[center][h1]A few hours ago...[/h1][/center]
[center][img]https://i.postimg.cc/90NXg60h/sdheader.png[/img][/center][center][h3]...Feat. [color=DC143C][b][s]Cynwaer[/s] Cynric[/b][/color][/h3]
[color=1E90FF][b]Time[/b]:[/color] Evening
[color=1E90FF][b]Location[/b]:[/color] Shooting Range
[color=1E90FF][b]Interactions[/b]:[/color] 
[color=1E90FF][b]Mentions[/b]:[/color] 
[color=1E90FF][b]Appearance:[/b][/color] [url=https://i.postimg.cc/Fzw1wZ8n/alkalinestingray-Portrait-of-a-South-east-Asian-Chinese-sailor-52c337e9-3211-44db-8828-5fdc1044bd39.png]Sjan-dehk[/url]
[color=1E90FF][b]Attire[/b]:[/color] [url=https://i.postimg.cc/0QCZ6rQj/alkalinestingray-Watercolour-painting-of-an-outfit-for-a-male-s-312f5cf8-c1fd-4b90-8f64-d292f9b1da7f.png]Sjan-dehk[/url]
[color=1E90FF][b]Equipment:[/b][/color] 
[hider]
Sjan-dehk:
[color=1E90FF]Lamellar Cuirass and Tassets
Conical, woven hat
Two single-edged swords
Four pistols (Two on hip, two on lower back)
Breech-loading Rifle[/color]
[/hider]
[/center]
The lilt of a Caesonian fiddle drifted across the firing range, its swaying, merry tune dancing over a rhythm set by a Viserjantan bamboo flute’s calm and steady breaths. Hailing from lands that were, quite literally, a vast ocean apart, the two instruments made for an unconventional—strange, even—pair, but by no means a poor one, as far as Sjan-dehk was concerned. He thought their interwoven voices and tones to be rather pleasing, in fact; perfect for a late afternoon spent resting beneath the shade of a tree.

A contented sigh left his lips, and he shifted slightly to find a more comfortable way to rest his neck against the snaking root he was trying to use as a pillow. He found none, and after giving up and resigning himself to live with this mild discomfort, he adjusted his hat—placing it more squarely over his face—and gave the music his fullest attention.

It surprised him, really, just how well fiddle and flute complemented each other. The former flew freely, with the wildness of a recently uncaged bird, as it flitted about this way and that. And yet, it never wandered too far from the flute’s rhythm, always returning to it whenever its liveliness teetered on the edge of tipping into chaos. By contrast, the latter flowed with the tranquility of an undisturbed, unhurried river, its few flourishes never quite matching its partner’s energy. Not once did it fall into monotony, however—the fiddle was more than willing to pull the flute along, coaxing it into brighter, more spirited refrains and passages. 

Their duet was by no means perfect—Sjan-dehk counted at least a half-dozen starts and stops in the past few minutes alone—but it still mingled well with the surrounding sounds. It twirled with the soft murmurs of a passing breeze and answered the rising chirr of stirring crickets; eased the quiet rustle of shaking leaves and masked the faint whispers of conversation, and–

Dull thumps. Sharp cracks. The strident reports of muskets and rifles rang out in a scattered chorus, easily cutting through every other sound at the firing range. 

And yes, even the din of gunfire.

Sjan-dehk neither blinked nor flinched; he hadn’t when the earlier volleys rang out, either. Such things had long since stopped startling him. To his ears, these discordant calls of firelocks may as well be the beats of drums—albeit erratic ones—accompanying the music. 

He inhaled deeply, his nose filling with the fresh, earthy scents of damp soil and sun-kissed grass—as well as stale sweat, courtesy of his hat—and exhaled in a long breath that tapered into another sigh, this time a wistful one. Everything felt so familiar, and yet at the same time, not. In style, all was new. The melody and one-half of the duet was unmistakably Caesonian. The insects and their noises, also Caesonian. Even the air itself carried a markedly foreign taste that Sjan-dehk couldn’t quite describe. 

And yet, in substance…

Another wistful sigh, another deep breath. 

In substance, it was all too familiar. His mind was cast back to…Well, not good times—only the mad would think of war as a good time—but bright moments during a dark period. Moments when he, then naught but a new and inexperienced captain, could rest in the company of friends between battles. He could picture it all vividly. Tehn-sai drilling his crew at a makeshift range, their chatter punctuated by gunshots; Asahn-jehn playing a tune on his battered flute, accompanied not by a fiddler, but by Sajehmai strumming her beloved zither. And in the midst of it all, their ever-diligent commodore, Nashra, caught between planning their next actions and writing her poems. 

[color=7ABAFF][center][i]“Five set forth; only one return’d. ‘Tis been some while since thou thought of them, lost Jafin child.”[/i][/center][/color]
Annoyance, rather than disquiet, knitted Sjan-dehk’s brows together. It was that voice again—the ethereal, echoing whispers of a woman—the one that’d been disturbing his sleep for just under two weeks, and now his waking hours as well. Had he the mental fortitude, he might’ve responded to it. But three-and-a-quarter days of non-stop work—[i]administrative[/i] work, mind—had left him too tired to even bother. It wasn’t as if the voice had ever engaged him in an actual conversation, anyway. Not even in his sleep. 

But annoyed as he was, he had to admit that the voice had a point. He hadn’t thought much about his past comrades in not just weeks, but [i]months[/i]. Between handling the Kokinshuun Incident and preparing for the Far West Expedition, he’d been kept busy after the War’s end, long before he came to Caesonia. And now that he was here, things had only gotten worse. Learning a new language, dealing with foreign dignitaries, and coming to terms with local ways offered plenty of distractions, and left little time for reminiscing. 

Those four—those lost friends of his—would’ve understood, of course. They’d all been soldiers, and knew that duty always came first. Sjan-dehk could hear Nashra in his head, telling him to focus on his tasks, and Tehn-sai calling him an idiot for wasting time thinking about them. Even so, he felt a pang of guilt tug at his heart. He should do something for them soon. It was the very least he could do.

The quiet crunch of grass under approaching footsteps, along with a half-hummed, half-sung song, pulled him from his thoughts. 

[color=DC143C]“...Hands tae ta mast; hol’ fast an’ hol’ together…”[/color]

Now that was a voice Sjan-dehk could put a name to. Such a thick accent was as distinct as it was difficult for him to understand, and could only belong to one man—Cynric, Recompense’s red-haired captain. With a hummed tune on his lips, he sauntered over and set himself down beside Sjan-dehk with a grunt. 

[color=DC143C]“Ye awake, Cap’n?”[/color] he asked.

[color=1E90FF]“No,”[/color] Sjan-dehk replied drily. 

Cynric chuckled. [color=DC143C]“Well, ‘tis about time, aye. Ye’ve been out fer feckin’ hours, pal.”[/color]

Hours? That immediately caught Sjan-dehk’s attention. He pushed his hat off of his face, quickly regretting it when the sun’s glare, filtering through the tree’s canopy, stung his eyes. A gasp, half out of surprise and half out of pain, escaped him. He raised a hand to block the harsh light and blinked away the fuzzy shapes and stars floating across his vision. 

[color=1E90FF]“What is the time?”[/color] Sjan-dehk asked, the soreness in his eyes slowly fading.  

[color=DC143C]“Just intae evenin’,”[/color] Cynric replied. 

Only then did he finally notice the sunlight’s golden hues, the sky turning purple behind the leaves, and the wispy clouds streaked with pink and orange. He shot upright, his joints protesting with creaks and his back chiming in with a dull ache. The straps of his lamellar cuirass had left his shoulders sore, and the arm he’d wrapped his rifle’s sling around didn’t fare much better. He huffed and shook his head. A quick rest was all he’d wanted, and instead he’d ended up idling until the day’s colours changed and his body turned stiff. 

[color=DC143C]“Long day, huh?”[/color] Cynric asked, casting a sideways glance and a grin at him. [color=DC143C]“Cannae say I’ve e’er seen a man nod off sae fast, aye I cannae.”[/color] 

It was more of a long quarter of a day, and a very, very long preceding three days. [color=1E90FF]“Yes,”[/color] Sjan-dehk replied simply. [color=1E90FF]“Very long. Very tiring.”[/color] 

Cynric nodded. [color=DC143C]“Ah, just some o’ those days, aye? Cannae say I’ve ‘ad it any different from ye. Fixin’ up ol’ [i]Recompense[/i]’s been feckin’ draggin’ on, aye it has. Dae’n get me wrang, pal, all this privateerin’ business suits me just fine an’ like, but ‘avin’ tae patch ‘oles every time I pull intae ‘arbour’s a feckin’ hassle.”[/color]

Sjan-dehk stifled a yawn as he tried to rub the stiffness from his neck. [color=1E90FF]“You need help? I can send some of my crew.”[/color] Though his words were aimed at Cynric, his attention stayed on the half-dozen men standing on the firing line—all from his ship, [i]Sada Kurau[/i]. They’d only just discharged another volley, gunsmoke curling from their rifles’ muzzles and drifting above their heads. Sjan-dehk took a moment to examine their targets with discerning eyes before concluding that yes, they were all performing to expectations, both his and the Commonwealth Navy’s. 

[color=DC143C]“Ah, cheers, Cap’n, but there’s nae need fer that,”[/color] Cynric replied quickly. [color=DC143C]“‘Tis nae me askin’ fer help, dae’n get me wrang. I’m just bein’ a whiny wee shite; that’s aw’ there is tae it.”[/color]

[color=1E90FF]“Okay,”[/color] Sjan-dehk said with a curt nod. [color=1E90FF]“So you need me for what?”[/color] 

Cynric chuckled and shook his head. [color=DC143C]“Always straigh’ down tae business wi’ ye, aye?”[/color] Before he could go on any further, another scattering of gunshots snatched his attention. He turned toward the firing line, now occupied by several of his crew. Frustration flickered across his well-worn, yet still boyish features, and he clicked his tongue. [color=DC143C]“Oi!”[/color] His shout pulled several pairs of eyes to him. [color=DC143C]“Daley, what’d ta’ feckin’ sun dae tae ye, tae make ye wan’ tae feckin’ shoot it? Fix yer feckin’ aim ‘fore I get Svante tae fix it fer ye!”[/color] 

He huffed, leaned back on his palms, and glanced at Sjan-dehk. [color=DC143C]“Yer offer tae send some o’ yer fellas o’er tae me still on ta’ table, Cap’n?”[/color] he asked, his tone not entirely serious, but not quite in jest, either. [color=DC143C]“‘Cause I might wan’ tae borrow a few now, tae whip my fellas intae shape. What’d ye e’en dae tae get yer lads tae ‘ave that sort o’ skill, anyway?”[/color]

[color=1E90FF]“We fought in war,”[/color] Sjan-dehk replied bluntly. 

[color=DC143C]“Ah, right.”[/color]

An awkward silence settled between them. For a moment, the two men simply watched Cynric’s crew take their turns on the firing line, and listened to the fiddle and flute’s meandering duet. It didn’t take long for the atmosphere to become too heavy for Sjan-dehk’s liking—he was already fidgeting by the fourth volley, and by the fifth, he was itching to just do something to change the mood. And so, he spoke up.

[color=1E90FF]“Your people,”[/color] he began, clearing his throat. [color=1E90FF]“They are better at shooting now, yes? Compared to when we started, I mean.”[/color]

Cynric gave a wry smirk. [color=DC143C]“Well, if yer comparin’ tae that absolute shiteshow, then yer right, though I reckon they’d ‘ave tae try real feckin’ hard tae find a way tae get [i]worse[/i].”[/color] He chuckled, then jerked a thumb over a shoulder, towards a corner of the range. [color=DC143C]“An’ my fellas ‘ave yers tae thank. Yer people gave heaps o’ help, aye they did.”[/color] Then, he paused, his quiet laughs trailing away and his smile disappearing. He snapped his fingers, as if he’d only just recalled something.

[color=DC143C]“Ah, feck me, I almost forgot,”[/color] he said. [color=DC143C]“Ye keen fer a drink, Cap’n? Some o’ my fellas and yers are thinkin’ o’ findin’ a tavern after this an’ ‘avin’ a few pints. Y’know, tae end ta’ day on a ‘appy note, an’ aw’. Thought I’d ask if ye wan’ tae come along wi’ us.”[/color]

Sjan-dehk’s first thought was to decline. He was tired—as his unintended, extended rest had proven—and the idea of making the night any longer than it needed to be wasn’t an appealing one. All he wanted was a quick return to [i]Sada Kurau[/i] and an early reunion with his cot. 

But then his gaze drifted to where Cynric’s thumb had earlier pointed. 

There, a small group of people had gathered—some Cynric's, some his. They’d stacked their muskets and rifles in neat piles, and done the same with swords, helmets, and all manner of other equipment. Most sat on the grass, while a few lay sprawled on it, their eyes following passing clouds. Amongst them, Sjan-dehk noticed several familiar faces—Iyen, his closest friend, playing cards with a few others; and Yehn-tai, [i]Sada Kurau[/i]’s best shot, breathing life into a well-used flute. The fiddler, one of Cynric’s men, wasn’t far from the latter, his bow gliding across his instrument’s strings with practiced grace. 

A smile, small and wistful, pulled on Sjan-dehk’s lips. Memories of old friends surfaced once more, and his mind drifted to thoughts of Asahn-jehn and Sajehmai, of how they would’ve loved this music. He could see them joining Yehn-tai and the fiddler with their own instruments. Or rather, Sajehmai would join first—she’d always been the more outgoing between the two—and Asahn-jehn would’ve followed after her. 

[color=7ABAFF][center][i]“‘Tis been some while since thou thought of them, lost Jafin child.”[/i][/center][/color]
The voice returned, speaking the same words, and in the same ethereal tone. But this time, it didn’t feel as annoying as before. Rather, it seemed almost gentle—a reminder, rather than a taunt. Sjan-dehk still didn’t reply to it, but neither did he dismiss it entirely. He couldn’t, not when it was right. Perhaps it was just trying to help him remember them in its own way. Perhaps it was telling him that now was as good a time as any to do something—anything—to do right by them. 

[color=1E90FF]“Okay, I will go,”[/color] Sjan-dehk said, looking at Cynric. [color=1E90FF]“One drink. Maybe two.”[/color]

Or maybe even four.