33 Ymiden, 717
A few breaks before midnight
A few breaks before midnight
To say that Pash flew home to his sloop would have been an understatement, a hyperbole really. Honestly, later the next trial long after sunrise he wouldn’t really be able to remember if he’d walked or ran, swam or skipped so much as that he indeed traveled, somehow, from the back entrance of Cally’s restaurant, out into the square, past the fountain, through the near-empty cobbled streets and familiar alleys of Scalvoris all the way to the well-brined wood of the docks. He flowed past the few people still out and about wandering from taverns or doing their business late in the evening like a humming, tumultuous current of warmth coursing through the town barely wrapped in the fleshly shape of a tall Biqaj with tanned, tattooed skin.
The truth was he wouldn’t have even functioned the rest of the evening at Cally’s, not really, if he’d been asked to stay. That much was obvious, and so amid the buzz of discussion and curiosity and emotion that filled the restaurant, lute still in his hands and stars in his eyes, Pash was shooed from his quiet corner and overstuffed chair in the most celebratory of fashions. There was plenty of conversation in his wake, patrons and staff alike witnesses but not necessarily in full understanding of the divine implications of all that had happened, so much of it incredibly personal despite the public nature of the interaction. Regardless, the tall Biqaj was no longer present for questions, and thus wild speculation was able to run rampant for the rest of the night without him.
He only assumed Kali would be on his sloop. The past handful of trials had been difficult, awkward, occasionally angry, and uncomfortable ever since Pash had returned from the jungle without telling her he was even going, without bringing her along after all the chaos of the Immortals Tongue. He'd gone with what he'd told himself were good intentions, but they'd been mostly selfish in the end—just chasing his own tail under the guise of wounded pride. While none of that seemed to matter at this moment—all of it sort of paled in comparison to the fact that Zanik, the Immortal of Music, had just spent some leisurely bits playing his lute, among other blessings—he knew he'd hurt the dark-haired Sev’ryn and worried she'd find her comfort as far away from him and his sloop and let that be that. Perhaps part of him, somewhere, still worried that was actually the better choice, anyway, but that part of his subconscious was totally not working at all at this moment and so those thoughts were literally the farthest away they'd ever been. Pash simply hoped she'd be on board, home as it were, as he leapt over the gunnel from the dock and onto his deck with a force that rocked the sloop and resounded through his hull with an unmistakably loud thud.
"Kali!" The seafaring minstrel shouted, not thinking about how the volume of his baritone voice could be mistaken for distress, oblivious to how he was winded and flushed from just how fast he’d traveled to get back to the docks, still clutching his grandfather’s old instrument as if he was carrying the most precious of children instead of having slung it over his shoulder as usual. His pulse still played a swift, staccato rhythm in his ears as he ducked under the boom and reached the hatch that led belowdecks, ”Oi! Are y’ here? Kali, you’ll never believe—”
In all his arcs aboard The Muse, Pash had rarely smacked his head against his own hatch belowdecks, usually when drunk or otherwise occupied. The tall Biqaj was so distracted, he managed the feat sober, grazing his forehead and sending him stumbling only somewhat gracefully down the three rungs of stairs into his little cabin, clearly resembling an intoxicated, overly excited fool, lute hugged to his chest by the hand that wasn’t desperate to keep him upright by grabbing at the counter of his tiny galley,
“—ouch.”
The truth was he wouldn’t have even functioned the rest of the evening at Cally’s, not really, if he’d been asked to stay. That much was obvious, and so amid the buzz of discussion and curiosity and emotion that filled the restaurant, lute still in his hands and stars in his eyes, Pash was shooed from his quiet corner and overstuffed chair in the most celebratory of fashions. There was plenty of conversation in his wake, patrons and staff alike witnesses but not necessarily in full understanding of the divine implications of all that had happened, so much of it incredibly personal despite the public nature of the interaction. Regardless, the tall Biqaj was no longer present for questions, and thus wild speculation was able to run rampant for the rest of the night without him.
He only assumed Kali would be on his sloop. The past handful of trials had been difficult, awkward, occasionally angry, and uncomfortable ever since Pash had returned from the jungle without telling her he was even going, without bringing her along after all the chaos of the Immortals Tongue. He'd gone with what he'd told himself were good intentions, but they'd been mostly selfish in the end—just chasing his own tail under the guise of wounded pride. While none of that seemed to matter at this moment—all of it sort of paled in comparison to the fact that Zanik, the Immortal of Music, had just spent some leisurely bits playing his lute, among other blessings—he knew he'd hurt the dark-haired Sev’ryn and worried she'd find her comfort as far away from him and his sloop and let that be that. Perhaps part of him, somewhere, still worried that was actually the better choice, anyway, but that part of his subconscious was totally not working at all at this moment and so those thoughts were literally the farthest away they'd ever been. Pash simply hoped she'd be on board, home as it were, as he leapt over the gunnel from the dock and onto his deck with a force that rocked the sloop and resounded through his hull with an unmistakably loud thud.
"Kali!" The seafaring minstrel shouted, not thinking about how the volume of his baritone voice could be mistaken for distress, oblivious to how he was winded and flushed from just how fast he’d traveled to get back to the docks, still clutching his grandfather’s old instrument as if he was carrying the most precious of children instead of having slung it over his shoulder as usual. His pulse still played a swift, staccato rhythm in his ears as he ducked under the boom and reached the hatch that led belowdecks, ”Oi! Are y’ here? Kali, you’ll never believe—”
In all his arcs aboard The Muse, Pash had rarely smacked his head against his own hatch belowdecks, usually when drunk or otherwise occupied. The tall Biqaj was so distracted, he managed the feat sober, grazing his forehead and sending him stumbling only somewhat gracefully down the three rungs of stairs into his little cabin, clearly resembling an intoxicated, overly excited fool, lute hugged to his chest by the hand that wasn’t desperate to keep him upright by grabbing at the counter of his tiny galley,
“—ouch.”
