Completed [Flashback] The Sailor and the Child [Pash|Montaine]

[Montaine]

The Sailor and the Child Summer 67 498 AV The boy sat wheezing at the window, eyes wide. Happy wheezes, his Da called it. He had been leaping and bounding round their rather limited lodgings since his father had informed him of their imminent excursion. Excursion was arguably an exaggerative term for what was really a glorified trip to the market, but even the short walk down was a brilliantly, terrifyingly, exhilarating adventure for the boy. After an hour of tiring over-activity, the little lad contented himself with staring excitedly out at the street, watching others going about their business. Da so rarely let him out. He hated him sometimes. Not often though. Not now, certainly! They were brothers-at-arms! Going a-questing to the marketplace for all kinds of exotic and unusual treasures! He understood. He knew he wasn’t well, and that his Da worried about him. He’d asked why his Da would cry sometimes, whether he’d done something wrong. His Da just smiled. He didn’t smile happily though. He didn’t think the boy knew, but he did. Or maybe he was aware of the extent of his son’s comprehension, maybe that was why he cried. The child leant out of the window. The wind was blowing in his favour today, and the pungent aromas of the marketplace, and the docklands beyond, wafted up to his eager nostrils. The salty scent of the sea, and the fishes, the smell of Zeltiva! His Da called to him, and asked if he was ready. The boy bounced up, unable to contain his emotion. He had asked his Da about Mother a few weeks ago. Da had been crying over a little sketch he kept by his bed. He didn’t like it when Da would cry and asked why. He asked and asked and his Da would always just smile and say the same thing. ‘I’m happy you’re here, Monty,’ The boy could feel the stones through the soles of his meagre shoes, and skipped alongside his father. His tiny hand was firmly clasped by his Da’s great big one. His Da looked down at him and seeing the broad grin plastered across the lad’s face felt the irresistible inclination to repay the look in kind. They must have looked so bizarre, the frail waif and the daunting, imposing horseman, beaming like madmen as though a trip to the market was anything but a chore. When he had found his Da the last time, when his father had been weeping, clutching the picture to his chest, he didn’t ask him why. He knew that Mother was dead, long dead. He didn’t know why he kept asking when he knew the reason why. Perhaps the child just wanted to hear his father say it. The boy had stopped his skipping and had begun, instead, to take long, striding steps, trying to match his Da’s. So engrossed was he in this endeavour that he almost missed their entrance to the marketplace altogether. His Da tugged his hand and laughed as he saw the surprise and joy that filled his son’s eyes when the boy looked up at the busy, bustling streets ahead. ‘Woooow!’

[Pash'nar]

Oh gods, it was hot. Even with the sea breeze dancing over the calm crests of the harbor waves as Syna spread her light from the horizon, the dawn air was heavy with the heat of summer. Everything felt weighed down, and as Pash'nar hovered above the tiny desk strewn with maps and charts on board in the tiny forecabin, he found it hard to concentrate. Port windows were open and the galley rocked soothingly against its moorings, though above the creak and moan of the barnacled hull, the faint sounds of morning routines getting underway drifted from town. He'd been up with the dawn, restless as usual when Leth's departure left him alone again in his mortal seeming. The oil in his lamp had long-since burned out, but the rosy fingers of sunlight were already caressing the inside of the small office. With the middle of the season, the winds had shifted, meaning he'd be planning the last leg of their route in laveer, and sailing against the wind never made for short journeys. Calloused fingers of his free hand reached up to detangle stray strands of jet black hair from his face, disturbing the delicate balance he'd kept with the beads of sweat clinging to his tan, wind-burned brow. Droplets scattered without care, splattering freshly-inked lines and blurring them into pools of incoherent grey across the parchment. "Petch!" Hissed the tattooed Svefra through his teeth, quickly blotting at his own mess with the closest absorbent thing within reach—more paper. Chapped lips curled in frustration at the pre-dawn's work he'd just smeared. Leaning back in the tiny excuse for a chair, he resisted the urge to throw any of his delicate navigation equipment. Choosing instead to divert his gaze out the tiny, metal-rimmed circle of a window, he glared past the ships and the docks to squint at the distant hints of activity on shore. Pash sighed, knowing they'd be at port for at least another day, supposedly waiting for new cargo. The charts weren't going anywhere either. Cerulean eyes drooped for a heartbeat, threatening to succumb to the heat and return to sleep that was already listless, only to be forced open again at the sound of footsteps in the cabin hall, "Ya moony bastard," a hoarse growl preceded the tiny door from practically flying off it's hinges as the galley's midshipman flung it open with a kick instead of a nudge, "Ya hidin'cause y'know ya owe me mizas again?" The barrel of a man grinned, half-joking, half-threatening. What was left of his teeth were the color of driftwood, "I ain't lettin' ya forget." "Oh, aye." Moaned the dark-haired navigator, gesturing almost unconsciously in Fratava as he spoke his insult carefully in Common, accentuating the depths of his dislike for the ugly human,"I know y'won't, y'sorry son of a—" The rest of his insult was drown out by loud laughter in the tiny room. The two men shared a joke that only the larger of the pair seemed to understand completely, "Shut yer god-damned bilge-hole an'get off th'ship for a chime'r'two already. I don't wanna see your shiftin' mug for as long as possible today." Pash'nar sneered in a flash of rebellion, teeth grinding at the midshipman's inability to control his own volume in such a confined space. He bristled but said nothing else to fuel the man's wrath further. His contract would be over soon enough, though he was unsure if he'd come away with any coin to show for it. Without another word, the sweaty Svefra slid away from his desk, paper rustling with the speed of his exit.

[Montaine]

A dusty, squat clay pot sat amongst a collection of its smaller brethren. The man minding the stall displaying the item busied himself with the unpacking and setting up of the remainder of his work and was dressed in a foreign garb of linen. Montaine eyed the pot up and down as he had seen others do and sniffed derisively. The merchant raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the lad, who in turn cocked his head to one side and made the best pondering a purchase noise he could muster. The merchant furrowed his brow in faux annoyance but couldn’t stop a smirk forming on his face. Montaine shook his head and tutted. ‘Something not to your liking, esteemed sir?’ he asked in a thick, rich accent. Montaine looked up at the man. He had planned and prepared a look of nonchalant dismissal, but found himself instead gawping at the striking lines painted round the gentleman’s eyes. After a good few seconds too long the boy managed to tear his gaze back to the pot. ‘It’s red,’ he said simply. ‘Indeed it is, a fine red that matches very well the beauty of Syna’s works across the sky. For you, five copper mizas,’ Montaine looked down at his hand. There he held two round discs, a copper each. His face fell. His father stood at the next stall over, in deep discussion with a man whose face was vaguely familiar to the child, a colleague of his Da’s perhaps. The lad’s father still he had his son’s other hand clasped firmly within his own. The boy held up the coins. ‘I’ll give you two for it,’ The merchant frowned, and shook his head, ‘No, no, four very least,’ The boy looked back at the money in his hand. It wasn’t enough; he shoved the coins into his pocket and pulled on his father’s shirt. Still deep in conversation, the man held up a hand to stop his son’s tugging. Montaine waited impatiently with a grumpy scowl forming on his features. Finally he could wait no longer, ‘Da! Can we buy this pot?’ His father turned to him and looked at the object of his son’s desire, ‘We don’t need it, Monty,’ he said, and turned back to his associate. The boy’s shoulders slouched into a huff. Eventually his father finished his business and began to draw Montaine down the street towards the fish market. The merchant struggled out of his stall and ran to stop them. ‘Wait! Here, boy,’ he bent down and handed Montaine a small, clay cup, ‘Free of house,’ The boy’s father viewed the salesman with a wary suspicion, but nudged his lad all the same, ‘Say thank you, Monty,’ Montaine jumped slightly at the touch, having been enamoured by the gift. He thanked the merchant and was swiftly moved along by his insistent parent. As they distanced themselves from the trader, the boy looked back and to his astonishment and eternal glee a third arm snaked out from under the man’s clothing and waved farewell.

OOCMonty runs off in my next post, I swear.

[Pash'nar]

The docks were crowded. Busy. Ships of various sizes and states of repair creaked and splashed in their places, rocking to the motion of the tide receding with the dawn. Deckhands loaded and unloaded cargo, glistening in the summer heat and grumbling the way only seasoned sailors could. Seagulls shouted from high above, searching for breakfast. The smells of Zeltiva awakening drifted on the harbor breeze—hearth fires and food vendors mixing in the humid, salty air. Pash meandered through the moorings with practiced ease, weaving between crusty, old ropes and swarthy, grunting bodies without a word. The advantage of daylight was anonymity—he was just another Svefra, another wind-swept sailor. No one stopped to stare at his mortal seeming, dark-haired and inked, a bit of sea glass catching the morning rays from a braid loose from his topknot. No, only the occasional suspicious sideways glance as if he was more a thief than a sailor were usually cast his way in a crowd. The sea sparkled and bobbed, old wood creaking under his sandals as he slipped between the narrow space made by two men moving a large, heavy-looking wooden crate. Pash did not see the little tow-headed cabin boy directing the sailors' movements from the other side. Flesh smacked and the two collided, sending the navigator into the crate with a shout of surprise while the shorter youth all but tumbled over the edge of the dock with a splash. The two men dropped their heavy cargo with a stomach-churning thump. And then all the shouting began. The boy cursed as he slopped and scrambled his way on the dock, wet and pouting with young angst. The two deckhands shouted accusations, one perhaps more threatening than the other as he towered over all four involved. Myrian, perhaps. Half-blooded at least. Something in the crate growled—what the petch could be alive in there? Pash didn't want to know. On any other day, the cartographer might have considered apologizing, but no, it was definitely not the atmosphere for such niceties. Instead, as soon as he gathered up his wits and found footing, he was off, sandals slapping on soaked, aged wood as he sprinted away toward the shore without another word. This was not a fight he could win if it came down to blows, and words really weren't in his favor either. The largest man didn't wait for any comments from his companions, growling and leaping to pursue. Pash aimed his sprint for the crowds that were gathering at the fish market to peruse the freshest of catches, hoping the commonness of his earthbound form would serve him well enough yet again.

[Montaine]

The stench of fish was delightfully pungent. An easterly breeze blew in from the sea and brought with it the aroma of the ocean. Montaine stared in wonder at the sight laid out before him, a vast array of assorted seafood, each with their own unique odour assaulting his senses. He could see large fish, small fish, fish of vibrant colours. As he walked with his father he passed a stall boasting a proud display of long, thin fish with no fins, cooked fish, raw fish, fish fresh caught that day. He passed a basket of crabs, live ones that snapped and clicked at him as he went by. The smell of grilled sand-fish, a delicacy of the town yet unfamiliar and untried to the young boy. A man in a mucky apron stood behind the wood burning grill, preparing the meat for sale as a merchant, presumably his business partner rattled away a pre-prepared spiel on the rarity of dish. Not particularly wealthy, Montaine’s father was loathe to splash out on an expensive luxury such as this, but seeing the craving in his son’s eyes he couldn’t resist and purchased a small taster. Later the boy would wonder what he had expected. Surely this piscine oddity, this source of local pride would have delicious, delectable flavour to match? Alas to the lad it tasted of salt and seaweed, and very mildly of fish. He chewed it softly, hoping that the taste might be released, or increased, with further ministrations and he struggled to hide the disappointment in his face when he found it was not. He smiled at his father, in an attempt to convince him he hadn’t wasted his money, and made an appreciative sound. His father seemed pleased and allowed his son a little freedom for the first time that day, on the painstakingly extracted promise to stay within sight. The boy immediately returned to the basket of crustaceans he had passed and bent to peer in at them. Curious as he was he began to move an outstretched finger slowly towards one of the creatures’ protuberant eyes. The stall owner, having become aware of his attempts, slapped his hand away and shooed the lad off. Montaine stuck out his tongue and ran a short way down the street. Forced by his wheezing to stop and lean on the support post of one of the booths, this one displaying a gargantuan, multi-limbed mollusc of some description that quite horrified the boy when they had first passed but now made him laugh with its odd appearance, Montaine found himself peering through a gap between two stalls at a tight alleyway leading further up into the city. In this passage were sat two people, a man and a woman, in the most humorous of clothing. The man clutched an almost empty bottle to his chest in a gloved hand. The boy noticed he possessed only one shoe. The woman wore a pair of laddered, stripy tights and the most gaudy, red lipstick. The man was singing to himself. ‘What’re you doing?’ Montaine asked inquisitively, squeezing between the stalls, ‘That doesn’t sound like no song I ever heard, Mister,’

[Pash'nar]

The last stretch of the meticulously manicured moorings of the Zeltivan harbor spread out before Pash in their almost gleaming cleanliness as he continued to flee from the massive deckhand with a grudge. A clear path seemed to materialize right where the ships thinned and the dock ended at solid ground, still quite a few feet above the beach proper. He could certainly smell the fish market before he could see it, carefully dodging crates and netting and a few innocent bystanders setting up their stalls. "Oi!" Shouted the angry half-breed, crashing without a blink of an eye over and through a small food cart just opened and brimming with an assortment of marine items on a stick, "Don'tchu think yer jus' gonna get away wit'that!" His voice boomed. The navigator didn't bother to look and see just how close the man was getting. He didn't want to feel the brute's breath on his neck, though as long as the deckhand stayed alone, Pash fancied he could take him in a fight if he had to— Petch. Who was he kidding? That beast had hands the size of his mortal seeming skull. The dark-haired Svefra wove between a few stalls, finally forced to dodge market folk. The smell of fish assaulted his senses. Cook fires, spices, unwashed fishermen added to the bizarre mix of tasty and gross. He skirted and ducked, not bothering to shout a warning to the crowds, looking desperately for an alley or a small space between wooden market shantys to dive into and at least lose the damned angry deckhand for a few chimes and catch his breath. Finally, a little crack between two fishmongers caught his eye and Pash all but fell into it, stumbling to keep himself from face-planting into the wet gravel that smelled rather strongly of fish entrails and old seawater. He pressed himself tightly against the rickety wooden boards of one of the stalls, breathing hard. Strangely enough, he was grinning, though, cerulean eyes narrowing to watch for his pursuing brute while he attempted to hide. He didn't bother to notice he wasn't alone in this tiniest of alleys.

[Montaine]

The raggedy man with bottle looked up at the boy. His neck seemed unwilling to remain steady and his breath stank of booze. He coughed up a gob of phlegm and spat it onto the stone. His female companion cackled wildly at this act and rose to her feet, tottering quite dangerously. ‘You’s never ‘eard it little boy? Sing et again Ralphy, sing et fer the boy!’ The raggedy man, presumably the aforementioned Ralphy though it was well within the realms of possibility that the bizarre, tatty lady was simply speaking to the air, began to sing anew. The lyrics were sung in a rather badly slurred attempt at a haughty, upper class accent. ‘I were once a man o’ distinction, ne’er did any harm, I lived a life o’ a fancy man; owned land, a dainty farm,’ The tatty lady raised her arms above her head and raised herself to her tiptoes. Unable to keep her balance, she stumbled back on her heels and almost to the floor. She patted herself down and began to spin, like some terrible, drunken husk of a ballerina. ‘One day the ambassador’s ball approached, A proud, rich fella o’ no reproach His daughter, the beauty to me eye, Of bounteous breast and ample thigh!’ The tatty lady chastised him, ‘’Es a kid Ralphy, do the cleaner version,’ ‘Shut up Edie,’ came the blithe reply, ‘Nevah stop an artist while ‘e works! Now, where was I?’ Montaine grinned as Edie returned to her strange movements. ‘This all took place in a wondrous city, far across the sea, Not a word o’ a lie, nor a shred o’ the truth, to found here be! The ambassador’s lass was rose cheeked an’ fair, But what drew me to ‘er, well, was that wondrous pair!' With this line Ralphy mimed a comically large bust with his hands, making Montaine giggle. ‘Says I to ‘er, want to go upstairs? Forget the world an’ all your cares? An’ she looks at me, ‘er lips all pursed An’ says, “Alas, good sir, I ‘ave been cursed!”’ Ralphy’s impression of the fair ambassador’s daughter was a good octave higher as Edie mouthed words, whilst pushing her bosom up with her hands. ‘Says I to ‘er, don’t matter to me! You’re the fairest of all Alvadas! Then she drops ‘er drawers, an' out springs forth a forest o’ cicadas! I screamed in fright, ‘n’ punched out ‘er lights, a gut reaction, ‘onest! Chased out of town, ‘n’ left to drown, to be killed, or so they promised. An’ so I drifted out to sea, in search of a new beloved, Of ample breast and bounteous thigh, waitin’ to be discovered!’ With a final flourish Ralphy ended his song and tossed his now empty bottle against the wall, where it promptly smashed into pieces. Edie screeched with laughter and curtsied, grabbing the grubby edges of her torn skirt, as Montaine applauded with all the gusto he could manage, his blasted happy wheezes returning with his joy. Suddenly there was a commotion from the market street and the sound of angry shouting. Ralphy and Edie looked at one another, as the raggedy man scrambled to his feet. ‘S’the bloody Guild!’ Edie cried, grabbing his arm and helping her bawdy friend up, ‘Sorry kid, we gotta go!’ Ralphy turned to look back as he moved, 'An' don'tchya go forgettin' the ballad of Ralph Fantino!' As the two drunks began to stumble up the alleyway towards the city a new figure squeezed into the alley, flushed and panting, a tall, dark stranger, sweat running down his brow. Monty looked up, the sun eclipsed by the seafarer’s head. His breath caught in his throat as he wheezed quietly, awed by the sailor before him.

OOCI wrote this by accident. I was originally going to have Edie be a prostitute and Ralphy be a paranoid schizophrenic. What could have been, eh?

[Pash'nar]

The growing morning market crowds surged a little—scattering like seabirds—just within Pash's view and a lumbering shadow passed the thin strip of light that framed the space's entrance. The navigator inhaled and seemed to attempt to become one with the wooden wall for a heartbeat or two until he was content that his pursuer had passed by without noticing his presence. He was too wrapped up in avoiding a larger problem to notice the drunken pair staggering in the opposite direction, and his exhausted senses were spread too thin to notice the boy right away, either. Shouting and commotion rose and fell for a moment, following the direction of the angry deckhand. The Svefra finally exhaled, sinking from the wall a bit to rest his hands on his knees and breathe. The sun was finally risen above the stalls and it shone off of his glistening skin, getting stuck along the fine black lines and symbols drawn under his flesh. His vest fluttered in the breeze and it was a momentary relief in the humid air. He closed his eyes against the sting of his own sweat, muttering to himself in his slightly accented Common, "What a petching mess—" Then he heard Montaine wheeze. The navigator tensed and cocked his head to the side, eyes snapping open to glare at the boy already inhabiting his hiding place. He smirked, a hint of discomfort in the crooked tilt of his lips despite the mischievous sparkle the in twin cerulean pools above his sun-kissed cheekbones. Children made him nervous—he'd awakened in this petching city a man and any memories he'd managed to grasp at had yet to involve being so … small … or so young. A calloused, tattooed hand drifted upward to thumb his slightly crooked nose, letting the awkward silence between himself and the small human linger for what felt like a threateningly long time. Pash's thin expression widened into a tense, wind-swept grin and he whispered hoarsely for lack of anything better to say to the little thing staring wide-eyed at him, "Hiding too, eh?"

[Montaine]

Monty pulled his gaze from the sailor and tried to calm himself down. It really was becoming rather difficult to breathe and he felt himself getting a little faint. His mind flitted briefly back two days, to when he had last caught his father crying. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t asked that his Da had finally told him about his mother. His Da had sat him down on the creaking atrocity that passed for his father’s bed, it possessed all the weathering and age of an antique only without the benefit of any monetary value, and said to him, ‘Now Monty, I’m going to tell you a story,’ The story had been a lie. It was a valiant tale of a fair maiden of strong mind yet frail health and a headstrong, wilful warrior, and of the beautiful babe the two brought forth. Montaine accepted the tale as a truth, even if he questioned certain aspects of it, because he knew full well that that was what his father wanted. The ferocious woman of his father’s tale had never given up her resolve, even as the end approached. She kept a calm head and didn’t let her sickness destroy her. Montaine placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid pitter-patter of his heart, and furrowed his brow, willing it to slow down. Edie and Ralph had said the Guild was coming for him. Was this man Guild? He certainly didn’t look the sort. No, a smile spread across the child’s face as he worked it out in his head, this man was a pirate! The hair, the clothes, the tattooed skin, he was a wild, seafaring adventurer like out of one of Da’s tales! An explorer, a scallywag of the highest order! And he was obviously on the run, hiding, yes, of course! ‘You’re a pirate!’ the boy squeaked, excitedly, ‘A real, live pirate!’ He couldn’t believe his luck. He had dreamed of a life outside the dull walls of his home, of a world beyond the Zastoskas, a world filled with daredevil sword fights and noble horse people and creatures he had never seen! And here, stood before him someone from that very world, admittedly slightly sweaty, and yes maybe a little shorter than he’d pictured in his daydreams, but a heroic, roguish ne’er-do-well of foreign lands all the same. But now, what to do with him? Would he play the dutiful citizen and turn him in to the authorities? Surely the Guild would pay a handsome price for the undoubtedly high bounty on this sea bandit’s head. Enough to pay for a whole house of red pots! Nah, that sounded dull. Gold pots! Filled with treasures, and fish! Fish that tasted nice, though. And he’d get a nurse, forever, so he could go travelling! But he couldn’t. Of course not, this man was clearly a good pirate. He had decided this due to the man’s tattoos. That one was clearly from Abura, where he had defended an Akvatari maiden from a band, no a horde, of evil soldiers. And that one was from the far-off jungles of Falyndar, where he’d slain a hundred of the man-eating cannibals that lived there! Still, just because he wasn’t going to turn him in didn’t mean he couldn’t have just a little fun. The boy put on a face of mock disapproval and tutted, ‘I’m going to go straight to the Guild, Mister Pirate, unless you...’ he pondered for a second, ‘Tell me about your treasure! Da says all pirates have treasure!’ He folded his arms in triumph, surely the villainous sea-dog had no choice but to accept!

[Pash'nar]

The accusation of piracy melted the dark-haired navigator's expression like the summer heat was turning the insides of the fish smelling up the market into unrecognizable goo—slowly and not without some kind of humor. In no hurry to wander back out into the crowd with his potential pursuer still after him, he rose to his full height (which wasn't really all that average while the sun shone over head) and squared his shoulders. The dawn caught a few beads of sea glass in his hair and they twinkled as he risked a laugh. The sun-touched edges of his eyes wrinkled with his mischievous chuckle, and he hardly appeared threatened so much as amused. "You've got quite a pair of balls for such a scrawny land rat." Pash taunted in his occasionally broken Common, but his unconscious Fratava gestures were no more family friendly than his words, "Even if I was a petching pirate, you'd best come up with a better threat than just the Guild." He faked a feral-looking sneer, surprisingly perfect teeth all in a row, clashing with the dark inked lines that ran up to his shoulders on both sides. It took a bit of effort not to laugh, despite just how odd he found conversing with the miniature human, "I haven't had my breakfast yet—" Cerulean eyes sparkled like the baubles in his tangled black topknot and Pash might have gotten carried away in his terrorizing act by letting his words fade into licking his lips, "—who's to say I haven't picked up a Myrian's appetite from my life on the high seas, eh?" He restrained from pinching the wheezing thing standing in his shadow. Just barely, though. He hoped it showed in the hungry expression he worked so hard to plaster across his wind-swept features.