Docks and Dinghies.

[Nixie]

Timestamp: 21st of Spring, year 512 AV. A few bells after sunrise.

The sun had risen a few bells past and was slowly creeping in through Nixie's window. Since pushing night from the sky, its intrusive light had patiently been pealing away the darkness held behind closed lids to slowly wake her. It was too early though, and the new bed, too much a stranger to her. After having stayed in a different tavern's bed over the passing of a whole season, Nixie had grown too familiar with the lumps and dips of that mattress; it would be some time before she could enjoy true restful sleep again. But refusing to abandon her hope for more sleep, Nixie kept her eyes shut tight and listened to the sounds of the unfamiliar building. At first only recognizing the sound of her own breathing, she forced herself to listen beyond the immediate walls. Even then, she was only met with the sounds of aching walls shifting, and the whisper of voices down in the streets outside. When they only worked to keep her awake, Nixie rolled over under the blanket to lean on a propped elbow and stare at her door. Wandering if the other two slept soundly still, or were stirring between nights sleep and mornings new day. When she didn't hear anything, a restlessness grew in her. It seemed there was no company to be had so early in the morning, and so, not wanting to disturb the tavern's owners, Nixie took to the streets.

Sleep still heavy upon her, shoulders and head sagged under the unpleasant glare of sunlight; and her feet barely left the cobbled ground with each slow step. Wandering with no destination in mind, she soon found that Alvadas had taken her to The Patchwork Port. Most of its workers rose with the sun and had already been hard at work for several bells. Their voices were boisterous and annoying, but she envied the energy they had. Even wished to take it from them.

Making her way down to the shoreline, she found it difficult to maneuver through the bustling crowds of sweaty bodies. But after avoiding a few heavy crates carried by grunting men, she stood before the docks and ships. Walking out onto nailed boards, the thump of her steps reverberated through the water worn wood. Gaze cast downward, she peaked through the gaps at the dark water beneath and listened as small waves lapped at the dock's posts. Only glancing up and ahead once the end neared. Boats were docked to the left and right of her, but those aboard them were quiet enough to give her some peace and keep her from paying them much mind. Taking in a deep breath, the smell of salt water and fish helped to fight off the grogginess that clung.

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar wasn't quite up with the dawn, though it was close enough. He was exhausted, but perhaps a bit more than content to be back in his own casinor and in his own bed. Syna's light changed his seeming as she always did, the first fingers of daylight peeking over the horizon tanning his opalescent skin, revealing finely inked tattoos and a sea-worn Svefra form instead of the moonlit celestial grace he often still felt he should still be. Alvadas again. He groaned—it was petching stupid of him to come back. He knew it, and yet here he was. Staring up at the slowly brightening blue of the sky through the skylight windows of his painted cabin, he mentally ran a groggy inventory and realized he could probably spend his coins restocking his ship and getting ready to sail again. It was something. And something was better than nothing. He didn't want to admit he was here for more than that reason alone. Not yet. He took his time dressing and piddling about his old ship, deciding he could find his own breakfast somewhere in the city, should Ionu decide to favor the navigator today instead of smite his efforts at getting anywhere important. He counted his mizas and made one last check to take note of his casinor's needs before heading up the noisy stairs to his deck. With practiced ease, he slipped over the rail and onto the docks, pausing to check his mooring. Slowly, the Patchwork Port was starting to look like herself again, though it would take more than one season of repairs to revive her, given that commerce across all of the Suvan and Mizahar had been deeply scarred by the djed storm that almost drowned the dark-haired navigator himself. The weight of his coin a pleasing change to last season, he turned to wander the familiar path of the docks toward the Maw and Alvadas proper. Without thinking at first, he brushed past a groggy looking young man, standing there staring at the sea. The false Svefra managed a few more steps before turning, stopping his determined path before it truly began. Never one to miss an opportunity, especially in lean times like these, Pash'nar offered a helpful smile. "Ahoy, lad!" he called in Nixie's direction, not knowing the mistake of his assumption, "Are ya lookin' for someone?"

[Nixie]

The peace Nixie had been enjoying was so easily disrupted when somebody behind her started yelling. Well, not yelling exactly, but the mans voice had indeed surprised her. Her shoulders tensing, and annoyance bristling with the intrusion. Hopefully who ever he had meant to speak with would answer soon so she could be left to the quiet again. But when only the waves sounded, and there was no sign of the man leaving, her gaze shifted to the side in listening. Is he talking to me? Even though he had addressed a 'lad' it was very possible, given her appearance; but possibility didn't make it any less bothersome. It wasn't that his mistake frustrated her, nope, she was accustomed to such confusions. She simply wasn't in the mood to converse with a pushy merchant or smelly dock worker. Wanting to pretend he wasn't there, to ignore his presence and keep from exchanging words with a stranger. But when he didn't leave and unwavering eyes set upon her, she released a breath of resignation.

Searching her pockets, she dug out an empty pipe to pack and light; the instrument finding its place between her lips in little time. Only after that task was complete did she reluctantly and slowly twist to glance sidelong over her shoulder. Brows knit in bemusement and lips pressed into a flat line while smoke rose from the end of a fresh bowl. Yep, he was definitely talking to her. He didn't look like the fish mongers that pestered anybody with an ear to listen to their spiel though. Actually he looked the type who lived in the Patchwork Port, or at least spent much of his time in ports. What she found most interesting though, were the ink patterns that seemed to wrap up the entirety of both arms to disappear beneath simple clothes.
"Nobody you could help me find," she replied, some smoke escaping through cracked lips before she pivoted to face him. "Those are interesting though," she pointed with the end of the pipe that had been between her lips a moment ago. "Did you make them yourself?" Those handsome patterns were the only thing that kept Nixie from trying to shoe the stranger away after having answer his question.

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar didn't entirely realize his mistake until the woman spoke, cerulean eyes idly watching her turn and light her pipe. Her movements were confusing, though, if only because it took the false Svefra quite a few chimes to realize she was not, at all, a man. If he was embarrassed by his mistake, he didn't let it affect his expression. He'd never entirely understood smoking, though at least the scent of tobacco from a pipe was pleasing enough. He sighed, shifting uncomfortably until she pointed out his tattoos. He smirked then, glancing down at the tanned, inked expanses of his arms, the fine lines only briefly hidden by the leather of his vambraces before continuing on to his fingers. Most of them were simple, geometric patterns reminiscent of maps and cartography. Chart symbols permanently marked into his skin to remind him of the stars he'd fallen from as well as how he navigated the Suvan in his casinor, his profession in a way. "Some of 'em." Answered the dark-haired navigator, obviously caught off-guard by her question, expecting an angry retort at his misunderstanding. She seemed to shrug him off instead. Maybe she was used to it. Maybe she didn't care. A slow smile creased into his sea-worn features anyway, never one to miss an opportunity. He stretched out his arms in the smoker's direction, briefly as he finished his response, "Some of 'em, I jus' suggested ideas an' let th'artist do his or 'er thing. Both're always interestin' results. Collectin' 'em for a while now, I s'pose. Might be done, though. Might not." He chuckled, one hand straying absently to his vest button over his left collarbone, knowing the tattoos there hid a bit more than just ordinary tanned skin. A few he'd had since washing ashore over a century ago, it was true. The rest were his own, added over the decades to mark the passage of time in his way. "Sorry, I thought you was lost. Y'aint." The tattooed sailor sniffed, raised hand lifting higher to thumb his nose, lingering out of curiosity more than anything else. The woman—yes, well, she was definitely a woman now—wasn't one used to the sea, not like him. "Still, if you're lookin' for someone, jus' steer clear o'some of the larger ships. Ain't all of 'em th'kind of merchants you wanna get too close to."

[Nixie]

Nixie wasn't exactly surprised with the enthusiastic reply the stranger gave her. He looked to be something of a tattoo enthusiast, or at the very least, somebody who could appreciate them. But the way he went on about his own lead her to believe that, unlike hers, his didn't go far beyond geometric shapes or simple patterns. Maybe she was wrong though and there was a story to be heard or a meaning to be explained; she was told that those ones were the most interesting. Even hers had one, but it held more of a meaning than a tale; and one she didn't even think was all that exciting. Or maybe that was what she wanted to believe, if only to keep from having to explain why she picked that particular pattern. But in the end it would only ever be revealed if she were to lift up the side of her shirt, thankful for how easy it was to keep hidden.

When he was-- she assumed --simply adjusting his shirt, her gaze narrowed in distant inspection of the tattoo's he bore. A stare that could have easily been misinterpreted as an aversion to some word or action. She was only lost to a moment of confused concentration though, thoughts fixed on something she remembered her mentor explaining a while past. He had gone into great detail about those who spent too much time out in the sun with little protection. Told her how dark black ink, over time, would slowly fade to a dark ashen color if proper care wasn't taken. But his looked as vivid and fresh as if he had gotten them just the other night. Didn't he spend nearly every day out in the sun though? That was what his tanned skin told her. And it was the cause of the confused expression she wore and what moved her hand to tap the end of the pipe against pursed lips before speaking.
"You're right, I'm not lost. But," her words came to a short pause when she was reluctant to ask such a nosy question. "would you tell me a bit more about your tattoos?" Taking a few steps towards the stranger, eyes fixed on his arms, Nixie expected him to refuse. Knowing that she probably would have if she were asked that same question. But she hoped he would comply with her request to test the truth of her mentors words. Would they have any meaning, or were they really just pretty marks?

[Pash'nar]

"'Bout my tattoos?" The false Svefra blinked, caught off guard, though he didn't back away as the woman stepped into his personal space. Instead, he was caught mid-motion, arms hovering in the air between them instead of making their way back to hang at his sides, "Oh aye—" Pash'nar paused, admission of his age on the tip of his tongue. He smirked, knowing that under Syna's glare, all this woman saw was some tanned seafarer a handful of years past being young but still a long enough sail from anything resembling old. What she couldn't see is just how long he'd looked the same—over a century, of course—and thus couldn't fathom the kind of time he'd had to spend on the markings under his skin. While he seemed incapable of permanent scars and most marring of his earthbound form, for whatever reason, ink seemed to stick. It even seemed not to fade, though it was somehow hidden while in his celestial seeming at night. Invisible under the dusky opalescence. It was curious, and the dark-haired navigator was unsure of how to even begin his stories without some kind of explanation. Still, he hesitated, knowing reactions to announcing he was an ethaefal were a mixed bag at best. "—they all got their own tales, I s'pose." Most of them. There was a bit of filler, sure, but they were his way of marking the passage of time. He knew how the pieces fit together, though most of them didn't have specific, detailed stories so much as marked the year or the decade, inking that time period into his memories. Only two markings weren't entirely his own—the giant manta ray inked between his shoulder blades and the well-hidden Lacun mark just below his left collarbone. Those, for the moment, were hidden beneath his open vest. He didn't appear to have any tattoos across his chest or even down his legs—just from fingertip to fingertip, over his arms and on the back of his neck. Leather vambraces hid some of his wrists and as he held his arms out for the woman's inspection, backs of his hands face-up, he considered removing them if she bothered to request such a thing … though if she attempted to talk him out of too much clothing, he'd be curious about her intentions, "Most ain't for anythin' specific, mind you. I'm a cartographer by trade, y'see, out on th'Suvan. I got a boat an' sometimes I work for larger ships. Many o'these markin's I put on maps or they look like whatcha see on ol'charts'n'things." Without bothering to explain his race or his appearance, he began to break down some of the bands that ran across his arms and some of the nautical shapes that made up the various sections. One was from his first year working on a trade vessel of significant size, one was from a year of some terrible winter, one was inspired by some Svefra pod, one was to remember a shipwreck, one was for a friend. He rattled off just tiny hints of his personal life, surface ripples, washes of the tide. He didn't delve into the depths of his existence, but it slowly became obvious that the expanse of time he was covering in his stories was somehow inexplicably longer than his sea-worn features appeared capable of containing. It was strange. Perhaps it was in his telling, or it was the truth. As he finished his descriptions from fingertips to shoulders, one hand strayed to the worn hem of his vest, "There's a bit more hidden under 'ere, see, but that's the main haul of 'em you've got to hear jus' now. An' you, you collect ink, too?"

[Nixie]

When the stranger did not shrink away from her advance, Nixie was quick to assume that for the moment he would humor her curiosity. But before she could continue with the inspection, he spoke and redirected her attention. Returning the pipe to her mouth, she listened, a waif of dark smoke threatening to choke him if a breeze were to be so precise in its direction. What's a cartographer, she asked herself, not entirely sure what all that line of work entailed. But when he started pointing out specific tattoos and telling the tale of each one, her interest in its meaning was pushed aside. Instead turning her focus to which stories matched which markings. Tale after tale he had her intrigued and the truth behind her mentor's words became clear. She was glad to prove him right. But she wandered, did people ever get inked just.. because?

How much time had passed in the telling of each story she wasn't sure, but if she could have guessed, a great many chimes. Some boats had left port and been replaced by others in the time the two spent standing there. The sun stood a bit taller and many new faces with loud voices had joined the docks in unloading ships. Though perhaps it wasn't that they were actually louder, but instead simply greater in number. Whatever the case, Nixie found them bothersome and distracting, even if her features wouldn't show it. Shifting where she stood, her countenance remained placid aside from the corners of her lips turning down ever so slightly. Though her gaze did wander now and again when ether a loud crash or bellowing call sounded over the already noisy docks.

When he went from pointing out designs, to toying with his vest again, Nixie's gaze followed. But to her disappointment, that was where the tour ended. She wouldn't push for more though; he had already indulged her interest far longer than she could have hoped. Besides, even if she had wanted to, the query that followed would have stopped her. Eyes shifting to meet his, her first reply was a blank stare as if she were pondering just how she wished to answer.
"I'm not sure you would call me a collector, but I do have one that I've been adding to for nearly five years now," she finally answered. That was where she left it before hurriedly moving on though, her gaze falling to the side. "More recently I've been helping others collect their own." While answering, Nixie's shoulders fell and she shifted her weight again; her legs growing weary over the time spent standing at the end of the dock. "My mentor has been trying to teach me how to listen to the stories of others and create designs that represent them."

[Pash'nar]

"So you do the tattoo drawin' yourself?" The dark-haired navigator arched a dark brow curiously. Pash'nar was used to the hustle and bustle of the docks; they were more his home than any city proper could be. He was hardly bothered by the noise—shuffling of crates and cargo, cursing sailors, and waves crashing on hulls. He was able to just tune most of it out as the kind of background noise that made up so much of his day-to-day life when ashore. The sea was quiet, but that was an entirely different beast. He was forced to shift his stance as well, but more because his left leg ached. He'd overworked himself while recovering from the surprise charoda stabbing at the end of spring, and it was still sore almost three tendays later. The tattooed sailor was curious, though he hadn't added to the marks on his skin in several years. Once he'd buried his Lacun, he hadn't been able to find a reason to ink up any more of his flesh. He'd just avoided finding the same reasons he once had, he supposed. It was easier not to feel about things than feel too deeply and end up crushed by the undertow in the end. Blinking away the sudden distance in his gaze, Pash dug up a lopsided smile, offering up more conversation instead of focusing on his discomfort, "How long've you been studyin' tattooin'? There's some great folks out on th'Anchorage Flotilla—if'n you're into sailin' that far out to sea. Svefra folk seem t'have the kinda passion for making marks, though I s'pose so do Myrians an' some others. Jus' for diff'rent reasons. Not all folks tell stories with their ink, I'd guess." He could still see his casinor over the woman's shoulder, a little old thing compared to some of the more impressive ships that came in and out of the Patchwork Port. It would, perhaps, be quieter there, and he wasn't in a terrible hurry to head into Alvadas proper. Honestly, he despised the shifting of the city—it was more unpredictable than the sea he loved so much. He still wasn't sure why he was going there anyway ... well, perhaps he knew but still wasn't willing to admit it to himself. He knew the Drykas would be gone by now. He'd been away at sea long enough for her to continue on her journey without him. Perhaps it was for the best, anyway. "I'm sorry if I was interruptin' you." He added finally, realizing their conversation had been random, though not just directed by himself,. He casually wondered how well-studied she was. The mark on his back was older than he was, considering it had been there the day he first washed ashore after slipping through Leth's fingers. It had belonged to this earthbound form long before it belonged to him. "Didja have somewhere to go?" His question seemed to contain a layer of further curiosity. Did she want somewhere to go?

[Nixie]

Watching the sailors features change with the question, Nixie couldn't decide if she thought it was one of curiosity or skepticism. Maybe it was a little of both? Aside from a few choice emotions, she generally had a difficult time reading people. And in the time she spent debating just what the arched brow translated to, she managed to miss a moment when the stranger seemed to fall back into his own thoughts. Then it was gone, and he spoke again. His onslaught of questions bringing about the hint of a smile to curve Nixie's lips. He didn't seem all that bad, maybe she would stay and chat a bit.

But just as her mind had been made up, and before she was able to really enjoy the strangers company, it sounded like he wanted to leave. Or at least that was the way Nixie took his question and apology. She was about to speak, but her mouth only hung agape at first and her brows only furrowed while she sought someway to answer the question in her uncertainty. Wandering if he had already lost interest.
"You didn't interrupt me. I came here to... for some fresh air. That was really the only plan, but I guess if I did leave right now," Glancing at the loud and busy people in the not too far distance. "I would probably just go somewhere with less noise. If you need to go though, than..." Her words trailing off to silence. It might have seemed she had more to say, but the awkward pause she let fall between them probably said otherwise. Nixie did continue again though, but in the continuation interrupted whatever words he might have tried to speak in that pause. She could have told him to be on his marry way if he needed to go, but in truth she wished he would stay and talk with her a while. Besides her mentor, this stranger had been the only other person she came across that also seemed to have some interest in tattoos. That alone was enough of a reason for her to try and get him to stay.

"I don't actually draw things, you see. I could if I felt like it I suppose, but no. I paint instead." Gaze falling to her feet as if she were in thought, Nixie took the pipe between her lips and puffed a few times before speaking again. "Painting can't be all that different from drawing, can it?" That question was mostly for herself, but glancing up at him again, the next was for him. "What methods do the Svefra and Myrians use?" Nixie had only heard of the two races through word of mouth. Remembering that one was said to be a vicious culture while the other ones were free spirited and adventurous. She couldn't recall ever meeting them herself though, or if she had she just wasn't paying attention. "Do you... have someplace to be?" The question was nearly the same as his, but came with much more hesitation.

[Pash'nar]

“Nah. Ain’t inna hurry to wander Alvadas’ petchin’ streets.” Smirked the dark-haired navigator, not really aware of or concerned about whether or not he’d implied he was in a hurry. Really, he wasn’t, though something nagged in his chest, mocking his reasons for even being back in the City of Illusion at all. Petching fool. He kept his expression from faltering with his distracted moment of thought, pointing further down the docks over the woman’s shoulder, “I came from ‘attaway. I gotta casinor if’n you’re tired’f all the mornin’ bustle. It’s only a bit quieter, I s’pose.” He offered without much hesitance—any reason to stay on the docks and not get himself into trouble in town was certainly a good enough reason for now. Without waiting for a response, he took a few steps in the indicated direction of his old boat, “So, y’don’t actually tattoo. You paint? I do a bit’o’drawin’ an’ paintin’ m’self, but for diff’rent reasons than markin’ up skin. I jus’ collect ink for m’self, y’could say.” Pash’nar chuckled. He marked the passage of time in his own way, burying memories under so much ink, “I ain’t an expert on how folks do their tattooin’, an’ I certainly ain’t ever hung around Fylandar long’nough to know what th’petch they do to their skin.” He grinned teasingly, rolling his shoulders in a wave of a shrug, “Svefra’ve gotta few methods. Some folks like color, an’ so they gotta use a variety of needles, an’ some folks don’t. I’ll have to sketch y’a what th’diff’rent instruments look like. I ain’t so good at explainin’, but I figure most of ‘em are all alike.” The tattooed sailor obviously preferred his colors in the form of random scarves and choice words instead of ink, all of his hand-made markings were the same blue-black in color, though it was obvious that some were certainly much older than others by their different faded appearances. “D’you paint on skin? Or jus’ canvas?” Pash added curiously, knowing their walk was perhaps a little further than assumed. He preferred to be far from all of the large merchant ships when he stayed at port, finding as isolated a spot at the dock as possible to moor his ship.