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.
- 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
— Aldous Huxley