crescentview | summer catchall

( What a meeting, huh!

In the days following Van Zieks's town hall, Mishka has largely recovered, barring a few wiggly feelings here and there, which he chalks up, largely, to his insects (and what he thinks, but needs to test, are a few abilities returning— what a relief). He and Amber set to work on fixing up the farm, and he took the chance to get some renovations done with the squares he had. Phew!

All that productivity done, he's out and about being product in a more fun way— the beach. A little later in the afternoon (after the worst of the heat has past), Mishka is working on his sand castles along the shoreline. They're unimpressive, looking much more like domes than anything, but he's decorated them with some seashells he's grabbed from a nearby tidepool.

The shell at the summit, as it turns out, is a hermit crab, and he notices it's emerging from its shell with an interest in skittering away. )

My, you're the crown of the design, you know. What will I do without you?

( He says this, but he picks it up by the further tip of the shell (startling it back in, alas) and sets it back on the nearby rocks— and off it gladly skitters.

For his part, he's wearing a sunhat, sleeveless crop top, one of those loose, long beach wraps at the waist, and sandals, because he has felt like he will overheat and die all summer. )

Edited 2023-01-25 08:55 (UTC)

[ Trahearne has taken to wandering the beach in his more idle moments, for no more purpose than watch the gulls and listen to the waves and find a moment to breathe, alone.

The novelty of the beach and the warm weather seems to wear off as time goes on. And after the whirlwind that was the town meeting and the subsequent hurricane, plus the repairs that followed, he's found the beach emptier and emptier. Why that is will remain a mystery to him. Perhaps that's just him, though--after a lifetime of putrid sands and rancid waters, who could blame him for wanting to come back over and over?

And so a familiar face in the midst of it all is a welcome surprise. When he sees Mishka, he sets his course towards the other. He's close enough to hear the little exchange with the hermit crab, and he smiles a bit at the display of kindness to the little creature.

When he sits down besides Mishka with a quiet rustle, he has in his hand a humble, but nice-looking shell--empty of hermit crabs, of course. It rests in the palm of his hand as he extends it. ]

Hello.

( Mishka senses the presence of another not too far off, but does not pay it much mind until it approaches him. By the time he lifts his head, he sees a familiar green and a familiar face— and he pauses, before his usual smile is overtaken by a much broader one. )

Oh? Thank you. ( He glances at the open palm, and seems pleased by the donation. With a careful touch, he scoops up the shell. ) Have you been faring well after the hurricane?

( He's going to set the shell about where the crab used to be, then twist it in slightly so it sits in nicely. A nice new crown for his sand dome :) )

We have. The damage was not as terrible as the wind made it out to be.

[ Trahearne observes the sand castle for a moment, admiring Mishka's handiwork. He lets his mouth hang open absently for a moment, about to ask the same question in turn--courtesy, genuine concern, an effort to maintain a friendly relationship--when a very, very funny realization crosses his mind.

His eyes drift over the horizon, a brush of gold coloring his cheeks for the briefest moment. ]

--I realise I never got your name.

( The golden hue is charming— same as Syrlya's, he notices. He supposes there's no reason they ought to blush any different color, in the same way that humans all blush about the same color; still, it's a discovery he finds privately amusing.

Almost as amusing as Trahearne's question. A corner of his lip turns up into a grin. )

Ah, it's so belated I almost feel as if I should withhold it, if only to maintain an air of mystery.

( But he jokes, mostly because of the way they'd met and how they'd gone about it (mostly Mishka's fault; he knows that). )

Mishka— just Mishka. Trahearne, yes? Someone mentioned your name offhand, I think, during the meeting. A pleasure to speak with you sober.

( The drinking portion, he means. That person was Syrlya, but... Once again considering how they met, he doesn't feel inclined to mention it.

His voice, then falls lower for just one moment: )

I don't kiss and tell, by the by. So we can keep all that between us.

[ Mishka's initial remark earns a quiet chuckle from Trahearne, who turns his attention back to the other as he does. Even if Mishka never did tell him his name, Trahearne would insist--never has he found someone he's connected with on a level like that before. If at least to know who it was he was connecting with.

Well. Not like a lot of that memory is very clear between all those glasses of wine. But his emotional reaction is still very fresh in his proverbial heart.

He nods. He makes no inquiries as to who told him, though. He knows he stands out--many people would know his name, he reckons. ]

It's a genuine pleasure to know your name, Mishka. And rest assured, I don't either. [ And he knows that word gets around very quickly around these parts. So for that, he's grateful. This will stay between them. ]

I hope you've been doing all right in the meanwhile. You seem well, either way.

( What's interesting is figuring out what Trahearne is like sober. While the meeting blurs together drunk, he remembers some number of salient things about him (well, it would be hard not to, considering most of those things pertained to the depths of his feelings, and Syrlya), but even in his answer here Mishka sees slight difference. Lack of alcohol does make one more composed— especially so for Trahearne, it seems. )

The hangover was particularly difficult, ( his grimace doesn't show on his face but in the slight way his fingers curl into a small scoop of sand. ) but it's true I'm well enough. Myself and my farmland partner made it through the hurricane sturdier than before.

You seem much better, yourself.

( No longer in tears, at least!

But Trahearne is not the only one who recalls the connection between them. It is something Mishka has not directly acknowledged to himself, because it is— strange, connecting with a person that way. It is more than fondness, but not quite attachment; it's something he doesn't have a name for.

"We're strangely alike," is a sentence he doesn't know how to begin with while sober. "Are you feeling any better?" is a strange conversation when, he thinks, it might invite Trahearne to ask after him and Adelis.

He has the sense Trahearne remembers, too, though he doesn't know if their combined memory amounts to much. Still, the sensation of mutual understanding remains.

He seems to consider his next thought, while he tries to shape a window into his dome (they don't entirely hold). )

... If you'll forgive the idle thought, I think I'm seeing more of you now than I did the other night. ( He does say this with genuine amusement. ) Are you that fond of beaches? Or is broader exposure to the sun better for you?

( He fashions another window arch, with also proves prone to collapse. )

[ He is better, all things considering. Mid-summer was a lot, and getting something he'd been holding in for so long out like that has felt...good. He's felt lighter. For the first time since coming here, he's felt like he's found an end to his tangle of feelings, and he's slowly sorting everything out. His doubts will always be there, of course, but he feels confident enough now that he has hope. Which is, in all honesty, pretty rare.

So his smile broadens. Not many would notice, but it touches him that Mishka does. Thanks, bro.

His astute observation that he is more "undressed" than he was during their affair only strengthens the gold flush on his cheeks, and he gives a little laugh. Rare, those are. ]

I was under the impression that it was custom to be in a relative state of undress at the beach. [ His eyes briefly skim Mishka, and he comes to the same conclusion. He's not worried about being modest or coy or secretive about that.

Though in his scanning, he sees Mishka's troubles. ]

You may want to add more water to your sand. I'll fetch you some.

[ So Trahearne gets up and wanders to the water's edge... Enjoy the eyeful of plant ass my guy. ]

Is that the missing ingredient, then? It's appreciated.

( Water... So simple and yet so elusive...

But wow, there he go. )

Still, there is undress, and then there is undress, yes? Not that I complain, mind— you cut a handsome figure.

( Fortunately for Mishka, much of his physical preoccupations are fleeting and aesthetic, largely, so leaf coverups don't trouble him much.

That said, he can't say he knows how much one is meant to strip on the beach, and others he's seen here have been down to what amounts to a few pieces of string (swimsuits) to an Ostoyan. Underclothes are not so bare as that! But such is the culture here. )

We haven't really functional beaches where I'm from— the waters range from unsafe to dangerous, and the shores no better. I'll confess it's a pleasant thing, experiencing this all fresh.

[ Yes, have your water, Mishka! How? No idea. But congrats on the wet sand.

As Trahearne comes to sit back down beside him, he offers a small, sheepish smile at the compliment. He--well. He never knows how to take compliments like that. Even after all the praise others (namely, Kaeya) have showered him in. His mind scrambles for a response that doesn't come off as too flirty or self-deprecating when Mishka keeps talking.

He's a little thankful for that. ]

It is, isn't it? [ He starts idly scooping some of his own sand to make a little lump. ] While there are hospitable beaches in Tyria, I've never had the privilege to unwind at any of them. For this, I'm grateful.

( Water !!! He seems impressed by the effectiveness of the cure. He takes to sculpting his arches with a little more care, an approving look when he sees that Trahearne has started a little dome of his own. While Mishka isn't particularly an artist, he's good with fine, delicate work, and his hands move mindfully to execute the detailing now that he has more pliable material.

That Trahearne seemed to have a moment of struggle following the compliment isn't lost on him, but he'll let that sit for now. )

You seemed a very busy man. ( Based on the hazy register of information he has on Trahearne, between the dreams and alcohol. ) If you'll indulge me, I'd like to know more of you from sober lips. Ah, you know...

Do you recall the scavenger hunt questions? Why not start there, if any apply to you?

( Light and easy. )

[ It's honestly quite difficult to remember what, exactly, Trahearne said to Mishka during their meeting (he's even a bit appalled that they didn't even exchange names and still fucked). But tidbits about himself are things he's gotten used to repeating over and over, so it isn't a problem. He likes Mishka, anyway, so he doesn't mind. ]

I do recall, in fact. [ He glances up from poking holes into the mound. It seems he's trying to create...something. ] Mostly because so few applied to me.

[ He begins digging a little moat around the lump. ] I have more than three siblings--thousands, in fact--and in all honesty, I would take the goddess out for a date.

[ He doesn't look up... He has no idea if Mishka's the kind that will go feral over mention of her. ]

I owe her much.

( Mishka's dome gradually finds a more rectangular shape now that he can properly sculpt it; something more gothic in form. His hands, though, slow.

He hadn't really considered himself in debt to the Goddess (question mark) given his general aversion to entities that use others for their own amusement, but perhaps Trahearne has the right of it, in some way. She may have brought them here for her personal amusement, but it's interrupted, briefly, that endless dark, and it's let him see Adelis alive and well.

In some way though, he wonders if he is still in that void, and all this is just a figment of a fractured mind. An eerie thought, but then again— perhaps there is something good in this thought, too. That he remembers enough of what it was like before he was a beast to hallucinate about it.

His hands set to proper work again. )

It is a surprisingly pleasant break in the monotony; ( of the void, of death; ) I can't deny that. I had not thought I would see anyone again, never mind a familiar face.

( He recalls mentioning something about this, and he doesn't see the sense in being cagey about something he's fairly sure he's shared (even if it's quite embarassing to have been so loose-lipped on account of alcohol, like some common drunkard). Trahearne felt some similar way, he presumes. )

Still, thousands of siblings— all from the same mother, or sired elsewhere? I recall you speaking of her quite proudly.

[ For Trahearne, it was the blink of an eye. In one moment, he saw Syrlya's face twisted in agony and grief, and in the next, he was here, seven years older with a weight on his soul that Trahearne oh so wishes he could relieve him of. But they're not quite there yet, it seems.

Not that he ever thought he'd blink and be here, anyway. And so he nods along. Though their experiences aren't exactly the same, they're close enough. That seems to be the case for their entire budding relationship.

He looks up from drawing carefully straight lines on the lump of sand, cracking a little smile. ]

All from the same Mother Tree. We don't have a father. The nature of our "family" is often rather difficult for other races to wrap their heads around, so I'd understand if it seems strange to you. [ He dips his attention again back to drawing lines on the sand. ] Much in the way a flower can produce dozens, hundreds of seeds in a spring, so does the Pale Tree.

I suppose it makes that much more sense, when you put it like that.

( Trahearne is a plant, his mother is a tree? Quite literally, he supposes, from the sound of it. No sense trying to parse it like a human family. )

My siblings have all passed, so I can only imagine how nice it must be to have family around every corner.

( He glances at the intricate arrangement Trahearne works at, and slowly carves the sharp roofs and thick arches of his own. )

But if it's so large, that's near the size of several settlements already. Do you all get on, then?

( He seems genuinely curious, how this aspect of family intertwined with the tensions of being a society. )

[ Literal plants! Mishka, did you not notice his giant sequoia??? ]

Of course not. At some point, our numbers grew large enough that we have come to rival the other major races of Tyria. And tension naturally comes with that. [ From ideological conflict with regards to the Nightmare Court to interpersonal conflict between individual sylvari... Not everyone gets along.

Slowly, he begins shaving off a bit of sand towards one end of his sand lump. ]

I am sorry to hear about your family. [ He thinks he remembers something about his mother being gone, too. ] You have my sympathies. I suppose...deceased family does not count towards the scavenger hunt.

[ That would leave him in a tough spot, but. Oh well. ]

( Mishka nods; figures. Even family can't supersede ideological difference, he supposes. )

They passed some time ago; it's all right. ( Is it? Well, it's had to be. ) I don't believe I qualify for that, I qualify for... Working out five times a week or more and speaking two or more languages, I believe it was.

( Working at the broad, imposing windows... )

I worked with an international trade organization, for the first, and to know the languages of other lands was necessary. For the second— I can't let my body grow duller than my blade.

[ Trahearne gives a hum of interest, glancing from his very careful sculpting work to study Mishka for a moment.

When he mentions the blade, he feels like he senses something more beneath Mishka's surface (figuratively speaking--not the bugs). An interesting thought to tuck away for later. ]

Fascinating. [ It's all he says for a moment as he draws his attention back to his little work of art. ] I assume in the manner of protection--bodyguards, merchandise security, that sort. It's not often one meets a merchant concerned for physical sharpness over monetary prowess.

[ It isn't like merchants can't or shouldn't fight--the wording simply intrigues him. ]

The roads are quite dangerous whence I hail. Most, genuinely, don't survive outside of towns; this does make a merchant's job a little bit difficult.

( While it's true he did a bit more than just bodyguarding... Trahearne's assumption isn't entirely incorrect. Sitting around waiting for assassination jobs would make him useless on the payroll.

Though, what was regarded as merchandise did vary with the job. )

Still, it's vital that Ostoya has trade. The land can produce so few uncorrupted yields, the people would not survive without a flow coming and going in. It is for this reason that Ostoya's masters is willing to collaborate with my organization, as much as they prefer the country to remain isolated in their closed fists.

[ Without drawing his attention away from his work, Trahearne nods. ]

When I spoke with Adelis previously, he mentioned how sick and blighted your land was. [ For a second, he purses his lips together. Not out of pity, but out of sympathy--though he has never set foot in Ostoya himself, he knows well what a life spent in such a place would be like. Sometimes he still feels the phantom of Orrian corruption on his skin. ] I am impressed that your people insist on persevering and surviving in such a place; that must make your services especially valuable.

[ If it weren't for the continual compulsion in his mind driving him to Orr, he would have never set foot in that cursed island.

At this point, the lump in the sand is starting to look a lot like...an airship. ]

I spent much of my life in a land similar to yours. While I doubt our circumstances were very similar, I understand your hardship.

[ Trahearne was alone, for one. ]

I extend my apologies, then, that you've dealt with a land suffering as we have. I had hoped other worlds were much improved. If I can say but one thing, it is that the hostility of the land has forged its people into stubborn survivalists.

We are prone to surviving no matter the curse, no matter the cost.

( Those without the will to live did not. Those who stayed standing, and passed on their tales to their families, were those who refused death.

His castle, resembling something closer to a castle or a church (perhaps both at once?) is much less adventurous, if quite detailed. He studies Trahearne's creation for a few moments, attempting to discern its truth. He sounds curious when he speaks. )

What sort of structure is this?

[ Adelis had bristled when Trahearne extended to him the same sentiment Mishka does to him now; yet here Mishka was, offering apologies without, perhaps, knowing of life besides the wretchedness of Ostoya. Or without even knowing that Trahearne was lucky that he always had the choice, one that often went against his instincts, to leave and recuperate in Lion's Arch, or at home in the Grove.

He never thought himself lucky being so tightly bound to Orr--would he ever call the fact that he survived "stubbornness" or "tenacity," when that he managed to live through that ordeal at all simply came from fear and his desire to hide? He'll never know.

At last he looks up from his little work of art. There's a proud glint in his eye when he regards Mishka, one that admires him and his people for persevering, despite the odds against them. He wonders if people did actually choose to live on Orr, they would be like the Ostoyans.

The question, though, is a nice distraction from his memories of Orr. ]

This is an airship. [ He carefully digs a deeper moat around it, trying not to disturb the sides of the drying sand. ] The Glory of Tyria, to be more precise. The pinnacle of our technological advance, and a shining beacon of what can be done when Tyrians unite in the face of adversity.

[ It's the pride of the Pact. ]

Edited 2023-02-01 13:56 (UTC)

( Mishka doesn't know what an airship is, but he can guess just from the name. His interest renewed, he studies it more closely. )

Unite, hm. I can't imagine that's any easy task.

( While he isn't familiar with the magnitude of the achievement, he can guess; no peoples are inclined to work together in a broader scope, not even Trahearne's own, it seems, though they descend from one source. Were this Etharis, it would be an impossible ask.

So there is the wonder in Trahearne's home: that its people can unite. It is not that Mishka does not feel the same bristle of irritation, or envy, or pride, that Adelis does; some of these are simply Ostoyan traits. But Mishka is measured in keeping these feelings from taking root in him; to let himself run loose with putrid emotion would be to let the beast that he is win.

Instead, he forces himself toward patience. He forces himself toward wonder, and keeps himself from envy. )

Have you ever ridden it? The highest I've ever been is up on a spire. I cannot imagine how small the world must seem when you brush shoulders with clouds.

[ Trahearne shakes his head. It sure as hell was not. Though he did have some political basis to stand on--the charr-human peace treaty, the unsteady respect with which everyone held the asura, considering their control over travel--getting the orders, which were already multiracial organizations, to stop bickering for one second to focus their attention on Zhaitan was a stress he had never imagined in his life beforehand to be undertaking.

But they did it. And the hope they--he felt in the wake of their victory was indescribable. If only he could share that joy with the likes of Mishka and Adelis. They'd likely benefit from it. ]

I have. [ He lifts his head as a sea breeze comes over them. His eyes shut, recalling the one--and only--time he got to stand upon her deck. How full of hope he had been in that moment, too. ]

It's indescribable--the feeling of flight. One feels so indomitable from the skies. That there is nothing in this world that can hold you down.

[ His eyes peel open as he turns his attention back to Mishka. ]

I wish there was a way I could show you what it's like.

( He tries to picture it, but it's a struggle. He can think of how it feels to stand upon the tallest spire, and feel the night breeze against his face, but the clouds, and movement? Trahearne's expression suggests it must be some incredible thing. Would that Ostoya had such wonder in it.

The sentiment earns a smile from Mishka that seems just a little smaller, and then just a little softer, than all the rest he's had so far. )

... I'd have liked that.

( Mishka would like a lot of things, though, and he's used to not getting the things he wants. Instead, he focuses on the things he's lucky enough to have; no matter how small, no matter how pathetic.

Half-jokingly, he continues: )

But conversing along the shoreline with you is a certain next best thing, so I don't regret I have this, instead.

summer catchall

trahearne

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