32 Ymiden 717
Inspiration had lately been fleeting, it was true. Pash had sailed through all the darkness of Cylus, alone in the quiet under the stars, to even reach Scalvoris in the first place. To what end? Here at what felt to some to be the edge of the known world, what was he even here for? That was a question he’d found he couldn’t answer, though it hadn’t even been a question until a ten-trial ago. Now, it dogged him, so many teeth in his thoughts when he let them wander, sharp and biting. He’d felt a tide shift, so much salt water dragging him from shore and he needed to swim with it, not against it, lest he drown. An undertow of change he wasn’t sure he could catch his breath in.
Quietly, early as always, the seafaring minstrel made his way through the familiar streets to the Central Square and to Cally’s, wind whipping strongly through the alleys and a smattering of rain threatening to fall at any moment. This eve, he walked in some odd mix of thought and prayer, wrestling with just how much recent events had strangled his inspiration instead of fueled it, aware that it was more of himself getting in the way, stepping on his own toes, instead of lack of material to work with. There had been an unspeakable beauty to the Immortal’s Tonge, despite how tarnished his memory felt of it, how corrupted and dirtied. Diseased. There had also been a strange allure to the jungle, so teeming with life he’d probably never be able to entirely understand in his short lifespan. For that, he was thankful—thankful to the Immortals who somehow deemed him worthy to still be breathing at all—and yet he struggled to feel as though he had anything to give back in thanks.
He’d told himself for arcs that his music had always been in offering to Zanik—the Immortal who reigned over such melodious sound—and when he felt broken, as he had more or less for so many trials, he couldn’t help but feel ashamed for his lack of strength under pressure, for bending under the weight of the life he should be strong enough to bear if it was so gifted to him. He’d taken much of his spoiled, simple life for granted until recently, that was for damn sure. Which begged the true question—who was his music an offering to? Did he simply follow what his grandfather had told him, did he just give lip service to the Immortals whose names and domains he knew?
Did it matter?
For Lissira, it did. For Moseke, too. That much, he’d not just seen, he’d lived. Lived. From Faith, Famula and Vri and Moseke were not distant. They were very near.
It wasn’t even physical strength he struggled with, however, but something more abstract, something much more internal. Perhaps some of it was belief. But there was more to it than just that. Nothing was ever as simple as you longed for it to be, no. For all the arcs that he’d been able to peer into the emotional insides of others, that he’d seen their feelings, felt their feelings, and even toyed with the feelings of others, he found that he often didn’t truly have the self control to deal with his own. His need for strength was far beyond muscle and bone. Perhaps that abstract, emotional strength was not at all his favorite Immortal’s realm, and yet he guessed in some ways, it was. He hoped so, anyway, for if not, he wasn’t quite sure where else to turn. His own inner reserves felt so empty, and he’d come to realize it was time to learn to be still, to find focus, and he would need strength far beyond his own to do that, especially if he truly aspired to be a part of anything greater than himself, which he knew, deep down inside, even past the spark of magic that he had joined his life to, he did.
And yet, he didn’t.
There was so much risk in reaching beyond the familiar, and of all the things Pash had ever tasted, seen, or felt, nothing had tasted so bitter, looked so hopeless, or felt so much like failure than recent events. Perhaps, in his brooding, creative nature, he was making hyperbole of it all, over exaggerating by unfortunate circumstance of being who he was and how he was wired, in which case, again, he was the only thing in all of Idalos actually getting in his own way. If only he could see it. Perhaps, in his somewhat purposefully sheltered, comfortably shallow way of living, he’d set himself up for such a simple, crushing blow. A cheap shot, self-orchestrated, and right in the feels. Everyone had made it a point to remind him of his poor choices, too. Everyone.
What a foolish creature he’d been, in the end, to have wasted so much time! So much time on himself, thinly disguised as altruism in the name of a good time. Here, of all places, he’d been shown different, he’d seen better. And it was nothing short of crushing.
His prayer was simple, pausing at the fountain in the square because somewhere along the way it’d come to have a bit of meaning: it was a reminder of change and not just simply for himself. He hooked a thumb in the colorful woven strap of his lute as was his habit. It was easier to be poetic in front of something meaningful, surely,
Zanik, if you listen to me at all, hear this. If you are music, not just of it, if it is not just what pleases you but truly what you are, hear me. If you are strength, and if it’s not just the appearance of strength that pleases you but true inward and outward prowess are the sinews of your existence, listen well. If you are seduction, not just the fleeting feeling of temptation or just another pretty thing, but attraction itself, seduce me. If an Immortal I hardly pay attention to such as Moseke can find some value in my life to decide it’s worth saving, then surely yourself, who I have at least paid lip service to in my life instead of the actual devotion you deserve with my gifts and talents, then surely, I’m the one in need of help here. I haven’t been looking, but now I want to see. I have not been listening, but now I want to hear. I have perhaps done plenty of feeling, but I have not been doing. I don’t know what that looks like and I don’t know what to ask of any of you, if only because I’m unsure of what to give in return. I’m only here, about to go to work, playing my grandfather’s old lute, and yet I know the notes I play will mean something to someone. Even if I don’t feel like they mean anything to me this trial, and I haven’t for several trials now, I long for what I do to mean something not only for that one person—or many—this trial, but also for you. May it matter, since I’m not sure anything has until now. May it matter to you.
Pash felt uneasy, standing there, speaking in his head without words to something that was beyond himself, just as beyond himself as anything else he’d experienced. He felt a rare (but increasingly common lately) flutter of pure self-consciousness, aware that he’d never spoken to any Immortal in such away, fingers curling tightly into the strap of his lute, a splash or two of water on his crisp, clean work clothes.
Nothing had been easy lately and he was tired of being in his own way.
He wanted to make room: Room for growth. Room for music. Room for the Immortals. Room for change. Room for people, too.
Broad shoulders shaped by the sea sagged a little and he sighed, though it wasn’t a movement or a sound of defeat so much as something softer, something yielding. The contexts were different but the motion the same. Pash stepped away from the fountain and wove his way through the light evening crowd, passing a few food vendors before slipping into the alley that led to the back entrance of Cally’s. He smiled his greetings at the familiar faces in the kitchen, aware that he owed them some friendly banter, some idle chatter, but not quite able to find the witty things to say, as if he’d gone and left that part of himself somewhere else.
Early, the dining area was empty and he settled into his seat, sliding his lute off his shoulder and into his lap while glancing out the window at the fountain and a few drops of rain that had been promised all day. He tuned and hummed quietly, running over in his mind what he had said and how he felt and what everything was supposed to mean lately.
Trudi set his water on the little table by his chair with a wink, having since taken it upon herself to step up her game after he’d brought someone to the restaurant for dinner, for an obvious date. She didn’t say anything at the moment, however, somehow kind enough not to interrupt him in his work when he was playing or preparing, only when he was on break or staying late to help clean up. He offered a quick grin of thanks, calloused fingers finding comfortable places on his lute once he was satisfied with its tuning, strumming a few chords as he swam through his thoughts for what to play, what kind of fragrant offerings of sound he could find in the well-salted vaults of his mind.
It could be bits or half a break before any customers appeared to dine, but Pash still loved to fill the place with music, watching the staff react to the feelings he chose to put to song while no one else was around. He chose something old, something he hadn’t played in arcs, a tune he’d written for his grandfather about pirates and ghost ships—quiet and haunting, a little sad, but the notes warmed as the song progressed, becoming happier. He thought of his words, of Immortals, not chasing ships, but the melody of pursuit seemed fitting to where he felt he sailed in his life in the moment—chasing something he could see, he wanted, but didn’t feel fast enough to catch.
Lagoon blue eyes watched the window, glanced at the door, curious despite his introspection at what kind of guests the evening that stretched before him and his instrument would bring.
Quietly, early as always, the seafaring minstrel made his way through the familiar streets to the Central Square and to Cally’s, wind whipping strongly through the alleys and a smattering of rain threatening to fall at any moment. This eve, he walked in some odd mix of thought and prayer, wrestling with just how much recent events had strangled his inspiration instead of fueled it, aware that it was more of himself getting in the way, stepping on his own toes, instead of lack of material to work with. There had been an unspeakable beauty to the Immortal’s Tonge, despite how tarnished his memory felt of it, how corrupted and dirtied. Diseased. There had also been a strange allure to the jungle, so teeming with life he’d probably never be able to entirely understand in his short lifespan. For that, he was thankful—thankful to the Immortals who somehow deemed him worthy to still be breathing at all—and yet he struggled to feel as though he had anything to give back in thanks.
He’d told himself for arcs that his music had always been in offering to Zanik—the Immortal who reigned over such melodious sound—and when he felt broken, as he had more or less for so many trials, he couldn’t help but feel ashamed for his lack of strength under pressure, for bending under the weight of the life he should be strong enough to bear if it was so gifted to him. He’d taken much of his spoiled, simple life for granted until recently, that was for damn sure. Which begged the true question—who was his music an offering to? Did he simply follow what his grandfather had told him, did he just give lip service to the Immortals whose names and domains he knew?
Did it matter?
For Lissira, it did. For Moseke, too. That much, he’d not just seen, he’d lived. Lived. From Faith, Famula and Vri and Moseke were not distant. They were very near.
It wasn’t even physical strength he struggled with, however, but something more abstract, something much more internal. Perhaps some of it was belief. But there was more to it than just that. Nothing was ever as simple as you longed for it to be, no. For all the arcs that he’d been able to peer into the emotional insides of others, that he’d seen their feelings, felt their feelings, and even toyed with the feelings of others, he found that he often didn’t truly have the self control to deal with his own. His need for strength was far beyond muscle and bone. Perhaps that abstract, emotional strength was not at all his favorite Immortal’s realm, and yet he guessed in some ways, it was. He hoped so, anyway, for if not, he wasn’t quite sure where else to turn. His own inner reserves felt so empty, and he’d come to realize it was time to learn to be still, to find focus, and he would need strength far beyond his own to do that, especially if he truly aspired to be a part of anything greater than himself, which he knew, deep down inside, even past the spark of magic that he had joined his life to, he did.
And yet, he didn’t.
There was so much risk in reaching beyond the familiar, and of all the things Pash had ever tasted, seen, or felt, nothing had tasted so bitter, looked so hopeless, or felt so much like failure than recent events. Perhaps, in his brooding, creative nature, he was making hyperbole of it all, over exaggerating by unfortunate circumstance of being who he was and how he was wired, in which case, again, he was the only thing in all of Idalos actually getting in his own way. If only he could see it. Perhaps, in his somewhat purposefully sheltered, comfortably shallow way of living, he’d set himself up for such a simple, crushing blow. A cheap shot, self-orchestrated, and right in the feels. Everyone had made it a point to remind him of his poor choices, too. Everyone.
What a foolish creature he’d been, in the end, to have wasted so much time! So much time on himself, thinly disguised as altruism in the name of a good time. Here, of all places, he’d been shown different, he’d seen better. And it was nothing short of crushing.
His prayer was simple, pausing at the fountain in the square because somewhere along the way it’d come to have a bit of meaning: it was a reminder of change and not just simply for himself. He hooked a thumb in the colorful woven strap of his lute as was his habit. It was easier to be poetic in front of something meaningful, surely,
Zanik, if you listen to me at all, hear this. If you are music, not just of it, if it is not just what pleases you but truly what you are, hear me. If you are strength, and if it’s not just the appearance of strength that pleases you but true inward and outward prowess are the sinews of your existence, listen well. If you are seduction, not just the fleeting feeling of temptation or just another pretty thing, but attraction itself, seduce me. If an Immortal I hardly pay attention to such as Moseke can find some value in my life to decide it’s worth saving, then surely yourself, who I have at least paid lip service to in my life instead of the actual devotion you deserve with my gifts and talents, then surely, I’m the one in need of help here. I haven’t been looking, but now I want to see. I have not been listening, but now I want to hear. I have perhaps done plenty of feeling, but I have not been doing. I don’t know what that looks like and I don’t know what to ask of any of you, if only because I’m unsure of what to give in return. I’m only here, about to go to work, playing my grandfather’s old lute, and yet I know the notes I play will mean something to someone. Even if I don’t feel like they mean anything to me this trial, and I haven’t for several trials now, I long for what I do to mean something not only for that one person—or many—this trial, but also for you. May it matter, since I’m not sure anything has until now. May it matter to you.
Pash felt uneasy, standing there, speaking in his head without words to something that was beyond himself, just as beyond himself as anything else he’d experienced. He felt a rare (but increasingly common lately) flutter of pure self-consciousness, aware that he’d never spoken to any Immortal in such away, fingers curling tightly into the strap of his lute, a splash or two of water on his crisp, clean work clothes.
Nothing had been easy lately and he was tired of being in his own way.
He wanted to make room: Room for growth. Room for music. Room for the Immortals. Room for change. Room for people, too.
Broad shoulders shaped by the sea sagged a little and he sighed, though it wasn’t a movement or a sound of defeat so much as something softer, something yielding. The contexts were different but the motion the same. Pash stepped away from the fountain and wove his way through the light evening crowd, passing a few food vendors before slipping into the alley that led to the back entrance of Cally’s. He smiled his greetings at the familiar faces in the kitchen, aware that he owed them some friendly banter, some idle chatter, but not quite able to find the witty things to say, as if he’d gone and left that part of himself somewhere else.
Early, the dining area was empty and he settled into his seat, sliding his lute off his shoulder and into his lap while glancing out the window at the fountain and a few drops of rain that had been promised all day. He tuned and hummed quietly, running over in his mind what he had said and how he felt and what everything was supposed to mean lately.
Trudi set his water on the little table by his chair with a wink, having since taken it upon herself to step up her game after he’d brought someone to the restaurant for dinner, for an obvious date. She didn’t say anything at the moment, however, somehow kind enough not to interrupt him in his work when he was playing or preparing, only when he was on break or staying late to help clean up. He offered a quick grin of thanks, calloused fingers finding comfortable places on his lute once he was satisfied with its tuning, strumming a few chords as he swam through his thoughts for what to play, what kind of fragrant offerings of sound he could find in the well-salted vaults of his mind.
It could be bits or half a break before any customers appeared to dine, but Pash still loved to fill the place with music, watching the staff react to the feelings he chose to put to song while no one else was around. He chose something old, something he hadn’t played in arcs, a tune he’d written for his grandfather about pirates and ghost ships—quiet and haunting, a little sad, but the notes warmed as the song progressed, becoming happier. He thought of his words, of Immortals, not chasing ships, but the melody of pursuit seemed fitting to where he felt he sailed in his life in the moment—chasing something he could see, he wanted, but didn’t feel fast enough to catch.
Lagoon blue eyes watched the window, glanced at the door, curious despite his introspection at what kind of guests the evening that stretched before him and his instrument would bring.
