Apex Sunburn

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Late Morning
Interactions: @Lava Alckon Farim; @Potter Layla; @Princess Charlotte
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face

While Sjan-dehk did his best to take in all of Farim’s introduction – and much to his surprise, he managed to grasp more than just the gist of things – it was the Alidashti’s mention of a trading company that piqued his interest. A trading company that was owned by Farim himself, no less. A tinge of excitement bubbled in Sjan-dehk’s heart. Assuming all went smoothly, and that Lady Adiyan would be well enough to conduct negotiations within the next two weeks, he might not even have to bother sailing for Alidasht or Varian. Not that he minded the journey; were it just his Sada Kurau and himself, he wouldn’t mind making the trip as many times as it was necessary. Unfortunately, he had the Sudah and her obstinate passengers to escort, and he would prefer to spend as little time as possible doing just that.

He willed himself to remain calm, and stifled his anticipation. There were far too many variables, too many things that could go wrong for him to put too much hope into that possible future. Besides, he wasn’t sure if Farim was being serious. He looked trustworthy enough – even if his resting eyelids made his gaze one that discomforted Sjan-dehk slightly. The clothes he wore were new to Sjan-dehk; they hugged his body tightly like a second skin, and for a moment the Viserjantan wondered just how comfortable it was.

“You are…Too nice? Kind.” Sjan-dehk bowed his head once more to Farim. A minute smile played across his lips as the Alidashti gave his Sada Kurau a compliment. It took all of sjan-dehk’s restraint not to go on at length about her strengths and virtues. “She is a very…Fine ship. Thirty-four guns. Sails good even into the wind. And fast. Good crew. We fought, we won many fights.”

Well, he tried.

He cleared his throat, and went on to answer Farim’s question. “We, my ship and Sudah, we came here to trade. Many things in–” half-turning, he pointed to the huge, imposing vessel in the distance, her battened sails swaying gently in the morning breeze “–the Sudah’s hold. Woods, metals, carved…Art? Decorations, yes, and spices, and more things.” He paused, then shook his head slightly. “Ah, apologies. Sada Kurau and me, we have…Not a lot to trade. We…Mostly protect the Sudah. Keep her safe from pirates. My ship, she is a warship. Very good at fighting, but not good at trading.”

Whether by intention or by accident, Farim helpfully introduced at least one of the others to Sjan-dehk by way of greeting them. Though the man’s name proved too long for Sjan-dehk to remember, he understood that he was a physician of some sort. He turned towards the well-dressed man. Sjan-dehk wasn’t a man of medicine by any stretch of the imagination, but he was curious about how injuries and diseases were treated by other peoples. Perhaps he could learn something that might be of use to Dai-sehk, things that might help the surgeon better treat the crew. Or at least improve his bedside manner.

Just as Sjan-dehk was about to speak, however, someone new arrived.

Dark and pretty, she reminded him of those who hailed from the Commonwealth’s northern territories. He dipped his head slightly towards her and started to offer a greeting, but she spoke first. And as the first of her sharp words flew from her tongue, whatever prettiness she had in his eyes instantly vanished.

To Sjan-dehk, she seemed determined to either offend or wound as many people as possible with scalding words, and even though she never turned her ire towards him, he found himself chewing both his tongue and cheeks to a pulp. Especially when she started insulting and deriding the pale girl. But still, Sjan-dehk kept his mouth shut; Farim seemed to be family with her, and he wasn’t about to jump head-first into what could very well be a familial affair. It wasn’t polite, and it surely wasn’t the Way. That, however, didn’t stop him from eyeing her guards. This newcomer had to be some noblewoman – he couldn’t imagine anyone else who could be afforded such protection, and who could speak with such venom. Sjan-dehk drew in a deep breath and kept his calm. So long as words were all she threw, he could swallow his rising anger.

The newcomer snatched the pale girl’s ribbon from her hair. Sjan-dehk ground his teeth, but kept calm. He didn’t want to make a bad situation worse.

She snatched the girl’s drink from her hands. Sjan-dehk still kept his calm.

Then, she emptied it over the girl’s head, and Sjan-dehk could keep calm no longer.

An auburn-haired lady reacted first, but the newcomer’s guards surrounded her as soon as she rose to her feet, giving her no chance to do anything. Farim dispatched three of them with impressive skill and speed, but left one who stood far enough away to avoid the scuffle. “This, please hold,” he said in a quiet voice to the pale girl, handing her his drink. Then, he stepped forward to place himself in front of her, at the same time drawing one of his pistols. He didn’t point it at the guard, but instead held it out just enough for it to be clearly seen. Despite the indignation burning within him, a grin pulled hard on his lips. With his other hand, he pointed at the guard.

“Suyahksa ujantah, dai’ihksankan. Sjukihku ika, tusuh-sehka lehksikasoh!”

‘Come if you dare. Only one of us will remain’. So caught up was Sjan-dehk in the moment that he barely realised that he had shouted at the guard in his native Viserjantan. Neither did he realise the weight of his actions, nor did he consider the consequences. All he knew was that he saw an injustice happening right before his very eyes, and it had reached the point where he could no longer let it go. And so he had to act.

As Farim accosted his cousin, Sjan-dehk kept watchful eyes on the guard – and as the other three got to their feet, them as well. Only when he was done, and the guards returned to the newcomer’s side, and he felt certain that there would be no more fighting, did he slide his pistol into its holster. He turned towards the newcomer. “Your words, why do you say them? Why do you think it is right?” His voice was light, and his grin still remained on his face. “Because you have guards? Good that a pretty…Noblewi–Noblewoman like you got them. But you are not the only one.” He flicked his eyes up towards his Sada Kurau. “I have two hundred. I look at them in the right way, one hundred will come. Please, do not make me do that. It is…A lot of trouble.”

He shook his head as the newcomer turned to leave. “Please think about what you do. You called her ugly, yes? I disagree. You make her dirty, but that is only outside. Can be cleaned. You are ugly inside. Even if you are pretty outside, you are still…Most ugly here. That is a shame.”

With hands folded across his chest, he watched them leave. One-by-one, they disappeared into the dense crowd. And as they did, Sjan-dehk’s mind slowly caught up with all that just happened. Once he lost sight of the last of them, he let out a long, heavy breath. His hands went to his hips, and he ground his toes into the sand, all the while chewing on his lip until he was sure he would soon draw blood.

“What the fuck did I just do?” He couldn't have done nothing, but at the same time, he wondered if he had done too much. Not that he could have helped it; everything he did had largely been on instinct, and those were still very much tuned for times of open warfare.

Well, it was too late. He did what he did.

He took a moment to steady himself before returning to the group, taking care to pluck the discarded cup with the pale girl’s ribbon off the ground as he did. With a hand, he loosened his belts and pulled them off of his body, dropping them onto the sand beside the chairs. “Apologies,” he murmured. A flush crept up his cheeks. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that his interference might have made a bad situation worse. But when he saw what that newcomer had done to the pale girl, something within him urged him to do something. He couldn’t just stand by and watch her be abused like that.

Sighing, he untied the ribbon from the cup and threw the latter away. Then, he took off his outer tunic and shook it free of sand, leaving him wearing only his white and sweat-stained undertunic. He offered both to the pale girl. “Your ribbon,” he said. “And my tunic, until you get new things to wear, you can use it.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Late Morning
Interactions: @Conscripts Dr.John; @Tpartywithzombi Ariella; @FunnyGuy Lorenzo; @Lava Alckon Farim; @ReusableSword Roman; @Potter Olivia; @princess Charlotte
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face

A light flush crept up Sjan-dehk’s cheeks when the pale girl complimented his appearance. It wasn’t out of embarrassment so much as it was out of surprise. That was the last thing he had been expecting after he so rudely interrupted her conversation. Though if he had to be honest, he still wasn’t quite used to hearing good things about him outside of his martial and sailing skills. Even if just the previous day, Kalliope gave him enough such compliments to last him a year. Perhaps two or three, if his memory retained them well.

For a moment, he wondered what she was up to. And for a moment after that, he found himself strangely looking forward to the ball – or whatever the locals called it – later. Formal events rarely sat well with him, but this particular one? He felt as if evening couldn’t come soon enough.

In the space of a blink that took a touch longer than the rest, he pushed those thoughts aside. Wondering about the evening’s events while it was still morning was just silly. All he had to do later was just meet with Kalliope and attend the ball. Nothing that needed much forethought or planning. And if by then he was still curious about her day, he could just ask her and find out. Not that her affairs were any of his business. Not in the least.

“Thank you,” he said with a bow of his head to the girl. “You look…” He trailed off as he cast his mind back to yesterday, specifically a lesson he had learned early on. “You look pri-pretty.” The words tumbled from his mouth and likely didn’t sound as good as he would have liked, but he meant them. Looking at the girl’s dainty face, pale complexion, and flowing hair, Sjan-dehk couldn’t help but be reminded of his youngest sister, to whom he was closest to out of everyone in his family. He even had to tell himself that she wasn’t, in fact, his sister, and thus he had to act accordingly.

Right then, a familiar face appeared. It was the blacksmith from two days ago. Sjan-dehk took a moment to recall his name before nodding towards him and saying, “Good morning, Roman.” It was a shame that Sjan-dehk didn’t have the things he wanted to give to the man with him, but he supposed that there was always next time. Roman’s favour with the coin had not been forgotten.

Everyone else seemed to know each other, and being the outsider, Sjan-dehk almost quietly backed away to disappear into the crowd. But he didn’t. Instead, he simply stood and watched as the pale girl rushed off towards her friends to ask them what they wanted in their drinks.

A gentle smile came over Sjan-dehk’s face. His sister was similar in that regard, always thinking about the needs and wants of others. According to his brothers, she took it upon herself to keep his rooms neat and tidy even when he was expected to be at sea for months at a time, and she was usually the one to remind their father – and everyone else at court, for that matter – of the plight and troubles of their peoples during discussions of war and whatnot. If every one of his siblings represented an aspect of the Wasun clan, then Sjan-dehk was more than certain that their youngest sister was its heart.

So caught up in the moment and in his mind was he that he merely nodded and followed the group to get their drinks when the girl returned. Before he knew it, he was walking with them back to a blanket laid out on the sand, a thick juice – the locals called it a smoothie, as he found out – of fruits that looked the most familiar to him at the stall. The proprietor had told him their names, but he had either failed to catch them, or he just failed to understand them. It didn’t matter; fruits were fruits, and unless he had the misfortune of choosing something akin to a bitter gourd, then he was confident that this smoothie would be, at the very least, refreshing, and that was all that he wanted.

The girl invited him to sit, but Sjan-dehk chose to remain standing. His weapons made sitting down a noisy affair, and he still had some strength left in his legs. Only when she introduced her companions, and asked for his name, did he finally realise that he had failed to properly introduce himself. With a crimson flush on his cheeks, he pressed a hand to his chest and bowed his head to each person in turn. “My apologies,” he said upon straightening himself. “I am Wasun Sjan-dehk. Captain of–” he pointed to his Sada Kurau, her hull and sails plainly visible from the beach “Sada Kurau. Also Fourth Lesser Marquis of Jafi, of Viserjanta”

He looked at the unfamiliar faces. “I ah…Roman, I saw the other day.” He nodded to the man. “But the rest of you, I do not know. Can…No, that is not right, yes? May I know who you are?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Late Morning
Interactions: @princess Charlotte; @Conscripts John
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face

As Sjan-dehk wandered through the ever-growing crowd of beach-goers, thoughts of his nightmare faded away until they were little more than a quiet presence lingering in the back of his head. Carefree mirth and light-hearted cheer took their place, borne out of the merriment thick in the atmosphere around him. There were even a few familiar faces amidst the crowd. Some were the Sudah’s crew – easily noticeable thanks to their clothes – who were likely here out of curiosity, just like him. Others were newer friends, namely the fisherfolk whom his Sada Kurau had escorted out to sea the previous morning. He tipped his hat to a few he passed, and they smiled at him in return.

“Good morning, Captain,” one of them, a youth growing his first whiskers, greeted. “Thanks again for your help yesterday. Never thought I’d see the day Aislin and her da be happy about our catch.”

“It is no problem,” Sjan-dehk replied, and they parted ways. There wasn’t any need for gratitude, if he was to be completely honest. As far as he was concerned, his Sada Kurau had done nothing. The pirates here were little more than robbers in skiffs – from what he had seen, at least – and were easily deterred by the Sada Kurau’s presence alone. His crew didn’t even need to roll out the guns; the more daring pirates had been scared off by a few blasts of the swivel guns. Sjan-dehk doubted they even had to hit anything.

But none of that mattered, really. He had gained some measure of the fisherfolk’s trust, and that was all he had aimed for. It would go a long way towards making obtaining provisions that much easier.

Sjan-dehk continued making his way through the crowd. The sweet and inviting scent of fruits wafted past his nose, and suddenly he found himself craving something refreshing. Perhaps he could find something close to the honeyed melons and juicy peaches of Jafi. Or perhaps, he could find out just where everyone was getting the drinks they were holding. Sjan-dehk didn’t quite recognise what it was – it looked like juice, but a little thicker in consistency – but he knew he wanted to give it a try.

Finding out where it came from was the tricky bit. As he quickly found out, stopping strangers amidst such a crowd was a challenge in and of itself. Being as armed as he was likely didn’t help at all, and most gave him a wide berth even if he did offer them a friendly smile and tip of his hat.

Thankfully, he saw a man holding such a drink just standing around. His attire seemed overly warm for the heat of the morning sun, but Sjan-dehk supposed he was in no position to talk. Using both his words and a few gentle pushes, he briskly made his way through the sea of people towards the man. “Excuse me,” he said once he was sure he was in earshot, giving the man a friendly smile. He pushed the brim of his hat up to show more of his face. “I ah…I was wondering if you know where I can find–”

It was only then did he realise that there was a woman there with them, and that he had likely interrupted a conversation.

A flush of embarrassment crept up his cheeks. How could he have been so foolish to have been so fixated on a mere drink. “My apologies,” he said to the man before turning to face the woman. Right away, he was taken by how her dark hair and pale skin reminded him of his youngest sister. That thought didn’t last long before he mentally shook it away, however. “I did not see you. Rude of me. Please, accept my ah…My most true? Yes, most true, apologies.”

Avalia

The Wandering (or Mad) Artisan

Scathael

Image Ref.

(Generated via StarryAI)

Scathael Arash ⋆ 267 ⋆ Male ⋆ Dark Elf

---

Appearance

Height:
1.85 m (6'0")
Build:
Fit
Hair Color:
Greyish white
Hair Length:
Short
Eye Color:
Hazel brown, bordering on amber
Skin Tone:
Dark grey
Distinguishing Features:
His hands and arms are speckled with burns and healed scars.

---

Psychology

Likes:
⋆ Solitude
⋆ Seeing new sights
⋆ Finding new materials to work with
⋆ Making / repairing things

Dislikes:
⋆ Overly-elaborate designs
⋆ Inefficiency
⋆ Surprises

Fears:
⋆ To be unable to wander anymore
⋆ To be trapped in one place
⋆ To lose those he cares about
⋆ To be revealed in-RP

Habits/Quirks
⋆ Whenever possible, he whittles wood into arrow shafts when idle
⋆ He scribbles into a notebook every now-and-then, especially after visiting somewhere visually impressive or new to him

Sexuality:
Straight

Personality:
⋆ Behavior towards others is: extroverted or introverted.
Scathael will only interact with people as much as he needs to. No more, no less. It’s not the interaction he minds, you see. It’s that it’s – to him – a needless distraction from more pressing work.
⋆ Where on the spectrum of selfish to selfless
If he has something you need, and he himself doesn’t need it, then it’s yours if you ask. Just don’t expect him to give it on his own volition, and be prepared to have a very convincing argument if the thing you need happens to be raw materials. He can be quite the hoarder with such things.
⋆ Where on the spectrum of kind to mean.
He wouldn’t go out of his way to be mean, but neither would he make much effort in cushioning a heavy blow.
⋆ Is your character affectionate? Do they enjoy hugs and being touchy?
No. He has it in him, but he has no reason to show it.
⋆ Is it hard to gain your character’s trust?
Scathael doesn’t trust people easily. It can happen, but it’ll take plenty of time and effort. Perhaps more than what most can be expected to give.

⋆ Easy to anger or does your character usually remain calm? What about irritation?
Anger requires care, and Scathael honestly cares little for anything beyond his work to be easily roused to anger. He can, however, be easily irritated.
⋆ Patient or impatient. Is your character impulsive?
On a day-to-day basis, he’s rather patient. He doesn’t quite mind waiting days or even weeks to acquire the materials he needs for a project. That said, when it comes to finding said materials, he can be easily spurred to action by mere rumours of something rare or just difficult to acquire.
⋆ Brave or Cowardly? Are they brave to the point of recklessness?
He’s as brave as he needs to be. Risks are calculated, and he sees no shame in running from a hopeless fight or declining an overly-dangerous task.
⋆ Anxiety hold you back? Do you get nervous?
Not much; he’s sure enough of his abilities to do most things confidently. However, he does get antsy if he’s working with something which he knows he can’t easily get a replacement for.
⋆ Reaction speeds to situations.
Travelling alone has given him decent instincts. He might not be the fastest around, but he certainly knows when danger's near and how to react accordingly.

⋆ Intelligence level: Are you a cunning mastermind?
Scathael has a quick mind. He picks things up easily, but there’s a catch. It has to be something he’s very much interested in. Anything less than that and he switches off so quickly that barely anything gets into his head. So if it comes to a topic that he's knowledgeable in, he'll likely be able to think or outsmart his way out of trouble. Outside of that, he'll have problems.
⋆ Charisma level: How well can you manipulate people? Do you make friends easily? Are you persuasive?
He has all of the charisma of a boulder.
⋆ Sense of humor or no sense of humor?
It’s sardonic, caustic, and can often be dark at times, but he does have one. Knowing when he’s joking and when he’s serious is the real challenge.
⋆ Sanity level of character/do they struggle with any mental illness/disorders?
According to Scathael himself, he’s very sane. A very stable individual. According to those with whom he interacts, his single-mindedness when it comes to creating things, and his obsession with finding new and better materials, traipses on the border of insanity.

---

Background

Occupation
Itinerant General Craftsman

Living Immediate Family Members:
None

Dead Immediate Family Members:
Maisil Arash (Father)
Vannea Arash (Mother)

Current Companions:
None

Current and Past Lover(s):
Rezirael Illimac

Current Equipment:
Weapons:
Horn/Maple composite bow
Shortened musket
Pistol
Two Hatchets

Tools:
Whittling knife
Smithing hammer
Tongs
Forge Gloves
Needle and Thread
Whetstone block
Bowstrings
Pestle and Mortar

History:

It would’ve seemed that Scathael was destined for an average life.

He wasn’t born to anyone of note – his parents were magically gifted, for sure, but they weren’t exceptionally powerful by any stretch of the imagination – and the village in which he grew up was one so small that most cartographers simply glossed over it on their maps. Really, it was more of a hamlet, and a small one at that. The nearest town was at least a day’s ride away, and there was nothing that attracted even the most curious of wayfarers. Life was quiet, solitary, and peaceful.

Throughout his childhood, Scathael’s parents did their best to pass on their knowledge to their son, but it was evident as he grew up that magic wasn’t where his talents lay. Rather, it was the forge, the anvil, the carpenter’s bench, the tanner’s rack, anything related to making things, with which he had an affinity. His parents, rather than forcing him to be something he wasn’t, instead encouraged him to nurture and build upon his innate talent. Though he still had to practise magic, it was more to maintain what skills he had rather than to develop them any further.

It didn’t take long for him to learn all he could in his little hamlet. If he wanted to go any further, he’d have to venture out to the bigger towns and cities. His parents were naturally reluctant to let their only son leave on his own, but Scathael eased their worries by showing that he could adequately take care of himself with the bow. Neither did he have any intention of leaving home for good; he’d journey in search of teachers and masters to learn from, but his path would always lead him back to the little cottage on the outskirts of the nameless hamlet. In due time, he even became something of a general tradesman for the rest of the villagers. To spend the rest of his life in such a way didn’t seem unappealing in the least to Scathael. It was more than what he could’ve wished for.

Fate, however, had other plans for him.

Scathael no longer talks about that day, but memories of it still linger vividly in his mind. He had only just returned from a hunt when he found his parents killed. Not murdered. He’d never use that word to describe what happened. Murder implies that someone had planned for his parents to die. Murder implied that there was a reason for their death. But that wasn’t the case. He simply found them both cold on the autumn grass, the arrows which took their lives still lodged in their bodies. A dozen bodies surrounding them told him that they at least didn’t go easily, but it was little consolation.

He never did find out the exact reason for his parents’ deaths. Their neighbours – all of whom lived a fair distance away – told him that it all stemmed from a heated argument between his father and a roving band of hunters. Or outlaws, or mercenaries, or any other type of group, depending on whom he asked. But regardless, one thing remained constant. It had just been a misunderstanding gone horribly, and violently, wrong. Nothing more.

It was that randomness that devastated Scathael the most. A targeted killing, he could perhaps rationalise it away. He could maybe even plan revenge to soothe his heart, but something like this? There was nothing for him to do but mourn and try to continue living. He resolved to stay in the hamlet his parents had so resolutely refused to leave in an attempt to honour their memory, but that proved to be far too difficult. Every sweet memory he had in the old cottage slowly became daggers pricking his heart, and soon he grew to despise the place.

And so he left. He had no choice.

Barely an adult, he struck out on a path to places unknown. First, he wandered about Daka Island, using his skills to earn some coin wherever he found himself. Then, when he ran out of places to explore, he took ship to lands further out. It wasn’t easy – he didn’t exactly grow up with much exposure to the world beyond his isolated cocoon – but he adapted quickly enough. As it turned out, cultures varied across peoples, but the need for a skilled hammer or deft chisel didn’t, especially in the smaller villages he often found himself. Being able to put his skills to good use, and being able to use them to pay his way to so many new and exciting places, and along the way discover new methods of crafting and materials, did plenty to soothe the pain that had been plaguing his heart.

Then one day, he met a certain Rezirael Illimac.

She’d been a wanderer like him, though her business lay more towards exploring old ruins and delving into caves in search of treasure rather than wanderlust. Their relationship had been strictly professional at the beginning. She needed her tools and weapons maintained in places that could be days away from any settlement, and he needed the coin she earned to fund his need for progressively rarer and more expensive materials. It was a mutually-beneficial relationship that suited the both of them just fine. It didn’t hurt that their personalities complemented each other, too; her fiery passion melted his restrictive caution, and his calm logic tempered her reckless eagerness.

What was supposed to be a temporary partnership turned into something semi-permanent, and then it became strange for either to be away from the other for long. As the time they spent together grew, so too did their relationship deepend. They became fast friends, then close confidants. Neither kept any secret from the other, and their nights were often spent in quiet places swapping stories about their pasts. It was thus only natural that romance would bloom between the two. Scathael still remembers the exact moment it happened. They’d been simply talking as usual after a long day. He’d been going on and on about something – likely related to crafting or materials – when Rezirael kissed him. It’d been a surprise, but one he quickly and eagerly reciprocated. And once they confirmed their love for each other, their bond only grew all the stronger as the days passed.

They still adventured, and explored, and delved together, but between their travels, talk of settling down began to bubble. It started as just a flight of fancy to be laughed over a campfire. Just a nice thought and nothing more. Then, as they added more and more details to that fantasy, it stopped being a mere dream and became more of a goal to be achieved. Between the two of them, they had more than enough coin to sustain them if they stopped their adventures, and in the right place, Scathael’s skills would likely be more than enough to support the both of them and perhaps even a family. Soon enough, it became something that he hungered for; a life he couldn’t wait to start.

And that was when his old friend, fate, paid him another visit.

Scathael hadn’t been there. Rezirael had decided to scout a cave on her own while he remained at camp to repair damaged tools. As night fell, and she didn’t return, Scathael’s worry finally managed to push him to search for her. He found her in the cave she’d been exploring, half-buried and crushed beneath a mound of rocks and dirt. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t dig her out of it, but his efforts would’ve been all for naught even if he’d succeeded. Scathael buried her where she laid, left only with a diary she’d left with him listing the sights and places she wanted to see before they could settle down.

That diary now sits with the rest of his meagre belongings in his travelling knapsack. Every place and every sight, he went and he saw, and he made sure to write down every last detail. But he didn’t stop there. He couldn’t stop there. Fate had made its message clear, and the price Scathael paid for his ignorance had been steep. Too steep. If the death of his parents had cracked his spirit, then Rezirael’s passing shattered it entirely, and he patched it back together with flax thread and leather hide; with hewn oak and forged steel. Settling down was not meant for him. To wander, to discover, and to create better and better things was his lot in life, and he’d been a fool to fight it. All he could do was move. And move. And move some more.

And maybe one day, he’d move far enough to escape this unwanted fate.

---

Combat and Magic Stat Creation

Fitness Level:
⋆ Scathael is very active. He has to be. As a survivalist-of-sorts, he hunts his own food when living in the wild (and sometimes when living in a settlement, even), chops his own wood for fire and shelter, and digs his own little holes when the terrain allows.

What are your character’s physical strengths?
⋆ Good endurance; Scathael endeavours to spend his nights in settlements as much as possible, and that means trekking long distances with whatever he owns on his person.
⋆ Stealth; Scathael dislikes direct confrontations, and so has learned how to either skulk away from confrontations, or end them from the safety of the shadows as much as possible.
⋆ Accuracy; related to the above, Scathael has good aim with both bow and musket. Not only does that help to end a fight quickly, it also saves him labour. Bullets and arrows are tedious things to make.

What are your character’s physical weaknesses?
⋆ Poor offensive magic; Scathael has always been a middling sorcerer, and his years of refusing to use his abilities haven’t done him any favours. He only ever uses magic to shroud himself in darkness to make a quick exit.
⋆ Close combat; while he could maybe handle himself against the average street tough or outlaw, don’t expect much from him against tougher foes. Or against multiple foes, for that matter.
⋆ Over-caution; Scathael will always err on the side of caution in a fight, sometimes to what can be perceived as a craven degree. He sees himself as a craftsman first, and adventurer second.

Years of Experience:
Weapon(s):
⋆ Bow: 257 years. His parents taught him how to use from young, and intensified said training once it became clear that he was neither interested nor did he possess the aptitude to be anything beyond a middling sorcerer.
⋆ Firearms: 150 years. He picked up his first firearm a little while after leaving home for good, and immediately found it useful to have as part of his arsenal. Whatever skills he has with them were learned whilst travelling and typically on the fly.

Hand-to-Hand Combat:
He has no formal training in hand-to-hand combat. He knows enough to handle himself in a brawl, but that's about it.

Dark Elves
⋆ Offensive Erebokinesis:
Completely out-of-practice. His parents did teach him how to use his magics, but he hasn't touched anything offensive ever since their deaths.
⋆ Shrouding:
160 years. This is his most-used ability, even if he only started seriously honing it after he started wandering the land. Aside from the basics taught by his parents back when he was a youth, most of what he knows comes from trial-and-error.
⋆ Shielding:
110 years. He uses this ability to protect himself from cave-ins and rock-slides whilst exploring.

Scathael's stats

Physical Stats

Strength:⬤⬤⬤◯◯

Ground Speed:⬤⬤⬤◯◯

Stamina:⬤⬤⬤⬤⬤

Dexterity:⬤⬤⬤⬤⬤

Durability: ⬤⬤◯◯◯

Combat Stats

Hand-to-hand Combat:⬤⬤◯◯◯

Ranged Combat(Bows/Firearms):⬤⬤⬤⬤⬤

Magic Stats

Offensive Erebokinesis: ⬤⬤◯◯◯

Shrouding: ⬤⬤⬤⬤⬤

Shielding: ⬤⬤⬤⬤⬤

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Late Morning
Interactions:
Mentions:

The air was abuzz with the cheery buzz of lively chatter. Wherever Sjan-dehk looked, he saw only smiling faces and eyes bright with excitement. Booming, percussive music reverberated in his ears and the sweet, savoury scents – amongst so many others – of strange and foreign foods teased his nose. The former, he found to be discomforting; he much rather preferred the lilting notes of strings or the hollow, wistful tones of a flute. The latter, conversely, proved to be far more enjoyable. Beyond that, even. As he ventured onto the soft and pristine sand of the beach, he found himself following the smells more than anything else.

“Tsaan-teik!”

But he couldn’t fully enjoy them. That shout from the unknown boy still played in his mind. He didn’t hear it as much as he felt it throb like an old wound somewhere at the back of his head. Neither did it stay for too long in his conscious mind, lingering just long enough to cloak all that he felt in a muting greyness – akin to a heavy fog clouding a dawn sea – and disappearing before Sjan-dehk could even do anything about it.

He clicked his tongue with knitted brows. This was neither the right time nor place to deal with such banal matters, even if he was left free enough for his mind to start entertaining such nightmares. It was anyone’s guess when Lady Adiyan would need his services, and now that he was in an unfamiliar city, wandering unfamiliar streets, and amongst people who spoke unfamiliar tongues, he would need every last scrap of his wits about him to see his tasks through. He couldn’t allow his mind to hobble itself.

“Tsaan-teik…”

For now, he ignored the cloying scents calling to him with promises of delicacies. Instead, he made tracks towards the shore, where sapphire water washed white against land. The languid crash of waves and the bracing scent of ocean brine were together a stronger call than anything else in the world. Especially now, when Sjan-dehk needed his mind calmed and his sight clear.

A few people gave him curious looks as he passed, but not as much as before. Word must’ve spread that there were Viserjantans in Sorian. That, or perhaps he didn’t look as imposing as he did days before. For today, he had forwent his usual weapons and armour. His tassets weren’t lamellar, and were instead made to simply look like it with its stitching. In reality, they were simply padded cloth and did more to protect his azure pants from the swishing of his swords and pistols than anything else. Arm and leg wraps secured the loose fabric of his clothes to his limbs, and he had a scarf wrapped around his neck to protect the skin there from the irritation of sun-rash. And of course, his usual woven hat sat atop his head.

“Tsaan-teik.”

As he walked through the thronging crowd, however, he slowly began to get the feeling that he was a little too overdressed. Almost everyone he saw was – for the lack of a better term – in some state of undress or other. Not that he had any problems with that; Viserjantans from the inland cities approached the sea in a similar fashion, not being comfortable enough with the sea to jump in fully-clothed as those living along the coasts were wont to do. What Sjan-dehk had problems with, however, was that he didn’t quite know where to look. To allow his eyes to linger too long over a stranger’s naked flesh was simply rude. That was simply a matter of courtesy, really.

And so he kept his eyes directed straight ahead, at clear and rolling waters.

“Tsaan-teik!”

He didn’t stop until he felt the waves lap against his boots of hardened leather and soak his legwraps. The water was cool against his flesh, and the brine sharp in his nose. For several moments, he did nothing and simply stood there with arms by his side and took in the sea and her endless beauty. Undulating waves shimmered like precious gems in the sunlight. Gliding seabirds cawed overhead. A gentle breeze washed over his body, its light touch brushing past his cheeks like a lover’s caress. Sjan-dehk closed his eyes and breathed in deep.

For a moment, he was home. Not Viserjanta, not Jafi, but a home beyond them.

Then, he slowly lowered himself to a knee and slid a hand into the water. It still carried the barest traces of the chill of night, but it wasn’t icy. Neither was it dark; so clear was it that Sjan-dehk could easily make out faint scratches on the stones beneath its surface. The peaceful cold, calming and familiar, travelled up his arm and spread to every corner of his body. A soft smile spread across his lips, and he carefully scooped up a handful of water with a deliberateness that bordered on reverence.

“Tsaan-teik.”

Sjan-dehk never was one for rites or rituals. As far as he was concerned, they were little more than acts of pomp and vanity; simply ways for the nobility to make themselves feel even more self-important, as if they needed it. But when it came to the sea, things were different. The sea was the very thing that could see him safely to distant shores, or it could lead him to a sudden and abrupt end. She could be either a mother that nourished with love, or a mother that punished with furious anger. She was that which washed ships away from dangerous shoals, or that which dashed them into flotsam against shallows.

And above all, the sea was the domain of the Mother of the Waves. She, who became the Blue Serpent to protect Jafins of old; she, whose favour allowed Jafin ships to rule the open sea, and she, who all Jafins called ancestor.

Sjan-dehk drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pressed his hand against his face. Keen seawater washed down his cheeks, and he tasted its salt on his lips. He opened his eyes and blinked several times as he exhaled sharply. His smile returned to his face. This was the sea which he loved, the sea which he knew would never let him down, and the sea which he would always find no matter where he was.

“Tsaan-teik!”

That ghostly voice still called in his head, but it grew muffled and soft. “Those who live, will live and see a new dawn,” Sjan-dehk recited beneath his breath, wiping his face dry with sleeves between words. “Those who must die, will die and be brought to calm waters and fair winds by the Mother Serpent and be granted the long peace. Such is the Jafin Way of the Great Harmony.” He squeezed his eyes tight and bowed his head. In the wind that blew over him, he heard the Mother’s whispered words, and in the waves that broke against his ankles, her soft embrace.

He slowly returned to his feet, knowing that he had likely attracted more than a few curious gazes, but he couldn’t care less about that. All he knew was that the unknown boy’s voice had vanished from his mind, at least for now. He knew it wasn’t gone for good – it would one day return as surely as the tides – but that would be a problem for another day. There would be more nightmares in his future, he imagined. Times of quiet always did that. But so long as he had the sea with him, all would be well.

All would be well.

He drew in a deep breath, and turned back around. Now his day could begin.

Avalia

The Wandering (or Mad) Artisan

Scathael

Image Ref.

(Generated via StarryAI)

Scathael Arash ⋆ 267 ⋆ Male ⋆ Dark Elf

---

Appearance

Height:
1.85 m (6'0")
Build:
Fit
Hair Color:
Greyish white
Hair Length:
Short
Eye Color:
Hazel brown, bordering on amber
Skin Tone:
Dark grey
Distinguishing Features:
His hands and arms are speckled with burns and healed scars.

---

Psychology

Likes:
⋆ Solitude
⋆ Seeing new sights
⋆ Finding new materials to work with
⋆ Making / repairing things

Dislikes:
⋆ Overly-elaborate designs
⋆ Inefficiency
⋆ Surprises

Fears:
⋆ To be unable to wander anymore
⋆ To be trapped in one place
⋆ To lose those he cares about
⋆ To be revealed in-RP

Habits/Quirks
⋆ Whenever possible, he whittles wood into arrow shafts when idle
⋆ He scribbles into a notebook every now-and-then, especially after visiting somewhere visually impressive or new to him

Sexuality:
Straight

Personality:
⋆ Behavior towards others is: extroverted or introverted.
Scathael will only interact with people as much as he needs to. No more, no less. It’s not the interaction he minds, you see. It’s that it’s – to him – a needless distraction from more pressing work.
⋆ Where on the spectrum of selfish to selfless
If he has something you need, and he himself doesn’t need it, then it’s yours if you ask. Just don’t expect him to give it on his own volition, and be prepared to have a very convincing argument if the thing you need happens to be raw materials. He can be quite the hoarder with such things.
⋆ Where on the spectrum of kind to mean.
He wouldn’t go out of his way to be mean, but neither would he make much effort in cushioning a heavy blow.
⋆ Is your character affectionate? Do they enjoy hugs and being touchy?
No. He has it in him, but he has no reason to show it.
⋆ Is it hard to gain your character’s trust?
Scathael doesn’t trust people easily. It can happen, but it’ll take plenty of time and effort. Perhaps more than what most can be expected to give.

⋆ Easy to anger or does your character usually remain calm? What about irritation?
Anger requires care, and Scathael honestly cares little for anything beyond his work to be easily roused to anger. He can, however, be easily irritated.
⋆ Patient or impatient. Is your character impulsive?
On a day-to-day basis, he’s rather patient. He doesn’t quite mind waiting days or even weeks to acquire the materials he needs for a project. That said, when it comes to finding said materials, he can be easily spurred to action by mere rumours of something rare or just difficult to acquire.
⋆ Brave or Cowardly? Are they brave to the point of recklessness?
He’s as brave as he needs to be. Risks are calculated, and he sees no shame in running from a hopeless fight or declining an overly-dangerous task.
⋆ Anxiety hold you back? Do you get nervous?
Not much; he’s sure enough of his abilities to do most things confidently. However, he does get antsy if he’s working with something which he knows he can’t easily get a replacement for.
⋆ Reaction speeds to situations.
Travelling alone has given him decent instincts. He might not be the fastest around, but he certainly knows when danger's near and how to react accordingly.

⋆ Intelligence level: Are you a cunning mastermind?
Scathael has a quick mind. He picks things up easily, but there’s a catch. It has to be something he’s very much interested in. Anything less than that and he switches off so quickly that barely anything gets into his head. So if it comes to a topic that he's knowledgeable in, he'll likely be able to think or outsmart his way out of trouble. Outside of that, he'll have problems.
⋆ Charisma level: How well can you manipulate people? Do you make friends easily? Are you persuasive?
He has all of the charisma of a boulder.
⋆ Sense of humor or no sense of humor?
It’s sardonic, caustic, and can often be dark at times, but he does have one. Knowing when he’s joking and when he’s serious is the real challenge.
⋆ Sanity level of character/do they struggle with any mental illness/disorders?
According to Scathael himself, he’s very sane. A very stable individual. According to those with whom he interacts, his single-mindedness when it comes to creating things, and his obsession with finding new and better materials, traipses on the border of insanity.

---

Background

Occupation
Itinerant General Craftsman

Living Immediate Family Members:
None

Dead Immediate Family Members:
Maisil Arash (Father)
Vannea Arash (Mother)

Current Companions:
None

Current and Past Lover(s):
Rezirael Illimac

Current Equipment:
Weapons:
Horn/Maple composite bow
Shortened musket
Pistol
Two Hatchets

Tools:
Whittling knife
Smithing hammer
Tongs
Forge Gloves
Needle and Thread
Whetstone block
Bowstrings
Pestle and Mortar

History:

It would’ve seemed that Scathael was destined for an average life.

He wasn’t born to anyone of note – his parents were magically gifted, for sure, but they weren’t exceptionally powerful by any stretch of the imagination – and the village in which he grew up was one so small that most cartographers simply glossed over it on their maps. Really, it was more of a hamlet, and a small one at that. The nearest town was at least a day’s ride away, and there was nothing that attracted even the most curious of wayfarers. Life was quiet, solitary, and peaceful.

Throughout his childhood, Scathael’s parents did their best to pass on their knowledge to their son, but it was evident as he grew up that magic wasn’t where his talents lay. Rather, it was the forge, the anvil, the carpenter’s bench, the tanner’s rack, anything related to making things, with which he had an affinity. His parents, rather than forcing him to be something he wasn’t, instead encouraged him to nurture and build upon his innate talent. Though he still had to practise magic, it was more to maintain what skills he had rather than to develop them any further.

It didn’t take long for him to learn all he could in his little hamlet. If he wanted to go any further, he’d have to venture out to the bigger towns and cities. His parents were naturally reluctant to let their only son leave on his own, but Scathael eased their worries by showing that he could adequately take care of himself with the bow. Neither did he have any intention of leaving home for good; he’d journey in search of teachers and masters to learn from, but his path would always lead him back to the little cottage on the outskirts of the nameless hamlet. In due time, he even became something of a general tradesman for the rest of the villagers. To spend the rest of his life in such a way didn’t seem unappealing in the least to Scathael. It was more than what he could’ve wished for.

Fate, however, had other plans for him.

Scathael no longer talks about that day, but memories of it still linger vividly in his mind. He had only just returned from a hunt when he found his parents killed. Not murdered. He’d never use that word to describe what happened. Murder implies that someone had planned for his parents to die. Murder implied that there was a reason for their death. But that wasn’t the case. He simply found them both cold on the autumn grass, the arrows which took their lives still lodged in their bodies. A dozen bodies surrounding them told him that they at least didn’t go easily, but it was little consolation.

He never did find out the exact reason for his parents’ deaths. Their neighbours – all of whom lived a fair distance away – told him that it all stemmed from a heated argument between his father and a roving band of hunters. Or outlaws, or mercenaries, or any other type of group, depending on whom he asked. But regardless, one thing remained constant. It had just been a misunderstanding gone horribly, and violently, wrong. Nothing more.

It was that randomness that devastated Scathael the most. A targeted killing, he could perhaps rationalise it away. He could maybe even plan revenge to soothe his heart, but something like this? There was nothing for him to do but mourn and try to continue living. He resolved to stay in the hamlet his parents had so resolutely refused to leave in an attempt to honour their memory, but that proved to be far too difficult. Every sweet memory he had in the old cottage slowly became daggers pricking his heart, and soon he grew to despise the place.

And so he left. He had no choice.

Barely an adult, he struck out on a path to places unknown. First, he wandered about Daka Island, using his skills to earn some coin wherever he found himself. Then, when he ran out of places to explore, he took ship to lands further out. It wasn’t easy – he didn’t exactly grow up with much exposure to the world beyond his isolated cocoon – but he adapted quickly enough. As it turned out, cultures varied across peoples, but the need for a skilled hammer or deft chisel didn’t, especially in the smaller villages he often found himself. Being able to put his skills to good use, and being able to use them to pay his way to so many new and exciting places, and along the way discover new methods of crafting and materials, did plenty to soothe the pain that had been plaguing his heart.

Then one day, he met a certain Rezirael Illimac.

She’d been a wanderer like him, though her business lay more towards exploring old ruins and delving into caves in search of treasure rather than wanderlust. Their relationship had been strictly professional at the beginning. She needed her tools and weapons maintained in places that could be days away from any settlement, and he needed the coin she earned to fund his need for progressively rarer and more expensive materials. It was a mutually-beneficial relationship that suited the both of them just fine. It didn’t hurt that their personalities complemented each other, too; her fiery passion melted his restrictive caution, and his calm logic tempered her reckless eagerness.

What was supposed to be a temporary partnership turned into something semi-permanent, and then it became strange for either to be away from the other for long. As the time they spent together grew, so too did their relationship deepend. They became fast friends, then close confidants. Neither kept any secret from the other, and their nights were often spent in quiet places swapping stories about their pasts. It was thus only natural that romance would bloom between the two. Scathael still remembers the exact moment it happened. They’d been simply talking as usual after a long day. He’d been going on and on about something – likely related to crafting or materials – when Rezirael kissed him. It’d been a surprise, but one he quickly and eagerly reciprocated. And once they confirmed their love for each other, their bond only grew all the stronger as the days passed.

They still adventured, and explored, and delved together, but between their travels, talk of settling down began to bubble. It started as just a flight of fancy to be laughed over a campfire. Just a nice thought and nothing more. Then, as they added more and more details to that fantasy, it stopped being a mere dream and became more of a goal to be achieved. Between the two of them, they had more than enough coin to sustain them if they stopped their adventures, and in the right place, Scathael’s skills would likely be more than enough to support the both of them and perhaps even a family. Soon enough, it became something that he hungered for; a life he couldn’t wait to start.

And that was when his old friend, fate, paid him another visit.

Scathael hadn’t been there. Rezirael had decided to scout a cave on her own while he remained at camp to repair damaged tools. As night fell, and she didn’t return, Scathael’s worry finally managed to push him to search for her. He found her in the cave she’d been exploring, half-buried and crushed beneath a mound of rocks and dirt. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t dig her out of it, but his efforts would’ve been all for naught even if he’d succeeded. Scathael buried her where she laid, left only with a diary she’d left with him listing the sights and places she wanted to see before they could settle down.

That diary now sits with the rest of his meagre belongings in his travelling knapsack. Every place and every sight, he went and he saw, and he made sure to write down every last detail. But he didn’t stop there. He couldn’t stop there. Fate had made its message clear, and the price Scathael paid for his ignorance had been steep. Too steep. If the death of his parents had cracked his spirit, then Rezirael’s passing shattered it entirely, and he patched it back together with flax thread and leather hide; with hewn oak and forged steel. Settling down was not meant for him. To wander, to discover, and to create better and better things was his lot in life, and he’d been a fool to fight it. All he could do was move. And move. And move some more.

And maybe one day, he’d move far enough to escape this unwanted fate.

---

Combat and Magic Stat Creation

Fitness Level:
⋆ Scathael is very active. He has to be. As a survivalist-of-sorts, he hunts his own food when living in the wild (and sometimes when living in a settlement, even), chops his own wood for fire and shelter, and digs his own little holes when the terrain allows.

What are your character’s physical strengths?
⋆ Good endurance; Scathael endeavours to spend his nights in settlements as much as possible, and that means trekking long distances with whatever he owns on his person.
⋆ Stealth; Scathael dislikes direct confrontations, and so has learned how to either skulk away from confrontations, or end them from the safety of the shadows as much as possible.
⋆ Accuracy; related to the above, Scathael has good aim with both bow and musket. Not only does that help to end a fight quickly, it also saves him labour. Bullets and arrows are tedious things to make.

What are your character’s physical weaknesses?
⋆ Poor offensive magic; Scathael has always been a middling sorcerer, and his years of refusing to use his abilities haven’t done him any favours. He only ever uses magic to shroud himself in darkness to make a quick exit.
⋆ Close combat; while he could maybe handle himself against the average street tough or outlaw, don’t expect much from him against tougher foes. Or against multiple foes, for that matter.
⋆ Over-caution; Scathael will always err on the side of caution in a fight, sometimes to what can be perceived as a craven degree. He sees himself as a craftsman first, and adventurer second.

Years of Experience:
Weapon(s):
⋆ Bow: 257 years. His parents taught him how to use from young, and intensified said training once it became clear that he was neither interested nor did he possess the aptitude to be anything beyond a middling sorcerer.
⋆ Firearms: 150 years. He picked up his first firearm a little while after leaving home for good, and immediately found it useful to have as part of his arsenal. Whatever skills he has with them were learned whilst travelling and typically on the fly.

Hand-to-Hand Combat:
He has no formal training in hand-to-hand combat. He knows enough to handle himself in a brawl, but that's about it.

Dark Elves
⋆ Offensive Erebokinesis:
Completely out-of-practice. His parents did teach him how to use his magics, but he hasn't touched anything offensive ever since their deaths.
⋆ Shrouding:
160 years. This is his most-used ability, even if he only started seriously honing it after he started wandering the land. Aside from the basics taught by his parents back when he was a youth, most of what he knows comes from trial-and-error.
⋆ Shielding:
110 years. He uses this ability to protect himself from cave-ins and rock-slides whilst exploring.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Interactions:
Mentions: Kalliope @Tae

Date: Sola 23rd
Time: ~0700

“Tsaan-teik…”

That call came as it always did: from the inky black, and in a croaking whisper on the verge of death. And yet, it echoed through the darkness and rang in Sjan-dehk’s head. Over and over again, the call repeated its plea. Always in that same whisper. Always in that same tone. Always from everything and nowhere at the same time.

Who was it? Sjan-dehk tried to focus, but his mind felt leaden. His legs moved on their own, slowly wading through dark, icy water as if it were honey. Where was he going? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. No matter how far he ventured into the darkness, the call never got any closer. Still he pushed forward.

Cold, inky black surrounded him. The humming rush of water filled his ears.

“Tsaan-teik…”

Jafin. They had to be Jafin. Only someone of his ilk would call his name in their dialect. But he knew many Jafins. Who was this one? Why were they calling to him? He pressed forward. Collapsed wooden beams and broken planks melted out of the darkness. Water dripped from an oppressive ceiling. The droning hum grew into a gushing roar. Floorboards creaked and rolled beneath his feet.

A ship. He was on a ship. A badly damaged one, at that. But he didn’t know her name. He’d served on far too many ships to remember. Yet he felt as if he should remember this one.

“Tsaan-teik!”

The voice was clear now. It belonged to a boy. Not just any boy, but one he knew well. One who had been a close friend, and one whose name now escaped him. Memories surged into Sjan-dehk’s head. Sore and heavy arms passing buckets of powderbags between the decks. The shouts of men and boys. Cracks of muskets and roars of cannons. Then, the shattering of wood. Jagged splinters cutting through his clothes and his flesh. Chilling, otherworldly screams. Warm blood and cool tears tracking down his cheeks. Water surging through the new hole in the hull.

Inky black water. Dark and icy.

Sjan-dehk blinked.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a small figure buried beneath a mountain of broken wood. His face was naught but a swirling mass of darkness, but Sjan-dehk immediately knew that he had been the one calling for him. Churning, rising waves lashed against his body. “Tsaan-teik!” His call was desperate, and the arm he stretched towards Sjan-dehk shivering like a leaf upon the summer winds. But he was just a few steps away. Just a few, short steps through inky black water. He could rescue him easily.

Sjan-dehk moved and immediately knew something was wrong. His gait was shorter than usual, and the icy water lapped against his knees rather than his ankles. He looked down at his body. Then he looked at his arms. He was a boy again. That didn’t matter. Nothing else did. He just had to rescue his friend, and so he pushed through the surging waves. His souring limbs yelled at him. He ignored them. The water rose to his chest. He ignored the tendrils of frost curling around his heart. He had to save his friend.

His outstretched fingers almost brushed against the hand sticking out of the water. So close.

That was when he felt a strong grip clasp onto his shoulders and wrenched him back. “Sjan-dehk! It’s too late! You can’t save him!” A new voice. Or voices. A chorus of thousands shouting at him in unison. More hands pulled at him. At his arms, his legs, wrapping around his waist and chest. But still he struggled and yelled, his own unbroken voice alien to his ears. He bit at the hands, and kicked and flailed, but every one he managed to tear off his own body was replaced by several more. “It’s too late!”

The chorus morphed into a terrible, aberrant peal of thunder. Sjan-dehk struggled. He screamed his throat hoarse as the dark, icy water consumed his friend. And soon, the inky black consumed him as well.

Sjan-dehk inhaled sharply as his eyes shot open. His heart pounded like a frantic wardrum, and the sweat beading upon his forehead and matting his hair was cold. He clambered out of his hammock with the rush of a sailor called to action, almost crashing to the floor had he not found his footing in time. Chaotic eddies in his head churned every thought into a disorganised mess. He wiped a hand across his eyes repeatedly, as if he could physically remove the images he’d seen from his irises.

Bleary-eyed, he felt his way through his cabin until he reached his desk. White-knuckled hands held onto it as he drew in a deep breath. Calm. He had to be calm. The lump forming in his throat was swallowed with great difficulty, and soon his rapid pants gave way to ragged breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut until he felt his heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm. Then, he opened them.

His cabin was as he’d left it the previous night: an utter mess. Charts both old and new, books and scrolls both well-worn and fresh, covered his desk. Navigational tools sat disused on shelves and in boxes. Only his clothes and equipment were organised with any sort of care, hung as they were from rails set into the ceiling. Still in a daze, Sjan-dehk shifted items across his desk without any real thought.

As the shock of the nightmare wore off, embarrassment and annoyance quickly took its place. None of the images his mind had conjured were anything new. He’d had this nightmare before, among others; it should be something he was used to, by now. Or at least something he knew how to deal with.

He breathed in deeply through his nose and pushed himself away from his desk. It’d just been a long time since he even had the time to have nightmares, he told himself. Between fighting a war, clearing the seas of pirates, and the stress of the voyage to Sorian, every night in recent years had ended with him so tired that he fell into dreamless sleep. But now? He had no pressing matters to attend to. Nothing that called for so much attention that it would distract his mind from whatever it was that haunted him, at least.

He grunted as he threw on his clothes. Selfish as it was, he couldn’t help but miss the war. Or just combat in general. There was nothing quite like the rush of a fight to take the mind off of things.

A blue outer tunic went over a thinner, white counterpart. Sjan-dehk deftly tied the laces on his right with a single hand. “It’s all over,” he muttered to himself. Peace was a good thing, he knew. It pleased him to no end that his homeland was no longer torn apart by bloody conflict. Yet at the same time, he feared it. One day it would catch up to him, and then what could he do? All he’d ever known was sailing and fighting and the open sea.

And the water. Dark, icy water.

Sjan-dehk hissed as he squeezed his eyes shut once more. He had to stop thinking about that. It wouldn’t do him any good. He gritted his teeth and tightened his sword belt around his waist. Routine. He just had to focus on that. Sword belt, then shoulder belts. His sabres came next, sliding neatly into their frogs on either side of his body. Then his four pistols, one into each holster. He grabbed his hat on his way out of the cabin and into the bright, morning sun warming the deck of his Sada Kurau.

He breathed in the crisp air and made his way to the quarterdeck. There, he found Azwan and Avek both looking out at something towards the city. “Morning,” Sjan-dehk greeted with a nod. Whatever traces of his earlier turmoil had been wiped clean from his face and voice. Before his crew, he could be nothing but the unflappable and sometimes mischievous captain they all knew him as.

“Good morning, Captain,” the two men greeted in turn, accompanied by salutes. Sjan-dehk joined them at the guardrail.

“We’re just looking at the beach.” Azwan gestured to the sandy shores. Crowds of people were gathered by the waterside. Some had carts with them, others seemed to be carrying boats of some sort. Most were just enjoying themselves in the shallows or playing on the sand. “Looks like there’s something going on.”

Sjan-dehk nodded. “Worth a look, I suppose. Not like I’ve got anything going on today.”

Avek smirked. “Don’t you have a date later?”

A flush came over Sjan-dehk’s cheeks. “I-It’s not a date,” he stuttered, much to his dismay. He’d spent the previous day with Kalliope as she showed him around Sorian. Along the way, she managed to convince him to join her at a masquerade ball to be held later tonight. They'd even gone shopping for what they'd wear together. Sjan-dehk cleared his throat. “She’s attending a banquet or feast of some sort later. I’ll simply be her escort. That’s only polite, after all she did for me.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Avek said, his grin still pulling on his lips. “But I thought you hated those sorts of things, Captain. Strange that you agreed.”

Sjan-dehk tugged on the collar of his shirts. Mursi wasn’t wrong; Sjan-dehk did carry a special disdain for anything formal. But he didn’t quite mind Kalliope’s company, if he had to be honest. She was pleasant to be around, and he thought they got along well enough. There was no real reason for him to turn her down, and besides, he may as well get used to how Caesonian nobles did things. He’d have to mingle with them a lot more in the near future, he imagined. Might as well take the chance while he could to attend at least one such event with someone he actually liked.

“It’s…A special situation,” he replied awkwardly.

“Special, is it?” Avek quipped. “She must be quite the wo–”

“I’m sorry, Master Avek, but are you jealous that Master Mursi gets to clean the latrines?” Sjan-dehk cut in with an arched brow. “I can have you join him, if that’s the case.”

“Understood, Captain. I’ll say no more.” Avek looked back out towards the beach. “Think we could give the people a show? Sail the Sada Kurau right across their eyes while they’re having fun.”

Azwan shot him a piercing look. “What for, Master Avek? The Sada Kurau is a warship, not a showboat.”

Avek shrugged. “Fun, I suppose. Besides, haven’t you noticed the worried looks people have been giving us when they walk past? Not sure if everyone’s as at ease with our visit as we may think.” He met Azwan’s gaze and continued. “I mean, think about it. We’re armed to the teeth and we don’t speak their language at all.” He glanced at Sjan-dehk. “Not most of us, at least. We should do something to let them know that we’re friendly. Peaceful, at least.”

Sjan-dehk considered his words, then rested his arms on the guardrail. “You just want to show off, Avek. I know you too well.”

“Guilty as charged, Captain.”

Chewing on his lip, Sjan-dehk continued to mull over Avek’s suggestion. He wasn’t wrong; it would do his Sada Kurau and his crew some good to show some goodwill. Already, he’d had to punish several men for what likely stemmed from simply misunderstandings. “Don’t think we can do it even if we want to,” he said and tilted his chin towards the shoreline. “Look at the colour of the water. It’s too shallow. Chances are that we’ll run aground if we want to get close enough for any good.”

And if that happened, a hole would be torn in his Sada Kurau’s hull, and water would flood in.

Dark, icy. Sjan-dehk closed his eyes again to banish the thought, his jaw clenched. He looked down at the water. Inky black. Shouts of a desperate boy. A hand sticking out of churning waves. No, he couldn’t allow himself to go down this path. He squeezed his eyes balled his hands into loose fists. He couldn't allow a mere dream to play tricks on his mind.

“Captain?” It was Avek, the usual mirth in his voice replaced by concern.

“I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well,” Sjan-dehk replied quickly and opened his eyes with a long sigh. “I’ll have a look at what’s going on at the beach later.” He looked down at the water again. This time, golden shimmers rippled upon gentle, cerulean waves. It was bright. Vibrant, even, and not at all dark. With a nod to the two men, Sjan-dehk turned and walked away. All was well and all was fine. He just had to keep telling himself that.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Sjan-dehk & Kalliope

---

Part Two

The beach, as Kalliope had described it, was perfect for the ritual. What few people that were present had better things to do than to gawk at the Sudah’s crew that were disembarking their boats. Those that were already ashore had already been put to work; some were assembling a stone square with loose rocks and mud whilst others unloaded stacked wooden beams and planks within its boundaries. “It’s a beautiful night indeed,” Sjan-dehk remarked and drew in a deep breath of the crisp, night air.

“Captain Wasun,” a voice called out to him. It didn’t sound too happy. “I didn’t think you would join us.”

Sjan-dehk sighed and turned. “Well, I changed my mind, Captain Kaisahn.”

The man who commanded the Sudah was a mirror of his vessel. Large, bulky, and with all of the airs of someone important. His beady eyes looked down over his prominent nose as Sjan-dehk, who looked back with arms folded and brow arched. “Well, it’s good that you’re here. Had you done your duty-”

“Are you implying I didn’t?” Sjan-dehk interrupted and unfolded his arms. One of his hands dropped to the grip of his sword. There was barely-hidden anger in his voice when he spoke once more. “Had you done yours, Captain, none of us would need to be here. My duty was to protect your ship, and that’s what we did. Yours was to keep Sudah out of danger in the first place, which you didn’t.”

Captain Kaisahn’s eyes narrowed. “You overstep your boundaries, Captain. You may be a Lesser Marquis, but remember which ship takes precedence.”

“This is merely talk between Captains,” Sjan-dehk replied. “I warned you that our ships were too far apart and you didn’t listen. Now I’m telling you that I did what I could based on what you ordered. I’m surprised, Captain Kaisahn. Officer such as yourself, you should know how this works. It’s how we’ve always done things throughout the war.” Kaisahn bristled, and Sjan-dehk knew that he’d hit a sore point. “Oh, I meant no offence. Sometimes it slips my mind that some of us never actually fought.”

The Sudah’s Captain didn’t reply immediately. He pressed his lips into a thin line, then turned his attention towards Kalliope. “And who is this? You’re inviting strangers to our rituals now, Captain Wasun?” Kalliope smirked up at the man, wiggling her fingers as a greeting to him. She'd been silent so far through the whole exchange.

“She has her reasons to be here,” Sjan-dehk replied and placed himself between her and the mountain of a man. “Nothing that I'm in any position to say, and nothing that you need to know. She’s my guest.”

Kaishan’s eyes narrowed. “It’s my crew that we’re sending off, Captain Wasun. I have the final say.”

“And she has her reasons to be here.” Sjan-dehk knew that it would make things all the simpler if he just told Kaisahn everything that Kalliope had told him, but it didn’t feel right to do so. Something that personal, something with so much meaning to her, that wasn’t anything he had any right to decide to share on his own. All the same, he could see where Kaisahn was coming from. If Sjan-dehk was here to send off any of his Sada Kurau’s crew, he’d likely be just as prickly. “We won’t disturb anything. I’ll take responsibility for her if it makes you feel any better.”

Kaisahn grunted and waved his hand dismissively. “Do what you want,” he growled. “But if she makes a fool or a mess of anything, you will have to answer for it, Captain.”

With that, he stalked off.

Sjan-dehk turned to Kalliope and sighed. “Sorry. You’re really seeing the worst of us today,” he said with a sheepish smile on his face. “Kaisahn’s a cunt on good days, and it bloody hurts me to speak in defense of him, but he’s got good reason to be one today, at least.” He jerked his head towards the bonfire that was steadily being built. “It’s never a good feeling to lose any of your crew. It doesn’t excuse him being rude to you, but…” He trailed off and sighed. “I can understand where he’s coming from.”

"He certainly seems like quite the ass, but I understand all too well how the loss of people you care about can affect you." She said as she gave him a soft smile.

He remained silent for a moment, but then quickly recovered. “We should get ready,” he said and tilted his head towards the bonfire. To give credit where it was due, the crew of the Sudah had built it in good time, even after accounting for the number of hands they had working on it. Now, they stood in orderly rows and columns in front and on the left of the bonfire. Sjan-dehk led Kalliope to the right, where the two of them stood alone. “We arrange ourselves by ship,” he explained in a quiet whisper. “For now, just stand still.”

A robed figure stepped out of the middle block of men. Their hands were pressed to their chest, one over the other, but they slowly raised them to the sky as they approached the stone square. “To these foreign lands, so far from home, we sailed,” she intoned. Hoarse and creaky as her voice was, it still rang in the silence of the night. “For those whom we left behind, we accepted risk. For the betterment of all, we turned our prows to the unknown.”

The words were different from what Sjan-dehk remembered, but he supposed that a change to suit their current circumstances was warranted. Proper, even. “When it’s time to say anything, just repeat after me or keep quiet,” he muttered to Kalliope from the corner of his mouth.

“We, fated to live, have lived. For that, we give thanks to Sea and Sky.”

“Wind and Waves carry us,” Sjan-dehk recited in unison with everyone else.

Kalliope glanced briefly at Sjan-dehk as he began speaking, doing her best to repeat the words just as he instructed her to. Her voice was a lot more quiet, however, as she didn't wish to disturb anyone in case she messed up.

“And may they guide us home.” The robed woman turned around, her arms and eyes still directed towards the starry sky overhead. She closed her eyes, and breathed in deep. “And may we bring those no longer with us to their Gods, their Ancestors, and their Homes.”

“Their names be whispered on the wind forevermore.”

The robed woman nodded to someone else in the congregation, and a man stepped out carrying a blazing torch. He approached the bonfire reverently and stood unmoving before it. “Now may the dead gaze upon our light. May they know that their sacrifice was not in vain. May their souls rest easy.”

“And may a kinder world greet them.”

With a nod, the robed woman gave the torchbearer the signal to light the bonfire. Though weak at first, the flames and sparks quickly spread and soon the beach was illuminated by the roaring fire. Waves of heat washed over Sjan-dehk, but he stood still like a statue. “All must end someday.” The robed woman was now shouting to make herself heard over the fire. “But all will start in time. Grieve not their passing, and shed no tears, but celebrate their life, and hope to find them upon verdant shores, within hallowed halls, and upon gentle waves!”

“May we all be as fortunate!” Sjan-dehk caught his breath before turning to Kalliope. “Follow me. I’ll do this part with you,” he said as he marched himself towards the fire. Several others were doing the same, some with items in their hands which they tossed into the flame, others with nothing but words. “We burn gifts for the dead,” Sjan-dehk explained. As they approached the bonfire, the heat became more and more intense and oppressive. “Give them something to do wherever they go, you know? But words can be enough.”

He stopped a short distance away from the fire. “You should go first,” he said to Kalliope with a gentle smile. “I think you’ve got more right than I do.”

A flush came to Kalliope's cheeks as she realized she didn't have any sort of gift on her other than the necklace, but she figured Izahn would be offended if she burnt that. So words would have to do, but as she approached the fire she realized she wasn't sure what to say. What would be the most meaningful words? She stood there awkwardly for a long moment, but then she realized what she could say. Or more so, sing. She would gift him a song, something from her heart and that she'd once sung to him before.

The notes drifted from her, a siren's song full of heartache and feeling. While the song was one of something happier, the tears now falling down her cheeks spoke of her grief. The last notes left her and she stood there silent for a moment longer before turning and moving back next to Sjan-dehk. "Apologies if that wasn't appropriate, it just felt right."

“No, you did nothing wrong,” Sjan-dehk replied softly, his voice barely heard over the roaring flames. A song was the last thing he’d expected from her, and he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel the emotions lacing her words in his soul. He cleared his throat. “It was beautiful. You sing very well. I’m sure Izahn heard and felt it as much as I did.”

Now it was his turn, and truth be told, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t have anything to burn for Izahn, nor did he know enough about the man to offer anything beyond bland platitudes, and those were surely not at all appropriate for the occasion. He drew in a deep breath. The scent of burning wood and thick, soupy air charred their way into his lungs. “I don’t know you, Izahn,” he began. The truth was always a good place to start. “But I know what you did. I don’t know how you lived, but I know you died well. My name is Wasun Sjan-dehk. You likely knew my father as your lord. That we could not save your life is our failure. That I will tell your people of you is my promise as Fourth Lesser Marquis. Rest easy, and may you find a kinder world.”

Kalliope listened intently as Sjan-dehk spoke, his words carrying a mix of sincerity and respect. The flickering flames danced in her eyes as she absorbed his eulogy for Izahn, feeling the weight of his promise to honor the fallen man.

He stepped back and looked at Kalliope. Her tears glistened in the firelight, as did the trails they left on her cheeks. “We can go back,” he said quietly. At the same time, he undid his sash and pulled it free before handing it to her. “For your ah…” He trailed off and gestured to his own face and eyes. “Someone somewhere probably disagrees with how I’m using this thing, but it’s really just a symbol. End of the day, it’s a piece of cloth, and it’ll do what cloth does just as well.”

She glanced at his sash and briefly hesitated before gently taking it and holding it close to her chest, grateful for the small yet meaningful offering. She softly dabbed her eyes, surprisingly not all that embarrassed for showing her emotions in front of him.

Her voice was soft, carrying a touch of melancholy as she responded to him, her gaze fixed on the burning pyre. "Thank you, Sjan-dehk," she said, her voice tinged with a mixture of sadness and gratitude. "Your words for Izahn were truly heartfelt. I'm certain his spirit felt the warmth and sincerity in your tribute."

The ceremony didn’t last too long after that. It never did, in Sjan-dehk’s experience; after saying their goodbyes and giving their offerings, nobody wanted to linger around. There was work to be done. Memories of the dead should never stagnate the living, as it’d been written, after all. After a few final words by the robed woman, the crowd started to dissipate. Men returned to the boats whilst others stayed by the water’s edge for a moment longer. Kalliope remained by Sjan-dehk's side, the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air. Her gaze followed the departing mourners, silently paying her respects to their shared loss.

“I’ve to thank you,” Sjan-dehk said to Kalliope as he watched the rest go about their business. “If you weren’t here, Izahn would’ve had to be sent-off by a stranger.” He looked back at the city for a moment. “I’ll be going back to Sada Kurau. We have an early day tomorrow and I told the men to sleep early. Have to lead by example, you know?”

She turned her attention back to Sjan-dehk then as he expressed his gratitude for her presence during the somber occasion. A gentle smile curved her lips, though sadness still lingered in her eyes. "I'm glad I could be here with you, Sjan-dehk," she replied softly. "Your kindness and generosity in including me in this is something that means more to me than I can even express."

Her gaze shifted toward the distant lights of the city, a touch of longing in her voice. "Returning to Sada Kurau sounds like the responsible choice and it honestly sounds nicer than what I have to do," she acknowledged. "Your crew are fortunate to have a captain who leads by example and cares."

A brief pause followed, the crackling of the fire filling the silence between them. Kalliope took a step closer, a gentle breeze rustling her hair as she held his sash out for him. "I suppose I should also make my way into town as I have a few things I need to do before the night ends," she said, a small smile gracing her lips. She paused for a second, considering a way to repay him for his kindness. "If you aren't too busy over the next few days, perhaps you'd allow me to show you around Sorian? I promise to make it far more enjoyable than some of the other stuffy nobles who might take up the task."

Sjan-dehk could feel his cheeks heat at the rapid succession of compliments. He left out a quiet, nervous chuckle and pulled the brim of his hat a little lower over his eyes. “You flatter me. I don’t think I did that much,” he said. He honestly didn’t; bringing Kalliope here had nothing to do with him as a person. It was simply the right thing to do – Izahn deserved to be sent off properly, and Sjan-dehk could hardly do that himself.

He looked out at the sea. “It’ll take a while before I can do anything about that promise. Still not sure how long we’re planning on staying here.” He chewed on his lip for a moment. Being stuck in harbour – as that was essentially his situation – sat poorly with him, even if it was due to no one’s fault in particular. He looked back at Kalliope. “But it has to be done. That’s the Way as all of us are taught.”

When Kalliope reached out with his sash, Sjan-dehk gently placed his hand on hers and pushed it back. “It’s alright. You can keep it for now. No one’s going to miss the bloody thing, least of all me. You can give it back some other day.” He took a step towards the city and glanced over his shoulder at her with a grin. “Or tomorrow, if you don’t mind showing me around then. I’d be more than happy to have you give me the tour than some noble who likely doesn’t want to be there and doesn’t know their way around beyond the castle walls.”

He beckoned for her to follow. “If you don’t mind, I can walk with you until we need to go our separate ways.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Interactions: Kalliope @Tae
Mentions:
Time: 1800

Her question proved to be harder to answer than Sjan-dehk had thought. Diverse as Viserjanta was, it was impossible to give Kalliope any set of specific guidelines. Every province, every island, and every race had their own unique practices. From Izahn’s name, Sjan-dehk guessed that he belonged to the same people as Azwan. Then again, he could very well have lived amongst another culture and thus adopted their ways instead. That wasn’t exactly something unheard of. Sjan-dehk, however, didn’t want to make any silly and unnecessary assumptions, and so he gave the safest answer there was.

“Just come as you are,” he said with a smile. That wasn’t entirely wrong. He hadn’t heard of a culture that required mourners to wear specific colours. Sure, some would say that white or black were appropriate for such sad occasions – not yet, at least – but they were really just guidelines more than anything else. It was more important that a mourner showed themselves truly and without masks. “Wouldn’t want Izahn to not recognise you. Besides, this is really more of a navy tradition. Minor details aren’t important. What is, is that we pay the dead our respects and bid them a safe journey to wherever they go.”

By now, the sun had dashed beneath the horizon. Sjan-dehk swore that there was at least half-an-hour or even more of light left in the day, but the twinkling light of the first stars overhead told him just how wrong he had been. “We should move,” he said to Kalliope before gesturing to the raised lantern hooks hanging over the guardrails. “My men will soon be lighting the ship for the night. Should’ve been earlier, but I doubt anyone suspected that it’d get this dark, this fast. I’d suggest that we get out of their way.”

Sjan-dehk led her back down the ship, although much slower this time. The faint, orange glow of lanterns and lamps illuminated hatches, racks and buckets of arms, stairs, and anything else that might prove to be a hazard in the dark of night. “Anyway,” he began and stepped aside to get out of the way of a man racing towards the bow with an unlit lantern in hand. “I wouldn’t worry about anyone getting offended. Mourning is for everyone. Anyone who does is obviously a pedant and I for one take joy in their anger. Maybe one day one of their heads would actually explode as they keep saying.”

There was a touch of dry mirth in his voice towards the end. He was, of course, referring to all the people of high status aboard the Sudah. Aside from Lady Adiyan, of course. She wouldn’t care too much about the specifics of the ceremony, but the rest? They were slaves to rites and rituals. They’d likely want things to be as by the book as possible. If there wasn’t a book – as was the case with most navy traditions – they would simply take guidelines as rules.

Well, not like Sjan-dehk cared much about what they wanted or liked. They could moan and complain and whine all they liked, but as far as he was concerned, Kalliope had a good reason to be there. Whether she was a Viserjantan like them was irrelevant. And despite his misgivings, Sjan-dehk was certain that if he simply explained what was going on – and if they cared enough to listen – they might even agree, even if begrudgingly.

He led her up the steps to the quarterdeck, where his men had already placed lanterns at regular intervals along the guardrail. They bathed the wooden deck in flickering, warm light. Overhead, the canted yard of the mizzenmast swayed gently in the breeze. “The rudder’s right below us,” Sjan-dehk said and tapped his foot on the deck. “We use a more complicated system to get it turning. It’s a lot more ropes and tackles to maintain, but it shifts faster. Makes us a harder target to hit when we’re moving, and makes it easier for us to get our guns to bear. That’s saved all our lives more than once.”

Looking off in the direction of the Sudah, he could see her almost fully illuminated, with her furled sails and hull and deck bathed in light. The lanterns at the very tops of her masts were like lamps in a lighthouse amidst the darkness. She certainly was an impressive sight. It was just a shame that her crew wasn't as impressive. Now that it was truly night, it likely wouldn't be long before her captain called for her crew to start disembarking for the closest beach. Sjan-dehk hoped that there wouldn't be too many people there; to say that it would make for an awkward encounter would be an understatement. "Don't suppose we had to ask anyone's permission before using the beach?" He said in a half-joke, glancing sideways at Kalliope with a grin. Then, realising that he should probably explain, continued with, "We usually have a small ceremony on a beach whenever possible. It shouldn't take too long. It's really not that big, but it's the meaning behind it that counts."

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Interactions: Kalliope @Tae
Mentions:
Time: 1800

“Did you know that most of their navy can’t swim?”

Sjan-dehk could see the humour in Kalliope’s words. Really, he could. A navy which hired – and a captain who accepted, for that matter – men who were helpless once thrown overboard? Just the very thought of it invited derisive laughter and bemusement. Had this been the Sjan-dehk of half-a-decade past hearing that piece of information, he would’ve done and felt just that. He’d been a proud sailor, then. One that could be considered a veteran of countless actions, but a complete stranger to the savagery of open war.

The Sjan-dehk of today merely kept the polite smile on his face. It faltered momentarily, but it recovered in a flash. Perhaps Kalliope caught it, perhaps not. It didn’t quite matter. His mind was already dragging him back to devastated seas of old.

Recruiting landsmen – those uninitiated by the sea – was a sad but necessary reality of war. Or any navy that reached a certain size, in fact. His Sada Kurau, considered a small ship by Viserjantan standards, had a complement of a hundred-and-fifty men. The true warships, those which could fire around thirty guns per broadside, were crewed by close to three hundred. And the numbers only got higher from there. The huge two-hundred gun flagships – vessels slightly smaller than the Sudah but built for battle – needed close to a thousand men. It was simply impossible to expect everyone from cabin boy to gunner; from marine to carpenter; from helmsman to steward, to be an able man-of-the-sea. Not every position needed such men, in any case, and so landsmen were perfect choices for work that took place on or below decks, where it was less likely that they would fall into the sea.

But as the war dragged on and ships were lost with their crews, the more desperate the navy became for manpower. By the latter half of the second year, it wasn’t at all uncommon for newly-commissioned ships to be crewed largely by landsmen. Such vessels would sail as well as any other, of course, but it was only when they sank did their deadly shortcomings become apparent. Sjan-dehk could still vividly remember the aftermaths of some battles, where the sea was filled with despairing men either clinging to flotsam or floundering as they drowned. The decks of his Sada Kurau would already be packed with survivors, and they’d be unable to rescue any more lest they founder amidst rough waves.

And so there was only one thing they could do. Between a slow death by exposure and predators, and a quick one by bullet, it was clear which was the merciful option.

Sjan-dehk breathed in deeply through his nose. That was simply the nature of war. Some would live, some would die. And for the latter, not all had the luxury of dying well. Sjan-dehk could consider himself lucky for avoiding an inglorious end.

And in any case, the war was over. There was no point dwelling on it. No point at all.

“I haven’t actually seen any ships of your navy, actually,” he said after clearing his throat. “So I’m not going to say much about them or their crews, but I can say with confidence that everyone aboard Sada Kurau is able to swim. She wouldn’t accept anything less.” The cheeky grin returned to his face. Thinking about the endearing quirks of his ship always did that. A wild and unbridled sailor, she didn’t treat those who weren’t on good terms with the sea kindly. The few landsmen that had been amongst his crew had quickly turned themselves into able seamen under her less-than-gentle tutelage.

He was about to apologise for his extended silence – if she’d noticed it – or suggest that they move on to another part of the ship when Kalliope started explaining how she’d learned his language. Although to be quite honest, he was a little lost at the start, when she spoke about the ship she once owned and the lover she once had. Whatever questions he had, however, quickly went flying from his mind when she started to disrobe. He didn’t even care about the glint of blades or the fact that she had them on her this whole time, he just held his hands out in front of him, as if ready to pull the jacket back over her shoulders.

Then, he saw the wounds, and he instantly recognised them for what they were. He’d seen more than his fair share of them. “Who-” he began, but he needn't have bothered. Kalliope soon continued with her story, and he fell back into silence as he listened with rapt attention. With each word and each recollection of the turbulent life she’d had, his natural smile faded until it disappeared into a deadly serious expression. There was nothing in what she said that was new to him. He’d seen it all before. It was the unjustness that made him irate. Yes, Viserjantan sentenced convicts to labour as well, but as far as he knew, any good justiciar worth their name would’ve revealed a framed suspect for the innocent that they way long before a case even got to a magistrate’s table.

And there was also the case of Izahn. A Viserjantan – no, a Jafin – imprisoned and executed by Alidashti hands. The Commonwealth’s approach to their people in other nations was simple; they were responsible for their own actions and were subject to the laws of their gracious hosts. But to be sentenced to what was essentially an eternal sentence for petty theft seemed unreasonable. So what if the victim was of high and noble blood? Kings and queens governed the common folk, but before the law, all were equals. Such was the Way of the Great Harmony.

By the time Kalliope was done, Sjan-dehk’s jaw was set and he could feel the indignation simmering in his heart. When he looked down and into her nervous eyes, however, it all vanished. Replacing it was naught but deep shame. Just what sort of person was he? That after she shared something so personal, all he could think of was his own feelings? That was certainly not becoming of him. His cheeks flushed from the embarrassment, and he glanced away.

For a moment, he said nothing as he tried to think of the perfect thing to say. Then, realising that no such thing existed, he settled for something that was merely suitable. “This Izahn,” he began and placed both hands on the guardrail, looking down at the gnarled wood. “I don’t know how he lived, and I won’t speak on his character, but I can say he died Jafin. He died Viserjantan.” He paused, wondering how he was going to explain that in a way that didn’t sound too dismissive or flippant of the matter. “By our ways, there is no difference between blood and adopted kin. You were, to him, as true a child as those he had with his wife, and how can a father simply sit and watch as his daughter’s abused?”

He looked up at the city for a moment, and let out a long breath. When he spoke, his words came out with a touch of exasperation despite his best efforts. “It’s small comfort, I know, and damn do I wish I could say something better, but all I’m saying is that Izahn died well.” That was definitely not at all proper. Now he had one more thing to clarify on top of what he was already trying to put across. He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “Sorry. What I meant to say is that we Viserjantans, especially Jafins like us, we all wish to live and die by the Way of the Great Harmony. It guides us in life. Points us towards the truth and helps us stay moral in an immoral world. When Izahn saw you beaten, the Way gave him a choice, and he chose to do what a father should, and protect his daughter despite the risks.”

Pushing himself off the guardrail, he looked at her, and bowed his head. “For what it’s worth, I think it was the bravest of choices. Can’t say I know many people who’d do the same in that situation. I don’t know if I could, myself.” Looking back up, he offered her a little smile. Not a cheeky grin or mischievous smirk, but a genuine, emotive one. “Izahn’s soul rests with the Mother of the Waves now, as will all Jafin souls. May he find calm waters and verdant shores.”

Sjan-dehk had never really been a devout person. Temples and shrines were simply places he went out of ritual and custom. But now? It just felt like the right thing to say, and he silently thanked his old court tutors for making him remember those simple words. He nodded at her pendant. “We’ll have to make sail for Jafi eventually some day. If you’re free and able, you’re more than welcome to join us when that day comes. It would be my pleasure to assist you in some way with such a virtuous quest.” It would by no means be an easy task – the march of Jafi consisted of several islands, each of them with their own cities, towns, and villages – but it was the right thing to do. The man’s family deserved answers. His name, at least, had to be returned to his familial temple.

Sjan-dehk gestured in the vague direction of the Sudah anchored off-shore. “We have a custom, that upon reaching harbour, we’ll remember those we lost along the way. The crew of that other ship's doing it tonight. I wasn’t going to attend since Sada Kurau lost no one, but now that you’ve told me about Izahn, it’s only right that I send him off properly. If you want, you're welcome to join me.” He looked out at the horizon. “He probably paid my family homage at some point, you know? Clan Wasun, protectors of Jafi and whatnot. We all have our obligations. He did his, so I must do mine.”

And he would, to the best of his abilities. If there was one Viserjantan held in Alidashti captivity, then it was reasonable to suspect that there were more. Sjan-dehk had been dreading the prospect of having to meet with more foreign dignitaries, but for those particular nobles? He couldn’t wait. He had so many questions to ask.