The Sailor and the Adolescent [Eridanus, Montaine, Pash'nar]

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar chuckled coarsely, amused at the young man's heartfelt praise. He found them a seat without replying right away, letting Montaine's words wash over his thoughts. He'd never been able to stay long in cities. They were crowded places, full of people and things and noises and buildings. Bodies moved, but the ground didn't. Sometimes, the sky was hidden by lamplight or behind curtains or with roofs. There were interesting things about city, it was true, and the tattooed sailor doubted that nothing happened in them. So much living happened in them. It just wasn't the living he was used to. He settled into his chair and leaned back a little, running a calloused hand over his chin as he thought. With a wink, he broke their silence, "Sounds like things happen 'ere, after all." The dark-haired navigator teased with the hint of a smile, "But the sea ain't always excitin'r interestin'. Sometimes, it's just as borin'." His tone taunted the boy, challenging him to a wider view, "Your ship gets stuck without wind an' you drift helpless for a while if y'ain't got oars. It's cloudy for days an' you ain't got a compass, so you can't get goin' again 'til the stars come out. Those ain't excitin' times." "I gotta say, you've got the spunk t'enjoy the sea. There's some nice places out there. Beautiful places. Dark places, too." He sighed. There wasn't anywhere else he called home anymore, really. The Suvan was the closest thing, in that antique of a casinor, though it was still a far cry from the brief memories of the Ukalas that would seep back into his consciousness unbidden at times. Still, sometimes it was lonely, but Pash wasn't about to admit that out loud, not to Monty, not to anyone. As much as he found his solitude comforting, it wasn't always. "You can see the world anytime, y'know." He wasn't teasing this time, though his cerulean eyes full of mischief. The false Svefra would have gladly taken the youth anywhere he'd want to go. Why not? He'd either love the sea or hate it, and there really was so much to see. If he wanted to see it, he should. He added with obvious but quiet coyness, "But you've got a job here, eh? Can ya fish?"

OOCGo Eri go Eri go Eri. It's all you.

[Montaine]

‘Fish? Nah, ain’t never tried me hand at that, but the boss let me make glass, I said that didn’t I? He finally let me do it! An’ it’s not so hard as it looks, I mean, it’s not easy either o’ course, you gots to hold the pipe an’ spin it jus’ the right amount, but you gots to hold it at the right angle too, else the glass’ll droop, ‘n’ if it does that you’ve got to make sure it don’ fall so you’ve got to correct it, but you gots to be careful you don’ put your hand too far down or you’ll burn yourself, but everyone does that now ‘n’ again, the boss says, so it were fine when it happened to me, see?’ Monty paused his incessant chatter to proffer his burnt hand to Pash. It was an old burn, almost healed, that he had received when he had foolishly and instinctively reached out to stabilise the pipe. Now that he had stopped talking he realised the speed at which he had babbled on a subject in which his friend undoubtedly had very little interest. He looked down at the table. He didn’t normally jabber so much with the sailor. Perhaps it was simply excitement, perhaps he simply wished to share his new skills and experiences and passions with his oldest friend, to repay him for bringing so many interesting tales back from the oceans with his own story. Ultimately, he decided to put it down to that. He realised he still had his burnt palm facing up and brought it back to his lap. ‘You want a drink?’ he asked, looking up and waving at Gadger behind the bar, ‘I’ll get us drinks.’ Monty stood up and made his way to the bar, digging out a few coins from his pocket and placing them on the counter. The giant bartender slid the money to his side and started pouring, there was no need to ask what he was purchasing as all the drinks were the same, foul, green and barely consumable, ‘You alright, lad? You look a little flushed,’ ‘’m fine, jus’ give us the drinks,’ he popped open a button and shook his shirt, ‘Bit hot isn’t it?’ Gadger shrugged and passed him two drinks. The glassworker carried the mugs back over to the table and placed one down in front of the sailor. He drank deeply from his own in an effort to lower his own temperature and give him a chance to contemplate just what the petch was going on with him. His eyes watched the frothy, green liquid slowly wash down the mug and out of sight into his mouth and then flicked over to his companion. Shyke he looked good, sitting there so nonchalant, so carefree. Montaine put his half empty mug down on the table and let out a satisfying gasp, followed by a loud burp. He then raised a competitive eyebrow at Pash, a challenge in the age old game of gaseous expulsion.

[Pash'nar]

The tattooed sailor chuckled at the youth's enthusiasm at telling his work tales, already knowing the kind of pleasure Montaine seemed to glean from hearing his own stories of life at sea. Unfortunately, Pash'nar wasn't quite as interested in the intricacies of glassblowing in return, but the older man at least enjoyed knowing that he'd found something he enjoyed doing. With a grin, he eyed the burn as it was shown to him with obvious enthusiasm, not simply to humor his younger companion, for only one of the pair was even capable of scarring. Any scars that Pash bore were from a previous life he knew nothing about except what shadowed his thoughts in nightmares and sudden memories. While he could mark his skin all he wanted to with tattoos—and he did—all the more violent damage he'd suffered had left him unmarked once it healed. Though, only the sailor knew not all his marks made in this petching lifetime were hand-tooled in ink. Then Monty was gone before the dark-haired navigator could even offer to get the drinks himself, and he watched his younger companion wander away, obviously still a bit over-excited. He smirked. The boy had work, after all, so who was he to say no? Had the young man seemed flushed? Was it just his illness? Pash didn't dwell too much, letting his tide pool gaze follow Montaine to the bar and watching him snatch up their kelp-brewed drinks before heading back to their table. He let himself meander the crowd a moment while his younger friend had a few more steps to travel, not seeing any other familiar faces … Not that he even tried to keep too many faces familiar these days, especially in Zeltiva. Just as the beer arrived, he glanced out the window, catching the flashes of fiery gold reflecting off window panes and glinting off buildings. Sunset would soon give way to evening, and though the false Svefra was by now as comfortable enough as he could be in both his skins, it was always odd to him personally when he shifted appearances in bustling, public places. Oh well. He realized, returning his gaze to Monty and lifting his own mug while considering how distracted the young man seemed, that his friend had only encountered his sea-worn, tattooed earthbound form. He paused at this thought, the salty odor of fermented kelp hovering somewhere between the table and his tanned face, lips pursed for a moment in contemplation. How would the boy feel? Over the decades, the fallen celestial had encountered any number of reactions to what he considered his truer form under Leth's sway, and not all of them were in the least bit favorable. Especially at sea when he'd never bothered to let the crew he served under knowing a thing about himself. Why should he? It was honestly none of their business as long as he did the work he was hired for. However, with the boy, it was different. They were friends, and Pash'nar had taken notice of the hint of idolizing he was subject to from the younger man. He was snapped from his distracted, philosophical thoughts about his strange physical existence by Montaine's rumbling, guttural sort of challenge. He laughed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and did his best to drain his mug of the foul sea-plant brew he'd hardened his taste buds and stomach against over the decades. Pausing only to wipe the somewhat disturbing green froth from his ageless face with the inked back of his hand. Setting his almost empty drink back on the tabletop loudly, making every kind of consorted effort to best his young friend in volume and depth of his own gastric expression. With an arch of a dark eyebrow and a grin, he added proudly, "Well, y'got more in there, then? Or didja wanna swap more work stories?"

[Montaine]

The boy was tempted to try and best his companion in the questionable game but what little gas remained in his gut stubbornly stayed down. His attempts to summon up another belch resulted in the meekest of burps. He sniggered and looked down at his drink. There was still some of the, euphemistically named, beer in his mug, enough to tithe him through a story or two, until the next round. He had grown accustomed to the brews of his native Zeltiva after many years working with a group of men whose idea of a relaxing evening off was to get drunk enough to piss up the side of the pub and vomit all over their own shoes. He wasn’t judging them of course, he was right there with them, pissing and vomiting and regretting the next morning. He had been drinking with the sailor before as well, naturally. In fact, his first taste of alcohol had been with the sailor in that very bar, though he’d had nary a sip before coming to the conclusion that it wasn’t for him. How things changed. His younger self had not understood the attraction of consuming such foul stuff, but his younger self hadn’t drunk enough to past the stage of simply drinking swill and into the blissfully freeing embrace of tipsiness. He had gone drinking with the sailor before, and it had been fun, but this time he just felt nervous. Maybe more drink would calm his nerves, make things as easy as they used to be. He drank, coughed and put his mug down. ‘Think that’s all I’m goin’ to get from this one, but I gots a story, if’n you’ll tell me more about whatchya did over on the Anchorage after,’ he grinned, ‘It were, what, a season an’ a half ago? It really been that long since you was last here? Huh. Anyway, yeah, so it were a season an’ a half ago an’ I was workin’ late watchin’ the annealer, that big oven we got where we put things in to cool off, you remember? Well, I was there an’ some o’ the others, Mory ‘n’ Banden ‘n’ ol’ Francis, they come in an’ they’re stinkin’ drunk, right petchin’ drunk they was, an’ they had more of it with them to boot, an’ they gave me some, which was nice ‘cause watchin’ the ovens is dead borin’, see?’ He drank again and finished his mug, ‘Anyway, so we’re all drinkin’ but I ain’t nearly as bad as them ‘cause they’ve been drinking since two bells afore, an’ suddenly Banden ups’n’says to Mory, he says “I betchya can’t go makin’ a vase in yer current state, you drunk ol’ bastid,” an’ Mory gets all uppity and offended like he’s jus’ been insulted when the rest o’ us can plainly see he’s in no state to do anythin’, not even walk, let alone work the glass. But he tries anyway, ‘cause Mory’s a stubborn ol’ petcher an’ no mistake. ‘Anyway, he grabs his pipe and stumbles over to the oven an’ we’re thinkin’, we’re thinkin’ we better ought to stop him ‘cause he might damage somthin’ and the boss’d find out we was all drinkin’ when we was supposed to be workin’, see? But we’re all just doubled up ‘cause he’s stumblin’ round and we’re pretty sure he ain’t even goin’ to be able to open the shykin’ hatch, but he manages it an’ the furnace is goin’ ‘cause we’ve got work in the mornin’ an’ it’s cheaper on the coals to let it go on rather’n start it up each mornin’. ‘So he puts the pipe but it gets stuck, see? ‘Cause you ain’t supposed to jus’ force it in or the glass won’t let go, ‘specially when it’s cool like it was that day. So the pipe’s stuck fast an’ he’s pullin’ and wigglin’ it but it ain’t movin’, not one jot, an’ I says maybe we should help him but none of us c’n move for laughin’ an’ eventually he tugs real hard and it comes free,’ Monty started giggling, ‘But see, he ain’t in no condition to walk, let alone keep himself upright an’ the force of pullin’ the thing free sends him flyin’ backwards into one of the boss’ fresh pieces, sittin’ out perfectly placed, like it were jus’ waitin’ for Mory to go fallen back into it. An’ we just hear this almighty clatter of broken glass and Mory screechin’ like the world’s endin’ all over again an’ we’re just rollin’ round, unable to help ‘cause we’re laughin’ too much,’ he snorted, ‘Poor bastard had to get a load o’ stitches in his arse, all sewn up like, couldn’ sit down without yelpin’ for an’ age after!’ Finally Monty could hold it no more and just started laughing.

[Pash'nar]

While Pash’nar couldn’t follow his way around the glass shop as Montaine described it in his telling, he followed the story well enough. He’d sailed drunk enough to guess at just how ridiculously unsafe wandering a room full of fire and glass must be when pissed out of your skull. He’d gotten himself into enough trouble to imagine just how painful Mory’s fall must’ve been as well, but at least in his friend’s telling, it was much funnier to hear about than to experience. Monty’s laughter won the tattooed sailor over more than anything else, however, and he couldn’t help but laugh along with him, a calloused, inked hand slapping the tabletop to emphasize the depth of his entertainment. He grinned and managed to catch his mug before it tipped at the impact, grinning broadly, “Didja all get busted, then?” He arched a dark eyebrow at the thought, knowing that at sea it was much harder to keep secrets … though it seemed as though the young man’s place of employment was small and forcefully close-knit by virtue of the danger of their own work. Surely, an equivalent accident at sea would have rendered all the witnesses just as flogged as the instigator, and Pash’nar knew enough about that to be genuinely curious about Montaine’s consequences for such an accident, “Or—” Cerulean eyes narrowed with mischievous interest, though they strayed briefly to his empty mug before returning to his much younger friend, willing to ignore the slow creep of evening through the dirty tavern glass windows. There was still plenty of time to exchange stories, and the dark-haired navigator had to admit it was somewhat refreshing to not entirely feel pressured into a one-sided tale. On his own, he found it easy to forget about the passage of time since it seemed to make no dent in his external features save the ink he chose to mark his earthbound flesh with as a reminder. However, surely, time had passed for Montaine before his very eyes. The rapt little boy free from his father for a precious handful of bells in the fishmarket was now an eager young man on his own making his own stories instead of entirely living vicariously through another’s. Not that Pash’nar was oblivious to just how much his friend still enjoyed and even envied the differences in their lives, in their freedoms. Still, the tattooed sailor found himself genuinely curious to see just what the youth would do with all the choices now laid before him, as time opened up his opportunities and allowed him the kind of freedoms he only fantasized about when wheezy and small. Well, poor Monty was still a bit wheezy. Not everything could change. “—didja all get away with that kinda shyke? I bet your boss was jus’ a bit more’n’petchin’ mad, eh?”

[Montaine]

Monty chuckled, ‘What exactly do you mean by “get away with”? ‘Cause we didn’ get fired but it weren’t as though we could hide what we’d done, boss’ fancy new vase all shattered, half on the floor, half rooted deep up Mory’s poor arse. I got the worst o’ it, bein’ the youngest an’ bein’ the one what was s’pposed to be on watch an’ all, an’ I can’t blame the old man for that,’ he paused for a drink, ‘Still, dockin’ pay an’ a couple’a dozen days o’ non-stop watchin’ duty still seemed like a better alternative to Mory’s self inflicted punishment, eh?’ the lad squirmed on his sit, as he remembered the sorry state of his colleague’s pained behind. ‘But hey, we learned our lesson. Well-’ he snorted, ‘We learned a lesson, don’t challenge Mory when he’s absolutely hammered especially,’ he said, pointing a finger with his drink laden hand, ‘especially when surrounded by expensive an’ fragile glass things. We still occasion’lly drink in the shop though, jus’ don’ tell Calbert, he’d petchin’ flip an’ kill us all, I s’spect,’ At the other end of the room, there was a bit of a to do as the squat and bulky form of Gertrude, mother of the regular house musician and firm believer in her own non-existent musical talent, clambered onto the stage with the aid of a pair of sailors. Gertie was a formidable woman, fast approaching her sixth decade, who had given more than her fair share of punches on the nose to the rare, visibly unappreciative audience member. There was a rumour among the regulars that she only kept playing because no one had the gall to ask her not to. Tonight she had an accordion strapped to her hefty chest and a tiny hat being slowly subsumed by her tangled, grey hair. The sight of the less amicable regular musician of the Councillor’s Head boded somewhat poorly for the future enjoyability of the evening, nevertheless the young man refused to let any time with the sailor go to waste, and eagerly pressed on. ‘You promised to tell me ‘bout the Anch’rage. I want to hear all ‘bout it!’

OOCBit of a short one, I'm afraid. Dropped old Gertie in there as an excuse to get out of the pub, to be used when it feels right. She's a petching menace.

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar snorted over his empty mug, "If'n I were cap'n o'some petchin' merchant ship an' m'crew were caught messin' 'bout thattaway, the whole lot'o you'd be flogged. Petch your pay—" The tattooed sailor offered a taunting grin, though it was an obvious facade given the far-away look of remembering past experiences in the cerulean of his eyes, "—ah, but, I ain't ever wanna ship bigger'n'I can handle. Too many crew's a pain in th'arse I don't want. Been on too many ships to see the kinda mess too many folks all crammed together at seam make'o'each other." He'd gotten into his fair share of trouble, and paid for it in plenty of flesh. Not that it would ever have shown, considering that no matter how hard he tried, he'd never managed to scar. Ink remained under his skin, though it faded with time a little slower than mortal flesh. He supposed if he'd gotten into enough trouble to lose a limb, then it would be gone forever. He'd never wanted to try and test the theory, however, and he certainly hoped he wouldn't have to, despite the possibility of an unfathomable lifetime. After a few moments of silence, the dark-haired navigator winked before laughing, "Jus' a loss'o'pay's light. You folks got it easy on land, eh?" He shifted his gaze as Gertie took the stage. Suppressing a groan, he leaned back in his chair and stretched an inked arm over the back of the rickety thing in time to catch Montaine's eager question. Calloused fingers of his opposite hand traced the rim of his drink, and he looked back at the young man with a less distracted sort of smile, "Well, it's really like a floatin' city, though it's made outta boats. Some of 'em are pro'ly older'n'me at the heart o'the place. Petch, for all I knows, some of 'em's older'n'the Valterran, though I could be tossin' shyke 'bout that. Ain't sure how they held up this long, maybe Laviku'imself likes 'em an' keeps 'em safe." He rolled his shoulders, trying not to make it obvious that he didn't care to put that much of his trust into any god, "Mostly Svefra built, 'course. Lotsa stories if'n y'can share a drink with the right folks at th'right time." "I find it an interestin' enough place to spend the winter. Ain't quite found a city on land that'll keep me through the cold, I s'pose." Pash'nar smirked, hiding well the discomfort in his voice at the comment. He'd met the pod he once called home on the Flotilla almost nine decades ago. He may have even once found Zeltiva pleasing enough before that, but it had been a few decades since he could truly stand to remain in the city for longer than a handful of tendays at most. Too much had once been here for him too long ago, "There's lotsa folks that live there year 'round, though. It moves, so I guess it's like a city-sized ship'f'it's own." Tide pool gaze shifted away from the young glassworker across from him as Gertie tested out her accordion with something of a terrifying, excited grin. "What else y'want to know? Ask away." He offered an inviting expression despite the assault he anticipated for their ears in the imitation of music, "I'm sure I can dig up some stories if'n there's somethin' particular y'want t'hear."

[Montaine]

Montaine’s eyes flicked over to the makeshift stage and twitched as the accordion squealed out a few test notes. He wasn’t sure if it was possible for even a regular accordion to sound pleasant yet somehow the old bat had managed to make hers sound as unturned and painful to the ear as possible. There were many things he loved about this pub, many things that he dearly, dearly adored. It was out of the way, hidden in a backstreet, with a piece of wood attached outside that was so weathered and worn as to be unrecognisable as a pub sign, and as such the clientele that frequented the place was comfortably small and familiar. He knew the staff, he knew the regulars; it was nice. It was cosy. But all of that came at a high price. Gertie. The boy leaned forward, closer to the sailor, and whispered, ‘If we leave when she’s really into it, third verse, she shouldn’ notice us, but we gots to be careful. She once clear broke a fella’s nose for getting’ up to take a leak when she were only four lines in,’ Monty smirked, but didn’t lean back, suddenly aware of how close he was to the sailor’s face. He paused, just a second too long, staring into those eyes. He remembered himself and sank back into his seat, looking back to the stage. And then she started her wailing. ‘Ohhh I once knew a man in the old town A maaan who I did adore He never once looked at me with a frown And we’d take long walks by the shore And I dressed in my finest evening gown Which oftentimes did make men roar And I met up with him in the old town That maaan that I did adore ‘Ohhh he said that I were the prettiest girl In aaall of the city With eyes like the sea and skin like a pearl And a beautiful voice for the ditty And beautiful hair what did softly curl That everyone thought was pretty Yes he said that I were the prettiest girl Ever in the city’ She was beginning to really get into the swing of it now. Her audience transfixed with fear. Monty nodded to Pash. Their table was partially obstructed from the musician’s sight by one of the old wooden support struts, and as she entered into her third verse she closed her eyes, so as to better appreciate the sound of her own voice. ‘Ohhh and I sang him a song that night And his smile it disappeared He was so in awe of my musical might And he said that he was afeared That to take such beauty so light was a slight And he saw that midnight it neared And such a gent he said good night And then he disappeared’ Unable to stand the atrocious self aggrandising and forced rhymes any longer, Monty slowly eased his chair back. Even the slightest creak of the old wood might penetrate Gertrude’s horrific, sonic self-appreciation. She seemed pretty entranced by her accordion playing, however, and the boy managed to slip himself and his friend to the door. He nodded a farewell to the traumatised barman and bolted out of the pub.

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar exhaled the breath he'd held since slipping from his seat and following after the younger man at what felt like the right moment to escape. He did his best to shut the door behind them as quietly as possible, sliding calloused fingers out of the way of the heavy, worn wood just in time to keep them from getting smashed. The ageless sailor didn't bother to ask their destination, already assuming Montaine still had his wheezy heart set on seeing his antique of a casinor. Content enough to at least begin to lead them in that direction, watching the last of the sun blaze against the salt-worn walls of the buildings they passed, the dark-haired navigator waited a while before deciding he felt safe enough to speak, lest somehow Gertie still hear them from outside the tavern despite the volume of her singing, "Well, that's onna th'scariest sights in Zeltiva, eh? W'ain't even gotta fathom jus' how terrible the singin' was. No sailor wants to come to shore for shyke like that." He laughed, shaking his top-knotted head at the horror of it all. Surely, there were worse ways to suffer, but after only one drink, it was still suffering nonetheless. Thumbing his nose and rolling his shoulders, Pash tilted his head in the general direction of the harbor, "I bet'cha they could train some sea birds t'show 'er up instead. Y'know? A whole room full'o'gulls singin' may rake in more coins than her up there alone squawkin' like some dyin' beast … So, still got'cher course mapped for m'boat, eh? I s'pose she's clean 'nough for comp'ny. Y'ain't gonna judge me if she ain't the squeakiest thing at th'moment, right?" He was mostly teasing. His casinor was old—still younger than himself but at least four times the age of the young glassman—but he kept her clean enough. He hardly owned anything that could be considered clutter, save for the collection of hand-drawn maps, star charts, and other cartographical works. Those occasionally threatened to take over his whole cabin if he didn't keep track of them all and bother to store them. He hardly hung onto much, if only because he often felt like he held onto memories long enough … though, it was almost despite those same memories he always found himself back in Zeltiva. He could consider it his home if it wasn't for the Timeless and the Suvan feeling more like home instead. He'd washed ashore here. He'd found some way to make a living here, but the sea had held him in a grip more firm than any port city ever could. It'd held him captive long before, in some other life he hardly remembered, let alone understood, and it still did. Besides, there was plenty of heartache in the University town as well. His darker mistakes may not have begun here, but, in some ways, they found their end here. He had blood family here, or so he ventured to guess. Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren. Surely, his daughter had made a home for herself. Had a family. Been happy. He hoped so, though it was often easier to forget about such things altogether. It only pained him more to think otherwise, and he'd carried the anchor of his guilt around for well over 80 years already, always washing back to Zeltiva with the tides of his life nonetheless. With a sigh, the tattooed sailor snapped himself out of his darker thoughts, feet still tracing the familiar steps toward the docks despite their distracted silence, knowing the way like the back of his hand. They found the docks soon enough, and Pash'nar began to lead the way over the wet, worn wood, past sailors and cargo and ships of so many varying sizes and purposes. As always, he'd moored himself out of the way, coveting as quiet and isolated a spot short of swimming to shore. "Now, I sure hope y'ain't got'cher heart set on my casinor lookin' like some shinin' new galley or impressive merchant ship. She ain't like that." He grinned, finally, speaking of his antique sailing home as if it were a person instead of just a vessel of the sea, watching the younger man out of the corner of his tide pool gaze, "She's small an' old, but she'll always be beautiful t'me."

[Montaine]

Monty blithely waved a hand in the sailor’s general direction, ‘You always say that, it ain’t like I never done seen her before. An’ she’s way more impressive’n them big ships moored out in the bay, they can’t even get close enough to the docks for people to get on ‘n’ off, have to have smaller boats to do that for ‘em,’ the young lad shook his head and exhaled sharply through his nose, ‘An’ they jus’ go along the same borin’ trade routes year in year out. I was talkin’ to a boy from the Wave Clipper, he ain’t seen anythin’ outside Zeltiva but Claridon an’ he’s worked it since he were a nipper. Your boat’s a real boat, it can go anywhere,’ Monty sucked his teeth and glanced over at Pash, ‘Well, anywhere on the sea,’ Montaine had first seen Pash’nar’s casinor a few years prior, in secret. Upon hearing that a man matching the description of his old friend had been seen down dockways from a pair of nattering biddies outside his father’s window, he had snuck out of the house that night and made his way down to the shabbier jetties where the less important temporary visitors made their moorings. He had been much younger than he was now, before he had even acquired his position at Calbert’s prestigious glassworks, but scruffy looking boys running around after dark wasn’t all too unusual a sight down at the docks. He had planned scrupulously that if anyone questioned him, he was to be a ‘ship’s boy’ running an urgent errand for the cook. He opted for cook because in all his Da’s stories the captain and the mate were far too busy doing ship’s things to deal with scruffy looking boys. Ultimately his planning was for nought as no one stopped him and he managed to make his way to his destination uninterrupted. He hadn’t planned on staying out long, for fear that his father would wake up and discover him missing. Pash’nar hadn’t been there himself, but two unattended boats drifted lazily in the waters, securely tied to the jetty and both of clearly foreign design. One had been a rundown little thing, not in disrepair precisely but well used. It was old, and was a funny looking shape. The other was larger, not huge but still slightly larger than twice the size of the first. It was the far more impressive of the two and fit nicely into what the boy had imagined when the sailor had spoken to him of his beloved casinor in the past. A few seasons later when Pash had introduced the boy to his casinor for the first official time, Monty had been prepared to feign surprise and awe as the great ship was revealed to him, so as not to disappoint the expectations of his friend. Needless to say, his surprise was genuine when he discovered that Pash’s boat was not the big, fancy palivar he had assumed it to be and was in fact the creaking, old piece of flotsam he had overlooked. Over the years since, however, he had grown to appreciate the old girl, and moreso the sailor’s love for it. It wasn’t just a boat, or a method of transport. For Pash’nar it was his home, his companion. Monty had begun to see it less as a sailing vessel and more as a strider, from his Da’s stories of the horsepeople of the Sea of Grass. As his eyes once again fell on Pash’nar’s dearest partner and possession, he wondered what it must have been like to feel such a bond to an inanimate object. The more senior glassworker’s favoured certain pipes, but he had never known himself to become so affectionate for something like that. Growing up with few possessions, he supposed, meant he had less to grow attached to.