Completed [Flashback] The Sailor and the Child [Pash|Montaine]

[Montaine]

Montaine shuffled uncomfortably under the ministrations of the barmaid, the result of her aggressive efforts being the obscuring of the boy’s eyes with his wavy locks. He blew the hair from his face with a short puff of breath and glared at the waitress. Pash'nar appeared to be in good humour, despite this irritating, invasive woman, so the lad decided to let it slide, this time. He had never heard of a toad in the hole prior to today’s breakfast excursion, but didn’t wish to appear ignorant in front of his experienced new friend so he nodded, ‘Sounds good, Pash,’ and wriggled on his stool. His eyes, and his ears, wandered briefly back over to the musician and her gang as the waitress took the order, the singers collectively slurred a few words and then together yelled, ‘An’ the monkey played accordion!’ Monty almost wished he could have been there for the beginning of the song, just to find out quite how it might have begun if the line that all the drunks knew discussed the admirable squeezebox talents of a small simian primate. However he had greater questions on his mind. A flurry of them rattled around his little skull as he dipped an experimental tongue into the mug, lowering it slowly through the foam until the very tip finally reached liquid. Finding it distasteful he rapidly removed the tongue and scrunched up his features, froth lingering on his nose and lip. But as tempting as it would be to hear a tale of swords and sabres and sharpened sticks or of fierce, tempestuous bonesnappers, he had already decided on the story he wanted to hear. He contemplated his own isolation, and his own desire to see more of the world than was located within the walk to and from the market stalls, and came to a conclusion. The boy looked the sailor dead in the eyes and wiped the foam from his mouth, ‘Tell me about the first time you stepped on a boat, please, tell me how it felt,’

[Pash'nar]

The barmaid sauntered off with a nod, pausing on her short journey back to the bar to shout the chorus at the musicians with a great amount of appreciative enthusiasm along with the rest of the crowd. She then disappeared into the back of the tavern, humming the rest of the tune to herself. Pash didn't really watch her go so much as take one last glance around the tiny little dive, looking back at Montaine just in time to watch his little face pucker sourly despite his best efforts at the taste of their drink. The edges of his eyes wrinkled with his grin, reaching for his own. His drought was long and made with practiced ease. He set his now half-empty mug down on the tabletop with a satisfied noise, mirroring the young human by wiping any foam from his face with the back of his hand, only to sputter at the boy's question. The alcohol burned its way down his throat, weighing down his stomach that was suddenly so full of sailor's knots and bile. For a chime or two, the older man's eyes widened in an expression that could only be recognized as fear, nostrils flaring as he swallowed his last gulp of lager with audible difficulty. Condensation dribbled down the sides of their mugs from where their hands had been and the false Svefra sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, jaw muscles working under his sun-kissed cheeks as if he was chewing the truth into digestible pieces instead of just grinding his teeth at the innocent, eager words from the lips of the sickly boy out of place across from him. It would be easy to lie. He only really wanted fairy tales, didn't he? Buccaneer stories and impossible treasures. Not the truth. Surely, Pash's truth was hard enough for him to bear some days, though, admittedly, it still sounded like fantasy in the telling. And he didn't tell often. A wildfire raged under the tattooed skin of the back of his neck as he leaned forward, his voice quiet in its sudden honesty, "It's been near o'er a hundred years since I first set foot on a boat, y'know." Sea-water eyes washed over the young human, but looked past him, through him, words heavy in their lack of chimera, "But I ain't too good at forgetting." Pash'nar trailed his words, tempted again by the painless ease of untruth. His inked shoulders fell and gaze lowered from the boy to the froth still left in his mug, resigning himself to his fate, just barely audible above the hearty singing in contrast to his words: "Well, lad, I s'pose it was the closest to feelin' like home as I can get." The navigator looked up and struggled to find his grin again; it was slow to crease back into his mortal seeming's imperfect yet timeless face. This side of the Ukalas, that is.

[Montaine]

Montaine gazed unblinking for a while. A look had passed not unnoticed across the sailor’s face as he talked, a look of consternation, of contemplation, of vivid, unabashed truth. His companion’s age didn’t faze him, barely even registered with him, his father’s tales had told of all kinds of folk across the waters and in the lands beyond the mountain range. He knew, of course, that his father’s tales were lies. He knew, of course, that this haunted sailor’s tales were not. In the small silence that passed between them the fiddler finished her song with a flourish to the woe of the crowd. They begged her to recommence and she made a great show of a desire to cease her playing until one or two tossed a couple of shining mizas to the platform. Not even stopping to pick up her winnings she began again with a different song. Monty paid no heed to this, instead taking a deep, thoughtful breath through his nose, and exhaling through his mouth. ‘I can’t remember mine,’ he began, ‘I’ve only been on one and I was too young to know it. My Da told me about it and I was so happy, you see, because I’ve always wanted to go on boat and cross the ocean and it turned out I had,’ Montaine’s brows furrowed, ‘But something,’ he paused, as though the words were fighting to stay inside, ‘something bad happened, and I don’t remember that either,’ again he paused, 'Me Mam died,' The silence lingered slightly as Monty again met the sailor’s eyes. He’d spent a long time thinking these things over in his solitude – he had a long time after all. The look that he had seen in his cohort’s eyes had been so strong, so pained, but he didn’t understand what he had, what the boy had longed for through his short time. He found the words, ‘I think it’s better if you can remember, even if it were bad, ‘cause- ‘cause it’s you, isn’t it? I don’t remember mine. I wish I could, even the bad things, because that thing is so important,’ Montaine trailed off quietly. A shadow of a face, hair, eyes, all that he could remember of his mother and none of it was true. All constructed from his father’s stories and the little charcoal sketch on the bedside. The journey when she had passed away, no matter how much he tried and tried to remember that voyage, that face. He couldn’t trust the memories. He looked back up at the sailor. ‘It’s good to remember, isn’t it?’

[Pash'nar]

"Most times, it is." Pash replied simply, though he wasn't entirely sure if he agreed whole-heartedly with his words. Sometimes, he knew he'd rather forget than continue to fail in remembering what fragments and pieces still haunted his sleep. His hand strayed for his drink while he studied Montaine's genuine expression, calloused fingers tracing lines in the beads of metallic sweat that had already left a small puddle on their sad little table. The navigator never knew what to expect as a reaction when he spoke of himself plainly, but now it seemed as though his existence was something only children were the least likely to question. Or the most likely to understand. It was a relief, really, so used to incredulous exclamations or unwelcome ramblings on faith and godhood from mortals who only knew their own flesh-bound and blind side of things. They had not seen the faces of their gods like Pash had before he fell. "I don't remember much of who I was before I woke up on shore so long ago, though that's a bit … complicated t'explain … maybe." He lifted the last of his lager to his lips to empty the mug in another long swig, setting it down with a dull clink and a hiss through his teeth as the liquid seared its way downward once again, "Still, I ain't opposed to remembering' what I can, even if it's a heavy anchor to carry in yer hull—" The barmaid appeared again, with her strange, impeccable timing, two plates in her grubby hands. She grinned toothily, ignorant of the trench-like depths of the unlikely pair's conversation, setting the two platters of thick, crusty, perhaps overly-buttered toast with a nice little porthole cut into the center for a still-steaming egg to spill out of, jiggling. "Enjoy, boys." She winked, eyeing Pash's empty mug. He shook his head, nodding at the mostly untouched young human's. No need to waste something unwanted. With a wink, she was gone once more, whisking her way toward another table of customers with a laugh and a shuffle. "Your Ma didn't make it to safe harbor on your sail," the navigator concluded, continuing the conversation as if it hadn't been interrupted by the arrival of breakfast, "but you can't remember enough about it?" The thought that Montaine's father could be hunting for him in the same way that petching half-breed from the docks may still be made him a little uneasy, but not uneasy enough to skip breakfast. "Didja run away, then?"

[Montaine]

Montaine shook his head and abruptly spoke a little louder than he had, ‘No! I would never run away from Da!’ he caught himself and calmed down again, the slight, barest hint of a wheeze reappearing in his voice. He would never leave his father, of course not. His father was all he had, everything, absolutely everything, beyond the clothes on his back and the contents of his pockets. And his father was certainly worth a whole lot more than two measly copper mizas and a crude, clay cup. He’d spent his whole eight years hating his weakness, not for his own sake, but for fear that he might be taken, as his mother had, and leave his poor father all alone in Zeltiva. The harbour city might not have been the city of Montaine’s birth, but it was his home without a shadow of doubt. Growing up it had been painfully obvious to the boy that his father was not so accustomed to the ways of the port and the thought of leaving the man without a soul to call family, so many miles from his home was a source of constant worry. He would never run from his Da. He hadn’t run. He hadn’t. He might not know where his Da was right then, and he knew that his Da would be worried sick right now, and that he wouldn’t understand later. He knew all of this and it hurt him to think of his father’s anxiety. But he wouldn’t understand, he didn’t understand. The boy repeated the mantra in his head as he poked the egg with a cautious finger, looking sheepish at his outburst. As his wheeze died away he spoke again, quietly, ‘I would never run from Da, but,’ he frowned and looked back at the sailor, ‘You wouldn’t understand, neither would he.’ The boy tore off a tiny corner of toast and nibbled on it. It tasted okay, he was hungry enough that the flavour didn’t really matter to him. ‘I never see anything, do anything,’ he muttered, ‘I think, I think you have to see what you can, you get to do whatever you want, go wherever, but I can’t ‘cause Da…’ once more the boy trailed off and nibbled on his toast, ‘Da won’t let me ‘cause I’m weak like me Mam,’ The boy looked at his companion, ‘I think it’s better to see things than sit around doing nothing,’ he nodded, more to himself than the sailor, ‘Even if’n it kills you, don’t you? Least Mam got to travel the world and meet Da, even if’n she died, that was better’n sitting around doing nothing, staring at the walls ‘til Da comes home, isn’t it?’

[Pash'nar]

Oh, the trappings of mortality. While bound to earth and coated in breathing flesh, Pash was not quite as wrapped up in all its imperfections—he didn't age and could only somewhat mar his mortal visage. He still bled and broke, but he'd long ago stopped letting that hold him back from this unasked for second chance at life. "Yer kind's too concerned 'bout each other bein' diff'rent. Y'ain't Syliran knight material, so what?" The false Svefra snickered disdainfully from over the rim of Montaine's mug, though it was hardly directed at the boy, "From the celestial view of things, lad, yer right—doin' things matters." He decided to steer away from the area of morality and deity, however, though for more selfish reasons than philosophical ones. Old wounds still oozed and ached often enough. The navigator had a very limited sense of family—those who had found him on the shore were kind to him and they had indeed cared for each other, but they were dead. His mortal seeming carried with it a longing for a kind of community he was loathe to attend to—why grow so close to those he'd outlive? He'd avoided seeking the connection of a Svefra pod, choosing instead a life of much less commitment. It made him uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than the small human he shared this unusual moment with. Not that he wasn't curious. "I ain't scared of death," He eyed his runny egg instead of looking at the boy, knowing that was only mostly true. Death was, perhaps, one path home to the Ukalas, but he still hoped there was a better one yet to be discovered, "an' it's gonna come for everyone. There's no sense waitin' idle for it when there's better things t'do." Calloused fingers tore a ragged corner off the hunk of greasy toast and set about spreading mostly uncooked yolk around the rest of the bread like jam. Pash'nar shrugged and looked up, dripping corner hovering in the poignant space between his bare chest and mouth for a moment. The navigator paused to finish his bite, waiting to speak again until he'd licked a thumb clean of yolk and swallowed, "Onna boat, there ain't anywhere t'go once yer out t'sea. It's you, yer crew, an' whatever's in the water. You gotta make do with what'cha got, even if yer stuck in the doldrums with no breeze or under the clouds with no stars t'see by. Sometimes, waitin's all that's left t'do, but it ain't forever." Unless you starved. Or a sea monster ate you. Or a storm sank you. Or pirates strung you up. But, that wasn't necessary to bring up, was it? Nah, not for this metaphor. Maybe another one. Still, those words were hard for the ethaefal, for he felt the pull of time in terms of distance and loss. He didn't like waiting anymore than Montaine. He didn't like feeling trapped in flesh that was surely not his own. He didn't like feeling like he should be somewhere else. No, waiting was much worse than death some days. And yet, he didn't always hate the life he'd been handed without his permission ... not entirely. "Don't begrudge your Da for protectin' you. Not everyone gets that priv'lege; it's dangerous out there. Men're beasts, too." No, mankind was worse.

[Montaine]

Montaine watched his companion and closely mimicked his movements, using his piece of bread to spread his eggs. The sailor’s words echoed in his head. Of course, he appreciated the care with which is father looked after him, and on occasion his nature worked to the boy’s advantage. Just last year the lad had been taken ill with a particularly vicious infection and his Da had slept on the floor by his bed for weeks as he recovered. But still, he longed for a little more freedom. His Da’s stories made the world seem like such an amazing place that he had never once considered it could be worse. Sure, often enough there were dangers and fights, and plenty of deliciously described deaths, but the thought had never crossed Montaine’s mind that that world, that glorious, fast paced, wondrous world could be anything but amazing. It surprised him then, though he would later consider that it would have been obvious had he given it thought, that the sailor would speak so frankly of the dangers. The lands of his father’s tales were fraught with risks and rife with ways to meet your end but the good guys always lived. There was a sense of natural justice in the fictitious world of stories that simply wasn’t true. The smile had long gone from the child’s face and his appetite waned with it. He looked glumly at his food when a cheer and a groan arose simultaneously from a table across the room. One of the figures laughed as another unwillingly raised his arm to the barmaid and ordered a new round of drinks for his gambling partners. This was something new. He had played many games with his father but this was different, the look of indignation, of irritation, on the loser’s face could only have accompanied a personal loss of wealth. The concept of gambling was alien to the boy, and their actions piqued his curiosity. Monty indicated them with a nod, ‘What’re they doing, Pash?’

[Pash'nar]

If Pash'nar realized he'd shattered worlds, he certainly didn't show it on his face. His own had been broken open, long ago, and like a moonlit drop of blood, he fell and was not caught. His life was already veiled by sunlight and unveiled again by moonlight, so the idea of clouding reality any further than it already was, even for a child, was just not a concept he could grasp. He had not stomach for fairy tales, not when he'd seen places far more beautiful than any fantasy … if only he could just remember them more clearly. "B'sides losin' their mizas t'each other?" He followed the boy's gaze to the table between mouthfuls of egg-laden toast, watching them settle their bets begrudgingly until the barmaid brought over more drinks to sooth sore egos and nurse lighter pursers, "Looks like they're gamblin'. Just playin' something but with yer coins at stake. Dice I think." The navigator tilted his head back at Montaine, sea water gaze finally sparkling with more mischief than mystery again, "Safer'n fightin', I s'pose. Well, no, usually fightin' has an end." He laughed, reaching to finish off the young human's lager with the last bites of bread, "Didja want to watch? They look tame enough." The Svefra wondered just how many mizas were even with him as he contemplated his resolve to not end up invited into the game itself. Two empty mugs tugged knowingly at the corner of his vision, and Pash bit his lip in mock thought. There were always enough mizas; it was his resolve that was usually lacking. "Petch it. I can play if y'want." Winning a few coins would, unfortunately, be more reliable than getting paid by his current employer.

[Montaine]

Montaine’s face brightened up again, ‘Will you? I bet’n you’d be good at it, real good! I bet you did gambling all the time out at sea, ‘cause you got to make do with what you got, right?’ the boy grinned, repeating the sailor’s words back to him. He hopped off his stool, wiping his hands down his shirt, and grabbed a little more of his toast. The idea behind gambling appealed to the boy. He could feel the two copper mizas in his pocket bumping against the little clay cup he had received earlier that day and thought back to the pot he had wanted to buy. His father was not a rich man. The skills he had acquired over the years were not as useful in the port town, with its rolling waves, mountainous landscape and distinct lack of open plains, as they were back in Cyphrus. He made a meagre living tending to the horses as an underling at one of the few stables the city boasted, so small was the proportion of travellers that visited the city by land. While the boy obviously had no income of his own at his tender age, and possessing as he did an equally tender disposition, the idea of making money through games seemed positively brilliant. The eager child made his way over to the gamblers’ table and eyed the layout of their match. The game was simple enough. Each participant, after placing a wager, held a cup and five dice and would roll them, keeping them concealed beneath their cups. The players would then be allowed to view their own, and only their own, dice. The first player would then make a guess as to how many of a particular face of the dice had been rolled between all players, for example, three fives. The next person would have to either challenge the bid, if they believed that there were not three or more fives on the table, or increase the bid. Increasing the bid could be done in two ways. The first was to bid an increased quantity of any face of their liking, perhaps from three fives to four twos, or five fives. The second choice was to keep the same quantity but increase the face value, forcing a change from three fives to three sixes, in this instance. If, however, the current player opted to challenge the bid then all dice were shown. If the player’s bid was indeed incorrect, as the challenger surmised, then the challenger won the pot. If, on the other hand, the player’s bid was valid, if there were at least three fives on the table, then the challenged would win the pot Around the table the three gamblers stopped and looked at the inquisitive child. A pale, slim woman with curved, black nails and sharp teeth raised an eyebrow as one of her associates exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘Can we help ya pal?’ he growled, impatience in his voice.

Click the link for Liar's Dice, the game they are playing. It was also the game that Davy Jones' crewmen played to gambled their years of servitude in PotC, I just learned.

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar forced a smile at Montaine's innocent confidence in his abilities. Some part of gambling was skill, sure, but not all of it, and he wasn't always sure the gods were ever in his favor. Leaving a few coins of his own on the table for their meal and drinks, he slid from his seat and followed the eager boy across the grimy little room, his worn sandals sticking to some of the spots on the floor. The dark-haired navigator paused just a few steps from the table, standing behind the small human, and eyed the players. He kept his expression from twisting into an uncomfortable sneer at the Symenestra, though just barely. It wasn't a feeling of fear or dislike that settled into his rather full stomach so much as distrust. Perhaps she wasn't whole-blooded. He glanced at the other two, sizing them up with a roguish smirk as he attempted to straighten his own smaller, wiry swimmer's sort of frame into a semblance of something impressive before one of them spoke up. "Aye," he answered heartily, sliding a chair from the table for Montaine with a foot as he fished some mizas from his pouch, flashing them cheekily as proof of his interest to join them, "Looks like you've got room for one more. The lad just wants t'watch'n'learn. Getin'im started early, y'know." He didn't wait for an invitation, however. Pash slid his own chair from a nearby table and turned it around so his tanned, inked arms and well-polished leather vambraces had a resting place on the high, creaky back of the seat. Leaning forward to deposit his coins without flourish on the table, he flashed his almost too-perfect toothy grin, "So, then, let's see which of us is a better liar." OOC : Sorry, it's painfully short compared to previous posts. I have client website madness on the brain. Please feel free to get the game started and I'll have a better feel for things with my next post.