• Graded • [Inn For Dinner] I Do Not Feel Fear

[Keegan]

TBD: Arc 714/715

”I do not feel it.” The words were flat and unbreaking, absolute in both meaning and inflection. It was unlike her to speak without first being spoken to, but the girl was alone in the small inn room, the window closed and muffling the hum of the streets. ”I do not feel it.” She said it again, and gaunt fingers pulled the tangles from her hair. It was unlike her to preen like this, but this evening was not like most others, and Keegan would do these things she did not normally do. She would go to these places she did not usually go. And she would speak these words that she had not spoken in many, many arcs.

The words tasted foreign in her mouth. Common was something she knew well once, but time had a way of rubbing away those pieces that you did not practice often. Etzos in a sense, was home. It was where she had been born. It was where her mother lived. But the air felt too thin, and the lack of jungle growth had a way of making the poisoner feel vulnerable, even among these familiar streets. Even among these familiar sounds. Another tug through her hair, another tangle lost.

Keegan was a bony woman, with sharp features and an even sharper mouth. Her expression remain somewhere between mild disinterest and unabashed arrogance most trials, but most of her harder features would be hidden under a mop of blanched white hair. A stiff expression was all the woman had in terms of feigning an intimidating appearance, but sometimes that was enough to dissuade casual conversation.

”I do not feel fear.” She was staring at the woman in the mirror now, watching her mouth and the way that it lied. There were not many things that frightened the Rhakrosii girl, and for some time the woman was arrogant enough to believe that was why Baynard had picked her. But fearlessness and pride were both things that did not make a good poisoncrafter. She had been taught this pointed lesson firsthand, and while her hair had managed to find it’s length again, the raised scar on her palm was a constant reminder of her last visit to the City of Stones.

It was a muted color that humbled her into stillness, blue eyes still staring against her reflection as agitation and discomfort clouded the deeper colors of her tangle. She cooed them, the murky yellows and the pale lemons. They were picked through and encouraged deeper within the weave of emotion, rousing them to be still and quiet through an empath's knot. The wash of relief was instant, and the skinny girl with the straight hair and straighter posture left the mirror of the inn room.

Straight out the door and down the hallway and she spilled into the Inn For Dinner, beelining for the bar and finding a corner stool. ”Gin.” It was the liquor with the easiest pronunciation, Kee keeping the syllables announced carefully so that her accent was not so apparent.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

OOC

Can we make this 714, please? Thank you.

He should have sailed home to Ne’Haer, like a dog with his tail between his legs, like some broken animal. But he didn’t. Not at first. No, at first he sailed further away, from her, from everything, from Rharne to Etzos, just because the thought of seeing his parents’ faces in his current state of mind was, well, even more of a burden than the hurt that had dug its way deep into his entire being. For one of the first times in all his arcs of sailing, traveling, and adventuring, Pash was fine leaving his sloop of a home at the mouth of the river and trekking his way to the circular city without any hint of himself save the lute over his shoulder and the clothes that hung off his tanned, inked skin. It was enough, for now, to stay simple when everything else felt so damn complicated.

The Inn for Dinner was alright. It would do, even if it didn’t rock with the waves or sway with the wind like his sailing home did. He’d actually heard told it was a friendly place, even though one couldn’t stay for more than a handful of trials before moving on in the city. If he could find it in him to play a bit of music, he could get a meal and a bit of nel knocked off his price to stay the night. It was a start, at least, but the problem was he didn’t feel at all like playing music. He hadn’t for a handful of ten-trials now, ever since he left Rharne, ever since he left Ari’nne there where she said she wanted to stay, where she said it was time for what they had made to come undone, where their melody had faded to silence.

So, he found himself at the bar instead, putting coins down from calloused, salty hands to procure some liquid inspiration. His well was dry. The hull of his chest taking in water, brine burning his lungs as if he was drowning. He’d been warned, but he’d always assumed he was made of stronger stuff than this.

The lute over his shoulder was still waxed and clean, mother-of-pearl inlays of waves catching lantern light, but the strings had been left yearning to be strummed for far too long. He could have tuned his feelings, it was true, he could have turned inward and knotted away the sadness or wove in some cheer borrowed from some smiling patron just a glance away, but inspiration was not a feeling. He was incapable of magically recreating the fleeting muse that he’d spent his entire life chasing from city to city and across the Orm’del sea. It mocked his fledgling spark in its woeful absence—there could be no flame without tinder.

"Ale." The tall Biqaj exhaled, baritone Rakahi-accented voice resounding just enough over the din of the rest of the chatter around the countertop to get the attention of the barkeep, just enough to speak over the smaller, pale-haired woman sitting next to where he stood, practically touching when he rest his elbows on the sticky wood to wait, whose single word may have accidentally been drown out by his own.

The barkeep swept up coins and set down a single mug, uncaring that he sloshed a bit more of the necessary contents than he should have, pausing to look at Keegan with wary, dark eyes, “Didja want something?”

"Aye, she said gin." Pash answered without thinking, having heard her because of their proximity and because he was listening to everything and nothing at once. He pressed another coin on the counter without looking at her for permission or to see if he was even correct. He squinted down into the somewhat silty bottom of his mug as though he were staring into the silty bottom of his own heart.

[Keegan]

"Got some sorta negligence in his mannerisms. A nonchalance toward obligation.” That’s how the man with the straight white hair would describe the Biqaj during her first visit in the Inn for Dinner, just before spitting at her feet. “Disgusting.” He would say of the man, and it was clear as he wiped a dusty sleeve against his beard that he had not picked up on the irony. “You understand the necessity for our meeting…” But Kee had stopped listening, instead preoccupied with the scribbling on the bar napkin. Necessity and reason were both vastly unimportant, but she had learned early that these people often felt the compulsion to justify these meetings with her. Though she would not understand why.

She had learned more than she needed that evening. Firstly that he was Biqaj, with bronzed skin that was a little more than sun kissed. He would be a tall man, with long unruly hair that was often decorated with sea glass beads and shells. It was the tattoos that would be the easiest to pick from a crowd though, and this detail was committed deeper to her memory.

If she had not been consumed in memory she might have felt the man as he approached, but restrospection often bested focus. Her lips barely parted to speak before she was seated in the larger man’s shadow, him speaking over her and the woman’s much smaller voice being overruled easily. His elbow nearly grazed hers, Keegan visibly recoiling in order to find more room between them. Sharing her space did not come easily for the woman, just in the same way that accepting charity did not.

”Keep it.” Was how she started, the syllables delivered sharp. Her chin finally lifted to address the man at fault for her interruption, perhaps to further scold him. Perhaps to dismiss him from her corner of the bartop. He was Biqaj, a curious thing. And despite his sunned and scarred skin, he had a softness about him. Blue eyes flicked away from his face, appraising him in a manner that was far from subtle. Tall. Broad shouldered. A mess of unruly hair. It wasn’t until she found the lines of tattoos that marked his arms that lips curled upward, a rarity for the poisoner, but a genuine grin nonetheless.

How quaint.

It wouldn't take an empath to understand him, as drained as he appeared. He was considering the contents of his mug when she spoke again. ”Come to drown?” She nodded to the mug, though she was referring to the longing way he stared at it, as if it was the ale to blame for the very wilt of his soul.

”I should be one buying you drink, yes?” She fought against the Rhakrosii accent, but the Common words still fell broken.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

The barkeep ignored Keegan’s warning, uncaring of what or who the nel was for so much as that it was given to him. So he took it. He may have even smirked about it, smug to see both the woman’s annoyance and just how much the Biqaj didn’t seem to care. Regardless, he handed the woman her drink and slid away to tend a few others down the bar, making a note to keep an eye on the two simply because he wasn’t going to say no to more coin.

Pash shifted his bodyweight against the bar as if he was shifting his sloop in the wind, looking to the pale-haired woman who first snapped, then grinned at him, well, at least at some part of him that seemed to amuse her if it wasn’t his face. He did not wear unhappiness well, and for all the invisible feelings he could now see, his own he’d always struggled to hide from view in the first place. He often wore on his own tanned, inked skin the sorts of emotions that others chose to hide beneath their veil of flesh, buried to be found by someone curious such as himself, “Drown? M’haps, if only ‘cause I doubt th’ sea would take me. U’Frek ‘n some misplaced kindness would jus’ wash me back ashore if I tried. So, aye, drink it is—”

The seafaring musician smirked, pausing to emphasize his words with a long swig, setting his mug back on the bar top with a hiss. He rolled his shoulders in a shrug and leaned into the one inked elbow he’d placed on the sticky wooden surface, stormy blue gaze washing over the small, pale-haired woman who’d made a point to recoil from his habit of too much closeness, who’d not wanted him to buy her drink, and yet who’d seen straight through him. Her edges were as sharp as her words, hewn from fair stone save her eyes which were liquid like his own instead of crystalline, soft despite the rest of her small-framed self. Perhaps in spite of.

“—if y’ wanna buy th’ next round, I won’t say no.” Pash didn’t recognize her accent, his own common so thick with his Ne’Haer Rakahi origins that he wouldn’t know where she was from without her telling. His baritone voice was quiet, but there was an edge of challenge to it, as if he dared her to the act itself instead of just the metaphor, “Though that jus’ makes y’ complicit ‘n my takin’ on water an’ sinkin’.”

With or without her coin, his goal was simple. He’d sailed alone with his own thoughts all the way from Rharne, blood in so much salt water, salt in an invisible wound. Here, even if it was only for a trial or two, he would forget before he tucked tail and sailed home instead.

[Keegan]

Blue eyes would flick to the man behind the bar as he took the nel. He did not acknowledge the Biqaj opposite him like she might expect two men who knew each other by name to behave, but to say Keegan was well-versed in how one should properly address a friendly acquaintance would be an ill-informed truth. Or perhaps, the man who spat on the floor of the Inn for Dinner the trial before last did not know this Biqaj as well as he thought to. The barman took the coin without another word, shuffling off to the next thirsty patron. To him, it did not matter who the coin came from, just that it came and it continued to do so.

She could feel him shift his weight against the bar as she surveyed the rest of the inn, hyper aware of the louder volume within it’s walls as the tables filled and the liquor flowed. The musk of the place was undeniable with the extra bodies in the room, and a blanket of smoke and raised voices found Kee just as quickly as it had come. It brought with it an influx of aromas — the smell of stale ale, of smoke, of desperation. A man with a stringed instrument moved within the sea of bodies to find a good corner to make music, but the Biqaj spoke then and Keegan’s attentions were displaced.

”Do not worry.” She started. Keegan did not keep room for misplaced kindness, not now and not in the next trial either. ”I do not wash you to shore.” She offered him a weak smile, if not to show her support for his pursuit of excess, than to paint him a picture of a merciful, kind girl. The gin beside her had started to collect condensation, having been ignored on the mahogany bar top since it had been placed there. She raised it now, curling a scarred hand around it’s circumference and pushing it toward him in toast. ”To mercy, yes?” And what a merciful girl she was.

She would move through the motions after, pulling the lowball glass to her lips and tipping gently, though no liquor would slide down her throat. Though not fearful since she had stepped into the Inn for Dinner, agitation came around in all forms, and despite how tightly knotted Keegan might strive to tie those emotions down and away, it would continue to bubble up to the surface, like water boiling over in a small pot. Her palms felt sticky, the back of her neck warm with nerves. Being within Etzos’ walls again brought these waves of anxiety, aches and pains that the woman’s pride would not allow her to swallow. She pulled on her sleeves then, stretching them over her palms and seemingly fidgeting with the left sleeve more thoroughly than necessary.

Complicit. She rolled the word over her memory for some time, and while she would be unable to translate it directly, she could pull some meaning from it. Her brow knit a little more tightly then, recognizing a fray to his voice, but unsure how to receive it. ”I help, yes? I pour more water in your boat.” It wasn’t clear why the Biqaj was visibly wilted, but perhaps if she had been paying more attention to the man with the white hair she would have the knowledge to fill this gap.

But she digressed.

Whiskey. He liked whiskey. Her napkin had scribbled this detail hastily, but it was committed to memory just as deeply as the physical properties of nightshade. It was embedded just as clearly to memory as the rest of Solanaceae family of flowers, or the fact that it would take a man of his size three times the dose to find effect than would be necessary for Keegan. If the white-haired man knew him as well as he said he did, the Biqaj would dismiss himself after one round, so it was time to get on with it then. Keegan’s mind drifted then, fantasizing about calling an early evening after, and skirting back to her room where she’d muse over the comparisons and contrasts of the Sandman’s wasp vs. the Kidnapper Spider.

She crutched her left hand protectively toward her body, waving down the barman as he polished a glass at the far end of the bar. He moved lazily, minding his time as he sidled to address the small girl, and wearing a rather detached expression on his face. ”Whiskey.” The syllables strained to find some neutrality in Common, and she opted to keep her order short and concise. ”For he, and for I.” The man nodded then, and pulled two small glasses before reaching toward the well.

As the liquor was poured, Keegan fought for the Biqaj’s gaze. For all her sheltered upbringing she knew what was said of their eyes, how they shifted in hue depending on their whims. It was curiosity that had her stepping over the line of what was appropriate behavior for dealing with a man you only just met, and she would grasp at the weave of his emotion, tugging at him with her own bastardized flavor of empathy. She wondered if his tangle would ebb and flow just as quickly as the color in his eyes, and what prism of hues would make up his emotional weave. She expected something brighter than Baynard, something more lively and engaging than the poisoners murky greens and crimsons.

Two small glasses clinked in front of them, the barkeep setting these down without much more consideration than the way he delivered the Biqaj’s ale just moments previous. Keegan flinched, interruption breaking whatever link she had been trying to tie between them. She was grabbing both shot glasses before there was time dispute it, and the pale haired woman fought for the Biqaj’s gaze again, cupping the left glass with an awkward curl of her palm as a stretched sleeve hovered so closely to the amber liquid it threatened to dip right into it.

”You will make toast now.” The nod of encouragement was delivered with more enthusiasm than Kee would express for most things, and she’d keep staring at his eyes as a little shake of her wrist fumbled unnaturally over the whiskey below.

ooc // Spoilers: Kee is trying to shake something into Pash’s whiskey. Sorry this got so long.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

The tall Biqaj managed a smirk at her promises, though the chuckle that escaped his lips was without humor. She raised her glass at him anyway, praising a sensation he didn’t feel—mercy.

Sure. Why not?

Pash tilted his head in agreement, his sea-worn hand mirroring her motion with his mug of ale. Draining the cold, bitter contents in this second swig, he set the empty mug heavily onto the dark, sticky bar top with a wince and a shudder. The ale in Etzos left much to be desired, but he wasn’t here for flavor any more than he was here for sensation. Not feeling, not thinking … that was fine by him, even if the method tasted somewhat stale and unrefined.

The pale-haired woman’s next words tugged a laugh from the salty bard, loud and unexpected, his stormy gaze visibly shifting, warming, grey becoming almost a lagoon sort of blue, “More water, eh? Aye, I’m alright with that. Y’ swim?” The baritone of his voice was still distant despite his amusement and had his heart been anything but bleeding into the hull of his chest, his words could have been an innuendo or a warm invitation, but they were not. His expression gave her little, looking neither pleased nor disappointed when she ordered whiskey, though he did give her the glance she hunted for, holding her blue hues for a trill or two.

Did he feel something? Did the bright, chaotic mess of his tangle shift in a way that he could notice? A little. He felt a movement, and the shorter woman was perhaps inundated with threads of feelings so frayed and confusing that they perhaps bordered on the overwhelming. The tall Biqaj was tumultuous on the inside, instead of silver blood staining his clothes, he was leaking hurt and anger, loss and self-loathing. For a moment, his eyes narrowed, accusatory—he’d been manipulated for so long that he somehow knew the feeling. A breath on the back of his neck. He blinked. Was it just him longing for the familiar?

The barkeep startled them both, Pash grasping for the truth and the pale-haired woman grasping for threads, snapping them from the unseen and back into the busy tavern.

“A toast—” Pash smirked, completely unaware of what she was doing, willingly distracted by her somewhat strange insistence that they toast again, that she hold his drink before offering it back to him.

He opened is mouth to ask another question, to get to know the woman he was about to accept no mercy from, when two more men entered the bar. More Biqaj by the looks of them, one tall the other somewhat shorter, both tattooed and clearly fresh off the boat and up the river into the godless city. They were smiling, laughing, sharing a story in Rakahi that the seafaring musician could understand and recognize as a tale of exploits of the more sexual kind than seafaring, the two of them still grinning once they leaned against the bar behind Pash. The barkeep looked displeased, annoyed by the sudden tide of boat people, of riff raff, that suddenly washed into the Inn for Dinner.

One of the Biqaj, the taller one with bright green sea glass in his hair and a few shells, clearly the instigator of their shared story, set an impressive handful of only gold coins on the bar with a loud slam of his calloused palm,

“Barkeep! Somethin’ for e’eryone!” He barked, the show of his wealth and prowess swelling his chest while his companion, who preferred to show off his gold in piercings and jewelry it seemed, eyed Pash’s lute and familiar racial features before also glancing at the pale-haired woman still holding two small tumblers of whiskey as if the pair were drinking together.

The tavern roared approval and threatened a bit of chaos, the barkeep eying the pile of gold nel on his counter with a slow but frustrated smile,

“Are you sure? Let’s start with a tab. Put those coins away and I’ll settle you later.” He hissed, not wanting trouble over such blatant display of treasure in his relatively comfortable, welcoming bar. Clearly the pair of Biqaj were travelers, perhaps unfamiliar with Etzos in general.

“Don’ matter.” Said the shorter Biqaj, “Jus’ make it quick. We’re here t’ drink, eh? Before we go elsewhere for fun.”

Whatever that meant.

Pash was reaching for the whiskey with calloused fingers, though the pair behind him had his attention and his interest, though he longed for the kind of distraction he may have hoped they could offer him in addition to the thorough drowning the pale-haired woman was promising,

“—A toast, eh? Here, tell me your name first," His voice became eager, greedy, hungry for a connection as if the presence of his people, people he had delayed going home to by even stopping in Etzos in the first place, made him want to talk to the shorter woman more. Perhaps he'd imagined that brush of someone, something else in his tangle, phantom feelings of a sensation he'd once allowed from someone he'd once believed cared, even though the didn't ... not in the way he did. His chest ached, gaze drifting to the whisky and back to the woman's face, perhaps already drowning though he didn't show it on the outside, "Tell me your name, then I’ll tell y’ mine an’ we’ll drink.”

Off Topic

Never a need to apologize for post length. Ever. LOL. I’m always cool. Annnnnndddd … a twist. Pick your Biqaj. Any Biqaj.

[Keegan]

She offered to sink his boat, and the noise that came out of him would have startled her if she had not been so closely studying the shift in his eyes. Their color turned from bleak grey to something with more life, the esprit of the man coming round with the intensity and hue of a jungle lagoon. But while his whims had visibly shifted, the color of his voice had not, and Keegan was left to wonder if he was pleased with her, or something else.

Did she swim? ”No.” It was not a lie, as was apparent by the visible rounding of her shoulders, a small change in posture to defend a very large sense of pride. ”But you do not wash me to shore either, do you promise it? I drown.” Her lips peeled upward then, and for another short moment the harsh angles of her face seemed gentler. ”And you drown. Together.” The contrary often entertained her, finding smugness in these small ironies. Would she drown with him this evening? No. Of course not.

There were, after all, comparisons and contrasts to be made of the Sandman’s wasp and the Kidnapper spider.

There was a time when the girl with the fair hair had avoided eye contact. That was a time before though, a time of the mundane. His weave came slowly at first, and then all at once. It was a complex plait of a thing, tied tightly, strands flaring away from their neighbors but nesting for support all at once. To say Keegan found finesse in this practice would be a stark lie, and his weave rushed into her all at once without warning. Still, she swallowed it willingly, drinking it in not unlike the way he gulped the contents of his ale. Anger, pain, it all leaked into her, and for a moment Keegan was overwhelmed with what feeling belonged to the Biqaj, and what was her own.

His eyes narrowed then, a suspicious glance that would have roused her fear if it had not been knotted and shelved before entering the tavern. The barkeep interrupted then, and while it was always a little jarring to be ripped apart like that, she was thankful for the distraction.

His suspicion subsided, seemingly charmed by the suggestion of more drink, and Keegan’s expression lightened in return. An early evening in with the Enyclopedia of Natural Toxins and a warm cup of tea teased her more readily as she sprinkled the toxin into the glass, and she was extending the whiskey to the man when the tavern doors swung open, raucous laughter erupting from the entrance.

If Keegan had been a patient woman, she would have practiced restraint before drugging the first Biqaj in the Inn for Dinner. It was a vain attempt to retreat back to her quarters sooner rather than later surely, but the truth was, for all the effort Barlow Baynard had put into his attempts at crafting his weapon, he couldn’t quite wash away an impetuous spirit.

There were two of them, speaking in a language Keegan would not understand as they sidled up to the bar. The glitter of coin instantly caught her attention, and her chin dipped shyly at the realization that she might be admiring the sight a little too outwardly. Still, she had not ever seen so many gold nel at once.

”Dahlia.” She answered him. ”You tell me yours.”

The barkeep tried to ease the sudden uproar from the tavern, and the second Biqaj, shorter than his companion but just as sprightly, clapped a leathery hand atop the mahogany. ”Cadby, aye! Why don’ y’ pour some of that rye whiskey I been takin’ such a likin’ to.” He motioned behind the barkeep, waving a hand toward the shelves of liquor behind him. "Real top of the shelf stuff.” He assured his companion with a vigorous nod and clap on the back, encouraging his friend to comply, or at the very least ease the tension.

Oh.

He was Biqaj, with bronzed skin that was a little more than sun kissed. Tall. Unruly hair with decoration of beads and shells. The napkin where she scribbled her notes also scribed his penchant for tattoos and whiskey, and that he knew the bartender by name and —

”I…” Keegan trailed off, fingers curling around the whiskey so tightly now her knuckles turned pale from the strain. She was slipping out of her seat and onto the floor before she could comprehend the repercussions, staring dumbly at her jaded Biqaj before fully regaining composure. And a startled expression turned painted once more, burying the brief lack of composure with an even temper and disinterested posture.

”You will excuse me.” She said, dismissing him. ”He has bigger boat. You understand, hm?” She smiled curtly to him, allowing Pash to take that as he wished as she turned her back and left him.

Her closer proximity made the smaller woman harder to ignore now, Keegan locking in the two men’s attentions with a forced smile and outward reach of her arms. Hello donkey. Meet carrot. ”Rye whiskey is for soft men, and you, you do not look soft.” The shorter Biqaj would be offered the tainted glass, a little more forcefully than necessary.

Perhaps she would make an academic paper of her studies, with the extra time she would inherit this evening. Of the Sandman’s wasp, and the Kidnapper Spider.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Someone had definitely been in his head, in his tangle, sifting clumsily through the chaotic threads of his feelings as though they were worth looking at. Tarnished, jaded, bleeding—could one see the silver of liquid stardust as it leaked from his heart and into his entire being if they looked into his tangle? It’s all he thought he could see, the frayed threads of betrayal and anger, loss and frustration all metallic as if they’d first been dipped into his Biqaj blood. Everything hurt, skewed and confusing, and yet he knew his mess well enough, he’d owned it for trials now, sailing alone from Rharne to Etzos on his way to Ne’haer, that the feeling of someone else brushing his tumultuous emotions became suddenly obvious.

But who?

And why?

He was nothing. No one. Just sea flotsam and tanned flesh. Unwanted. Unlovable except as someone’s toy in a game he’d been to naive and hopeful to ever understand.

The two loud Biqaj broke the contact, startling both himself and whoever had touched his tangle. He blinked, confused, reaching for the glass as the pale-haired woman ordered him to toast. Coins hit the table and the barkeep got moving, muttering as he went past, not bothering to ask Pash or the pale-haired woman what they wanted,

“Pash,” He replied, again holding out a calloused hand, the tattooed abstractions of his travels tracing up from his wrist to his shoulder, “Well, here’s t’—“

Only she kept the whiskey, hand curiously curled around the cool glass. Scarred hand. Protectively. Tidepool gaze narrowed as she made the needed promises to drown him.

Immortals, please.

U’Frek had denied him. Twenty three days from Rharne to Foster's Landing. Eleven days to Etzos. And nothing.

Surely the godlessness of Etzos would answer his call instead.

Only it didn’t. She didn’t.

Together, she’d lied, slipping from her chair as the other two Biqaj began to boast loudly and laugh, their Rakahi words familiar and comfortable and yet shaming all at the same time. Pash ached to be home. But he didn’t. What would he tell them? She’d been an outsider, Ari’nne. He should have known better.

The other pair of Biqaj were loud, calling for whiskey, and Dahlia slid from her chair and brushed past him as if to answer, much to his slack-jawed surprise.

Bigger boat? That was a new one.

Pash smirked, not the first time he’d been turned down at a bar for more coin. Still, something unsettled him and as he clenched his jaw to refrain from saying something unnecessary and rude, he instead turned in his seat to size up the two loud seafaring men who may have noticed him but didn’t seem to care. Chances are, their volume spoke to the size of their boats in the inverse, as did the stories they chuckled over in the tongue of his people.

Both men were somewhat involved in the story, which apparently had to do with the coin they all but poured on the bar to make sure the man behind it could keep the drinks coming, the common room of the Inn for Dinner springing to life at the promise of free booze. The musician on stage had begun to play, but his music was briefly drowned out by the curious and eager chatter.

The shorter man turned when whiskey was handed to him, the pale-haired woman who shoved it at him saying words that rang sweet enough in his ears to make him grin. The taller man turned also, though his eyes fell first on Pash, noting they shared heritage, before he turned to eye the woman who was putting a drink into the hands of his friends,

“I’ll take that one!” he reached for her other hand, wanting the second whiskey, “An’ then you can jus’ come sit o’er here, eh lass?” He was grinning, scooting over in his seat to all but shoulder Pash over, making room between himself and his companion for her with a wicked grin, “S’ more o’ this where that came from, is there?”

Neither of them seemed opposed to companionship of the female kind, especially when they came bearing drinks.

The shipwright’s son smirked, calloused fingers pushing his empty mug of ale toward the edge of the bar, toward the barkeep, as an indication of what he’d want more of, inked elbows on the dark, sticky wood. The other tall Biqaj’s arm was all but in his ribs, and Pash bristled at the contact, though instead of saying anything, he found himself curious. Had one of them been in his tangle and he hadn’t noticed?

Reaching into the man’s emotions himself, the vibrant colors of his bright tangle were full of the warm colors of amusement and pride, swollen with thick cords of confidence. Interest began to weave its way into the other Biqaj’s tangle as the shorter one declared a loud, half-assed Rakahi toast,

“Fair winds and all that!”

Both raised their whiskeys and one winked at Dahlia before they both downed their drinks, hissing and grinning and dissolving into more grating laughter.

Pash felt the rush of emotions, swimming in the tangle as he would the sea, lagoon blue irises dulling into something stormy, grey, unfocused. He began to strum that interest, jealousy, desire, just so that the woman who’d promised to drown him could get what she wanted. That bigger boat.

Though, as he did so it occurred to him that maybe it’d been her who’d touched his tangle, not one of the other two. Perhaps she knew what she was doing?

Nah. Probably not.

[Keegan]

It was easier than she had expected, and the tainted whiskey had finally found the correct hands. The second glass was also plucked from her, and there was a moment where Keegan’s hand hovered awkwardly in the air, empty and confused. Perhaps it was a rude gesture, Keegan would not know, only understanding that she was now relieved from drinking it, and that was enough for her. Liquor did not suit her, just as rowdy bars and evening music.

Quiet suited her. Being alone did.

But it seemed that would have to wait. Keegan did not want to sit, and she did not want to stay. But she offered the Biqaj a weak smile just the same, standing just within reach of the two men with awkward, small shoulders. It would be over soon, she could untie the knots of fear, and she would remember what it felt like. It was safe, to be afraid.

She almost missed the Biqaj’s question, nodding absentmindedly in response. More where that came from, sure. For all that she tried, she could not shake the residual ache from the borrowed feeling. It was a pang that lived somewhere deep, a misery Keegan was not familiar with. She tried to shake the feeling, brushing whatever was left down and away. It persisted though, because it was something raw, and because Keegan could not let unfamiliar things rest.

She would try to compare it to the sting of a wasp, sharp and immobilizing. She would try to compare it to the bite of a fire ant, or the tight feeling in her throat when Baynard scolded her. But it was not the same. Not really. She watched him as he nudged his mug toward the edge of the bar, and he looked smaller now, somehow.

Cadby was making a pass as Pash did so, refilling his mug and sliding it back to the bard with just a nod and a tap on the bar.

There was the glassy clink of a toast, and the two sailors swallowed their whiskies in one pass. Keegan found her cue, breaking herself from the sort of heartache she leeched but would not really understand. She would have preferred to sit with this longer, to brush her fingers through the man’s tangle until she could understand the feeling proper, but it was time to go.

She would have slid away, easy and light on her feet. She would have had a pot on the kettle and a nest of blankets and books. She would have, but a calloused hand pulled around her waist, fingers curling around the cloth at her hip and dragging her toward the bar. Both shot glasses were slammed back to the mahogany and the taller Biqaj tugged her closer, his grip now planting her firmly between them. They smelled of salt and sea, and Keegan would wince, discomfort painted plainly on her face.

She did not like to be touched.

Stiff, was the Rhakrosii girl, as the shorter man to her left heaved, and a hack of a cough was expelled from his lungs. It was an appetite for something new that kept his companion's arm anchored to Keegan's waist, a desire that might have always been there, but was played just a little closer to the surface.

”Don’ be dramatic Barnes. Or are y’ a soft man?” The words were laced in jest, and the taller man pulled his free hand around to clap his friend on the shoulder.

Puck’s lily was not a hard flower find in Etzos. Common but wildly ignored for it’s better known cousins, the blossom’s were smaller than a common lily. The leaves lacked the waxy luster too, but it’s root’s extended deeper, giving it hardiness and a longer life. She had heard florist’s call it, ’The ugly stepsister lily' once, but Keegan rather fancied the Puck lily. It had delicate, unassuming petals, and finicky blooms, as if it flaunted its flowers only when it was suited for it.

The petals were toxic in that they put the consumer in a drowsy, dreamless slumber. A fine medicinal maybe, if it did not taste so foul.

”Hells lyat,” And Barnes wheezed in a breath. ”At’ll put hair on your chest, won’ it Osric?” And his lips peeled into a nasty wicked grin, the two of them erupting into more raucous laughter.

Osric keeled forward, slapping a knee before swinging an elbow behind him. It barely missed the ale, that elbow did, instead digging into Pash’s shoulder with a less than gentle thump.

Puck’s lily usually took half a break until it forced sleep. And while Barnes’ eyes were still wide and eager, there was a swagger about him now, as if perhaps he had been shooting whiskey much longer than his short time in the Inn For Dinner. He might have noticed as well, and his elbow found the stability of the bar top, leaning his body against it.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

He shouldn’t have done that.

The manipulation had come so easily, the retaliatory shift of someone else’s tangle felt familiar, a knee-jerk reaction of hurt pride. He’d been pushed around without even knowing, the delicate threads of his better emotions strummed and played like Ari’nne’s violin. Her enjoyment. Her toy. The illusion of a relationship had shaped his perceptions of the Spark she’d gifted him with and here he was no better for finally struggling free of it all and escaping.

No one deserved such things. No one but him.

Damn it all.

Pash felt the refilled mug of ale pressed into his calloused hand by the barkeep, but his attention was on the trio, the two other Biqaj and the show they made of keeping the pale-haired woman between them. He felt the shift in the one man’s tangle, the threads he’d strummed weaving themselves tighter into thick cords of want and interest, bright threads of boldness outshining subtle dark tones of fear—something was wrong but he hid it well enough that the fledgling Empath couldn’t follow the changes as they rippled through the tapestry of his emotions.

He didn’t need to peer into the woman’s tangle to see her discomfort, to see that his quick, angry riposte to her shift in attentions had put her in a position she didn’t want to be in and he didn’t want to be responsible for. The seafaring musician frowned, pausing to almost drain the entire lukewarm mug of ale in one breath, half a growl hitching in his throat as the liquid bravado clawed its way from his stomach into the dark, brooding hull of his chest. Setting the mug down, he wiped foam from his unshaven face with the back of a hand just as Osric’s elbow found his shoulder, narrowly missing the lute that was slung so comfortably over his back.

For a moment, Pash was an armrest, and he took it just as the warm sensation of the alcohol he’d purposefully consumed began to dance its way into the silver halls of his veins. He used the moment to turn and face the trio, stormy grey gaze washing over the pale-haired woman first, brushing her tangle in their visual proximity: her fear and discomfort obvious, real and his presence a clumsy grope at the invisible, far less smooth of a motion the tall Biqaj was capable of with his actual hands. He poured himself from his seat like another refill of his mug, slipping from under Osric’s arm in a way that made him hiss with annoyance and moving to reach between the shorter Biqaj and Barnes, reaching for the pale-haired woman as if she was his property.

Barnes moved slower than he thought he should, blinking at the interloper who may have been of his people but was suddenly not acting so brotherly,

“She owes me a toast.” Pash smirked, faking a grin with his Rakahi words, calloused fingers brushing Dahlia’s wrist, “And it’s clear to me your boat’s most certainly not bigger than mine.”

He glanced downward for emphasis, using the pale-haired woman’s words as a more physical insult, the grin that crept into his sea-weathered features one of bravado and trouble, aware of what he was inviting, the baritone of his voice warming to welcome the physical retaliation that possibly could ensue.

“Clearly she doesn’t.” Osric hissed, unable to contain a chuckle at Pash’s insult none the less. He held up the empty whiskey tumblers as evidence, before setting them on the bar with the expectation they’d be refilled, “‘Cause she’s here an' not there with you, qat.”

“Aye, that.” Barnes hummed, forced to overthink things as everything felt like it was moving slower than it should be, as if he’d had several whiskeys instead of just one. His arm tightened around her waist, fingers curling into fabric and skin in a predatory, possessive sort of way.

The barkeep paused and watched them, wary. His dark eyes narrowed even as he reached for empty tumblers, keenly aware of the threatening tone in the Rakahi words spoken between the trio and their pale-haired captive.

The seafaring musician shifted on his feet, rush of a buzz clamoring over the hurt that writhed in the hull of his chest like too much darkness, “Then you owe me a toast instead. Another drink for all of us.” Pash didn’t let go of the pale-haired woman’s wrist, but pulled out spare coin with his free hand instead, holding it between himself and Barnes, his last words in Common for them all to understand:

“To th’ one left standing go th’ spoils, eh?”

Immortals, maybe he’d finally drown.

Off Topic

I don’t know. I guess I’m not ready to write the end. LOL. I’m not sorry, either.

Qat = guy, man, dude