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

[Pash'nar]

Timestamp: 78 Summer, 507AV Pash'nar leaned back against the worn rails of his casinor's stern, the stiff, thankfully cool breeze of late afternoon providing ample propulsion toward the familiar docks of Zeltiva. The golden light of Syna just before sunset cast her precious, gleaming rays across the sweep of the city, gilding rooftops and setting a burnished shine to everything. It had been oppressively hot the entire day and the promise of a cool evening was a welcome one. He finally slid a bare foot away from his tiller as he began to make the necessary motions to slow the old ship. He unfastened the line to his mainsail and cut it from its perfect position in the wind, gradually slowing his approach even as he aimed the thing toward a less crowded section of dock. In a few short chimes, worn wood scraped lightly against worn wood, sails were tucked away, and moorings were securely tied to the proper winches with practiced ease. The tattooed sailor wasted some time piddling about, however, organizing a few of his charts into more navigable piles. He had no particular purpose back in his home of sorts, so he took his time. He was just going to go drink the last few hours before sunset away anyway, was he not? Was there a need to rush? He leapt from antique deck to even older dock, sandals slapping wetly on the wood as another gust of wind set ships creaking and goosebumps tingling over well-inked skin. With a quick test of weight of his money pouch just to gauge how much he could waste with some evening festivities, Pash was off across the port, meandering with only a vague sense of purpose toward the end of the pier and up into the port proper. He'd figure out where to spend the evening once he got there. Or, not at all. Sometimes, a random little dive was worth all the trouble—anonymity certainly seemed to do the false Svefra favors on occasion enough. The docks yielded at last to dry land, or at least backed sand and earth, trampled by so many sailors and merchants and visitors and vendors. Pash hovered for a few minutes in the marketplace, watching the day wind down for everyone with just as much fervor as it seemed to carry even during the hottest of days. Soon the stalls would all be empty until the next dawn. Hooking his thumbs in his belts with a sigh, the sailor briefly wondered what his young resident and unlikely friend would be up to. The years passed differently for the two of them, and the dark-haired navigator had to remind himself that the boy was, most likely, still a boy indeed. He let the next breeze set his course, wandering off in the direction of where the old fish market would be, deciding to hit up a few small, local favorite taverns for the sheer entertainment value he knew at least one always seemed to contain.

[Montaine]

Montaine rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and stretched his arms high over his head. It had been a long day but business had been adequate and a sizeable chunk of profit had been made. Joseph was unhooking the awning from the pegs on its posts and rolling it up for storage. The young novice lounged on his chair and watched. As much as he loved and valued this job, stall watching was one of the single dullest aspects of the work. Sure, it was necessary, but besides the sweeping and cleaning and general maintenance it had been the largest constituent part of his apprenticeship to date, having only been allowed to begin actually working the glass earlier in the Spring of that very same year. He was slumped in the chair to such an extent that if he slid down it any further he was in real danger of falling off altogether. His legs reached right under the table upon which the glassware was displayed. He had grown substantially over the past year, and was a half season shy of seventeen, yet remained resolutely shorter than the rest of the crew. It wasn’t petching fair. Joe struggled to handle the bulky weight of the cloth by himself but Monty’s mind was far away, sailing the seas with the salt in his hair and a tattooed captain calling his name. ‘Monty! Monty! I’m gonna drop it!’ The apprentice startled out of his reverie and jumped to his feet, his head hitting the material of the awning as it came collapsing down on top of him. He reached out and grabbed what he could, trying to prevent further disaster. It was fortunate, really, that the glass had all been packed away or there would have been a great chance of a lot of expensive damage being done. Between the two of them they managed to stabilise the material and roll it up tightly, unhooking the final two pegs and propping it up against the back of the stall. Monty dusted off his hands on his trousers and cracked his knuckles. All that remained of the day’s work was to transport the goods and the awning back to the workshop. That, however, required heavy lifting for which the lad was happily exempted. The glassworking novice turned around and looked down the street. He gasped. It was him. His mouth transformed from agape surprise to beaming joy and his heart fluttered like a butterfly in a bell jar. It was him. The sailor had returned. Without so much as a farewell or a parting nod the boy grabbed his coat and practically bounded down the road. He halved the distance before he had to stop to catch his breath, finding each inhalation a painfully difficult chore. He regained his composure and set off again, waving his arms. He yelled as loud as his faltering lungs could achieve, ‘Pash! You’re back!’

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar was thoughtfully re-considering just exactly what to do with his mizas for the day, whether alcohol was precisely what kind of distraction he felt like paying for or if there were perhaps better options to waste the short glow of remaining daylight with when he distinctly heard his name on the crisp breeze. There were but a select few who had ever shouted for him with such unrestrained enthusiasm, and only one who tended to struggle when it came to achieving a particular volume without the risk of self-injury. "Ahoy, Monty!" The tattooed sailor slowed and turned, cerulean gaze unable to miss the flailing young man headed in his direction, main sail obviously caught in an unstoppable sort of wind. He offered a broad, warm smile in return, though he found himself caught off-guard by the changes always seemed to take place between their meetings. While he always stayed the same as the seasons came and went, the human was always different, always changing. More than simply taller, Montaine was hardly the boy he met in a fishmonger's alley so many years ago. He tucked away his considered plans for another time and waited for the youth to catch up, one calloused hand straying to rub absently at the compass in Leth's full face inked at the back of his neck as if the last warmth of Syna's rays reminded him it had been there all along. "I s'pose you're petchin' lucky to catch me. I ain't sure I'd pick you out in a crowd." The dark-haired navigator mostly taunted his friend, though the root of his sentiment was true. Some of the subtleties of aging escaped the false Svefra entirely. He braced for impact once the young man was close enough, "Well, I'm on my own this trip, so aye, I made my own route for once." In between hires usually washed him to Zeltiva without fail. Familiar currents weren't easily forgotten. "How've you been, lad?"

[Montaine]

Montaine embraced Pash’nar and squeezed, ‘Good! Really good!’ the young lad said, his grin broad. It felt like it had been ages since the sailor had last set foot in the harbour city yet the old man hadn’t aged a bell, not one tiny tick. He remained persistently, consistently young. It had occurred to the boy that there would be a time when he would reach an age where he appeared older than the sailor and that when he was old and grey and lying on his death bed, the sailor would still be eternally youthful. While the idea that the sailor would never die was comforting to the boy it came twinned with the bitter realisation that his childhood idol would long outlast him, and that come a few centuries all Monty would ever be to the dashing Svefran seafarer would be a faded memory of a child. But these thoughts were long gone from the adolescent’s head the moment the sailor’s face fell into his vision. Monty stood on his tiptoes and almost managed to reach Pash’s height but, failing to keep his balance, he dropped back down to his heels and began to buzz around the man with uncharacteristic energy. He inspected every bit of exposed, inked skin his eyes could find, moving like a giddy child. ‘You got any new ‘uns, Pash? Did’ya go far? Get any new tattoos, or a scar from fightin’ pirates?’ Pash always had the best stories from abroad. He was the lad’s only genuine connection to the outside world at large. Da sometimes got news in from Syliras over at the stables, but the number of travellers who came in over the mountains were few and far between, arguably insignificant in comparison to the interesting information that could be gleaned from those who travelled by boat. And the sailor, well, he had had over a century to accumulate his stories. The sheer wealth of experience that was earned simply from old age astounded Montaine, and he was more than thankful for it. Monty’s heart was still racing. It was unusual, and slightly worrying. He prayed to the gods that he wasn’t going to have an episode, not tonight. He wouldn’t waste a tick of time with the sailor going jelly legged. There was no chance he was going to spend the sailor’s entire visit alone in bed. Maybe it was just excitement. His face would be sore of all this smiling soon.

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar laughed warmly at the assault, finding it difficult to stay too salt-worn, too gruff when confronted with such sincere affections, patting the boy back with a much more reserved sort of enthusiasm. His more dubious plans for the last of the afternoon washed away in the undertow of Montaine's excitement, the tattooed sailor making a theatrical show of falsely begrudging his energetic inspection, arms outstretched to give the human as much a view as possible, as if he was on auction or display. "Nah, I've been too busy for anythin' new, what with the summer currents'n'all keepin' the ports busy, though I did spend a bit o'time at th'Ancorage Flotilla. S'a city made of boats, y'know." He grinned, slowly returning his inked arms to his sides to continue with no small play at the dramatic, "Weathered a petchin' crazy storm out there, in the middle of the sea with nothing' but a buncha ol'boats lashed together like lil' twigs." He might have overemphasized the severity of the storm with the tone of his voice, enjoying the way the young man seemed to live vicariously through his exploits. A bit of exaggerating turned a rough summer squall into a terrible tempest, all made more dangerous by the instability of hundreds of boats of all different ages clinging to each other in the open Suvan instead of nestled safely on land. Hooking a calloused thumb toward the direction the boy had come running from, the dark-haired navigator arched a slim brow to ask questions of his own, "Are ya out shoppin' at this hour? Runnin' some errands? Are ya workin'? I ain't keepin' ya from any duties, am I ...?" He winked then, tide pool eyes awash with his usual mischief. Surely, he could think of some more trouble to drag the human into. " 'Cause if I am, I'd better think of somethin' better to do than just stand in th'street an' flap our jaws, eh?"

[Montaine]

The little glassworking trainee listened with his mouth agape as the sailor talked of his time at sea. The Anchorage Flotilla sounded like a fantastical place but he trusted the man not to outright lie about his trips, perhaps a little embellishment, for the sake of the story, but no complete lies. The Flotilla was out there, out in the real world. A city of ships floating out in the middle of the ocean, the boy could just imagine it. Joey would hate that, the old man got dreadful seasickness whenever he went near a boat. Brought great shame to his old pop ‘cause he was from a long line of sailor types, so instead he stayed inland within the confines of the city. But out there, in the Anchorage Flotilla the whole city was boats! How would such a place come to be? Maybe it was like Endrykas, the city of the Sea of Grass, made entirely out of tents. It was fluid and moved around the plains ever changing place, ever changing shape. Did the Flotilla sail round the seas, picking up boats and letting them go as it pleased? The seafarers and the horsepeople weren’t so different. Of course, he wasn’t exactly Drykas. Then again, the sailor wasn’t precisely what he appeared to be either. Monty smiled, ‘Nah, just got off work meself, ‘m free now,’ he said, finally managing to keep himself still, but the excitable energy flowed off him, ‘An’ I’m not just workin’ the stall ‘n’ cleanin’ up no more, the boss let me make stuff! Jus’ little things like vases an’ I’m not very good,’ he looked sheepishly down at his shoes, ‘But it’s a start, an’ someday I’m gonna be the best petchin’ glassworker ever,’ He looked back up at the sailor with a grin plastered from cheek to cheek. His summer might not have been nearly as adventurous or exciting as Pash’nar’s, but it was eventful enough for the boy. His Da had been so proud the first time he stopped round at the stall in the marketplace and seen his son’s, admittedly rather amateur, first attempts at glass on sale. The old man had even bought the piece, and Calbert had given him a family discount, which was good because his Da was poor and really shouldn’t have been spending money on unnecessary frippery. But he’d get better, and then he’d start making proper money, rather than his piddly little apprentice wage, and he’d pay for his Da to get a proper nice house like those up on the hill, and give him all the glass luxuries he could ever desire. And then he’d by the biggest, best boat in the harbour for Pash. One with huge masts and the finest crew he could afford, and the biggest cabin he could fit to the ship and they’d go adventuring round the world, with Monty selling his wares and the sailor fighting off pirates. Might take a few years of training first though. Then Montaine noticed it. In all the excitement it had slipped him by, but now he noticed it. The sun was setting. The sailor had some time left but soon the sun would set and the moon would dominate the skies and Pash would disappear somewhere. They’d never talked about it, not properly, about the sailor’s nature. There was never any need, things were just as they were, no need for questions. But his curiosity was rising. But they still had some time.

[Pash'nar]

"Well, if'n you're free an' have some mizas to waste, I'm sure we can find some kinda' trouble to get into." The false Svefra grinned broadly, still laughing at the young man's enthusiasm. He knew nothing of glass other than it was pretty and he had a strange habit of being attracted to the little bits of it tossed and shaped into new things by time lost at sea. It tended to end up in his hair or somewhere on his boat, and while he couldn't always explain the interest in useless baubles of color, he could at least appreciate Montaine's interest in the profession of creating more of it. A calloused hand rubbed at the familiar mark inked on the back of his neck and Pash glanced back at the harbor and Syna's descent. While he'd not really considered the boy's opinions on his truer race and it's more celestial appearance, he'd experienced such a spectrum of reactions over the decades that it was hardly an issue. He may have worried such extreme differences would affect the youth's willingness to consider their friendship worthwhile, if only because his more unearthly trappings often led to strange feelings. However, if Monty had grown to trust a Svefra, then the dark-haired navigator found it hard to believe much would change as some statuesque shard of moonlight. At least, he did hope these things. He generally made an attempt to keep his seemings separate, and there were but a handful (still living) that had spent any significant time with both. Mostly, it was convenience. Sometimes, it was purposeful subterfuge. Sometimes, it was protective. Other times, it was purely selfish. This time, it would really just be accidental. He rolled his shoulders in a tanned wave and dragged his gaze back to the now much taller young apprentice who was hardly a boy anymore, tide pool gaze full of his more usual mischief, "Anythin' you gotta hankerin' for? Ain't much I'll say no to, but you know that." He winked, happily willing to cater to Monty's whims for the rest of the afternoon instead of coming up with any particular plan of his own.

[Montaine]

‘Drink?’ the boy asked, ‘I want t’hear all about the storm ‘n’ this Anch’rage place!’ He was giddy and excited. The sailor so rarely came to port, and never stayed all that great a length of time. He flitted from place to place, seeing the world from Mathews Bay to the city of illusion right across the continent. Montaine’s entire world ranged from the docks to the storm shrine up in the foothills. He’d given anything to be able to see the far off lands that were so open, so easily accessible to one such as Pash’nar. The two of them started off toward the bar. ‘An’ then can I see the casinor?’ Ah the casinor. The wondrous little ship that was the sailor’s captaincy. It was small, but serviceable. It wasn’t quite the mighty sloop that the lad envisioned when he pictured the sailor adventuring on the open seas. In truth the little boat would not be able to stand the rigours of the expansive oceans, and would be mighty close quarters for any extensive stay out of harbour. Not that he’d mind. Perhaps they’d have to bunk up… Monty’s breath caught in his throat and his face heated up. He coughed and looked intently at his rolled up sleeve, inspecting, perhaps, a loose thread. Where had that thought come from? The glassworker shook his head. They’d need a large boat, obviously, if he was going to be transporting goods. It was a good business plan, he told himself, to sell his wares to many cities, many cultures. His glass would adorn the tables and windows of Eypharian and Vantha alike. He had only been working the glass personally for a season or so, but he had watched his seniors engaged in the craft for many years before that. He watched and learned and swept up after them all and all that time the old boss had kept an eye on him and told him to keep an eye on the others. When he’d finally had the chance to give it a go, when he’d finally managed to get his hands on one of the old glassblowing pipes the boss had said he was a natural. Well, his precise words had been something more along the lines of hm, so you didn’t quite petch up as bad as I thought you were going to. From Calbert that was the highest of petching praise. For a novice, at least.

OOCFeel free to take us to a bar. I put in Monty's *ahem* distractions to set Cas and Eru's fevered minds to work.

[Pash'nar]

Drinking and then visiting his boat? Pash'nar laughed, washing over the young man with a wry side-ways glance. He usually reserved such a sequence of activities for more intimate occasions, but surely Montaine's requests were innocent enough. Surely he was a bit young for such an idea. Was the youth blushing? The tattooed sailor chose not to think too deeply on the idea, sauntering them off in their intended direction through the market and onto more proper streets. He certainly wasn't privy to the apprentice's thoughts, after all. "The Flotilla's an interestin' place. Mostly Svefra, 'course. The ships in the middle're so big an' so old they ain't sail-worthy anymore. I ain't sure when folks started puttin' it together, but it's jus' like houses an' shops an' things here 'cept on boats in th'ocean instead." As usual, the dark-haired navigator unconsciously used his hands to add emphasis to his words as he spoke in his broken Common instead of Fratava, describing the Anchorage Flotilla without anything but honest embellishment as they headed toward a miza-worthy spot to drink, "It moves 'round the Suvan all the time since it ain't anchored t'anythin' but other boats. Folks can jus' moor up an' stay a while then sail off when they feel ready to go. S'pretty wild." He described a few of the shops, stores, and activities found at the Floatilla, observing that it might be a rather frightening place to live in a large storm despite it's similarities to any city he'd visited on land (which were, mainly, only port cities). "I ain't sure I'd wanna live there. It's nice to be able to come'n'go when I like, though." He added with a slightly distant tone, though he felt awkward interjecting his dislike for consistency to Montaine, who lived in a city after all, "Not that cities're bad, 'course. D'you ever get bored ... when y'aint busy?"

[Montaine]

‘The city…’ the boy began, but stopped. He loved the city, of course he did, but he hated it too. He had, technically speaking, grown up within the city boundaries, experiencing the sights, smells and sensations, strong or slight and always satisfying to his sense and yet, and yet he always dreamed of more. When he was smaller, younger, and his father’s modest lodgings were his entire world the city at large seemed to go on forever. Though he lived on tales of far off places and raucous adventures across the sea he always though himself to be content if only he could explore his city, and for those few, first trips, those secret exciting excursions out into the streets of Zeltiva he found the exhilaration he so desired. But time wore on. His apprenticeship at the glassworks afforded him all sorts of freedom to come and go throughout the city as his whims dictated and he quickly came to the startling realisation that the great wide world outside his father’s room was really very small indeed. He had simply exchanged one miniscule prison for another and, as much as he loved his city, as much as he loved his father, he still longed ever greatly for the open seas and the world beyond. And the sailor? He had all that. In the boy’s mind, he was all that. ‘The city’s alright, but nothin’ ever happens here, not like the things what happen to you,’ he smiled, ‘The time what when ol’ Mory burned himself on a pipe an’ fell back onto one of the boss’ pieces don’ really match up to storms an’ sailin’ stories,’ the boy chuckled quietly, however, as he remembered his colleague’s accident, ‘Was quite funny though, he was alrigh’ but he got a big ol’ piece of glass stuck in his backside, had to go to the infirmary an’ all, got stitches, we all laughed the whole time, an’ he was petchin’ and cursin’,’ Montaine and Pash’nar arrived at the usual establishment and the lad pushed open the door, ‘I think I’d be happier, though, on the seas, like you. I’d still get to come back to Zeltiva if’n I felt the need, but I’d get to see the world,’ he sniffed and rubbed his neck, ‘S’ppose you know what it’s like already, eh Pash? Don’ need me tellin’ you how it is! You been on the seas long enough to know,’