Discord

[Seven Xu]

“Always thought that was a euphemism or something,” Seven admitted, face twisting in mockery of his own ignorance, “Svefra—merchants, tradesmen from the sea, yes? I’ve heard the name tossed around.”

It did not occur to Seven, that svefra could be a clan, or even an entire race with a language and a seafarer’s culture—not until now, at least—he chewed the possibility over a soft pink lip.

Their street had dwindled into one lane. Dirt mixed with sparse cobbles, some upturned, leaving pockmarks in an already uneven ground; low-hanging branches stretched out like wiry tendrils—some of which had to be batted away even by the shorter of the pair—and silver moonlight cast strange shadows amongst the foliage; mist had come in with dusk, made the air inside the city walls moist and muted distant streetlamps.

Seven groped at his neck again, to find that gooseflesh had sprouted up and around the winding mark.

“Patterns,” he blurted, and for several long breaths, that’s all it was. Then, “that’s how you map Alvadas. That’s the only way. You find patterns.” How long had he waited, for a pair of ears to understand? Sure, there was a scholar’s guild in the city, whose members would peer at him with their beaded eyes over scrutinizing wire frames; and there was Victor—an excellent actor, whose best intentions often fell short of genuine interest. “I have maps, but they are not grids with legends, they’re sequences of numbers and letters that I’m nowhere close to finishing.”

Time worked against mortals, in their pursuit of knowledge. An issue, he had come to understand, that the celestials had little worry for. “How long ago did you . . . wake up?”

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar chose not to elaborate on the Svefra people. He'd spent a vast amount of time attempting to keep himself from becoming too involved, if only because the memories that followed his daytime shadow were ones he still wasn't sure he wanted face. There was still a longing that nagged at him—an anchor that weighed down his heart more often than he cared to admit. "Now, that's a euphemism if I ain't heard before." The ethaefal laughed, coarse and loud at the question of his age, worn by too much salt and wind, thumbing his aquiline nose and looking away from Seven as he counted seasons carefully. Cerulean eyes snagged on their strange passage, wondering if his companion at all meant that he knew where they were wishing to go in the first place. Pash'nar sighed at his summations as if dissatisfied, but with what it was difficult to tell by his hollow tone, "One hundred and sixteen years ago, give'r'take a season." How much of it had been wasted? How much had been well spent? The statuesque sailor wasn't entirely sure. Too many seasons blurred around the edges for him to be exact. He changed the subject, as any sensible man not in the mood to deal with his personal issues should do, shoulders rolling like a ship in the waves, "Patterns … of Alvadas?" This, this the navigator could be interested in, of all things. He thought about all the meticulous details that would be required—twists in the road, thoughts in your head, everything—to even see any patterns emerge, "I ain't sure you can ever finish that. Wouldn't th'patterns depend on each person?" Was their current walk part of the documentation process?

[Seven Xu]

“One-hundred . . .” Seven tossed words and notions around on a clumsy tongue. What it must have been, to have lived two, three lifetimes; the things a man could learn when he was not burdened by mortality.

Verdant walls turned to stone laced with dead ivy. Shoes scraped a tired rhythm over worn flagstone. The conversation went on.

“I don’t see why it would depend on the person,” Seven murmured, as if speaking of some well-guarded secret, “no one would ever meet anyone else, if a place were in two spots at once. Perspective can change, but Alvadas only shifts.”

His thoughts parted to that of an odd puzzle he’d been given nearly two seasons past: a small cube, its six faces each boasting their own unique design. While its pieces could move, change places within a baffling mix of color and texture; nothing was ever added or left behind.

“But you’re right,” stone wall turned to brick, and brick grew into the stark faces of several narrow buildings shouldered against one narrow street. In the midst of them, shorter than the rest, was one dull grey-green shingled roof and a faded black coat of paint. Silver letters adorned the front door in careful, looping cursive. “Alvadas has kept scholars guessing for a long time, and will continue to do so long after I’m dead.”

Seven let out a derisive snort as they approached what he could only assume was home. The silver paint was blurred, its letters running between lines of aged wood; it was little more than a poor doppelganger, an illusion. It faded before his eyes, black paint washed to dull grey, and the tavern sign sank into the decrepit door. His nostrils flared.

“I can’t remember what it feels like to walk a road and expect to find what I’m looking for.”

[Pash'nar]

Pale, statuesque shoulders rolled like a wave and the unlikely sailor smirked wryly at Seven's words. Some things were not improved by immortality, contrary to popular belief. Pash'nar felt the sentiment like he fancied he could feel the pull of time across his flesh when Leth gave sway to Syna or vice versa, "Then Alvadas an' the sea ain't always so diff'rent." A hand raised to thumb his aquiline nose, "I mean, aye, there's charts o'the sea an' they don't need much changin', but you never know what it's gonna be like on th'waves." What if Ionu's city wasn't so far off? Who knew what the whims of the devine were like? The navigator thought he knew, or at least bitterly thought he could imagine. He added quietly, words a distant echo of the shorter man's statement, "The curves'n the map may tell you one thing, but the roll of the waves and the rush of the wind may'ave completely diff'rent intentions." The ethaefal wondered a second time as to whether or not the pale halfbreed was simply leading him on some sort of studied walk. Did he have a real destination or was this just another set of lines and numbers on a chart? Did it matter? He watched the buildings warp and taunt them without a hint of disappointment on his moonlit features. He didn't have anywhere particular he needed to be; he was unanchored for the moment from both employment and purpose. Was he the miscalculated breeze keeping them off course from Seven's intended destination?

[Seven Xu]

“Not to mention it’s easy to drown here.” He didn’t explain; did he have to?

Seven’s hands roamed the depths of his pockets to grope at grey lint. One fortunate set of white digits happened across a stray bronze-rim, warm to the touch. He pulled it out, lodged between a delicate thumb and forefinger. Its glimmer was muted in the pale lamplight. It was false, forged of something too light to be metal—in fact, it was painted wood, and it had fallen from the sky a season ago.

The street they turned onto was lined with brick and plaster houses. Lamp posts sprouted from the ground every few paces, and burned orange through the fog that had swarmed the streets and thickened the air. Seven inhaled brine. The pale grey seemed alive, moving across wet cobbles and threatening to smother the quivering flames within glass and iron cages.

Like a familiar ghost, the black face of the former Sun and Stars tavern rose from an otherwise bland street. Its door was propped open by a wedge of kindling, no doubt to let out the stifling heat from the fire burning within. The floor was alive with gaiety, laughing and shouting, and the keening song of a fiddle wafted to their ears long before either reached the front step.

Seven exchanged glances and smiles with the dark haired tender behind a well-polished bar before he parted from his new acquaintance, only briefly enough to retrieve a pair of full mugs and shout something across the counter. Words were lost to the din of the tavern, but Seven was laughing when he returned. Having been rescued from the winding streets and bathed in the comforts of familiarity, the sourness in his face had smoothed into blithe contentment.

“I should be working, busy as it is in here,” he admitted with a shout, offering one mug to Pash’nar. “It won’t knock you on your ass, but if you find yourself wanting of such a drink, we do have degtine. Come, sit, there’s a table near the back—who knows when I’ll get the chance to have another interesting conversation regarding the music of the spheres. Gods know no one here gives a damn about them.”

[Pash'nar]

The ethaefal watched the streets align themselves to Seven's desired destination, always fascinated by the way Ionu's city molded itself as it pleased. Just like that the dreariness of their previous passage faded into warmth again and the more familiar sights and sounds of a tavern filled his senses. Petch, it was quite a bit busy once he ducked into the doorway, wincing a bit at the blast of heat from bodies and the fire. Pash'nar took in the sights with a wry sort of grin slowly etching its way into his opalescent, aquiline features. Apparently, he'd missed a few interesting corners to drink when he spent too much time close to the port. He chuckled at the mug sloshed in his direction, unwilling to refuse it though he knew it meant nothing given the hour under Leth's sway. Following the pale halfblood to their indicated table, finding the press of the crowd and the noise of all their voices to be almost as comforting as the waves of the sea. Almost, but the sheer number of tides he'd watched come and go far outnumbered the tavern's he'd graced with his presence. "No matter what'cha decide to fill 'er up with tonight, it ain't gonna toss me overboard 'til mornin'." He smirked, cerulean gaze traveling over the rim of his offered drink for just a moment to sparkle mischievously before the shard of moonlight downed the entirety of its contents without flinching. He hissed a sharp breath—the burn of alcohol still burned despite it's lack of physical effects until dawn—yet managed to keep his grin, "S'aiight, though, m'used to it." He winked then, knowing that eventually the joke would be upon himself, before setting the empty mug in front of him with a satisfied sort of thunk. Twin tide pools washed over the crowd from their vantage point in the back of the tavern, always distracted by the sea of faces when he decided to wash ashore after long periods of time on the Suvan, "It ain't so much not carin' as takin' for granted. I'm sure I did that once, 'fore I landed here ... uh ... again. Did you study the stars'n Lhavit an' then try to come conquer Alvadas with such learnin'?" He was mostly teasing. It was obvious in his tone, he hoped, but to live so close to the sky and then end up in a place where you could hardly tell if the sky was even what you were looking at made the ethaefal curious. He had selfish reasons for sticking to the sea, considering it had such a spectacular night view.

[Seven Xu]

“Of course,” he laughed into the rim of his mug, “they’ll never see me coming. A politician, perhaps, a scholar, or some charismatic, well-adjusted aristocrat—never some dandy half-breed with a penchant for the stars, it’s brilliant.”

Sour red tickled the back of his throat and threatened to return as soon as it had been swallowed. Seven wasn’t a fan of fine wine, let alone the sludge his cohort bought from some faceless dealer at the port. It was warm and the cup left his fingers sticky. He set it down still half-full with a muted thump.

“Here, I can watch them from the safety of four walls and a roof. That,” he gestured to the ceiling and its mosaic, “moves with the sky above us.” The tiles glittered with the hoary light of a crescent moon (that not a bell before was pregnant with a full face) and a countless smattering of tiny stars, standing out like chunks of quartz in obsidian. “It’s a false sky, but going beyond town walls isn’t something I’m keen on doing—especially now, what with those horrible things still trickling into city streets from the mountains.”

Seven smiled. Those bloodied irises were fixed on the false mosaic sky when he reached blindly for the cup between his elbows.

“People hang paintings of fields in their homes to remind them of home. It’s the same thing, really.”

[Pash'nar]

Pash'nar chuckled at the equally pale man's joke, momentarily picturing him conquering Ionu's city with a fistful of starcharts and his young, doubting sort of smile. The moonlit statue shifted in his seat a bit, leaning back comfortably as he traced the old gouges in their tabletop with the long, opalescent fingers of one hand. Seawater gaze followed Seven's indication, eyes widening at the ceiling he'd hardly bothered to notice. Watching wordlessly for a moment, he examined what felt like every tile, from corner to corner, even as the halfbreed admitted it was still subject to Alvadas' whim. "Oh aye, it ain't a bad idea. Least'ways you'll keep where you're sittin' while lookin' up at this one than if you were wanderin' the streets." He thought of his own way of hanging paintings to remind him of home, of his casinor and the delicate painting of some 116-year old starry sky that had burned itself into his mind as his first memory that stretched the entire ceiling of his cabin, "I've got a paintin' or two, you could say." Reluctantly, he looked away from the shifting, dishonest sky all projected onto little lifeless tiles and back to the man across the table from him, bright-skinned in his own way, though not in anyway shining like some star. Not that such an observation did the other man a disservice. He thought of how unsafe things had become after the djed storm and remembered almost drowning within sight of the Patchwork Port, glancing briefly into his empty cup, "Though my paintin's are of memories more'n'of places. I try not to see where I'm from if I can help it, but I'll never forget what th'sky looked like when I fell."

[Seven Xu]

Interest rippled across a pale brow and flared in eyes like hot coals.

“I’ve seen skies worth painting, with an opal-faced moon and stars so bright men would duck their heads to show them proper respect.” The wooden rim of his mug was slick as he moved his thumb with the grain, considered its contents, and took another nip of sour red. “People would flood our town from all over to see the stars in spring. And of course, look upon their Lady.”

The cup tipped further this time as he emptied it, the white apple in his throat bobbing with the effort.

“I’ve seen gruesome things, as well; beneath our feet is a sky again, without stars or splendor and lit only by an endless blood moon night.” The pause that fell between them spanned heartbeats; Seven shifted beneath the table, hooking one leg over the other. Then he laughed, shook his head, and let his palm-warmed mug dip through the weave of his elegant fingers. It hit the table with a thump, rattled, and settled upright. “Wine’s strong.”

He cast his head sideways, but his eyes were the last to follow; having fixed themselves on Pash’nar’s marble-carved face and the azure beads set deep within, they were loath to drift away. Several times the night found him stealing glances to satisfy his curiosity on the twist of a glassy embellishment or the bend of a pale neck. Seven sucked in a bottom lip and focused on an unopened cask behind the far counter, trying to find interest in embossed labels over otherworldly beauty.

The Lhavitian’s voice came quiet then, barely rising above the din. “What was the sky like a hundred years before I knew life, Pash’nar?”

[Pash'nar]

"The moon ain't in my paintin' …" Smirked the ethaefal wryly, his tone full of a cold sort of brine, drudged up from much deeper parts of the sea of his thoughts. He didn't elaborate, however, though the weight of his feelings on the matter was far from hidden by just those few words. The tall shard of moonlight shifted uncomfortably, as if his own voice made him feel a bit more exposed than he was used to, finding a new position in his seat and letting an opalescent hand stray to toy with sea glass in his hair for a moment as he considered how best to answer Seven's question. He thought about the ceiling of his casinor's cabin, black and white paint stretching across aged wood, the exact position of the stars over the Suvan and Mathews Bay 116 years ago forever imprinted into his memory drawn out as a reminder of something he'd already long-since forgotten in some ways. He sighed, looking back up to the ever-changing tiles while speaking instead of meeting the half-breed's blood red gaze. "Well, some things were the same, o'course. All the constellations y'know by heart were jus' in slightly diff'rent places." He held up both hands, cupping them together to form a circle, attempting to represent the spherical area of the stars they knew overhead, "So, if this is 'em now," he tilted his hands in one sideways direction only a few estimated degrees, "this would be 'em a century ago, give'r'take my lack of accuracy." He chuckled chidingly at himself more than anything else, obviously unable to capture the entire picture with just his hands, "A few stars're gone, for whatever reason. A few are new. I know when I washed ashore, my namesake was higher'n th'horizon than it is now, so things have shifted. Other'n'that, the stars ain't too diff'rent, which is kinda nice. It'd be hard to sail if they changed ev'ry minute like here in Alvadas." Not quite as poetic as his pale companion, but practical. Pash'nar's normally gruff countenance always seemed to fade when talking about the heavens and their motions, regardless of his feelings about Leth's place in them.