[Flashback] Sand and Sea (Pash'nar)

[Satevis]

43rd Day of Summer, 507 AV It had been almost eleven days since the man now known as Satevis had washed up on the shores of Zeltiva. The newborn Ethaefal stood at the edge of the Cerulean Pier, looking out over the ocean. It was a warm summer day and the sea looked almost inviting in the sunlight, cool blue water lapping against the edge of the pier. Satevis knew better. He still remembered struggling for breath, trying hard to break the surface and nearly drowning in it. He frowned and shook his head, putting those thoughts out of his mind for now. He had gotten better at dealing with his situation over the past few days, although the bitterness he felt over what had happened was still present. It would be entirely too easy to blame the gods, but he found that a large chunk of his mindset was still Benshira. To blame the gods would be weakness. He blamed circumstances, and in some twisted way, he blamed himself. He turned away from the pier, tugging absently at the front of the new shirt he was wearing. It was a simple set of clothes--a cotton shirt, pants, and boots, but it was not the same style of clothes that this form remembered wearing. The Benshira tended towards loose fabrics, better for the heat of the desert. Still, he supposed that no matter how much he might look like one, he was no longer a Benshira. He watched idly as the people moved around the pier, most of them not giving him a second glance. It was amazing how different he looked between day and night. He didn't even remember what had brought him out here. He had been prone to wandering over the past few days, moving all over the city. He found that walking helped him think, and he had been doing a lot of that lately. He couldn't stay in Zeltiva, he knew. He had to leave. He had already resolved to go to Yahebah and pay his respects, and then perhaps come back to study magic. But he was reluctant to pack up and start moving. Making plans, buying supplies, and leaving Zeltiva would make his fall a lot more real. It would force him to accept the fact that he had fallen, that the Ukalas was nothing more than a distant dream, and that he was now living a mortal existence on Mizahar once again. He could deal with the transformations at sunrise and sunset, the new, yet familiar sensations of hunger (in his mortal form), thirst, and pain, and the days and nights spent wandering the port city, but on some level, leaving would mean moving on, and moving on would mean letting go. He watched as another boat came into the docks, idly watching the sailors go about their business. He needed to let go, he knew. He needed to leave. He couldn't continue to exist in a comfortable delusion. He was being weak, by staying. Weak, and a coward. But for now, he stood on the pier and he watched, standing apart from the crowd, as if by doing so he could stand apart from the rest of the world.

[Pash'nar]

As was his usual between various jobs at sea, Pash'nar always seemed to find himself washing back to Zeltiva. If someone had ever bothered to press the question, he'd be forced to answer because it was, next to the Suvan itself, the only place he could now call home. No, it was a far cry from the faded, weathered memories of the Ukalas he desperately tried to avoid thinking of, even though they managed to cling to the darker corners of his mind like cobwebs that refused to be cleaned away. He'd washed ashore in Mathews Bay some fistful of decades ago, and so it was even now when there was seemingly nothing better to do, the wind in his sails always blew him back to familiar harbors. He still refused to call it home outright, stubborn and grasping at the hope that his real home was still far from Mizahar. It felt like a futile thing to hang on to, given the span of time since his first breath and now. Mooring his worn old casinor to some out of the way section of the port, just far enough from the larger ships and the real bustle of morning trade. Not that he wasn't comfortable with the crowd of sailors and fresh merchandise, no, he was quite used to the rhythm of the docks by now if only by being a willing participant in much of the activity to earn his living. Still, as a Svefra under Syna's light, it was always in his best interest to stay out of the way of the inquiring gaze of the Guild as much as possible. He apparently always had to be doing something illegal, simply by virtue of the tanned, tattooed skin of his earthbound form. Whatever. No one made that petching assumption at night, that was for sure. Slipping over the rail of his ship and onto the well-maintained wood of the docks, the dark-haired navigator weighed his options for burning away the daylight hours based on the weight of mizas in his pouch and the summer heat that already weighed down the air despite the sea breeze that danced over Mathews Bay towards town. He traced the familiar floating walkways toward town, distracted in his own thoughts. He should probably look for work. He probably shouldn't waste his day drinking. Pash'nar absently wondered if he'd run into to the boy while he was here, as usually seemed to happen if he was willing to stay ashore long enough. It was something that, over time, he'd reluctantly come to look forward to. Still, the tattooed sailor wasn't sure how long he really wanted to stay. Slowly reaching the last stretches of the pier, he found himself forced to dodge a few burly, over-burdened sailors, dragging their cargo off into town. He skirted their heavy loads, grumbling at how they felt the need to take over the entire pier with their shyke. He side-stepped the last fellow, curiously peering into the large crates once he heard what sounded like breathing. The glimmer of animal eyes caught his own cerulean gaze and something growled. Hissing in surprise, Pash stumbled backward. He brushed past the exotic looking man standing all alone on the pier, hardly bumping him, only to have his own sandaled foot miss the wooden planks entirely. With a wide-eyed expression of surprise and a coarse string of sea-worthy curses, he simply flailed past Satevis to land with a helpless splash into the warm shallows below the pier. Petch. He wasn't even drunk yet. The sailors with their cargo laughed and kept on their way, shouting a few choice taunts of their own as they did. Standing waist-deep in the clear blue water, the dripping false Svefra glared up at the only person standing near by, his tone of voice colder than the water, chagrined, "Don't you petchin' laugh, too." He reached to attempt to clamber back up on the pier, trying his best not to make a bigger idiot out of his sober self.

[Satevis]

Satevis was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the movement around him until he felt someone lightly brush past him, losing his footing off the pier and letting out an impressive series of curses as he crashed down into the shallow water below. The former Benshira's eyes widened in alarm, and he turned, leaning over the edge of the pier to make sure the man was alright. He didn't seem to be harmed, thankfully, but from the sound of it and from the laughing of the sailors behind him, his pride had taken a beating. "I wasn't planning on it," said Satevis, crouching down at the edge of the pier and extending an arm out to the man as he started climbing back up. If the Svefra took the offered hand, Satevis would help pull him up to the pier. He straightened up once the man was back on the pier, taking a step back. "Although..." he said with a slight grin. "I suppose today isn't a bad day for a swim." The Ethaefal eyed the man. He had the same look about him as those other people that occasionally popped up around the docks--the tanned, blue-eyed sailors that called themselves the Svefra. Satevis hadn't encountered them much in the part of his past life that he could remember, but he had spent the better part of his eleven days of life wandering aimlessly around Zeltiva, and doing that allowed him to learn a few things. "Are you alright, friend?" he asked. His voice had a slight Shiber accent to it, further marking him as a Benshira.

[Pash'nar]

"It's petchin' hot, eh?" Pash'nar allowed begrudgingly with a grunt, ignoring his already bruised ego's loud objections and accepting the hand offered him, his own tattooed and calloused and perhaps a bit sandy, "S'better fallin' here than out there in the deep'o'the Suvan, I'll give you that." If he had known his witness was a creature the same as himself, the levels of truth in that statement would have perhaps been much less humorous. Unaware of the recency of the other man's returning to Mizahar, he carried on in uncouth ignorance, too-perfect teeth flashing in a bright smile. He laughed, hoarse and salt-worn but not without finding some joke in his now pathetic state, cerulean eyes rolling under dark lashes and tanned lids, clambering up onto the dock. Intricate tattoos in unfaded blue-black ink spanned from fingers to fingers over both arms, some of the markings reminiscent of navigational or cartographic symbols. The lines and shapes met in the middle at the back of his neck, where a stylized compass rested inside the detailed fullness of Leth's own round face. If the sailor had more, they were hidden beneath minimal clothing. He paused to pat sand and seawater from his vest and pants, shaking a bit of flotsam from his belts with a scowl while he added, "Seems I'm all in one piece. Maybe lost a chip off'a m'shoulder for the day, though." The dark-haired navigator feigned a sly sort of pout. If he recognized the other man's accent, it didn't make him hard to understand. He'd visited the desert port cities once or twice in his lifetime, and it wasn't like his broken Common was impressive, though the occasional unconscious use of Fratava sign thrown in with his words made him appear a bit more emotive than most, always moving. "Thanks for the hand. I'm gonna guess you ain't a sailor." Inked hand strayed to fidget with his dripping top-knot, though he knew the summer heat would dry him out fast enough, "Waitin' onna ship to take you somewhere this mornin' or did'ja jus' come ashore?"

[Satevis]

"Yes, I suppose," said Satevis with a nod as the man commented that this was a much better place to fall. He probably didn't know the truth of that statement, but it had been one of the 'what ifs' that Satevis had spent the past few days considering. He was painfully aware of the fact that if he had fallen just a little farther from shore than he had, he would be dead. Although, perhaps that wouldn't have been such a bad thing. Had he drowned upon falling, his death would have been accidental, and probably would have resulted in nothing more than an embarrassing mix-up in front of Dira. He didn't see any reason why he wouldn't have been allowed back into the Ukalas in that case. It wasn't as if he had chosen to fall. Surviving meant that he was now obligated to do everything in his power to stay alive, since anything less would be an act of cowardice and weakness...acts that were generally not well-received in the divine realms. He frowned, putting those thoughts away. There was no point in dwelling on the 'what ifs'. The reality of the situation was this--he had fallen, and he had survived. Now what? Learn magic. Travel. Study. Go to Yahebah and research his roots. Find out what he was meant to do on Mizahar. Find something that would give his existence a meaning. All of those plans floated around in his mind, but he had yet to act on any of them, falling back on the excuse that he was new, that he needed to get his bearings, that it had only been eleven days... But he didn't give voice to any of these thoughts, instead focusing on his conversation with the Svefra man. "You would be right," he said, offering the man a slightly strained smile when he mentioned that Satevis wasn't a sailor. "I actually just...arrived in Zeltiva a few days ago. I suppose you could say I'm still trying to familiarize myself with the place. I ended up at the pier for some reason." He shrugged. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. "And yourself?" he asked.

[Pash'nar]

"Heh. Well, uh, lessee ... I've been on the sea's long's I can remember, t'be honest." His voice was a little more serious with that statement, weighed down by something distant and unspoken. Longer, if he included the lifetime he didn't remember, "Washed ashore in Zeltiva once an' just seem to keep comin' back, though I can't say I call anywhere really home." The tattooed sailor's grin was wry, but his tide pool eyes looked past the Benshira while he spoke. It was ambiguous enough to come from the lips of a sea-worn Svefra, though the current of deeper meaning may not have been entirely lost on an ethaefal, even if Pash'nar hardly suspected anything of the sort. His statement was selfishly for his own amusement more than anything else. "S'not bad here, if you don't mind kelp beer an' food shortages." He laughed, not mentioning the well-organized structure, the Guild, or the hub the port really was for the area. Those, for him, were a given. He thumbed his sun-kissed nose with a bit more mischief washing into his far-away gaze, "Though, we ain't all safe folk at the docks." He left his level of safety as a mystery. He'd rather win mizas gambling than robbing, but he wasn't about to share his various questionable hobbies with a stranger. Not while sober, anyway. "I'll get around to lookin' for some work. For now, I'm hopin' to stretch my legs a bit an' find somethin' interestin' to do. You didn't answer me, though. Are ya comin' or goin'?" Passengers were paying work. A little more commitment than unintelligent cargo, but certainly a little more entertaining on occasion. He preferred to choose his customers than have them forced on him, so the dark-haired navigator turned friendly conversation only slightly toward business while under the guise of simple curiosity, "Wantin' to head back to the desert, or hopin' for a tour?" The false Svefra's tone implied he was capable of either, though the looks of him implied it would require coin. Or at least, that would be the natural assumption made of his kind. He just took opportunities as they came, though the likelihood of his tour being anything more than a pub crawl was very slim. He wasn't about to admit that with a smile on his face yet, however.

[Satevis]

Washed ashore. It was a figure of speech, but it took Satevis a moment to translate it as such. His Common was good, but it was academic, better suited to translating research papers than understanding slang. As such, when the Svefra said it, his mind first went to the literal interpretation, and it struck him. He knew the man had meant it metaphorically, but to him it was a little more than that. It was truth. It seemed like everything was reminding him of his fall lately. Maybe it was because that was what had been on his mind the past few days. He needed something to get his mind off of it. Something like a change of scenery... Gods above, was the whole universe pushing him to get moving? "In a large crowd of people, while Syna still shines?" asked Satevis with a hint of a smile when the Svefra implied that he might not be entirely safe company. He didn't need to point out to the man that the other sailors already didn't seem to care for him. It would be unwise for him to try something illegal right here. Not that Satevis thought he might not do anything...just that it wouldn't be wise if he did. "I wouldn't come out here after dark. Some people change when Leth rises." This time, it was his turn to hide his nature behind a phrase, not knowing that it applied to the man in front of him as well. In truth, the thought that the man might be dangerous or out to rob him had actually crossed his mind, but he couldn't muster up the will to really care. His entire existence on this earth could be summed up in eleven days. What could he possibly have gained in eleven days that he would hate to lose? He frowned, a slightly interested expression appearing on his face as the man asked him if he was coming or going. Again, another mention of him leaving Zeltiva. Perhaps his earlier thought had been right. Perhaps this was a subtle message to stop sitting on his hands. There was an implication in the other man's voice...that if Satevis wished, for the price of a few mizas, he could go anywhere. "Going," he finally said. "I was planning on leaving Zeltiva at some point...and yes, I hoped to return to the desert. But if it's work you seek, then you might be wasting your time, friend. I have very little coin to give you." Once again, eleven days...and eleven days spent foolishly at that. Had he not squandered his time, he might have found a job and earned enough mizas for the trip. But there wasn't much he could do at this point, besides borrow money from Eridanus. The other Ethaefal had already gifted him with much. Satevis was unwilling to ask for more.

[Pash'nar]

Pash all-but cackled when the other man brought up daylight as a defense. If only he knew how little of a defensive position such a comment really meant, considering the assumptions made of his tanned, Syna-washed flesh as opposed to the moonlit creature he found himself appearing as once Leth took his place in the sky. Still, the tattooed sailor could only grin a bit and shrug his shoulders, feigning innocence without an answer. At the mention of coin, or the lack there of, he rolled his tide pool eyes, hooking calloused thumbs in a belt and eyeing the bustling marketplace that spread out beyond the docks, "Eh. S'alright if ya don't trust me. I'm used to that." He feigned offense, assuming the Benshira was just playing the Svefra card. Who'd trust him, really, in this tattooed skin and seafaring garb? I mean, besides other Svefra. So few. If only they knew what waited for the night. One hand strayed to rub at the back of his neck, fingers tracing the moon and compass emblazoned there in ink under his skin, "Well, I can tell ya what boats t'avoid. There's a few that'll take your purse for more of a ride than your arse, that's for petchin' sure. An' there's a few that'll promise you Yahebah an' wash you into Ravok or Sunberth with a smile on their face to shove ya on the slave block for the shyke of't." He was only slightly exaggerating his knowledge of such people specifically, but he knew that such things occurred on a regular enough basis to be true. "So, should I tell you t'ave a nice day then an' be on my way?" Pash'nar was genuinely curious about the stranger, not simply because he seemed out of place, but because he seemed out of place in a way that ran a deeper current than just a foreigner from the desert. He just couldn't pin down what it was that made him so interested, regardless of the Benshira's kindness instead of judgement. That was at least refreshing, though perhaps he'd run his course and it was time to sail on.

[Satevis]

Satevis sighed inwardly at the man's warnings. So much for a small sign by the gods. There wasn't really much hope for him to leave Zeltiva if he couldn't afford a ship, now was there? And really, whose fault was that. He frowned. He was starting to wish for a moment that he had not gone out to the docks today. Still, he would gain something from this encounter at least. A list of ships to avoid...and the knowledge that his plans for leaving Zeltiva were nothing more than words in the air until he could find the coin to pay for them. But what work could someone like him do? He had no experiences, no skills that he remembered. All he had gained from his past life was an intellect, a hunger for magic, and a scholarly attitude--none of which could be put to use without money for tuition in the first place. Besides, hadn't he already promised? No magic until after his visit to Yahebah. The encounter with the Svefra had accomplished something, though. It forced him to consider practical matters for once, instead of matters that were simply divine. Of course, he thought bitterly, it also caused him to realize that he was no better off on that side of things either. But there was no point in wasting someone's time. "That won't be necessary," he said, shaking his head. "...I don't think I'll be able to leave Zeltiva for a while." He frowned, looking the Svefra in the eye. "And it's not that I didn't trust you, friend. But you'd be rather out of luck too...if you'd only been alive eleven days..." It was the sort of thing only an Ethaefal would understand. A normal human would just get confused by it, because Satevis appeared to be a grown man. No race aged that quickly, not even the Kelvic. No race...except the race that didn't age at all. "May the moon always light your way, at least," he said, walking past Pash'nar as if he was going to walk away...

[Pash'nar]

It took a few moments for those words to sink in, standing there in the sunshine, still dripping salt water. The tattooed sailor had heard what the other man had said, thoughts snagging on the particular turn of phrase about being alive for a mere eleven days. Maybe the man's Common was a bit muddled. Maybe he meant he'd simply been in Zeltiva—no, the accent was there, but the Benshira's grasp on the language seemed practiced enough. He blinked, watching him walk away, letting him take several steps too many before he could fumble the words out—mouth moving without sound until he managed to force the semblance of an honest admission from his lips, "Petch Leth." He hissed suddenly without batting an eye at the personal blasphemy so bitter in his tone, casually tossing his damaged heart in Satevis' path with a calloused wave of his hand, "If that selfish excuse for a god wanted to keep my path lit, he wouldn'ta dropped me—us, if I'm hearin' you right—in th'first place." The dark-haired navigator smirked, though there was no humor in his all-but admitting he was both an ethaefal and a Fallen son of Leth. If he had shone brightly in the Ukalas over a century ago, it had only become so clouded and dark that if he looked within, he was afraid he'd simply see nothing. The false Svefra realized the harshness of what he'd just said out loud, not usually one to speak so openly of the burden he'd forced upon himself, but the Benshira's words had caught him off guard, tripped him into waters much deeper and colder than his accidental tumble off the pier. He sighed, stepping toward the man—the ethaefal—who was surely too fresh and too confused to have needed to hear such a swarthy old bastard's unhealthy opinion concerning his earthbound fate, "I mean, uh, thanks, but no thanks. Look, it ain't ev'ry day I run aground into another ethaefal jus' standin' 'round, an' certainly not one so soon to this side of th'Ukalas. It ain't my place to be pissin' on your new life, if that's what'cha want to call it." Pash'nar genuinely struggled to be sincere, so deep was his sense of abandonment despite the true rush of excitement at meeting a creature that shared his fate, "It's jus' been a rough mornin' for me an' mayhaps that came out a bit rough, eh? Like I said, Zeltiva ain't a bad place to wash ashore. A century later an' I still end up back'ere when the tide washes me in. You ain't alone, though, so anythin' from me ain't charity ... if you're in need." The hint of a distant smile tugged at his windswept features, unaging and finally full of the kind of truthful expression that this Benshira-by-day needed to see. His tone was still heavy—he was obviously just as damaged as his outburst implied—but there was some buried treasure beneath the dark, volcanic sands of his heart that held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, it was Leth who cared and he who didn't, that if he could just will himself to change, it could all be different. Finding the willpower was his problem. Cerulean eyes blinked again. He'd said too much, and he was more than a little afraid he'd broken something too soon, as usual.

OOCwow. that was all Pash and very little me. sorry for the harshness there, but his bitterness apparently overshadows his joy at finding another lost brother. don't run away in terror!