Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

Morning came on the back of the giant Flutterbus, a wonderous sight that had been marred perhaps by twenty eight trials of seeing it. By the time they began to descend into Desnind, everyone was a bit frazzled, a bit smelly, a bit tired and a bit grumpy. Kali looked down at the forested city, a knot of excitement and concern in her belly as they got closer and closer.

She was home.

The huge insect made a soft landing, and it would be entirely appropriate to say that the huntress was one of - if not the first - person off the moth. As she jumped down to the soft soil of the southern continent, the brunette suppressed the overwhelming urge to shudder and literally shake herself off. Instead, she chose to adjust her rucksack and take a few deep breaths.

It smelt like home.

The ground beneath her barefeet was cool and soft, not covered by stones or wood, and the trees around the city whispered with a light breeze. It smelt damp, woody and fresh - something that Scalvoris lacked completely. Beside her Sarkis shook himself off, still in spirit form as he proceeded to lift his nose and test the air, discovering all the new scents and sounds of Desnind with delight. Giving the huntress a look, the wolf then padded away to explore his surroundings, knowing where ever she decided to go he would be able to find her.

Kali closed her fiery gaze for a moment, letting the butterflies in her stomach settle. She hadn’t sent word ahead to let Poppa know they were coming, therefore there was no greeting like some of the other folk around them, which the young brunette was extremely thankful for. The journey had been long and smelly, and the Sev’ryn would pay good nel to get the moth powder off her skin and out of her hair.

Surpress the shudder Kali’rial...

Opening her eyes, the brunette would look to Pash then, a frown drawing her brows together slightly.

”There’s an inn, further into the city. Kärshẹ is its name. We can get a room with a basin to wash off with and clean up before we find Dyn’rial.” She spoke softly, with a very small smile and twisting her hands together gently before her, old habits already starting to rise to the surface with her nerves. Taking another deep breath, the Sev’ryn shook her hands out and offered him a better smile.

There was no reason to be nervous yet. It was just presumed that Poppa was going to unhappy with the situation. He might be thrilled, and surely he would be happy about the fact her familiar had come to her - albeit she was unconscious and maybe at the time at serious risk of death or permanent injury...

Maybe she would leave that detail out.

By the end of their flight, Pash had to admit he’d come to enjoy flying. It was the kind of exciting rush of sheer terror and indescribable beauty that clearly spoke to the truer parts of himself. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t been utterly horrified for plenty of it. The first handful of trials had been terrible and he’d hated every moment, every movement, every part of the awkward learning curve that was attempting to live from the back of a giant flying moth. Sure, he'd been able to laugh at himself about it, and learning to do things like personal hygiene while lost in the clouds was perhaps not all that different from aboard the rolling deck of a sloop ... but, no, it had taken trials to begin to feel comfortable and that was a marginal feeling at best. He'd still entertained them all once he felt he had the hang of things, playing his lute, singing songs, passing the time with stories. The passengers had all appreciated the exchange and entertained each other, stuck as they were for twenty eight trials far above anything familiar. And the moth? Still gross, even if the last leg of the flight had finally drawn the tall Biqaj from his fears, lagoon blue eyes wide and eager to see the sights.

They’d touched clouds. He hadn’t known that was possible.

They’d flown over the Orm’del. He’d never had such a view.

They’d seen a village as a tiny speck. A child’s toy.

Would he ever do such a thing again? He hoped not. Never. Not unless he had to.

His excitement had been mingled with nervousness and fear, for the closer they drew to Desnind, the more real the purposes of their journey had become to the seafaring musician. Kali’rial wanted to confront her grandfather on the truths of her childhood, on every last drop of blood and tight hand of discipline. She wanted to find her place in the middle, in her own life, on her journey. She wanted to share about her dreams, yes, but she also needed to find closure, to find her feet on the right path. She also wanted the man to meet Pash, and the salty bard doubted her only surviving relative would be impressed with him at all, would give his blessing to their relationship, let alone acknowledge the beautiful truth of their love.

He may have gasped a little at the sight of the southern continent, the warm forest, teeming with life, and yet when they were allowed to scamper off the flutterbus and put their feet onto the moist earth, it took every ounce of discipline Pash had nurtured over the seasons to keep him from kissing the ground. Immortals, he’d never been so thankful to stand on land in all of his Biqaj life. Kali’rial was clearly eager to get away from the creature and Pash had to admit he wanted to feel, well, cleaner. Arcs at sea had certainly found him just as unwashed when alone in the middle of nowhere, but he wasn’t about to make any good impressions in his current state of traveled mess.

Letting his lover guide them to the inn, Pash took in everything with wide eyes and eager words. The trees. They lived in the trees. They were huge and beautiful, and yet their appearance was oddly familiar after sharing the dark-haired huntress’ dream. He asked questions quietly as they walked, wanting to know what was what, the names of things, very much his insatiable, curious self. He smiled at the faces of those they passed by, studying their expressions, the way they looked at him, the way they walked and how they were dressed. He consumed everything new as if he’d been starving, as if he hadn’t just sat for far too many trials and nibbled away at all the delicious treats Faith had sent them with, sharing with Kali because he loved her, because he’d been told to.

All of his nervousness was washed away by his interest, though the eddies of fear and concern swirled in the deepest parts of the hull in his chest. He knew that Kali was nervous, too, but she kept so much of it contained in her own way.

Pash willingly arranged for a room at Kärshẹ, handing over enough nel for a few days quietly, having already assumed he wouldn’t be welcome at Kali’s family home. The woman who ran it was kind, and her smile felt a little knowing as she looked at them both, though the salty bard was far too distracted to ask why. It felt achingly good to get clean, to change clothes and wash, though the seafaring musician couldn’t help but offer a bit of tension relief in his own mischievous way—there was more than just bathing he’d missed on their flight—but he also wasn’t about to push his luck, afraid he’d left it behind in Scalvoris already.

Regardless of whether the dark-haired Sevir allowed them the time for such things or not, Pash would pause before they were ready to leave, reaching for her hunt-hardened hands in his own calloused ones, confident, determined, loving grin on his face,

“I’m gonna remind you ‘f one thing, Kali’rial, an’ that’s this: I don’ need anyone’s permission t’ love you. Qau’ma: that’s all I need—your heart an’ mine. An’ I know you’ve got a lot t’ say t’ Dyn’rial that’s got nothin’ t’ do with me, but I’m here for you an’ nothin’ else, ot djal?”

Moving through Desnind with an almost unconscious sense of direction, the brunette led the Biqaj to the tree top inn, answering the questions Pash directed to her with a small smile. It was hard not to enjoy his infectious curiosity, however as they passed other locals the huntress nodded to them with a straight face. A couple of them she recognised, and it wasn’t impossible to miss the double takes from some of them as they walked past together.

Is that..?

Did you see...?

Was she with a...?

Holding her chin up and keeping her amber gaze on the stairs as they entered the reception of the inn, Kali nodded to Nae’ila, not unaware that the woman herself had a Biqaj partner. The smile spoke volumes, but the tanned woman simply followed Pash to the room, without giving the owner any indication she’d noticed.

Dropping her pack on the floor of the room, Kali’rial moved to remove the woven hemp dress she wore, repaired nicely since it’s damage in Saun. Moving to wash, in the privacy of their room, the Sev’ryn offered Pash a chuckle as he offered to assist. It was a tempting offer, they’d spent twenty eight trials stuck on a moth. A public moth. She was almost swayed, only the knowledge that if she waited too long her grandfather was going to find out second hand that she was home, and that was not exactly the best way to start the conversation the brunette was already dreading.

Pulling on her hide dress, the young woman’s hand hovered over the wolf skin mantle, before leaving it behind. It no longer felt appropriate to wear it, regardless of the fact Sarkis was off exploring on his own. Instead she lifted her grandmothers necklace. It had been seasons since she’d actually worn the piece of jewellery. Why? To be honest the Sevir wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a guilty conscious, knowing that no matter how lovely and wonderful things had been so far, it was all still entirely against the teachings of her elder. Closing the clasp behind her neck, the brunette lifted her arms further to pull her hair into a tight no-nonsense braid, before lowering her hands and twisting them together before her.

As the seafaring minstrel took her hands, Kali looked up at his warm lagoon gaze with a face that completely contradicted his own. She was frowning, and considering throwing up from the nerves. As the tall inked sailor spoke, the brunette smiled a little, nodding as she dropped her gaze to their joined hands.

”Thank you. Thank you for coming with me, and thank you for understanding. I don’t even know what to expect...but having you here is...it’s exactly what I need.” Looking up at him again, the young woman leaned forward to kiss the Biqaj gently, before taking a slow deep breath in and out. And again. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders with a nod.

”Okay, let’s go.” Keeping her hand in his as they left the room, Kali led the way out and back down through the trees to the city street. As they moved along the parked dirt road, the huntress let his hand go to twist her own together again with one final nervous move, before she set her jaw. Ahead of them, off the main road a little and set back in the forked branches of a large yet low growing cluster of trees was a blue painted house. It’s stairs led up from either side of a front porch that housed an old handmade rocking chair currently turned away from their approach. Small windows framed the arched doorway, which was currently closed. Walking up the steps Kali saw a figure in the chair, old and almost frail in appearance, with leathery golden tanned skin and a closely cropped beard of white. The figure puffed on an old carved pipe, smoke curling from his face as he breathed out. He was leaned forward in the chair, rheumy blue eyes far away as he stared into the distance.

”I’m surprised you’re smoking so early Poppa.” She said softly, as not to startle the elderly man who stopped puffing suddenly and leaned back, turning himself to see who was talking.

”Kali’rial.” He said with a nod, barely a shift of surprise or excited delight on his weathered face. The brunette bow her head in greeting, before looking up at Dyn’rial.

”Moseke bless you, it is good to see you again.” The man sat straighter in his chair, tapping the pipe on the arm to empty it before packing it anew.

”What are you doing back already?” He said simply, pressing down the dried herbs and glancing up at her with a mild frown.

”Forgive me Poppa, but I had come home to speak with you. About matters of importance. I ha-“ Dyn’rial lit his pipe with a few puffs, speaking sharply around the wood.

”Who is this Biqaj on my doorstep?”

Right into it then. Okay, fine. Kali pressed her lips together, before looking back at the bard and beckoning him closer.

”Dyn’rial, Elder of Desnind and grandfather of Kali’rial, this is Pash Raj’oriq of Ne’haer. He is...he is with me. We came to Desnind, together.” The old Sev’ryn puffed his pipe, before rising slowly to his feet and moving closer to the two, his blue eyes inspecting Pash closely. It almost appeared as though he would speak to the man, but at the last moment he turned away to frown at Kali.

”Together. I see. Does this mean you have found your ose-bori?” He looked a little closer, frown deepening further.

”And what happened to your eyes?”

Immortals, she was nervous. It threatened to be infectious, her strong mix of feelings tangible and gnawing at the edges of his carefully tamed tangle.

The sensitive Biqaj had told himself he wouldn’t give in, he wouldn't be afraid, he wouldn't worry, for by Zanik’s strength, he was entirely unashamed of his heart for the dark-haired Sev’ryn, unashamed of who he was, and unashamed of what they had become together. He could see her demeanor change as she guided them through forested paths and under beautiful trees, as she glanced around them and answered his endless questions, as she met the gaze of those who saw them together.

Kali turned down his not-so-subtle affections, struggled over what to wear and how to wear it, and flitted about their shared inn room with a palpable and growing discomfort. He didn’t overdress, Desnind’s humidity as oppressive as Ymiden in Ne’haer, if not more so. The seafaring musician stuck to his worn vest; comfortable, loose pants tied above the knees, and his sandals. He, too, tied his sea-bleached hair up and off his neck, though the effort he put into such a task was far less about appearances and more about utility. The most difficult decision he made? Leaving behind his both his grandfather's old mother-of-pearl inlaid lute and his daggers, deciding this was a social visit, not an adventure, despite how a knot formed in his stomach no matter how hard he tried to keep his nerves at bay. His lover’s emotions were heavy and concerning to him, and it was all Pash could do to keep them from overwhelming him with just as much nervousness as she exuded from every lovely, tanned inch of skin. He desperately wanted to be her sense of support and cheer, and when he told her as such, she didn't receive him as he expected. Not at all.

She frowned at his encouragement and Pash immediately regretted ever agreeing to get on that damn giant moth to come here. The effort it took to keep her hands in his, to keep her from wringing them in her tell of internal conflict was more than enough of a sign that they were here in Desnind too soon. Her hurt was still too fresh and her feelings for him too tender to be in this place with familiar rules and once-comfortable structure.

Her reply was genuine and the press of her lips gentle, but Pash could feel the hardness setting in with the set of her shoulders and the weight of her hand in his as she led him away.

He knew how things would go the trill she let go of his hand, and Pash chewed the inside of his cheek as his lagoon blue eyes took in her family home and the man in the chair from a distance while attempting to cling to his usual optimism. It was hard.

When the old man didn’t greet his granddaughter with a smile or open arms, the tall Biqaj felt something shift in the hull of his chest, the tone of disappointment that seemed to escape Dyn’rial’s voice when he frowned and questioned her visit ringing sourly in his pointed ears.

Forgive me Poppa—

Even if he’d returned to Ne’haer tomorrow, despite having run from responsibility, he knew in his heart his da’oath would smile at him, his da’at would only scowl for a bit or two. They would shed a few tears, they would berate him, but it would be with their hands on each other and with open hearts. Their disappointment was no less, he knew. He had hurt them all. He had made their lives harder when he left all those arcs ago and he’d made himself clanless when he refused to stay and take over his father’s work in the shipyards less than an arc ago. But their love was … clearly different.

Who is this Biqaj on my doorstep?

Pash blinked, remembering to smile, Kali having left him behind without taking his hand, without making any indication of what kind of with her he was, introducing him to her grandfather without emotion or enthusiasm. It stung a little, but he reminded himself that she had a burden of hurt that was writhing inside, that he couldn’t touch to heal. She was nervous, and he was there for her. The hint of a humid breeze tickled his tanned, inked skin and he smelled the storm that brewed here on the front porch of her childhood just as clear as he could have any other day on the Orm’del sea.

Dyn’rial approached them and the seafaring musician’s smile warmed, somewhere in the hull of his chest hoping the Elder’s cautiousness would melt away and he’d finally welcome the woman he’d raised with a hug or the hint of longing.

He didn’t.

“It’s an honor to meet you, respected Elder. I’ve heard much good about you.” Pash had worked very, very, very hard on that greeting in Xanthean. It was probably the only thing he could say that was even remotely coherently without the risk of saying the wrong (or worse, inappropriate) words, but he bowed his head when he spoke in deference and a rare show of actual respect. The older man’s together grated against the seafaring musician’s thoughts and when he realized the man refused to speak to him, he reached unashamedly for Kali’rial’s hand, tide pool gaze darkening in anticipation of her refusal.

Aye, together, he thought to say, longed to blurt with happiness and pride, but he didn’t. Because she should have, but she didn’t. Still, if she was going to play it safe, Pash was going to play it honest, play it true, as always,

“Desnind be ’s lovely ’s your daughter, sir.”

Oh yes he did.

The rest was her tale to tell—Karem’s wonderful blessing, Sarkis, their adventures, her familiar calling her from her dreams. The rest was hers to wrestle with, all the hurt she hid carefully under her stoic expression, that he could feel without seeing.

Kali felt her heart thump madly in her chest as the tall bard greeted her only living kin with Xanthean. He'd taken the time to practice and learn her own language, for this. The woman felt a small smile tug at the corner of her mouth, even if Dyn'rials cold reception was pressing her back into her box.

The elder had looked at the Biqaj, his periwinkle eyes sweeping from the sailors sandled feet and up to his head, before he simply nodded and puffed his pipe. It was acknowledgement at least. She had begun to open her mouth, to stammer through her answer to his stern questions, when she felt the warmth of Pash's hand in hers. Kali looked down at it. Looked up at Pash.

For just a moment, panic gripped her, washed over her at the sailors words. Her gaze drifted back to Dyn'rial, who's frown deepened as his periwinkle eyes held hers, demanding respect and answers.

No. The brunette felt anger surging up through her. Why, why was she letting him get to her. Already? What was she afraid of? Turning back to Pash again, she smiled and squeezed his hand. Thank you. The words were mouthed silently, before the Sev'ryn turned her fiery frown on her grandfather.

"Yes Poppa. Together. I love him, and I will spend the rest of my Moseke blessed life with him. Because I'm not afraid anymore." Her emotions were boldly coming forth, heartened and inspired by the Biqaj beside her.

"I've seen amazing things, more than I could ever imagine. I've walked with Immortal's, and have been blessed by The Great Huntress. I have danced in the rain, and laughed and cried. I've lost.." Looking back at Pash, she smiled even though her hands now trembled and her eyes stung with tears.

"I've loved." Taking a deep breath, she turned back to Dyn'rial.

"I haven't found my Bonded yet, but I've dreamt of it. I've seen my path, finally after all this time. It wasn't discipline or focus I needed, it was love. It was the willingness of a stranger to see through the walls that you and Nonna made me build." Her brow drew together, other hand clenched into a fist.

"Why didn't you tell me about Momma and Da? About what really happened? I saw it Dyn, I remembered. That...beast. It took them, not by some careless fault of their own. No amount of focus or watchfulness could have stopped that massacre." Tears had spilt now, but she wasn't done.

"You made me believe they were at fault, and because you were scared you forced me to grow up. To drive away all the beauty and wonder of the world, to suppress thoughts and emotions that weren't useful or logical. Because you were scared." Dyn'rial puffed his pipe, blue gaze unwavering and unchanging under her outburst. Kali was staring back defiantly with a fury that simmered like an unwatched pot, but her stomach turned with nerves never the less. The older Sev'ryn took his pipe from his mouth, placing it on the arm of his rocking chair with a deliberate calm movement.

"Go inside Kali'rial." He ordered, tone steady but authoritative. The huntress stepped back a little, moving closer to Pash and opening her mouth to protest.

"No Poppa. I wi-"

"Respect your Elder and do as I say!" Dyn'rial suddenly snapped through grit teeth and a dark scowl. The brunette jumped in shock, before moving towards the house with the minstrel. The elder shook his head.

"Not the Biqaj. He stays. I want to talk to him." Kali looked at Pash with a concerned frown, before shaking her head.

"No Poppa. What you have to say, you can say to us together." The elder sighed then, a heavy weary sound, before fixing her with a steely gaze.

"Do as I ask Kali. At least show me the respect an Elder deserves in his own home." The words cut her like a knife, and yet she hovered, looking at the sailor with a mixture of shame and even a little fear.

"Qu'ama?" She said softly, an unspoken request for help. If he didn't want to be alone with Dyn'rial, then Kali wouldn't leave.

The dark-haired Sev’ryn squeezed his hand and flashed him a smile, and for those few heartbeats, Pash felt encouraged. His chest swelled with a humid inhale and his eyes brightened as he heard her admit to their togetherne—

Wait.

Ah, stop there. No.

There’s no need to—

Immortals have mercy.

The rest of her life with him, yes, they’d talked about, yes, well, but that was perhaps not the best opening line to use about their relationship with a man who had refused to call him by name. Pash chewed the inside of his cheek. He had no filter, he knew, and his tongue had gotten him in trouble in so many ways over the arcs. But Kali’rial’s discipline was only skin-deep and already the fiery hurt of all she’d come to understand was melting it away. They’d only just made it to the front porch.

It would be fine, he inhaled. Honesty was good, and he felt the same. He exhaled. He’d never felt more sure of such things in all his arcs, and yet … perhaps she could have saved that tidbit until just a little bit later in their conversation. And only if their conversation had gone well.

But then she kept going.

The tall Biqaj smiled despite the heat that began to spread across the back of his neck, the surprise that flooded the hull of his chest. His fingers entangled tighter with her own, but he realized that her carefully tempered resolve had already begun to falter. The discipline she was capable of wavered and her voice broke, tears in her eyes,

“Kali—“

Pash began in a hushed baritone to caution her, squeezing her hand in warning as she flatly accosted her grandfather about her parents’ deaths with a harshness that came from a deep, aching place of what she felt was betrayal and pain. While he agreed that her grandparents had been wrong in their choices, he also had come to realize that there were often sides to things he’d never considered … until it was too late. She didn’t stop there and the seafaring musician wanted to tug on her arm, to pull her to him and tell her to stop, but Dyn’rial spoke up instead. Snapped at her, even.

This all was going exactly as he feared.

His lover tugged him to follow her toward the house, but he felt the older man’s eyes on him as tangibly as he could practically feel Kali’rial’s pulse against his calloused palm,

“Des’penya—don’t worry.” He looked at her calmly, his tone meant to both reassure her and let her know that she’d lost herself in the moment. He was not afraid and he was there for her, but how could he say these things out loud? His eyes were still warm and bright, and he nodded at her as he slipped his hand away, fingertips lingering for an extra trill. They’d promised to weather storms together, but Pash could already see that the dark-haired Sev’ryn needed a moment to collect herself and her thoughts, to remember who the man was she’d come to see.

Did he want to stand and talk to that same man who had yet to welcome his granddaughter with kindness? No, no he didn’t. But he would, by Zanik’s strength, he would.

“M’haps we all need some tea, qau’ma.” Pash offered her the out with gentleness, hoping that she caught on without taking any further offense. His words were not dismissive, but it was clear that he was willing to be by himself with the old man. If she did as she was told and left the two of them alone, the tall Biqaj would swallow everything that rose to his throat in frustration and turn toward the Elder Sev’ryn without a smile.

His hand that had held his lover’s lifted as if to hook his thumb in the comfortable worn strap of his lute, but he’d left it behind in the inn so there was nothing but tanned skin and leather. Fingertips scratched where a pink scar curved against his ribs from that undead snow beast in the Scalvoris mountains instead, and the seafaring musician luffed his sails and battened his hatches in expectation of being told things he didn’t want to hear.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone else’s parent figures gave him a stern talking to, though part of him hoped with a loving foolishness that this would be the last.

“Aye, Elder?”

Looking over the taller man's face with tears stinging her eyes, the huntress swallowed audibly as he spoke, releasing his hand reluctantly and nodding slowly. She turned her gaze on the older man who had his back to her now, and lifted her chin.

"Yes. I suppose tea would be good. I'll...I'll be back." She said hoarsely, struggling to bring herself down from where her emotional outburst had taken her. Placing her hand on the handle, she turned and entered the old blue house and shut it behind her. Leaning against the door with her back, the Sev'ryn pressed her head into the hard wood and closed her eyes, forcing the aching sobs that came forth to be silent ones. Opening her eyes with a deep hitching breath, the huntress pushed off the door and moved towards the kitchen with an unbridled familiarity. She knew where to find the kettle and the cups, the tea and the sweetened milk that was gently boiled with a good deal of honey until it became thick. This method kept it preserved without need of refrigeration.

How had she managed to react so poorly, when she'd had trials and trials to prepare for this day?

Because he never changed. He was still the same hard, grumpy old man she'd left. She was the only one that had changed.

Taking another deep breath, the southerner frowned to herself as she set up the kettle to boil. Once over the fire, the young woman closed her eyes and breathed slowly and steadily, focusing her thoughts and calming her mind.

Meanwhile, outside, Dyn'rial turned to face Pash as he addressed him with a less than overly friendly tone.

"What do you think you're doing?" He said simply, as though he had already built some grand plan into his perceived backstory to the bard. It was clear the older Sev'ryn was not happy.

"What lovely words did you wind into your story for Kali'rial, hrm? Had to have been pretty good...unless maybe...oh...it wasn't words was it? Not to start with. Did you trick her into having a drink? You Biqaj are all the same, ply them with alcohol first, then it's fair pickings." Shaking his head, Dyn'rial turned to lean against the rail, staring out at his home town.

"What's she got that you're so keen to have? Aside from the warmth in your bedroll clearly. She doesn't have nel or possessions for you, Pash Raj'oriq, thief of the seas. Just leave her in peace, before you do more damage then is already done. Get yourself back on that moth and fly away. Kali'rial will stay with me and find her path again." The leathery skinned elder waved his hand to emphasise his point, voice low and matter of fact, tinged however with the racism he held towards the bards people. Tricksters, thieves, liars and cheats - that was what Biqaj were for Dyn'rial.

Meddling, distracting, sneaky bastards with one goal. To wander and shirk responsibility, for the nel or just for the fun of it.

"That girl is my only remaining kin, and I will not let some Biqaj flotsam taint her against me."

This was not the first time the seafaring musician had been asked to step aside by a lover’s parents or guardians, though arcs ago his intentions had never been as true nor as tempered as they were for Kali’rial. In fact, with the exception of one other who neither had parents for him to meet nor even considered him in the way he’d mistakenly considered her, Pash had never before had the heartfelt intentions he had now for anyone. Ever.

Perhaps what Dyn’rial didn’t expect—or, worse, did—was that the tall Biqaj wasn’t ashamed of himself or his history. There were fewer regrets in his bed than one might imagine, and fewer still now that he’d chosen to learn from his mistakes instead of repeat them. Still, the Empath didn’t need to see the older man’s tangle to know that he’d already made up his mind, that perhaps he’d made up his mind arcs ago and never changed it. The Elder Sevir’s accusations stung a little, digging close enough to the truth about the beginning of their relationship, but he’d already owned up to that and didn’t feel as though he owed anyone else an explanation except for what he and Kali had shared upon his return from the jungle. He’d been honest then.

He’d be honest now.

Pash sighed, having heard all of Dyn’rial’s words before from different mouths and different faces over the arcs, his cultural assumptions about his race and lifestyle far from unfamiliar. No one seemed capable of looking past all of that, and while he was usually comfortable with being underestimated, this was not one of those times. He and Kali had faced death together.

More than once.

“A’right, here it is, then.” Pash rubbed his calloused palms together and studied Dyn’rial’s face, the baritone of his voice firm and without a hint of nervousness. The back of his neck tingled and there was a dull ache that washed within the hull of his chest, but it was because he already feared there was no changing the course of the Elder Sevir’s opinions.

“So, I’m jus’ gonna ignore th’ flotsam bit ’cause I’m used t’ hearin’ that an’ we’re gonna talk like grown men instead o’ boys in th’ yard. I didn’t come here insultin’ you ‘r your kind, so there’s no reason t’ be makin’ such assumptions ‘bout me an’ mine. Y’ don’t have t’ like me ‘r Biqaj as a people, but I didn’t have t’ come here, either. I don’t need your permission t’ love your daughter like I do, but I respect her enough t’ come all th’ way here for her, no’ for you.”

Pash didn’t feel the need to reference questions Dyn’rial didn’t want to hear the actual answers to. But he didn’t really want to defend himself, either. The Elder didn’t need to know how Kali’rial and he had met, didn’t need to know that his assumptions weren’t far from the truth because everything had changed since then, because he’d been forgiven. His words were smooth, confident, and as polite as he could muster. He didn’t need the man’s permission. He wouldn’t take it. He wanted that much clear, but still, when the older man called his lover a girl, the tall Biqaj frowned,

“Your granddaughter’s no’ a girl anymore, Dyn’rial, she’s a woman. No’ a child, needin’ you t’ make decisions for her, but an adult capable o’ makin’ decisions on her own. Part o’ growin' up be makin’ mistakes, ‘cause I’m sure even you’ve made some in your lifetime, as have I. This isn’t one of ‘em. You’ve done your work as an Elder an’ shown her your ways for o’er twenty arcs, an’ then y’ deemed it time t’ send her off int’ th’ world t’ find her own path, t’ take th’ journey o’ your people an’ complete herself. It’s no’ up t’ you whether she does it your way ‘r not. She’s out from under your roof with your permission t’ be so. Let’s jus’ make that clear b’fore y’ call her a girl again. That beautiful, skilled, intelligent, disciplined woman’s been blessed by an Immortal who found her fit enough for favor when Karem was a stranger t’ her, stood by her friends in difficult times an’ dangerous places, an’ fought by my side for our very lives whether I wanted her to ‘r no’.”

The tall Biqaj paused then, not wanting to get any more emotional than his lover had, and yet clearly struggling to keep the righteous annoyance out of his own tangle. He exhaled slowly, soothing the frayed edges of threads that writhed inside of him,

“I don’ chase coin like most o’ m’ people. I don’ care much for possessions ‘r things. I value th’ friends I have, m’ own family in Ne’Haer, and I love Kali’rial more than I’d told m’self I could love anyone ’n all m’ arcs.”

Immortals, that was all the truth he had, and Pash wanted eye contact with the Elder, lagoon blue gaze bright with the honesty of all he felt, shoulders sagging,

“She’s honored you an’ your late wife in everythin' she’s done. She’s attempted desperately t’ honor her parents, an’ what conclusions she’s been shown in her dreams are her truths, th’ truths n’ one told her when she needed t’ hear them so Emea revealed them instead, no’ m’ words, no’ me. She’s your only remainin’ kin, aye I’ll give y’ that, but I won’t let her whither an’ die childless an’ alone ’n ignorance ‘f all she’s capable of an’ all she’s called t’ do.”

The seafaring musician was aware of all that he’d just implied for himself and his intentions with those words, but he meant them. He didn’t really want to anger the Elder, but at the same time, he didn’t think he had a choice. The older man was allowed his own mind and Pash didn’t want to change it so much as make sure he heard the truth as he saw it, the truth about Kali'rial, and the truth about their relationship. He’d head home any trill, but he wouldn’t be going alone.

The taller bard's almost polite chastising of the old Sev'ryn caused him to chuckle quietly, as though somehow the words merely proved his point. The commentary about loving his dark haired grand daughter however caused a brow to arch in mild surprise and a hint of disbelief, still he held his tongue. Kept his peace whilst the Biqaj continued.

Turning to face the sunkissed sailor, Dyn'rial looked him up and down again, wondering just what the insolent wanderer thought to achieve with his snide remarks. True, the huntress wasn't a girl in the truest sense of the word. But she was his kin, his only kin. To the Elder, it didn't matter what some seaman thought he should or shouldn't call her, nor did he had the standings to question how he raised her.

Childless? Moseke give me strength... Now was not the time to think of little Biqaj halflings running underfoot. Still, the vagrant seemed genuine in his love for her, something that the older man could see. For all his snark, this Pash clearly had more than just a momentary flash in the pan with Kali'rial.

As the silence fell between them, Dyn looked at the sun bleached blonde before him with a hard stare, before sighing heavily. His proud stature wilted, and with a slow movement the Elder say back down in his rocking chair, bringing a slightly shaky hand to rest on his chin.

"I take it you don't have children yet Biqaj? Not one's you've had to care and provide for at least. Until you have, don't presume to tell others how to parent better. True, we didn't tell Kali about Aly'rial and Nik'liah, but then what do you say to a toddler? How do you tell a child their parents are gone for good? How do you ask her to explain what she's seen?" His milky blue eyes scanned the village before them.

"Until you have lost a child of your own, don't presume to understand how to even begin to handle that pain. You've lost people, I'd wager, everyone has. Nothing compares to loosing a child. Nothing." There was a slight waver to the old tanners voice, just a hint of emotional breakdown, before he pushed it away.

"We did what we thought was right with Kali, to keep her safe. To prepare her for the world beyond our reach. Which leads me to our next topic, Pash Raj'oriq." He turned to the Biqaj then, a look of genuine and open pleading on his face.

"I can see you love her, I can. But you have no idea what danger you're putting her in right now. She is distracted, turned from her Journey to your light instead. If Kali'rial doesn't find her familiar soon, if she dies or it dies before she finds it...Biqaj, you can't begin to understand what that means. Please, if you really care as much as you say you do, leave. Leave now. Let her go."

Inside the house, Kali'rial continued to meditate as the kettle heated. She felt the calm wash over her as the conflicted and angry thoughts drifted downstream. Gently, the little tin contraption began to whistle, causing the huntress to open her eyes and take it off the heat. Moving to add the tea leaves, she left the pot to steep and moved out of the kitchen. Wandering slowly, she ran her hands over familiar paraphernalia in the sitting area, following her feet to the room that had been hers. Utilitarian in design, it house a bed and a chest of drawers. Moving to the drawers, the brunette pushed them gently to expose a loose floorboard, which when lifted revealed a small collection of items that Kali had secreted away every return visit home.

Kneeling down, she pulled out a few trinkets, including a silver anklet and a small bone carving of some sea creature. The tanned woman smiled at the carving, holding it tightly in her hand. They were all useless items that served no purpose except to be pretty, but as a youth Kali had collected them anyway. Her private guilty pleasure. Putting the board back, she tucked the items away in her coin purse and left the room.

Moving back to the kitchen, the huntress searched for the tea tray to put the cups on, tipping the tea into them and setting up the milk in another cup on the tray. She took another deep breath, mentally preparing herself to go back into the storm. And yet, her feet didn't move, hands pressed on the bench.

Pull it together Kali'rial. The Sev'ryn sighed to herself, knowing she couldn't stay inside forever.

As far as he knew, Pash didn't have children of his own somewhere that he was not raising. It wasn't out of the question, fortunately or not, but he was the sort that had he known, he would have become as present and participatory in the lives he’d made as he was allowed. There was no doubting that for the tall Biqaj who grew up in a large family with younger siblings, cousins, and eventually nieces and nephews he was often responsible for. Sure, there were times in his youth that he regretted every trill of it, but at the same time, he could say now as an adult that he genuinely enjoyed children, that his joy for Faith announcing her pregnancy before they left was perhaps even tainted with regret or jealousy, his lifestyle decisions staring him in the face even as he smiled and touched what was growing in the lives of his employer and Padraig.

Did he feel as though he could somehow be a better parent? No. Would he have done differently in the same situation? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. He wasn’t ashamed of his comments—Kali’rial would have perhaps said the same sentiments but with more bitterness and pain. All Pash knew for certain was that he would not have lied. Not for decades, anyway. There would have been a time when he would have told the truth. He would have been honest with someone he loved so much, with his children. His honesty with his parents had hurt them, it was true, but surely lying would have made everything worse. Not that walking away had been better. It hadn't. He knew that now. And he would make it right.

Still, he didn’t feel it at all useful to continue such a useless back and forth over who was right and who was wrong. Obviously Dyn’rial felt justified in his decisions as a parent, a man, and an Elder. That was his right, he supposed, but Pash didn’t have to agree with him.

He frowned.

Again, the elder Sev’ryn attempted to dismiss him, desperate to send him away and have his granddaughter to himself. Did he want to convince her to stay and start over? Did he want to tell her she was wrong? She couldn’t. She wasn’t. She was on the right path and she’d heard it. The seafaring musician knew this word:

"No."

Pash was firm and that was that, tangle writhing with the heat of frustration, with the ache for a better resolution. He was more than aware of what he didn’t deserve, what he shouldn’t have, what he couldn’t feel. And yet … she remained by his side when she shouldn’t have. He’d told her already, and yet she made her own decisions, accepted her own dangers, and somehow put up with him in a way he could only describe as beautiful.

Coming here felt like a mistake, and the ochre threads of worry threatened to suffocate everything pleasant in the weave of his emotions. His shoulders sagged and he chewed the inside of his cheek, summoning the feeble warmth of hope from deep within the hull of his chest, ignoring the dark voices in the back of his mind that described how Dyn’rial would convince his dark-haired granddaughter to stay and she how would be lost again—lost on her journey and lost from him.

This was not an argument he could win,

"If y’ stop an’ listen, if y’ look past me an’ see her, really see her, then she’ll tell you her heart: she’s seen her Journey, heard her Call far from here, far from home, far from you. We’ve mapped it out—together—an’ that’s how we'll take it—together. If I’m a light at all, then it’s a companion in th’ darkness an’ a protector in th' danger that’s Idalos. Not a distraction. She’s focused an’ eager, she’s free t’ think an’ feel an’ see for herself things she hadn’t seen in all th’ arcs before this one. Th’ only danger she’s in is comin’ back here—"

As for how much he cared? Oh, aye, there was that.

"—I didn’t come here for your permission t’ love her. I don’t need it, an’ ’s far ’s I can tell, I don’ want it, either. Maybe Kali’rial does because she loves an’ respects you as her Elder an’ kin, but she also came here for th’ truth. Flew all th’ way here from th’ far reaches o’ Scalvoris so excited an’ longin’ t’ share with you th’ joy o’ finally hearin' th’ voice o’ her Familiar. I don’t have t’ understand that, but with all m’ strength, I’ll protect it. I’ll make sure it happens, m’ life instead o’ hers if I must. Because that’s what love does: empowers an’ sets free."

How he wanted to walk away, calloused fingers curling into sea-hardened palms, and the tall Biqaj bit his lip to keep the words that filled the hull of his chest from overflowing further. It wasn’t like any of them mattered. He was wasting his damn time with every breath. Pash wanted to retreat, but Kali’rial was still inside and he loved her. He wasn’t about to leave her alone now. They’d faced much more menacing opposition before, only heartache was worse than death, that much he knew too well,

"I’ve said mine an’ you’ve said yours. I’m no’ gonna disrespect y’ further as that’s no’ th’ way things work here among your people, even if pushin' boundaries be somethin’ expected o’ mine. I love Kali’rial more than I thought possible, an’ I’m no’ goin’ anywhere, no’ for you an’ no’ for anyone else."

So he sighed and grew quiet, adamant, and sincere, resisting with every fiber of his being the desire to take control of the situation through Empathy, the frustration that curled into his tangle not only his own, but very clearly the strange rage of his ever-hungry Spark. His charisma was not enough, his smooth words mattered little when he couldn’t speak either language well enough. His eloquence was not appreciated when the older man couldn’t look past his tanned, inked skin. He could have even swayed the man with song, but that would have been the weak thing to do. No notes he could sing would bring Zanik honor should he seek to exert his favored powers over the man who cared so much for his lover, over her last surviving kin. He’d been weak enough, far too often, before her, even with her.

But standing in silence took all the strength he had left.