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

[Montaine]

Across the table from where the sailor and the child sat the Symenestra’s eyebrow dropped. Her associate snarled, ‘Yeah? And what makes ya think ya can just up’n play eh? Private game, pal.’ The gaunt woman to his right lightly placed her hand on his arm and smiled a thin-lipped smile. The gambler’s scowl dropped at her touch and he turned to her, confused. She paid him no heed but instead kept her eyes fixed on the sailor. ‘He has the coin, he can play,’ she spoke with a calm, silky voice that sent shivers down Montaine’s spine as she talked, ‘You know the game, yes? Liar’s Dice, aces wild. Here,’ she slid an upturned cup across the table to the seafarer’s hands, it rattled as it moved. She drummed her nightmarish nails delicately across the tabletop as she eyed the new player up and down, ‘My name is Halyche Rafflesia,’ she said, indicating herself with a hand splayed across her chest, ‘This is Mister Truro,’ her hand wafted lazily to her left, ‘And this is Bogh,’ the man to her right nodded in recognition. Halyche leant forwards over the table, bending in a way that was not quite humane. Her pupils were spread wide, a thin golden band circling the darkness. Her mouth was open and Montaine could see her sharp canines, a tiny droplet forming at the tip. She blinked, and leant back with a laugh, ‘Yes, yes, you know the game, this will be good fun,’ the woman paid no heed to the sailor’s diminutive companion and picked up her cup and dice in one hand, with the other she pushed forward a small pile of coin, ‘We play gentle with you, Mister Svefra man, ten miza ante, gold,’ Montaine gazed in awe at the elegant, pale lady. He had never before seen a Symenestra. He had heard of them through his father’s tales when the man had wanted to add an element of real fear. In all of his wildest imaginings he had never pictured the creatures as like this woman. They had been hairy, of many legs and with great fangs dripping and protruding from their faces. This woman was graceful, disconcertingly so. The way she grasped the rim of her cup between her middle and index fingers, her dice held within her palm was eerie to the boy. She dropped the dice into the cup and shook it twice, before slamming it to the tabletop with unseemly strength, never once taking her eyes from those of the newcomer. ‘Mizas in,’ she said, with a smile.

OOCFeel free to continue with the game as you like, and use the NPCs as you wish.

[Pash'nar]

The top-knotted sailor visibly bristled at the hefty cost to play, tide-pool gaze briefly flicking to the small human he still didn't quite understand why he was even bothering to humor. He probably would've been better off running in that alley, but it was too petching late for that. He exhaled through sun-kissed nostrils and set the stack of gold-rimmed mizas on the tabletop, calloused fingers lingering over them for only a few chimes in reluctance after sliding them to join the ante. "Pash'nar," he spoke his name quietly as alcohol and bravado snaked their way up his tattoed spine, adding with almost a purr despite the churning of his gut the pale Halyche caused with her very presence, "An' y'don't gotta be gentle with th'likes of me." The navigator settled into his chair and let the dice rattle into his cup one by one, a hint of a grin slowly creasing its way into his wind-swept features. He let Truro know he was unintimidated by his mouthy show of strength with a coy sort of wink, while nodding in acknowledgement to Bogh before shaking his cup with a bit of flair— all for Montaine, of course— and then slamming it on the table in almost a chorus with the other men. There was silence for a moment, not even a breath, as the four at the table each glanced at the results of their rolls. Pash cupped his hand and cocked his head at the young human, though it was obvious by his forcefully blank expression that it was best to stay silent. His five read easily enough: 3, 4, 2, 5, 2. Setting his cup back down again, the dark-haired Svefra returned to leaning against his chair, watching the others also cover their cups. He sat in silence for a moment, counting up their dice in his head—20 total—and contemplating how there were differences in which number seemed rolled most often. He already had two 2s, which were common enough. Did everyone have one? Did no one? Pash excavated a crusty seed from between his back molars loudly, basking in the thoughtful silence that really only lasted a handful of heartbeats. Truro slid two more gold rimmed mizas across the table, "Six ones." He grunted, turning to eye the Svefra next to him darkly, as if he resented the other man for interrupting his calculations by adding an extra five dice to the game. The navigator met the man's bet, adding an additional miza just for fun, "Six twos." He rose against his objector, turning to Bogh and arching an eyebrow in expectation.

[Montaine]

Montaine eyed Bogh. The man was old and worn from many a day at sea, his face a sea of wrinkles and skin like the sailor’s vambraces. His hair was thin and grey, his cheeks hollow and his eyes lifeless. He eyed the child, now straining to look past his hand, and slammed his cup down over them, a low rumbling sound coming from his throat. He held up his hands with all seven of his remaining fingers, his left pinky ending in a nub at the knuckle, and one of his thumbs up, lowered them and then raised three fingers. The bid was eight threes. He threw in another coin to his bet. The child turned to his companion and whispered a little too loudly, ‘Why’s he not saying anything?’ Bogh’s throat gurgled again and he opened his mouth. No tongue. Monty shivered and drew closer to his friend as the mutilated gambler took a deep swig from his mug and nodded to Halyche. The child stared at the woman, unsure if the gesture was intended to request the continuation of play or, rather more sinisterly, implicate the Syemenstra as the culprit of his wounds. She looked the type. She was scarier than any monster he’d imagined when his father spoke of her race, without a shadow of a doubt. She had glanced at her dice as the others had, but showed no change of expression on her face. Her eyes, those black, inky wells, were transfixed instead on the shabby academic at the bar. She licked her teeth. ‘Eight fours,’ she said swiftly, then turned her gaze back to the sailor, ‘So, Mister Pash’nar,’ the name rolling off her tongue, in her smooth Symenestra accent, ‘Why are you coming to Zeltiva? Are your kind not suited more to the Suvan Sea? Better than this city of azo shyke, for,’ she paused and cocked her head, eyeing up the sailor once more, ‘Adventurous types like us, no?’ Montaine watched her movements, the way she slowly leant forward, revealing just that little more of her pale, ashen cleavage, the way her lips parted just so. What was she doing? She winked at Pash’nar. Of course! It was obvious! She was lying, it was so simple, she kept talking and no one would realise she didn’t have the numbers! Monty sat back in his chair and smiled to himself. He might not know how to play the game, but he could definitely have won it if he were playing, he thought. He was not aware, of course, of the lengthy Syemenstra leg currently making its way up that of his companion. Undoubtedly his ignorance served his eight year old mind well. Truro sat, eyes wide, mouth ever so slightly gawping, staring at Halyche’s bosom. She clicked her fingers and he jumped, almost knocking his cup of dice clean off the table. He spluttered a little and cleared his throat, attempting to regain any sense of nonchalance he had formerly possessed, ‘Ahem, er, nine twos,’ He shuffled uncomfortably, refusing to meet the woman’s eye, instead busying himself in his drink.

[Pash'nar]

Just like children, the elderly also made Pash'nar a bit uncomfortable. Neither of his visages had really changed in over a century, and yet he'd seen so many around him grow old and return to their cycle. It was strange, and he knew by his face in the mirror when the sun rose that he hadn't experienced advanced age in quite some time. He wondered how long. He chuckled at Bogh's missing tongue, patting the back of Montaine's chair and offering a few options in the same kind of completely audible whisper, "Maybe 'e lost his tongue in a bet. Or he cheated. Or maybe he just talked too much—" Tide pool eyes narrowed, and the navigator shifted a little in his seat, noting the pasty, fanged woman was speaking to him. He almost didn't catch her guess, and the salt-worn lines at the edges of his lips lengthened though he managed to refrain from scowling. Had she not been a creature who liquified the insides of her food (among other unfavorable things), Pash might have been willing to lose a fistful of mizas to be distracted by attentions of the female persuasion. However, he could also find himself a better selection for those same mizas elsewhere if he wanted to go looking, so the Symenestra's form of bluffing only managed to amuse the dark-haired sailor, not stray him too far off course. "I don't live here, if that's what you're asking'," He forced a sly smile, not avoiding the woman's touch, thankful he had the back of a chair between her wandering appendage and his own valuables. Cerulean gaze pulled away from Halyche's pale features slowly, dropping his eyes downward with the invitation before running them over the grimy, scratched surface of their table, willing to play along so long as the odds were in his favor. He looked up and scanned the faces of the other two men as if asking whether or not they were interested in crying foul. They weren't, "I come'n'go with the tide." Pash'nar added, about to open his mouth to object to the woman's claim, only to have his thoughts interrupted by Truro's blurting of a new set of numbers. His jaw worked a few times, muscles flexing beneath his deceptively young skin, letting a heartbeat or two pass as he weighed his options. "I'll call ya on that one," He finally announced, setting an inked hand on his cup and nodding in the direction of the pile of coins on the table, "Let's see what'cha got under there."

[Montaine]

Truro spluttered midway through his mug, spraying himself with his drink. He blanched and looked at the sailor, and then his eyes narrowed. The blood rushed back to his face with a vengeance, a scarlet hue spreading across his cheeks as he tensed up. Montaine was struck slightly with fear, but largely with amusement at the man’s new appearance, red as a tomato. He giggled and the gambler snapped to look at him, exhaling sharply through his nose. Bogh slowly, and as casually as he could, lifted his drink off of the table, aware of what was about to happen. Haylche put her head in a hand and sighed. Truro slammed his fist on the table. The coins jumped. ‘Who is this petching vagik? ‘Ey? Did you put ‘im up to this Bogh, ya slimy, little, cheatin’ piece of shyke!’ his voice rose to an angry yell, ‘Ya think ya can jus’ bring in outside help and we’d be none the wiser?’ Bogh’s eyes were wide, his empty mouth flapping noiselessly and his hands waving about in front of him, in a fruitless attempt to assuage any guilt the furious Truro had decided he possessed. Haylche slipped her mizas off of the table into a bag and slid herself, chair and all, a good distance from the table. She winked at the sailor and the child. Monty looked at Pash’nar. The innocent little game was taking a turn for the worse. The drunken music aficionados had turned their attention to the growing commotion, the fiddler resolutely continuing her song, and the academic slipped off his stool and made his way towards the door. The boy slowly reached out to start collecting the sailor’s winnings but was a tad too slow. Truro flipped the table. Bogh went flying, as did the mizas, dice and drinks. The barman yelled over the counter and began moving with earnest towards the hatchway. Truro stepped across the rubble and heaved the bleeding, old mute to his feet, spitting in his face. He turned to the sailor. ‘Think ya can intrude on our game, pal? Cheatin’ and stealin’ from good honest folks?’ The enraged gambler dropped Bogh and stepped towards Pash’nar. The drunks resumed their cheering. Montaine dropped to the floor to gather up as many of the shining gold mizas as he could in a pouch formed from the bottom of his shirt. Truro cracked his knuckles, and snarled.

[Pash'nar]

He had expected this, really, but he wasn't quite fast enough to scramble completely away from the table. Truro tossed the cracked old wood like it was paper, catching the sailor's chair (thankfully, not his chest) and sending him backwards, though not quite as far as Bogh. Pash'nar managed to catch himself on the nearest table with an angry hiss, dragging himself forward to snatch the boy by an arm, eyes narrowing at the angry beast as he accused the tattooed sailor of cheating, "That's plenty, Monty." He clipped a warning under his breath, tugging the human in the opposite direction of the hostility for emphasis and moving to position himself in between the two, "I ain't a cheat, you jus' can't play the game. S'okay, though. Apparently you're better at beatin' up old men than lyin'." The false Svefra sneered tauntingly, beginning to wonder if this was something the Symenestra regularly orchestrated for her own entertainment. He didn't really want to know either way. "I can pound in young'uns, too." Came the growl of a retort, Truro not hesitating to lurch forward toward the offending sailor with meaty fists. There was a wave of vocalized excitement from the patronage, though the barkeep was not so amused. That was his smashed table and it was about to be his mess, in the end. He was confident in his size should things get out of hand, however, and so he wiped the bar and gave everything a moment, obviously thinking it would be a short, easy win. Pash was small, but quick. Even though the ground didn't roll like the waves, he still managed to shift his feet and twist is body in a way to lessen the impact, one angry fist clipping his inked shoulder instead of smashing him in his face. He grunted, very aware that the larger man was much stronger than himself, and he let the force of the blow propel him toward the smashed table. Both calloused hands grabbed for a sturdy wooden leg while Truro whirled around, and the dark-haired navigator yanked upwards and outwards. Crack! As leg snapped free of the useless furniture, Pash twisted with the momentum, swinging in an upward arc to catch the bigger man square in the chest. Truro hardly blinked an eye, but he laughed a little, grinning with ugly teeth to grab for the wood even while the navigator's mouth gaped a little and a few choice inappropriate words fell from his parted lips. The impact made his shoulder ache, especially as the larger man ripped the table leg from his grip and prepared to swing it back. The sailor took his chance and leapt for Truro, hoping to catch him off guard and knock him over as he brought his knees up while in the air with a snarl of his own.

[Montaine]

Monty dashed away, his prize jingling in his shirt. He drew the fabric close with one hand and used the other to clamber up onto a table, his back against one of the wooden support beams that held up the ceiling. He paid little heed to the fight, confident in his companion’s ability to take care of the thug, and opted instead to count the mizas he had managed to gather up. All in all there were fourteen golden coins, and one die he had mistaken for a miza. He tossed it over his shoulder. Fourteen! Okay, so he hadn’t managed to collect all of Pash’nar’s winnings, but at the very least he had found the starting ante, and four more to boot. The barmaid stood nearby and growled at the commotion. She slapped her cloth down on the table and rolled up her sleeves, wading in to get her share of the fight. Monty grabbed the discarded rag and bundled the money in, tying it up in a pouch. It was weighty for the small boy, satisfyingly so. ‘I think you should be giving that to me, little boy’ The gently sinister voice of the Symenestra echoed down from above. Montaine looked up and startled, the pale woman stared down at him, her hands and feet stuck to the ceiling. She bent round and crawled backwards and upside down, down the beam and held out a hand, ‘Give your nice mother Halyche her money now, little boy,’ Monty clutched the winnings to his chest and shook his head, ‘S’not yours! Petch off you azo shyke!’ Halyche’s smile twisted into a grotesque sneer, ‘Be saying that again, little boy, and I will snap your neck, okay?’ She grabbed the pouch and pulled it away from Monty’s weak grasp, causing him to squeak in annoyance. ‘Give it back! That’s my friend’s!’ he yelled, as Halyche crawled back up to the ceiling and stuck out her tongue at the boy. He stood up and stretched and jumped, trying to reach the Symenestra’s spoils and failing as she laughed. He shoved a hand in his pocket and his fingers curled round the little clay pot the salesman had gifted to him in the market. He pulled it out and lobbed it as hard as he could at the spider’s victorious face. It made contact and smashed into a cloud of clay and pot shards. In her surprise, and subsequent coughing fit, she dropped the money and it fell to the floor with a clinking. Montaine laughed at Halyche’s dusty face and clambered off the table to where the pouch had landed. He grabbed it and scurried across the floor and underneath a table that had been pushed away from the walls. He peered out from underneath and stuck his tongue out his adversary. He laughed and his wheezes started up once more.

[Pash'nar]

Truro was indeed caught off-guard by the false Svefra's leap, boney knees catching him in the gut just as he geared up to swing again. He lost balance and tipped backwards, flailing fists still connecting with the other man's side and face. Pash'nar grunted but persisted in his charge, tasting the rusty flavor of his own blood bloom in his mouth from the larger man's blow. The angry brute fell backward, crashing into yet another chair, the smaller man on top of him. Struggling to stay unpinned, Truro continued to swing wildly at his opponent. In the heat of the moment, the sailor forgot that he was wrapped in softer flesh and threw his head forward. Hornless, the smack of their skulls made his vision swim and his ears ring. The larger man continued to attempt to batter him off, but he had the advantage of strong, swimmers legs. He grit teeth against well-aimed meaty fists digging for his kidneys, forcefully willing seawater eyes to focus on Truro's unattractive face. A piece of broken chair slipped into his inked hand after much painful stretching and fighting to reach it under the punishment his body was receiving. "I ain't gotta cheat." No, not when he'd lived his whole, long life feeling cheated. "All you shykes're always th'petchin' same." Pash let loose with the hard, gnarled wooden stump across the man's face. And then he let loose some more, swinging with some kind of internal strength of will, caught in an undertow he had no desire to swim against. Something deeper washed over his senses, and he allowed himself to be carried away by the cold, inky tide—bashing until the blows stopped and the larger man groaned and oozed, twisted and unrecognizable, forgetting his small charge was now a witness to any uninhibited brutality he was capable of, regardless of his seeming. The tattooed sailor spit blood of his own, wiping his broken lip with a calloused heel of his palm. He leaned back and realized the bar had grown eerily silent, letting the broken piece of sturdy chair slip from his fingers. Standing unsteadily, he looked to the wheezing boy under the table, cerulean eyes full of something too lost in the depths of the sea to be an apology, "Leave them coins, lad—Aye, all of 'em." A bloodied hand swept loose, dark strands of hair from a face that refused to age, "Someone's gotta pay for the damages, eh?" He almost grinned, but his lips refused the entirety of the motion. He hesitated to wait on Montaine, making his way with a visible wobble toward the door without an apology and without waiting for further retaliation. He'd probably proved enough of his mettle (or foolishness) and had no interest in ruining anything further for the moment.

[Montaine]

Montaine sat agape on his heels. What the sailor had just done, what he had just seen, was terrifying and unrelentingly brutal. The larger man lay bloody and broken. The poor boy had never before been witness to such violence and it scared him. His friend – this man had just lost all control. Could he have killed him? Would he have killed him? The child looked around the bar at the silent, watching faces, some looked as frightened as he, some aghast at the bleeding mess, some smiling. How could they find amusement in such grossly vicious acts? Monty looked into the eyes of the sailor, now aware of the depths that he was capable of falling to. And he decided he didn’t care. The sailor’s words echoed in the forefront of his mind: ‘Don't begrudge your Da for protectin' you. Not everyone gets that priv'lege; it's dangerous out there. Men're beasts, too.’ Men are beasts, how true. Monty knew he had lived a sheltered life and if this trip wasn’t about learning the truth of the world then what was the point? Men are beasts. Pash’nar wasn’t a pirate, he was just some sailor that had come into harbour and found himself weighed down by a little crippled boy. It just took the right trigger, the right fight, and all of them would turn into animals. Even Da. Even himself. He should have been scared. He had been scared, but not now. What was there to be scared of? The sailor was just being, well, not human precisely, but a man. Monty looked at the pouch of money and dropped it to the floor. He slid it in the direction of the bartender and got to his feet, stumbling after his friend. He caught up and slid his hand into Pash’nar’s, and smiled at him. He didn’t care of the sailor was violent sometimes, he liked him. The two of them struggled outside. ‘Oh!’ Monty dug his free hand into his pocket and retrieved his two copper mizas. He offered them up to the sailor, and finally pressed them into his palm, ‘S’not much to your gold uns but…’ he trailed off. He needed to do that. The sailor had got into a fight because of him, the sailor had lost ten mizas because of him. Worst of all though for the boy, Monty didn’t regret any of it. It had been the greatest, most exciting day in all of his short years. The talking, the swearing, the gambling and even the fighting. He struggled to admit it to himself but the fighting, as terrible as it was, was awful thrilling all the same. Men are beasts indeed.

[Pash'nar]

The boy was holding his hand. It was bloody. Did he really want to do that? "Look, lad, I-I'm …" Petch it; he wasn't sorry. His free hand pressed against sore ribs with a groan instead. Everything hurt and it only made him angrier that his heart actually felt heavy. Pash scowled, licking stained lips as Montaine pressed his meager copper coins into his calloused palm, "No, I'm fine." He sighed at the small human's persistence, looking him in the eyes to be surprised at what he found there. Why wasn't he scared? Why hadn't he run away? Shouldn't children be afraid of monsters, even those who only took the shape of men in the sun? They should be, but this one wasn't. The inked navigator slid the coins away and rested his hand on the boy's shoulder, trying not to lean. The big bastard had been petching strong, though he was confident nothing was broken. Just bruised. Not that it would have mattered. It seemed impossible to scar—only the marks from before his rebirth seemed stubborn. New wounds left nothing but memories, not that Pash'nar didn't drag enough of those around in the cargo hold of his heart. Because he did. The false Svefra had no idea where to go. The crowds were thinning as the morning market stalls packed up and headed home. He really didn't want to lose the crowds, especially with the Guild around. He didn't quite look the innocent sailor at the moment, even with the small human as some kind of cover. He kind of wandered a bit, picking his way back toward the docks because that was what he knew. His ship was there, but he couldn't bring the boy. That would invite more trouble. Still, he'd met the boy there, in the fish market. He'd run from that petching dockhand there. It seemed like a decent enough direction— "Montaine!" Clear as a bell, a voice broke over the crowds, shouting the boy's name. Pash'nar's hand tensed on the human's shoulder, and he leaned over to whisper in his little ear, "Looks like our gig's up, my friend." The dark-haired sailor chuckled quietly, winking with a true scallywag expression washing over his worn features, "Let's jus' say I saved ya from some real pirates an' hope your Da ain't bringin' the Guild with 'im." Leaning back up with another pained growl, Pash gave Monty's shoulder one firm squeeze before he slid his hand away to hook a thumb in his belt and slowed his pace, seawater eyes looking for the source of the voice even while the summer heat sucked more sweat from between his shoulder blades and down his back.