Just like the storm two ten-trials ago that had left Kali’rial unconscious and bleeding, Pash had nearly drowned. He’d accepted some of these risky realities of seafaring life arcs ago when he first left home, having survived storms as terrible or worse, somehow, perhaps not by luck so much as by the hands of the Immortals themselves now that he saw his world from a broader perspective than ever. It was more difficult for him to accept willingly allowing someone he cared about to put themselves in the same kind of danger, but his lover continued to meet him where he was and face the dangers head-on, her hand in his.
Much had changed.
The dark-haired huntress was no longer the frightened child of her dreams.
In some ways, they’d awakened different.
Together.
She answered him with a laugh and a smile, offering her sore hands for his to help him up. Strong and sure-footed, her stature belied her lithely muscled and well-disciplined form as he struggled for a moment, feeling more exhausted than he should have, perhaps because of the use of his Zanik-given abilities. He chuckled at her teasing, standing but not releasing her hands right away, The Muse still rolling with the seas that were slowly but definitely beginning to calm. He found his balance, and while he leaned a little into the Sevir, it was more because she’d offered than because he really needed the support,
“Almost feels like oversteppin’, t’ be true.” Pash admitted quietly when she teased him, though her humor wasn’t lost on him, so he leaned further still to kiss her while she told him to be careful, to linger with a chuckle of his own, “M’ a’right. Jus’ suddenly tired. Still, can’t leave th’ deck like this.”
The tall Biqaj turned away from his cabin at first, leading them back to the bow of his sloop in order to tug the jib sail from the railing and spread it with a bit of difficulty on the deck. It was so wet and weighed down by seawater now that the wind wasn’t much of a threat. Lagoon blue eyes inspected the worn sailcloth for damage—the jib sail wasn’t ripped, but the brass eyelets through which rigging was threaded had begun to stretch the fabric. Soon, they'd tear themselves free. He’d have to replace the whole sail eventually, possibly before they decided to travel, just to make sure everything stayed secured. Now was still not the weather to re-rig the ropes, however, for the deck and mast were too slippery to do much climbing on and Pash was far too tired, unable to keep himself from shivering from the cold Scalvoris brine and from all the adrenaline washing away like the tide.
“Tsu, I didn’t either,” The seafaring musician smirked, glancing at the horizon with a hopeful smile, “But qes, there’s no’ been but a handful o’ days here in Scalvoris that have gone as planned. No’ that I’m all complainin' ‘cause th’ hard days have been worth it for th’ good ones.”
He grinned at her warmly, making their way toward the hatch and carefully belowdecks. Pash was quick to tug off his cold, soaked clothes, rope-bit hands smearing silver on wet fabric as he sloshed everything he had on into the small basin in the galley. Dripping and carelessly naked, he turned to stir the coals of the little stove back to life, setting their little kettle on before finally moving through the narrow, comfortable space of his cabin to find a towel and the medical kit and maybe a blanket. The tall Biqaj made sure to purposefully brush past Kali as he did so, unable to help himself from taunting her with a sly grin, though it was all in familiar play and not entirely an invitation to warm him up, not lest they get carried away and miss the suns setting entirely,
“Aren’t we gonna be th’ pair tomorrow waitin’ for that flutterbus, eh?” Pash commented on his blossoming bruises as he handed his lover a towel, nostalgia and the warmth from the stove bringing the hint of color to his bearded face. Drying himself, he tried not to linger on what they were riding on so much as where they were going and why. For a few bits too many he was quiet, attempting to put into proper Common words the question that washed against the hull of his chest after all that had just happened in the storm. Leaning against the small, sturdy table in the smaller, comfortable living area, the seafaring musician paused with the towel wrapped tightly around his shoulders, still fighting the tired chill.
His lagoon blue gaze studied the lovely face of the dark-haired Sev’ryn, and he aired his thoughts with a hint of hesitation, “Speakin’ ‘f travel, ‘f Desnind, m’haps this be a lil’ forward, but what ‘re y’ goin' t’ introduce me as?”
Maybe that wasn’t the right way to word the question, maybe he didn’t know how to ask. Maybe the words in common were insufficient. He didn’t really like the word love for similar reasons to the confusion he felt now—at least in Rakahi, words about love felt as though they had more depth of meaning, more weight. Kali’rial was his lover in that they shared a bed and shared their bodies, but also in that he loved her in a non-physical way with genuine feelings. That much he understood, but as qau’ma, she was more literally his heart, a more connected part of his existence than he’d ever thought possible. Less an object and more a living extension of his feelings,
“No’ what, but who, ot djal?” Perhaps his words felt out of the blue, but near death and on the cusp of a new year had brought his thoughts into focus, “I love you an’ you me, but when y’ talk o’ me—‘f us—t’ your grandfather, is our togetherness goin’ somewhere?”
The quiet baritone of his question was about as blunt as it was ambiguous, and the smile that tugged at his handsome but tired face was both shy and determined. He had his answer, he’d decided what sort of course to chart, and yet he chose to defer to hers first. In his embarrassment, he looked down to begin fumbling with the medical kit, wanting to salve the rope bites on his hands and maybe wrap what was bleeding, wanting to hide his heated blush at steering the course of their conversation with such purpose.
Much had changed.
The dark-haired huntress was no longer the frightened child of her dreams.
In some ways, they’d awakened different.
Together.
She answered him with a laugh and a smile, offering her sore hands for his to help him up. Strong and sure-footed, her stature belied her lithely muscled and well-disciplined form as he struggled for a moment, feeling more exhausted than he should have, perhaps because of the use of his Zanik-given abilities. He chuckled at her teasing, standing but not releasing her hands right away, The Muse still rolling with the seas that were slowly but definitely beginning to calm. He found his balance, and while he leaned a little into the Sevir, it was more because she’d offered than because he really needed the support,
“Almost feels like oversteppin’, t’ be true.” Pash admitted quietly when she teased him, though her humor wasn’t lost on him, so he leaned further still to kiss her while she told him to be careful, to linger with a chuckle of his own, “M’ a’right. Jus’ suddenly tired. Still, can’t leave th’ deck like this.”
The tall Biqaj turned away from his cabin at first, leading them back to the bow of his sloop in order to tug the jib sail from the railing and spread it with a bit of difficulty on the deck. It was so wet and weighed down by seawater now that the wind wasn’t much of a threat. Lagoon blue eyes inspected the worn sailcloth for damage—the jib sail wasn’t ripped, but the brass eyelets through which rigging was threaded had begun to stretch the fabric. Soon, they'd tear themselves free. He’d have to replace the whole sail eventually, possibly before they decided to travel, just to make sure everything stayed secured. Now was still not the weather to re-rig the ropes, however, for the deck and mast were too slippery to do much climbing on and Pash was far too tired, unable to keep himself from shivering from the cold Scalvoris brine and from all the adrenaline washing away like the tide.
“Tsu, I didn’t either,” The seafaring musician smirked, glancing at the horizon with a hopeful smile, “But qes, there’s no’ been but a handful o’ days here in Scalvoris that have gone as planned. No’ that I’m all complainin' ‘cause th’ hard days have been worth it for th’ good ones.”
He grinned at her warmly, making their way toward the hatch and carefully belowdecks. Pash was quick to tug off his cold, soaked clothes, rope-bit hands smearing silver on wet fabric as he sloshed everything he had on into the small basin in the galley. Dripping and carelessly naked, he turned to stir the coals of the little stove back to life, setting their little kettle on before finally moving through the narrow, comfortable space of his cabin to find a towel and the medical kit and maybe a blanket. The tall Biqaj made sure to purposefully brush past Kali as he did so, unable to help himself from taunting her with a sly grin, though it was all in familiar play and not entirely an invitation to warm him up, not lest they get carried away and miss the suns setting entirely,
“Aren’t we gonna be th’ pair tomorrow waitin’ for that flutterbus, eh?” Pash commented on his blossoming bruises as he handed his lover a towel, nostalgia and the warmth from the stove bringing the hint of color to his bearded face. Drying himself, he tried not to linger on what they were riding on so much as where they were going and why. For a few bits too many he was quiet, attempting to put into proper Common words the question that washed against the hull of his chest after all that had just happened in the storm. Leaning against the small, sturdy table in the smaller, comfortable living area, the seafaring musician paused with the towel wrapped tightly around his shoulders, still fighting the tired chill.
His lagoon blue gaze studied the lovely face of the dark-haired Sev’ryn, and he aired his thoughts with a hint of hesitation, “Speakin’ ‘f travel, ‘f Desnind, m’haps this be a lil’ forward, but what ‘re y’ goin' t’ introduce me as?”
Maybe that wasn’t the right way to word the question, maybe he didn’t know how to ask. Maybe the words in common were insufficient. He didn’t really like the word love for similar reasons to the confusion he felt now—at least in Rakahi, words about love felt as though they had more depth of meaning, more weight. Kali’rial was his lover in that they shared a bed and shared their bodies, but also in that he loved her in a non-physical way with genuine feelings. That much he understood, but as qau’ma, she was more literally his heart, a more connected part of his existence than he’d ever thought possible. Less an object and more a living extension of his feelings,
“No’ what, but who, ot djal?” Perhaps his words felt out of the blue, but near death and on the cusp of a new year had brought his thoughts into focus, “I love you an’ you me, but when y’ talk o’ me—‘f us—t’ your grandfather, is our togetherness goin’ somewhere?”
The quiet baritone of his question was about as blunt as it was ambiguous, and the smile that tugged at his handsome but tired face was both shy and determined. He had his answer, he’d decided what sort of course to chart, and yet he chose to defer to hers first. In his embarrassment, he looked down to begin fumbling with the medical kit, wanting to salve the rope bites on his hands and maybe wrap what was bleeding, wanting to hide his heated blush at steering the course of their conversation with such purpose.
