was supremely confident. Without a doubt, Zana considered as she looked at herself in the mirror, she was not nervous.

"Then why have I been here for a break and a half, Father? Is it weakness to consider how I look more carefully for a man who might choose to reject me? What foolish mortal emotions am I weakened with, Father?" Painting on the last of the light lipstick which she wore, Zana stood and smoothed down her dress.

She looked casually beautiful. Her ice-blue skirt flowed down over her legs, clinging and yet floating, it's wide deep blue waist band pulled in her tiny waist. The bodice of the same icy colour she wore pushed up her breasts and enhanced her cleavage, yet she wore a deep blue shirt which was tied beneath those breasts and added an air of casual. Having spent a full break on her make up, she had managed the level of subtle which meant that it looked like she had none on and the cascade of blonde hair seemed to just fall in place, denying the fact that it had been tied in rags to dry, further enhancing the natural wave.

Her goal, that night, was to taste a life she had never lived. Zana had no wish to live that life, either. The thought of dates and boyfriends, monogamy and boring relationships horrified her. Yet, she'd never tried it and, she had to admit that there was something very appealing about Pash.

Bloody Biqaj men. They were her weakness, her flaw. She knew it.

He was easy to be around without being dull, he was easy on the eyes, too. Sexually, she would have to rate him as a talented amateur and, what he lacked in finesse he made up for in enthusiasm. He laughed with all of him and his eyes told his soul. He was a deeply emotional shallow man and a harebrained deep thinker and Zana liked all of those things about him.

So, in the Ymiden heat, she slipped on her shoes (high heels, always high heels) and she went to where they had agreed to meet. As she approached, he was already there and Zana felt a strange flutter in her chest. It wasn't anything significant, she knew. It was simply that a sudden chill of cold air had made its way across her pale skin. Her heart rate quickened, but that was because she had walked too fast.

"Hello," she said, and she smiled as his gaze turned to her and traveled over her. "Since it's a date, and I don't usually go on those, I wore underwear."

She was not nervous. Not at all.

I'm dangerous like a broken glass. I'm a flesh fanatic psychopath. I can cause you pain and make it last.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

The tall Biqaj exhaled a breath he had no reason to be holding, the smile that spread across his face as warm and bright as the sensation that tickled the back of his neck once Zana came into view. She was the daughter of Delroth—he told himself, more than once, as if it were the only excuse he needed—so of course she would be beautiful beyond mortal words. The perfect lighting fell upon her and the shipwright’s son told himself to memorize the vision, to sear the sight into his mind lest he not see anything the same again. Freedom fit her well, though she did not know it, an accessory to her attractive body and far-prettier-than-his clothing that might as well have been a crown.

She addressed him and he swallowed his own heart to speak, “It’s good t’ see y’ too. Y’ look lovely—out to rival th’ setting suns an’ leave me ‘n your shadow, it seems. It’s no’ such a bad place t’ be, I’d say.”

Pash kept his wits and more this time when she mentioned what was under the skirt that only served to enhance the crystalline color of her eyes. He’d offer her his arm then, tanned and tattooed skin hidden beneath his sleeve, leaning in to comment quietly once she took it, “May I offer a tip—no’ that you’ll need it in th’ future ‘r anythin’ o’ course—but when out on a date, it's a’right to save a lil’ somethin’ for mystery, y’ see. If I want t’ know what y’ are ‘r aren’t wearin’, let me find out. Later. Anticipation’s a good thing, aye?”

He resisted the urge to kiss her in greeting if only to mean what he said about anticipation. It was good to be an example, was it not?

He winked then, coy and teasing, before his lagoon blue gaze made to travel over all he could see of her pale self with the same shy smile he’d worn since she became a part of his current vision. Once he had her hand, he’d turn and lead them in the direction of the beach, waving his free hand and waggling his calloused fingers as if pointing the way,

“Now, then. It’s a lil’ bit o’ a walk, an’ I’m sorry for that, but I’ve found us th’ best bonfire this side o’ Lake Rea for dancin’. I was s’posed t’ be playin’, too, but I said I had more important plans.” Pash’s last sentence wasn’t teasing, it was true. As much as he enjoyed playing music at parties and the attention it more often than not warranted him, this was a treat. He found he wanted her attention more than an entire audience. At least for tonight. He told himself it was more for her than for himself, anyway, and that she’d asked him to do it, not at all that he needed it.

Because, surely he didn’t.

Well, perhaps he did—just a little—need to step out of himself enough to fix what he felt was broken, to look once again at the sheet music he’d been handed, to set his fingers upon the right chords of his own life. The blonde had said they were in tune when he felt he couldn’t possibly be in tune with anything else, and that had comforted a hurt he didn’t think could be soothed.

He’d lead her through the streets, then, over cobblestones and past prying eyes. If the sails of his heart were filled with anything like pride at what kind of loveliness hung off his unworthy arm, his face didn’t show it any more than his gait. Instead, he simply stored such thoughts in the hull of his chest, making what idle conversation he could muster along the way as unrevealing as possible to all she stirred in his always-turning mind.

Pash imagined someone with deep pockets could take Zana anywhere they wished, even to a ball or a fancy party or something like that and briefly realized their fun could be mistaken along the same vein. He was undaunted, however, “I’ve been told this gatherin’s t’ be a highlight o’ th’ hot cycle, but I’ll tell you that it’s th’ beach that’s one o’ m’ favorite spots ‘round th’ lake. It’s no’ a party without th’ atmosphere, jus’ like there’s no jewelry without a jewel.”

The tall Biqaj pat her hand on his arm with those words, implying her in that sentence without a hint of shame, “Have y’ really never been t’ a party on your own?”

[Zana]

Zana took Pash's arm and listened to his suggestion. He had a point, in fairness and 'I'm wearing underwear' had not been her planned opening gambit. However, Zana did not do apologetic nor did she do sheepish, so instead she just looked at him and smiled. "There's all sorts of details still to discover about said items. Try not to rush me." It was outrageous as an accusation, she knew it. Hopefully, so did he.

Why didn't he kiss her?

She was quite sure that, since they were on a date, he was supposed to kiss her. The girls at the brothel talked about such things all the time, but no. No kiss. Maybe the break and a half in front of the mirror had not been well spent. Yet, he wanted her, she could see it. Perhaps it was about more than wanting.

Or maybe it was all about it.

As they walked, she waved away the concern about how far it was to walk. "I take dance lessons. It is good for my legs to be well exercised." Zana resisted the obvious quip and instead glanced over at him with an almost-shy smile when he said he told them he had more important plans. "That's nice. It makes me feel nice. Thank you." It did. A slight tickle in her stomach which was at once warm and chilly.

One of the things that Zana could do, and well, was idle conversation. She chatted with him and resisted the urge to point out all the people she recognised, all the clients who frequented her door on a regular or irregular basis. Instead, she kept the conversation about him and her, and the trial. When he spoke about the beach though, and suggested that she might be the jewel he referred to, Zana smiled. "I'm excited," she said and then glanced in some surprise at his next question.

"Betty Franks." Zana said with a completely straight face. "I went to her party. But there was a boy there called Winston, and he pulled my hair. So I kicked him as hard as I could and he cried." She chuckled at the memory of what she was describing. "I was six, I think. Betty," who was now dead, of course, but she didn't mention that. "Betty's mother worked with mine. It was her birthtrial."

Shrugging, she smiled at him. "That was the last time I went to a party where I was part of the entertainment." Zana considered how to say it, "people find it hard to be friends with people who do what I do. You invite friends to parties." She chuckled and leaned against his arm, briefly pulling herself closer to him. "Every choice has consequences, Pash. I'd still make mine. I mean, I could ask you with equal incredulity about a number of experiences." She watched him with a wicked smile. "But I won't. It might make you blush. What kind of dancing is it here? I do ballet."

I'm dangerous like a broken glass. I'm a flesh fanatic psychopath. I can cause you pain and make it last.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

“Details? Mmmhmm.” Pash rolled his eyes playfully, which were nearly emerald in his amusement, aware that if he was going to be removing any undergarments, he most likely wasn’t going to be taking the time to examine their little details. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her reasons for dancing lessons, however, for her reasoning was attractively sound, indeed.

He admittedly had no idea what kind of education Zana had, other than what he’d gleaned from their conversation: her upbringing had been focused on the career she willingly chose and she’d had both her mother and others to teach her and guide her along the way. He wouldn’t have necessarily considered prostitution a form of employment to keep in the family, but clearly the daughter of Delroth was unique in all that she did. He hadn’t even finished formal schooling in Ne’Haer, joining his father in the shipyard at 7 instead of joining his friends and cousins at school. He’d had never made it anyway, that kind of focus and dedication to sitting still far more difficult than his ability to listen. His father had given him something to do with his hands and his grandfather, his aunts and uncles, his mother had taught him what he needed to know in order to get by in the world—reading and writing and all that other stuff. He’d stumbled into the rest on his own, his worldly education perhaps exceeding his more traditional one by leaps and bounds.

Pash laughed at her poor party experience, though he wasn’t laughing at her, of course. For a brief moment, he looked at her, gaze lingering, as if trying to picture her at all as a child, kicking some poor boy with all her might, “Y’ know, they say when a boy does that, he likes you, but, well, I’m no’ so sure if that’s jus’ an excuse for bein’ naughty ‘r ‘f it’s really true.”

The seafaring minstrel had, perhaps, always preferred a less traditional approach to things. Even as a child, he was often that friend who everyone invited along to parties for fun or private conversations to confide in. He won more hearts by listening than he ever did by pulling hair. That didn’t mean he didn’t get in his fair share of trouble, however, no, for his curiosity often found him in places he wasn’t allowed doing things he shouldn’t.

“Well, today’s your second chance, then.” Pash grinned warmly, teasing a little, but the baritone of his voice was genuine when he spoke of her place this trial, “An’ you’ll be there t’ be entertained, no’ th’ entertainment. As m’ friend.”

While there were obvious benefits to the blonde’s company that he had to admit he enjoyed for all the obvious reasons, Zana was a witty, interesting woman once one took the time to look deeper beyond her Immortal-graced beauty and the skills of her profession. Pash could understand that lesser men wouldn’t bother to do such a thing, to take the time to look past physical satisfaction in someone so ready to give it in order to peer into what lay underneath the surface. The tall Biqaj was far too curious for his own good in that respect, eager to peer deeply into things and often paying the personal price for such a view. He enjoyed their similarities, surprising as they were, and found her wit a fiery match to his own—iron that sharpened iron in this season he felt so dull and worn.

“Choices? I’ve made? Like what?” Pash smirked, his tone coy, free hand straying to his chest for a moment of playing at innocent, “What experiences ‘re y’ hintin’ at? I don’ think I’d change any o’ what I’ve done so far in m’ life neither, no matter how much some ‘f those consequences have stung. Th’ good has far outweighed th’ bad … so far. B’sides, it doesn’t seem like you t’ hold back on account ‘f embarrassin’ me. Go on. Try me.”

The seafaring minstrel taunted her a little, willing to be embarrassed by her questions if only because he was now far too curious as to what she could possibly want to know about his life, leading them through the streets as the suns cast longer and longer shadows. It was obvious the city was familiar, comfortable, and home. He’d been away, it was true, but his muscle memory was good. If he wondered at all who she may have known along the way, he didn’t care. They were all missing out this eve, as far as he was concerned.

“Ballet? I’m … no’ even sure I know what that is.” Pash admitted, far from cultured in the same way. The Biqaj preferred to play the music, it was true, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t enjoy dancing. Rhythm appealed to him in all forms, whether he was the one contributing notes or whether he was letting his body be taken by it. He accentuated his explanation with a bit of movement as if to give her the idea as he spoke, keeping it all in step with her while he did so, “Dancin’ to music someone ’s makin’ up in th’ moment is totally different, I’d bet. You’re kinda makin’ it all up as y’ move along, too, lettin’ th’ rhythm o’ th’ drums an’ th’ other instruments tell your body what to do. I think you’ll catch on well ‘nough, Zana. There’s a bit more touchin' an’ than some formal, fancy stuff.”

Eventually, Ne’Haer proper thinned away and the sky seemed to drop a little, sunset hues cloudless and clear. The first stars would begin to awaken by the time they had sand under their feet instead of cobblestones, Pash leading them along the more isolated shores of Lake Rea, farther out of town.

[Zana]

Zana looked at Pash and smiled a slight, but most genuine smile. "Of course he liked me. He'd met me." She was not in receipt of a fragile ego, it had to be said. When he said that she'd be there, tonight, as a party guest and as his friend, Zana's lips lifted and she hugged herself against his arm. "That sounds fun. I'm excited." She grinned as she realised that it was true; she was.

When he faked being surprised, innocent and shocked, Zana laughed and shook her head. "I simply mean, Pash, that your choices have probably led to a lot more parties for you than mine have for me, for example." She looked up at him with an innocent gaze, ice blue eyes sweet and pure beneath the lashes which fluttered just a little. "And mine have probably meant a lot more group sex than yours have." She considered and added, "and I agree. The good has far outweighed the bad." She wouldn't do her job if that wasn't the case and the moment it stopped being true, she'd leave.

As they walked, Pash said that he wasn't entirely sure what ballet was and Zana considered how to explain it. "Usually danced on the points of your feet, on your toes. With a sticky-out puffy skirt? Very graceful, very elegant" Not at all the kind of strange gyrating he was talking about, though and she shot him a glance which was less than convinced when he said that she'd take to it easily and so she asked, quite genuinely, "will you help me? Dance with me?" There was a simple truth for the mortalborn, "I don't like the idea of making a fool of myself." Something of an understatement, but there it was.

As they walked, Zana looked up at the sky as the tapestry of dusk danced across the horizon and she smiled. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Glancing at him Zana wondered. "Was I supposed to bring something with me? Alcohol or sandwiches?"

Oh baby, baby, the reason I'm here is you, you got me stranded.
There's nothing I won't do. Isn't that the way you planned it?

[Pash Raj'oriq]

“Aye, parties. I’ve been invited t’ more ‘n m’ fair share, I s’pose. I’ve been told I’m kinda fun t’ be ‘round, even with m’ clothes on. You’ll have t’ tell me later, eh? Give me a review?”

Pash did not have trouble making friends, it was true. He was, indeed, that guy who was invited to all the parties: he could play an instrument, he was a good listener, he tended to behave himself when drunk, and he was easy on the eyes. He was generally easy about a lot of things, really, but mostly the things that got you invited to do more fun things so that you could be good company. This he knew, perhaps more casually and with less verbal assurance than Zana, but not necessarily with any less quantitative vanity or pride. He did not have more humility, just a different way of expressing his confidence. The quality, too, was cut from a different cloth, for the blonde had, of course, literal heritage—her lineage was descended from Vanity himself. And yet, her verbal self-confidence, her lack of humility, could have even been a clear mirror had he chosen to look into it at all, a similar reflection with a different face, but the seafaring minstrel struggled to see past her blue eyes into his own or even past what he felt as an assuaging to what ached in her presence to look deeper. Not yet.

He smirked at her comparison, curious but unwilling to ask, the very thought distracting enough.

“Ah—will I dance with you?” Pash laughed but it was a gentle sound instead of a mocking one, his sideways glance warm, emerald green, and almost embarrassed. Who else would he dance with? He wanted to dance with her. “Aye. Why wouldn’t I? I bet you'll show yourself a swifter study than y’ think. N'one will care, n'one ‘s at th’ party judgin’ y’ on performance. You’re no’ here with me t’ leave th’ entire party one big satisfied customer. You’re goin’ for you. With me. T’ enjoy yourself. You’re satisfyin’ you. An’ bein’ free for a few breaks. There’s no foolin’ in that.”

For Immortalsakes, it was Ne’Haer.

Freedom was some kind of subtitle. Or catch phrase. A theme.

The tall Biqaj grinned at the mortal born, longing to invite her out of her head for even the shortest amount of time. She’d asked for a different perspective, for a brief new view, and he had no idea how to give it to her. His existence was his best example, but even then, he was far from perfect. He spoke of being free and having a good time, and yet he still dragged a lump of hurt around, a cautionary pain that held him back in subtle ways he could not entirely see despite his own emotional sensitivities. There was an unspoken irony in being a fledgling Empath oblivious to one’s own lingering feelings of pain.

Pash looked away from Zana to follow her crystalline gaze, to look out across the horizon as the suns set it on fire as they yielded to the night, “Y’ should see ‘t from th’ sea, from so far out from land that there’s nothin’ but skyfire an’ water. Aye, that kind o’ beauty ‘s hard to compare. Almost.”

He chuckled, ambiguous as to whether he was teasing or serious, though surely she knew.

“Nah, y’ don’ gotta bring a thing. Th’ hosts, it’s their job t’ feed everyone. There’ll be plenty t’ drink an’ more food than’s ever necessary.” Pash enjoyed party food in its endless supply and variety almost as much as party drinks in their generous volume. He could be simple when he wanted to; he liked food. His enthusiasm was audible, “Maybe feedin’ everyone’s a Biqaj thing? Or maybe I jus’ make sure t’ go t’ parties with food.”

Either way, he clearly found it a good thing.

Pash led them along the beach, pausing only to tug off his sandals and curl his toes in the sand before continuing barefoot. A few other people appeared in the gathering dusk, obviously headed in the same direction. Everyone exchanged smiles, knowing ones, and even waved in greeting. The glow of a huge bonfire roared into view, reflecting off the lake with the first of the stars. There were a few other smaller fires, obviously for cooking, but the largest bonfire was clearly the centerpiece: a handful of people with instruments were already around it playing music that was mostly heavy on the drums and had a catchy rhythm. While the seafaring musician was aware there would be people he knew, and had known all his life, at the party, he was pretty sure none of his friends would remember or recognize Zana from his birthtrial. Everyone had surely been … distracted.

He slipped his arm from hers to run a warm hand over the small of her back, to rest on her hip and tug her closer to him, leaning toward her to whisper quietly, intention serious instead of distracting though the line was a thin one and he knew it, “This be a Biqaj party. Biqaj touch. Biqaj don’ understand personal space, ‘specially no’ ‘round friends ‘n family. When folks feel a lil’ frisky greetin’ you, it’s jus’ ‘cause that’s how we are, a’right? But there’s always that one who’s gotta ruin it all an’ be an ass, ‘specially drunk, an’ if so, I got you. Let any o’ that, should anythin’ get outta hand be on me, eh?”

[Zana]

Zana let out a laugh when he invited her to give him a review later. "I have found through my life that people rarely want the reviews they ask for you know." Her eyes danced with humour as she pointed that out and then added, almost primly, "I think I'll be a good girl for once and keep my opinions to myself."

When he talked about the sky, though, from the ocean which was his home, she supposed, he looked wistfully out and Zana looked at him. "Almost?" Zana's lower lip stuck out in a pout; a fake expression she endeavored to maintain as long as she could, "all boys are cruel. So my mother taught me and it seems she was right."

When he took off his shoes on the beach, Zana watched and then removed hers. She grinned in delight at the feeling of sand between her toes and she held on to his hand as they made their way. One bonfire for dancing around, she supposed, and smaller ones for cooking. That made sense and the mortalborn looked around with interest evident in every pore. However, that interest abated as his hand moved down to her hip and he pulled her against him. As he did, she let out a small sound of surprise, not quite a moan but close to one. Her body pressed against his and she met him, eye to eye.

He spoke of what biqaj were like and Zana smiled. Wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging in tight against him, she lifted her head till she so close to him that her breath tickled his lips. "Are you always this protective, Pash? I can handle myself, you don't need to worry, but I'll do you a deal." Moving closer still, so that her lips were almost touching his, Zana spoke. "How about I just stay close to you?" She chuckled, looking at him with an expression of mischief.

"Why don't you introduce me to your friends?" Zana asked, pleasure lighting her voice.

Oh baby, baby, the reason I'm here is you, you got me stranded.
There's nothing I won't do. Isn't that the way you planned it?

[Pash Raj'oriq]

“E’eryone ‘s cruel.” Pash answered, unintentionally quick to respond to her tease, her words poking at metaphorically bruised ribs, scratching at memories of what led him to flee Rharne like a beaten dog. She knew. He’d told her. But those things didn’t matter to her like they did to him, and he knew it. Perhaps it was some mortal weakness to dwell on unnecessary things, some strange tangle of limited existence that led mortality to cling to every piece of time they had, good or bad, beautiful or painful. He just couldn’t help the exhale of pain. His eyes darkened for just a moment, a flash of stormy grey like a summer squall, and he looked away from her, desperate to keep up the cheerful game instead of allow himself to be dragged from the sunset shore of Lake Rea and back across the Orm’del sea with memory, “An’ I’d much prefer t’ hear honest words o’ criticism than feel th’ subtle knives o’ long-held resentment e’er again. Please, don’ keep it t’ yourself ‘f y’ don’ enjoy m’ company. Don’ pretend ‘r feel obligated, a’right? If th’ game’s no’ fun, stop playing. I’ve been strung along one time too many.”

The tall Biqaj’s request was serious enough as to feel out of place, clearly needing to pause for a moment and fight back strong feelings and recent memories. Finally, he looked back at the blonde, expression softening with obvious reluctance.

His protective reach was perhaps a little self-serving, an anchor to the present lest he sail back to the past, but he meant what he said. The mortalborn was more than just a little easy on the eyes and in a whole people group with few boundaries mixed with alcohol meant there would eventually be someone who took things too far. She heard differently or could probably handle herself or at least did not share his caution, her body pressing against his in a way that was both inadvertently comforting and purposefully distracting. The seafaring minstrel shifted his hands to rest on her hips, to curl calloused fingers into fine fabric, and he smiled somewhat distantly at the proximity of her lips, “Aye, that’ll do.”

“M’ friends?” He hovered, not letting her go, taunting her now because he needed to change the direction of his thoughts but also because he enjoyed how easy it was to move with the ebb and flow of her humor as well as her attentions. Pash kissed her then, on the beach under the first of the stars, in full view of the gathering crowd they had been getting closer to, lingering because he could, because he wasn’t otherwise bound by any rules, “A’right, fine, now that they know who you’re with.”

He laughed, pulling away to take her hand again in his, waving with the other to catch the attention of some of the other Biqaj walking in the gathering darkness toward the same bonfires. A few slowed to let them catch up, grinning and waving back,

“Fair wind! Heard you’d be here, Pash—” The first greetings were in Rakahi, a shorter, square-jawed fellow with dark hair and darker eyes fell into step with the pair and warmly slapped a broad hand on the seafaring minstrel’s shoulder, far from gentle. He was clearly older, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in a pleasing way when he smiled.

“—but you’re not playing music?” The other Biqaj finished the first’s sentence, hardly younger but with dark mocha skin and even darker hair, her pale green eyes expressing a disappointment that was echoed by the tone of her voice. She smiled at Zana, verdant glance not missing their entwined hands as if she’d have something to say on the matter had she been asked. Pash’s guest was unfamiliar, an outsider, and the woman immediately finished her thoughts in Common, revealing herself a fan of the salty bard, “Djet, we should go home. He didn’t bring his lute.”

“Shush. I’m here to eat, woman, and drink. Not dance. I helped build that damn boat, so I’m going to celebrate.” The man, Djet, who’d been with Pash on his birthtrial but remembered very little of it, if anything at all, laughed and shook his head, clearly baiting the woman he was with as he looked over the mortal born with more than just idle curiosity, “Whose your pretty friend, boy?”

Pash grinned, unflinching under Djet’s strong slap and subtle judgments, the older man a family friend and competitor in the shipwright business, “Djet, this is Zana. Zana, this is Djet, an’, uh, I’m sorry, I don’ think we’ve met though ‘t seems y’ know o’ me?” He could play, too, the baritone of his voice lilting just enough to point out to the other man that a few trials ago, the name and face of his woman had been entirely different,

“I’m Vyrja. Nice to meet you, Zana, and in person, Pash.” The woman smiled, speaking for herself before Djet interjected. She seemed friendly, and yet the way she watched them both didn’t feel entirely curious.

[Zana]

Zana looked at him as the mood suddenly shifted, changed. It was like he'd flipped into a different place and she raised an eyebrow. From teasing and laughing to brooding and self-absorbed, he had jumped in a trill. "In my line of work," Zana replied with a grin at him, "I deal with nuances, details. Something so sledgehammer as 'everyone is' anything means I miss those. Like 'everyone whore feels the same about their job', such absolutes are just not true." At his next bit, though, she shook her head. "If I stop enjoying your company you'll be the first person I tell. I'll put a sign on my ass and you can read it as you watch me leave. If that should happen." She nudged him, then, digging her elbow into his ribs and said no more but just let him work out that he was being a moody broody boy on his own. He was bright enough to manage that, she thought and if he wasn't then telling him wouldn't help.

So they walked, he brooded a bit more she thought, and then they got to where they were going. The feeling of his hands on her hips, the touch of his body to hers pulled him into the here and now, a place where Zana pretty much always lived and as he lowered his head to kiss her she leaned into him. Her hands moved up, slowly entwining together behind his neck and she watched him with ice eyes and a smile, "I'm happy to stay close to you. I like it here. And protective isn't a bad thing, you know," she whispered, "I think I might quite like it."

When the Biqaj she didn't know spoke to Pash, Zana listened and when the woman spoke in Common, revealing that they should go home because Pash didn't have his lute, Zana looked her over and then spoke in Rakahi. "No music. Both hands for me," she smiled and slipped her arm around Pash's waist, pulling herself close. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Djet and Vyrja." She looked at Pash and grinned, ignoring the woman's glance and turning her attention to her companion. "My Rakahi isn't very good, but I get by."

"So you're a boat builder, Djet? I met a man who was a boat builder here a few arcs ago. Elijah, his name was. We went for a sail in his sloop," there was just something about the way she said it, but her expression was innocent. "Maybe we could do the same?" Zana asked that of Pash and she smiled, leaning against him with her arm around his waist and quite content."What about you, Vyrja, what do you do?"

Love rescue me, come forth and speak to me,
Raise me up and don't let me down.