• Memory • Mercy is Overrated [Hans]

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Ashan 54, 714, Late Evening

Crest Break Tavern, Ne’Haer

Musical Inspiration

Sad Pash mood:

He hadn’t even been home yet.

Washed ashore like flotsam, driftwood bleached dry by too much sun, salt burned the open wound that was the hull of his chest. Pash stared into the emptiness of his mug and there was still sand under his fingernails, the infinitesimal discomfort a sensation he had no control over. His sea swept features were worn thin, what countenance that would otherwise be admired as bright and handsome were hidden behind several ten-trials of unshavenness and sleeplessness.

He had control over this.

Or he could have.

The ache that had settled into his very bones was not a sensation, not a real injury. Just a feeling. So many feelings. Broken threads he could knit back together or cut away, tie in knots. Had he wanted to, he could. Broken bones and torn skin healed with time. Feelings writhed and shifted, tangles refreshing sometimes in a breath or two and sometimes never. At least, so it seemed. Missing emotions he could steal from someone else, gather them up and weave them into something new, something better. Had he wanted to, he could do that, too. But what was the point? What did it matter when underneath it all, everything would still be ugly, every thread of it.

Instead, he felt what was his, what he knew now as only his to fee: his tangle a frayed mess of disappointment, unrequited love, anger, and fear. What had he asked for? What had he become? What had he sailed away from? Who had he left behind in Rharne? It had taken almost a season to separate his true self, his real emotions, from all that had been woven into his daily life, a careful deception that had twisted half-truths and desires into a fantasy. The veil lifted, the tall Biqaj made the choice to crawl away from seasons of emotional entanglement that had at least felt genuine—physical and musical pleasures obscuring Ari’nne’s dark and manipulative hunger he’d been far too naive to notice.

Until he did—

“Can I get’cha another?” Tawni was at his table, the smiling barmaid eager to please. Pash’s mug was obviously empty and it had been for far too many bits.

“Qes.” The seafaring musician sat up after a long exhale, calloused hands sliding over the worn tabletop toward the edge, only for one to stop as his fingers found a groove to pick at, chewing the inside of his cheek as his dull grey gaze washed over the room, the Crest Break Tavern nearly at its height. He hadn’t heard the din of conversation, hadn’t felt the pulse of so much rowdy motion, when lost in his own thoughts. The bar was bustling, sailors and deckhands jostling to drown a hard trial’s work in ale. The barmaid smirked at him in his moment of quiet, Pash suddenly lost in the sea of bodies and faces, his curiosity stirring like a woken animal from some deep cold cycle sleep,

“More rum, nelo qe.”

“Des’penya, sweets.” She winked at him, pidgin just as smooth from her lips as it was from his. Rakahi hardly a foreign tongue, she took his empty mug and made her way back toward the bar, leaving the tall Biqaj alone again in a room full of strangers.

[Hans]

Every sandy haired man caused Hans to stop and turn. Every lithe brunette made him want to call out. Every dark skinned woman made his heart jolt. Everywhere, memories, and in no part of these godforsaken territories could he escape them.

"Another," he gestured to the bartender when she looked enquiringly at his glass, empty save for the red stain at the bottom of the glass. She inclined her head but said nothing, and Hans was reluctant to indulge her in conversation. Everyone had their false words, their platitudes, their "how are you doing" and their "nice weather, isn't it" grating off yet another piece of Hans' thin skin. He wanted to scream. Instead, he corrected himself. "Another bottle," he called out, and she looked shocked but brought it to him nonetheless.

He grabbed the Lysorian red by the neck and turned, desperate to get away from her kind eyes. He had been sitting at the bar for too long with no one turning up to sit beside him, and it was obvious to her now that he was simply another lowlife drinking away his troubles. It was better that Hans leave now, lest words unbecoming of his station escaped his lips. No, he wanted to say. I have it together. I'm okay. You'll see. But he could not bring himself to speak, and so he turned and looked for a spare seat in the busy tavern.

There was not an unoccupied table in the inn. Others like Hans had brought themselves to water down their sorrows, while others had come to boister themselves. And Hans had just bought a bottle; he could not leave now. Besides, he needed this, he could feel his blood calling to be imbued with the richly alcohol he held in his hands. Without looking carefully, he brought himself to the closest table that was the least occupied, only a man with a tankard in front of him.

"Sorry," Hans muttered, but he didn't mean it. Cracking open the bottle, he took a lengthy drink straight from it, and he felt his chest loosen when it touched his tongue. He sighed, leaning back, feeling more relaxed already, before he took a look at his occupant. He started. His Tangle was bright and strong, muted by sadness, but Hans was surprised. He had not meant to look, but through it, he could see the shimmer of awareness. The man was an Empath too.

Hans caught the stranger's eye, his interest piqued. He nearly introduced himself, but bit his tongue. Who knew what the stranger might blab on the streets? "You know Ne'haer is not safe for our kind," he settled on, murmuring quietly. "They'll hang you without a second thought." Hans took another drink, watching the man carefully.