"I didn't name 'er. She weren't always mine. I, uh, well, let's jus' say she was a gift o'sorts an' leave't at that." The tattooed sailor seemed to wince at his own words, not because he was entirely lying so much as because it was a gift that brought back memories of what felt like an entirely different life. She'd named the casinor before he found himself a part of her pod. It had only become his through their union, and, in the end, he could only claim it as his own to this day because he'd taken it and left.
It took a few moments for Pash'nar to will himself back into the present, having so much history to sift through just to form his answer to the woman he held briefly as she attempted to discover her footing on the floating antique,
"If'n y'wanna hear th'whole tale, you'd better have deep pockets. I've gotta be petchin' drunk outta m'skull to share soma that." He grinned lopsidedly, but his tone was deadpan … though, only for a heartbeat or two. He broke the awkwardness with a sea-worn laugh at her own words, hooking calloused thumbs underneath the worn leather of one of his belts,
"Now, undressin' I can do sober … for th'likes'o'most. Ain't gonna hear much objectin' from me on such things, trade'r'no."
It wasn't bravado.
It was the truth.
Tide pool eyes rolled in their sockets and he waved a hand in feigned defensiveness, though it was obvious he didn't regret offering whatever part of himself that was necessary. The dark-haired navigator let his words hang a bit in the noise of the docks, crossing his deck while tossing off his sandals. He stopped in front of the hatch to his cabin and opened the door without flourish. It squealed a little in aged protest, but he held it there with an unfaltering smile as he motioned with his free hand toward the stairs below,
"Ain't gotta listen to the bustle'n m'cabin, lass. A bit'o'wood an' the sea itself will help keep it quiet. I'll dig out my drawin' shyke an' see what I can sketch up for ya. Sides, you'll see my paintin' once y'get down the stairs. It ain't anythin' to put on some rich petcher's wall'r'nothin', but it reminds me o'where I came from an' that's good 'nough for me."
If Nixie hadn't been disturbed by Pash'nar's unabashed openness, climbing down the hatch onto noisy old stairs led downward into the hull that would have held cargo had it not been converted to a living space over the decades. Light filtered from the portholes, Syna's rays reflected off sea water casting wild streaks across the smooth, unpainted interior. A modest kitchen on one side and a sitting area on the other, spanned with a bit of floor space littered with a few pillows for comfort made the living room of sorts at least feel homey. The ship rocked in the tide and the hull made a bit of noise in the motion, but the sounds of the busy day above at the port faded once the false Svefra slipped down the hatch and followed the woman below.
It was, of course, the ceiling he referred to when he spoke of his painting. The entire roof was a hand-painted star chart in black and white and a splash of color here and there. Intricate down to the last constellation possible, it seemed, though how accurate it was would have been difficult to discern, especially considering the positions of the stars (had Nixie known much about them) were over a century old.
Pash allowed the woman to explore freely and make herself at home, wandering wordlessly to the table covered in curled parchment and ink and a variety of map-making tools. He dug around for a mostly blank or at least unimportant sheet of parchment, snatching up the leather roll that held his simple drawing tools.
"Lessee what I can come up with for ya, eh?" He settled on the floor, cross-legged and barefoot. Spreading out his writing tools in a way that held the parchment open as well, he paused only to slip out of his vest with a wink.
The stylized manta ray that spread across most of his back looked old, revealed in the golden morning light. Intricate and faded, it seemed to be a slightly different style than any other blue-black tattoo that covered his tanned, sea-worn body. The fine lines and markings that formed his sleeves from fingers to his shoulders were definitely newer, though Nixie had already been able to tell that some of those, too, were of varying ages. It was odd, considering the sailor that was happily sketching away on the floor hardly looked to be as aged as some of the ink under his skin. He seemed to bend into his drawing task rather quickly, hardly pausing to allow Nixie a moment to see how the map-inspired tattoos that ran up his left arm spilled over onto his chest, but only on one side. Intentionally.
Instead, though it was unspoken and hardly obvious, he'd hoped his back would be distracting enough, the last mark made visible as he bent his top-knotted head downward was the full moon with a compass drawn inside that had been inked on the back of his neck.
"There's some more ink for y't'look at while I work out what I r'member." |
