• Memory • Just another night in Bayward

[Pash Raj'oriq]

98 Vhalar, 715

Bayward

Off Topic

All Rakahi Pidgin translations are at the bottom of each post.

"C’mon, let’s tack!" Pash hissed angrily, watching his own breath form a cloud in the cold Vhalar air, shifting his grip on the bulkier form of his cousin, and eliciting a frustrated growl of objection from Torim,

"Ze. I ent done with’is face." Knuckles bloodied, the shorter Biqaj was clearly drunk with his dark hair mussed and his cheeks flushed, fingers curled into the collar of a battered man as they stood on the street outside of an overcrowded tavern that still rang with the tinkling of broken glass an the shouts of the fighting going on inside. The dark-haired man wavered on his feet, silver blood shimmering in the darkness as it flowed from some gnarled mess in his scalp from a chair. He struggled against his cousin as the taller musician attempted to drag him away,

"S’ no’ worth it, Torim." Pash grumbled, the ache in his left bicep becoming a groan of fiery pain as he shifted his hips against his cousin and began to forcefully shove him, the other drunk Biqaj staggering backwards and forced to drop the unconscious sod who’d bashed his head and probably broken a few of his ribs. The younger Biqaj made sure to shove a calloused palm against those ribs, the pain causing Torim to howl, tears welling in his eyes as he almost fell over.

Pash smirked, "Now, I said let’s tack, jhi’nat." He had no interest in being around when the rest of the bar fight spilled outside, both of them bleeding and far too inebriated to last long. Instead, he moved to support his shorter cousin who was, Immortals be damned, so much heavier than himself with more than just muscle. The two made a sorry, silvery pair, grunting and grumbling and laughing stupidly as they meandered their way through the streets some break after midnight, stumbling and trying not to pass out in some alley they wouldn’t want to be caught in here in Bayward.

Finally, the docks were in sight, but as they stepped foot onto their worn, salty surface, Torim began to struggle, shouldering out of Pash’s grip and barreling him over as he turned to hurl the mostly alcoholic contents of his impressively large stomach all over the docks, narrowly avoiding his younger cousin with but a bit of foul splatter and a hoarse, gurgling laugh,

"B’ Ilaren’s tits, I’m so gunnl’d. Eja’yo." The dark-haired bastard was laughing more, swaying dizzily on his feet even as he reached a hand up to feel the blood run down his face and his other meaty hand toward Pash to help him up,

"Qes, y’are." The taller, younger man chuckled, rolling his eyes, though Torim’s tug on his bicep sent a fire up his shoulder and his words became a guttural noise of pain, the silver that stained his shirt testament to someone having stabbed him. He raised his other hand and curled his calloused fingers into a fist, tensing as if he was about to swing it at his shorter, bulkier cousin, about to punch him simply because of how much everything hurt. Growling, he stopped himself. Barely, "But so ‘m I an’ we’re gonna have t’ take care ‘f ourselves, y’ djout."

"We’ll be fiiinnneeee." His cousin waved a hand, sidestepping his own vomit to shove the both of them towards Pash’s sloop, The Muse, "I trust y’ worldly knowledge since y’ve been off sailin’ all o’ Idalos without me."

"Havakda." The seafaring musician rolled his eyes and growled, refraining from telling Torim where to shove his drunk optimism, considering they’d been battered enough, "I still can’t believe y’ bought them a round."

"Well, y’ were playin' an’ they looked like they needed a bit o’ loosenin' up." Torim confessed, the rather rough looking table had definitely been on edge, and while Pash played his lute with a real skill, the shipwright’s son could sense the tension in the air and had hoped buying the pirates some drinks would have allowed them to enjoy their evening, not get angrier and slide into violence, "I still don’ know what in Chrien’s ire they were fightin' ‘bout anyways."

"Doesn’t matter. Jus’ a buncha’ gy’at goin' ‘bout life th’ wrong way stealin’… chunta!" Pash hissed, moving to help his cousin over the railing of his sloop before he staggered over as well, barely keeping himself from sprawling onto his deck as he lost balance, his legs like gelatin and his body tired, sore. He felt his sleeve soaked with his shimmering, silver blood, surprised that what he thought was a little cut could just keep flowing. Knife wounds were always a pain in the ass.

Rakahi Pidgin Translations

Let's tack! = Let's get out of here quickly. Let's flee.
Ze = No
Jhi’nat = Derogatory term for "ass", often used by Biqaj when threatening to punish their children.
Gunnel’d = Drunk. Really, really drunk. Puking over the rails of my sloop drunk.
Eja’yo = I’m sorry. Shortened form of Eja’yoama.
Yes = Yes
Djout = Jerk, chump in this context; literally: lowlife, dirty, filthy
Havakda = Fuck off.
Gy’at = Outsiders, non-Biqaj
Chunta = Dammit!

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Snatching the lantern from its place on his mast, he led the pair of them down the hatch and into his cabin. Torim all but fell down the stairs, clearly his head wound was worse than it looked. He groaned, leaning heavily against the tiny counter of his equally tiny galley, setting the lantern on another hook, shrugging off his lute and setting it aside before moving to light the stove and warm the cabin against Vhalar’s chill. He let the flames lick high, sticking a few more pieces of wood on the fire and stoking the flames as his cousin sprawled himself in the middle of the living area floor,

"Ze, seq’at. Can’t be sleepin’." Pash said loudly, reaching for the first aid kit and ignoring the pain that shot up his arm as he did so. Staggering over and resisting the urge to kick his dark-haired cousin, he shoved a sandaled foot against his hip instead, avoiding the ribs he knew were probably broken, "Gettup."

"Ze. Don’ wanna. Jus’ let me nap a lil’ then y’ can doctor me up."

"Nah, Torim. C’mon. Sleep’s bad if it’s your head. Lemme look." He moved to sit on the floor as well, offering to help his cousin sit up, the two of them quite an ugly pair of battered, bleeding Biqaj. The strong odors of alcohol and hearth fire filled the small space between them and as Torim reluctantly struggled to sit up, Pash did his best to ignore the overpowering whiff of vomit that clung to him, "Such a poxy djout y’are."

"Shut yer head." The two of them laughed at each other stupidly, his dark-haired cousin leaning back on his palms with a groan. Pash took the moment to investigate his head wound, leaning forward with as quick and clumsy a motion he could muster, one hand moving to hold his head steady while the other parted dark hair to check the wound,

"Ah, it’s no’ that deep, seq’at, but it’s a damn long gash. I don’ think it needs stitches." The seafaring musician blinked away blurred, intoxicated vision frustratedly, tilting Torim’s head toward the lantern light, "It’s jus’ gonna bleed a bit more. Head wounds always bleed too damn much. Here—"

He rolled his shoulders and leaned toward the first aid kit, rummaging through, "—lemme clean it."

"Chunta. It’s gonna hurt."

"Qes, but no’ as bad as if I punch y’ in th’ ribs first, ot djal?" The taller, younger Biqaj quipped frustratedly, aware that his bulkier, tougher cousin was still a wimp when it came to pain. Digging out the antiseptic tincture his mother always made and a few clean strips of cloth, he set about dabbing the wound and resisting the urge to sit on and or actually punch Torim as the man squirmed and whined. He made sure to clean the cuts on the man’s meaty knuckles and the scrape on his chin, but he spent the most time cleaning the shallow gash on his scalp, much to his cousin’s loud protest. Finally, he shoved another cloth at him and ordered him to hold it on his head, "Let’s see if that stops bleedin’, eh? That’s gonna be important."

The priority of his cousin’s injuries categorized, aware that he’d probably have to wrap the bulkier man’s chest a bit to support his bruised ribs, Pash knew he had to turn his inebriated attentions on his own injuries, namely the stab wound in his arm. He probably should have cared for himself first, all the movement coaxing still more silver blood down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his shirt even as he moved to tug it over his head.

Rakahi Pidgin Translations

Ze= No
Seq’at = Cousin, more loosely “one of us,” so kind of like “bro” or “friend.”
Poxy = Literally: diseased. In this case: a nuisance.
Djout = Jerk, chump. Literally: dirty, petty, filthy.
Chunta = Damn it!
Qes = Yes
Ot djal? = Literally “please” or “if you please;” in this context it’s used as “Do you understand?” Or “You get me?”

[Pash Raj'oriq]

The motion sent another wave of pain crawling through his shoulder and the seafaring musician tossed his shirt across the small cabin with a groan of pain. Finally, he turned his bicep toward the lantern light and let his tide pool gaze wash over the hole in his arm. It wasn’t a slash but a deep, straight hole—the knife having simply gone right into the muscle. He sighed, knowing that there was only one real solution to this problem other than hoping a few stitches held.

"You’re gonna have t’ help me, seq’at. Can y’ do that? Can y’ focus?"

Torim seemed a little out of things, most likely both from being so drunk and also perhaps from something more: Pash was quite certain he had a concussion from the force of the bar stool that had slammed into his stubborn, hard skull. He’d vomited. He seemed unfocused. But he was conversational, he’d walked. He was conscious and hadn’t blacked out on the tavern floor. So, at least it wasn’t that bad. Moderate at best. He’d have to keep an eye on him for the next few days, of course, but at least they’d be sailing home so it wouldn’t be too hard.

"Qes. I think so. What ‘m I gonna do?"

"I need t’ use fire."

"Vrung."

"Aye."

Pash sighed, and shifted back to standing, reaching into the first aid kit to pull out a curved, ginkgo leaf-shaped blade that was dull. It only had one purpose, and one he knew of but had never had to use on himself. He’d been burned before, splatters of hot tar on his legs and feet while working at the shipyard or a hot stick from the fire while joking with his brothers and cousins at a party on the beach. But this was different. He’d seen it used on his father once while working, Traek having sliced an actual vein with a knife while trimming some extra rigging. The wound had bled so much—liquid stardust everywhere—but Pash would never forget his uncle rushing over, grabbing the knife, shoving it into the coals of a nearby fire, and cauterizing Traek’s wound right before his eyes. He couldn’t even remember if he’d breathed while watching it, Traek’s brother so fast and so skilled. But, Immortals had his father screamed.

Pash wasn’t sure he was ready, but the continued flow of blood told him he had little choice. He helped Torim to his feet and the two of them swayed drunkenly in the little cabin of The Muse for a few bits. The taller, younger Biqaj wiped up his bicep as best he could with a clean cloth and the antiseptic tincture, wiping away the blood as it flowed and cleaning the area around it with a wince. Keeping the cloth against it, he moved to his little galley and shoved the small cauterizing tool into the coals, counting away his fears as he did so.

"I’m gonna hold still." Pash looked to Torim as his shorter, bulkier cousin leaned almost casually against the small counter, cramping the two of them close together in the tight space. His eyes fluttered and he swayed again, but his head had stopped bleeding and he looked like he was going to be fine. It was clear the pain of his battered ribs was strangely helpful at keeping him coherent, "An’ you’re gonna roll the side o’ this thing over th’ cut, like this—"

Pash demonstrated the motion with his wrist,

"—Press firm. It’s gonna hurt me an’ I’m gonna howl an’ try t’ get away. Don’ go too fast ‘r too slow. Again, jus’ like this."

Torim’s eyes lit up a little with the instructions, and he bit his lip with the realization of what he’d be doing, "Are y’ sure I should?"

"Qes. I’m no’ gonna go back in town jus’ t’ hope there’s some branch o’ th’ Order here. It’s Bayward. We’d get mugged in th’ dark th’ state we’re in."

"A’right. Show me again, Pash."

The seafaring musician repeated the movement, then turned and pulled the instrument carefully from the fire, the handle warm but not too hot. He passed it gingerly to his cousin, eying the red hot metal before he turned and braced himself carefully against the small basin that served as his sink, curling his fingers into the cool porcelain,

"Go on. Don’ count ‘r nothin’. Jus’ do it."

The shorter, bulkier Biqaj hesitated for only a moment, standing with a grunt from his restful lean and bringing his full heavier weight against his cousin, pinning him against the counter. One meaty hand, knuckles still oozing, gripped his wrist and held him fast to the basin before he brought the cauterizing instrument in a swift but agonizingly slow motion toward Pash’s tanned, inked bicep. Tidepool gaze widened and then snapped shut, an anticipatory whine escaping tight lips.

Then he howled and squirmed, unable to escape his heavier cousin’s lean as he brought the burning metal down in a careful motion over the cut, searing flesh and veins shut with the hot metal, melting any chance of further bleeding and creating an ugly puckering of blistered skin. Pash shouted and whined, knuckles white in their grip, but then Torim was done and leaning away and the taller, younger musician did everything in his power to keep from retaliating, reaching instead for the tool to set in the basin while breathing heavily,

"Nelo qe." He breathed heavily, nodding at his cousin, the pair of them truly trouble. By Fauldrun’s fiery ass, that hurt, and Pash felt his pulse roar in his ears, dizzy and suddenly more sober than he wanted to be, "C’mon, let’s look at that head o’ yours again an’ jus’ have a sit down. I’ll wrap us up an’ we can get some rest, eh?"

"A’right. But with m’ ribs, I get th’ bed an’ y’ can fold out th’ table."

"S’ m’ chunta sloop, Torim. An’ m’ chunta bed."

"I’ll wrestle y’ for ’t."

"I’ll win."

"Fine, jhi’nat."

Rakahi Pidgin Translations

Seq’at = Cousin, more loosely “one of us,” so kind of like “bro” or “friend.”
Qes = Yes
Vrung = Human waste. Used as an expletive accordingly.
Nelo qe = Thank you. Thanks.
Chunta = In this context, just damn. No conjugation in pidgin.
Jhi’nat = ass, asshat, asshole. Take your pick.

[Pegasus]

Pash

Overview

Wow - violent Bayard. I enjoyed reading this - bar fights and so on can lead to people acting in very unpleasant ways, but I enjoyed how you portrayed the family loyalty underlying Pash's relationship here.Torim bought them a round and that started it all, but Pash patches him up because he's family. It's good stuff!

Points

XP: 10 (solo)

Fame: NA

Loot

Pockmarked scar on his right bicep.

Knowledge

Caregiving: Not punching your patient
Medicine: Prioritizing injuries by location
Medicine: Assessing the severity of a head wound
Medicine: Evaluating a concussion
Surgery: Cauterizing a wound to stop bleeding
Surgery: Cleaning a cauterized wound to prevent infection