• Solo • [Bayward] Pavel Trung's Trunk Of Treats or Tricks

Zevan meets Pavel

Since the birth of the city, Ne'haer has struggled to maintain peace with the territories surrounding its borders. While some of the other territories work with Ne'haer in search of peace and protection in the region, others resist, determined to fight back against Ne'haer and what they perceive as an attempt of colonization. Ne'haer and the territories exist in a constant tug-of-war that threatens the very region.

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• Solo • [Bayward] Pavel Trung's Trunk Of Treats or Tricks

Postby Zevan » Wed May 16, 2018 12:03 pm

Traveler

12 Ashan 718

"I don't know if it was the noise or the frustration drawing me, one far more tangible than the other. He was sitting there on the docks, transposed against it in light armour that obviously didn't identify with the inhabitants of Bayward. HIs hair was short and dark green, unnatural even in all the places I've traveled. He's not a Sevir, whose coloured hair I'd seen a thousand times. He wasn't a Biqaj, whose dyed hair was typically banded or braided or dreaded. No, instead, he was a human, a warrior whose sincerity of action was evident. A scar cut across his cheek, but was barely visible unless caught in the sunslight. It was his eyes, sharp and steel-grey that caught me, though. He glared down at a small iron chest, probably ten pounds in total. He kicked at it, tried to yank it over, tried to snap the lock, but it wouldn't budge. I could sense more than just frustration in him. There was something about that lockbox that demanded more than brute force. It demanded a story, an adventure... It required a sacrifice to open, and perhaps Pavel's would need to be personal. Such was the jester will of Cassion, my father. Have what is yours after giving him something to own it."
- Journal of Zevan al Myros, son of Cassion



Pavel's booted foot rung off the iron chest as he kicked it again, the red of his face contrasting with the dark green of his hair. His eyes were narrowed, and he glared at the box like it was a hated enemy. Zevan, from his angle on the dock, could see the frustration pouring from him. He circled the box again, this time the fifth, and he crouched to examine the large iron lock. He checked his pockets, then tried to fit the moulded twig into the locking mechanism. It didn't budge, and he stood and threw the tiny twig into the wind. It blew back and hit him in the face, which only seemed to enrage him more. He kicked the trunk again, to the same avail.

"Feckin' bit o' tin," Pavel growled, turning an arched eyebrow on a random seafarer that was passing by. His two front teeth were missing, as if a mailed fist had caught him and taught him a permanent lesson. The sea had the teeth now, and Pavel didn't seem to care. He hefted the box in anger and acted to throw it in the harbour, but instead thought better of it. Instead, he stowed it in his pack and began his trek to find a place to sleep for the night. The ship that brought him, The Seaberth, had left him without enough money or enough time to find another mode of transportation. He'd be lucky to find a place to sleep that wasn't an alley, wet and warm from the beginning of spring. Zevan fell into line behind him, trailing him to the Hold. Zevan could have figured he'd have gone there, but he had to be sure. There was something about Pavel that was drawing Zevan... a sort of desperation.

As Pavel disappeared into the Hold, Zevan waited a bit or two to follow. He didn't want the old mercenary to know he was trailing him, hoping their meeting to seem organic. It was easier that way, Zevan had found, but when he entered the tavern area of the inn, Pavel was wasting for him. The greenish-brown juice that blended with his saliva from the tobacco he was chewing dribbled down his chin, and he looked much less the former soldier that he was, and more the crazed maniac. In his hand was a small dagger, pointed directly at Zevan's ribs as he growled, putrid breath nauseating the seasoned traveler.

"Watcha followin' me fer, Zevan?" He seemed surprised when he realized he knew the man's name. Zevan's disarming smile only enhanced the effect, holding his hands out to the side to show he meant no harm. His dusty eyes met Pavel's steel ones, and the two shared a glance. Pavel seemed quite confused, and he was struggling to piece the scene together.

"Not following, ser. Traveling behind, mostly. Not many good places to rest in Bayward, it was inevitable that the two of us end up here," Zevan explained, the logic sound but lost on Pavel. The dagger inched closer, but was still less likely to kill him than Pavel's breath. The man's brow furrowed, and he waved the dagger threateningly.

"Except ye were starin' at me on the docks. If ye mean t' rob me, ye can bloody have it. Won't open no how," Pavel growled, jerking his head to indicate the heavy metal container in his pack. He leaned back and sheathed the knife, yanking off the pack and offering it to Zevan.

"Go ahead, an' it can't plague me no more," he lamented, obviously upset that it wouldn't open. Sighing, his form sagged, but Zevan didn't take the pack. Instead, he brushed himself off and clapped a hand to Pavel's back.

"What do you say you rest your feet, good ser? You can tell me about the chest over a pint, on me," Zevan offered, bringing a small light of hope to the former soldier's eyes. His mouth was watering, Zevan knew, and that was a good sign.

"Make it a whisky, an' ye've got it, ser," Pavel agreed, and Zevan nodded his consent. He wasn't a ser, but that seemed unimportant to either man. They made their way inward and ordered a round, whisky for both, before settling down next to a fire that wanted for fuel. Zevan held a hand out to the flame, but it gave so little warmth that the two would be more than comfortable, even so close. Nobody even looked at them.

"Tell me about the chest," Zevan said, and Pavel nodded, taking a long sip of the liquor. Zevan could feel the adventure in the man. He just had to give it life.











"For the born traveller, travelling is a besetting vice. Like other vices, it is imperious, demanding its victim's time, money, energy and the sacrifice of comfort."
Aldous Huxley
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Zevan
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[Bayward] Pavel Trung's Trunk Of Treats or Tricks

Postby Zevan » Thu May 17, 2018 12:52 am

Traveler

12 Ashan 718

"Me father weren't a good man, nor was he particularly enjoyable to be aroun'. Plenty o' men're bad an' a good time, but not me old man. Nah, instead, he was as hard as the stone he used to beat his enemies into submission," said Pavel, whose steel grey eyes stared down into the dusky brown of his liquor. The glass had since dwindled and been refilled, at Zevan's expense, so the man continued to share his story. Zevan, whose head nodded in support, as if his own father had been hard and unrelenting. He hadn't. He was a washed up seafarer, and then a tribal chief, and then Hotlands trader... All of them supportive of Zevan. But Zevan was not one to interrupt the story, so he allowed it continue.

"He was a mercenary in Yaralon, but really just wen' wherever he could find work. Rhakros once, Argos 'nother time, sometimes here an' there. He wore a saber on his left hip, and a strange crossbow he swore was Hiladrii in nature, though I never saw anythin' else like it. It was small, wielded by one hand, an' he could fire it damn rapidly for a crossbow. He was tough, an' he expected me to be. So I was signed up for the Blades before he left, tol' me mither I'd ne'r be a man if'n I didn't. An' so I served Ne'haer, before I took to the sea an' sailed fer an arc, lookin' for his leathery old ass so's I could beat it in fer givin' me the shittiest childhood I coulda thought of. Nah, instead I find in Hiladrith he'd been dead three half seasons, an' the bastard left me an iron chest fer my troubles. The man who held it, grizzled ol' fuck named Tenner, said me old man'd said I'd come fer it. One final middle finger, I found," Pavel lamented, more sincerely sad about his father's final expectation being true than his passing. Tenner wasn't a name known to Zevan, but he was familiar with the Hiladrii and figured the man wasn't lying.

"'Cept the old bastard hadn't lef' a key, says Tenner. If he had, the chest'd've been empty when it made its way t' me. Nah, they din't wanna cut it for fear o' a curse or some black sorcery, but not me. I don't fear no damn fireballs or portals ripping me through 'em. Bring 'em, I says. Nah, I figure what's inside can be sold fer a pint an' a final farewell to bad rubbish. But I can't open it. I don't wanna cut the lock, since the box'll fetch a price, but I can't find a way into it. Damn locksmith even said the mechanism was too damn complex, an' it'd take him time, an' cost me nel to be sure, to figure it out. Where'd it come from, I asks, an' he has the balls t' tell me he ain't got the foggiest," came the bitter words, and finally, the whiskey in front of him was drained. Another appeared a short while later, and nary a word had been spoken. As he began to feel the liquor, a sense of pride welled inside Pavel. He couldn't know it was Zevan's divine heritage working on his weakening mental fortitude, nor would the son of Cassion tell him. Whatever led him to Pavel was pushing the two together, weaving their tale. Zevan was meant to make Pavel a Companion. The Slaking was almost finished.

"Now, it's a point o' pride more'n care fer the damn 'treasure' he lef' me. Prolly a whore's skull, or the knucklebones o' a smuggler. But now I gotta find the key, an' all I got is a few broken mem'ries o' the bastard. Here, in Yaralon, Rhakros... I need ta get me ass in gear an' go find it, but I just can't be arsed to do it, ye know?" Zevan, who was mulling the story, nearly missed the direct question. His full lips parted as if he were to respond, but Pavel just continued on.

"Dunno what it is 'bout you, Zevan, but yer a good one t' talk to. Could jus' be the whisky, but I'll be damned if I don't feel like yer here to help somehow. Ye don' give a damn 'bout my pa, yet yer listenin'. Why?" He wasn't suspicious, but curious. Zevan's smile was just as disarming as ever, and the Cassionborn shrugged.

"I just love a good story, my friend. If that takes liquor to have, so be it. I will say, though, that I believe you should follow your instincts. Your father left that chest, and for whatever reason, you are compelled to open it. Should you have me, I'd like to help you open it," Zevan admitted, his dusty eyes meeting with Pavel's. The man's face fell for a moment, as if he'd finally figured it out.

"Aye? An' I'll guess yer lookin' fer a nel or two fer yer trouble, eh?" came the question, and Zevan shook his head. The look of surprise on Pavel's face was heartwarming, and Zevan just nodded.

"I told you, my friend, I just love a good story. Being in one more so than just hearing it, however expertly told. If you'll have me, we can begin drawing plans tomorrow?" He asked, and the Slake was complete. He could feel the sense of adventure building in Pavel, and he knew he'd accomplished what he'd been drawn to Bayward for. Smiling, Pavel raised the now full whisky glass and downed the shot.

"Aye, agreed. Fer me, a wench and a bed, then! On the morrow, ser Zevan," the man stammered, his words sloshing about like the water on the side of a ship in a storm. Nodding, Zevan allowed the serious warrior to stumble away into the arms of a plump and comely tumble. He'd be exhausted, but sober when they reconvened. They needed a place to start. Zevan needed to ask for help.

Mother, went out the silent prayer. Cassion had to hear him.











"For the born traveller, travelling is a besetting vice. Like other vices, it is imperious, demanding its victim's time, money, energy and the sacrifice of comfort."
Aldous Huxley
User avatar
Zevan
Patron Saint of Wanderers
 
Posts: 20
Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2018 10:45 pm
Race: Mortal Born
Profession: Traveler
Renown: +30
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