crescentview | summer catchall

[ 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.

[ The softness of Mishka's expression takes Trahearne by mild surprise; his, in turn, softens as well. Though they've not interacted much, and though memories of their initial meeting are lost to alcohol-ridden memories, he feels like he's never seen the other man make that face before. It's hard not to mirror it.

The final remark, though, is entirely unexpected. His brows lift for a second. Talking with him being compared to flying on the Glory of Tyria is. That's a huge compliment, and he isn't sure how to take it. ]

You flatter me, Mishka. I can think of plenty of other things besides sitting here that could bring us a similar level of exhilaration.

[ But he relents, ignore the blush on his cheeks because he's not blushing. ]

But thank you. I enjoy your company.

( Mishka laughs lightly, clearly enjoying the way his leafy cheeks color. He'll let Trahearne have his pride and not call it out; he knows it's there, and that's a secret only for him. )

I'm pleased to hear it.

( He lifts his hands from the structure of his castle, which is seems both a manor and a church at once.

It doesn't hold good memories for him, like Trahearne's airship does (lol), but his thoughts always circle back here. )

Perhaps you might understand, having spent time in a land adjacent to Ostoya in nature, but I've found that it's best not to underestimate the value of good company. It's both a rare and fleeting thing.

Though, I'm quite curious what else it is you have in mind, that might involve the two of us. ( He says that with a bit of a ;) tone, but he'll offer Trahearne an out from that teasing: ) More fantastical tales, perhaps?

[ The blush fades and a smile takes over. He does understand--having spent so many years alone in Orr, ostracized because of Orr, it was rare to find genuine company. He would gladly include Mishka among those small numbers.

For a moment, he looks at Mishka's impressive sandcastle, then out over the beach. A forced exhale, an immature chuckle, escapes his lips. ]

A jog, perhaps? A game of volleyball? A swim? [ A pause. ] Perhaps a spar.

[ Physical activity is always fun. ]

( While all of those do sound appealing, he does seem to perk up at the mention of a spar! )

You enjoy a good fight, then? I haven't had the opportunity in a moment; I'd quite like that, if you would.

( Maybe Trahearne didn't mean right now, but he can't help but remark with a grin... )

Though, I wouldn't recommend a spar while you're still in a state of general undress.

[ He absolutely meant right now.

It's been a while since he put any of his magic to real use, but they are on good enough terms.

He's already getting to his feet by the time Mishka warns him. As he wanders to a nearby coconut tree, he glances over his shoulder. ]

Then I suppose you do the same to make this a fair fight. Besides-- [ He stoops to pick up a coconut and a fallen branch. Good enough. ] --I trust you not to kill me.

[ THE BAR IS VERY LOW ]

( He ?? laughs ?? )

And lose your company so soon?

( Fine, fine, he'll get up, stripping off the hat, the sunglasses, the sandals, and the wrap; the tank top stays on, because it's skin tight anyway, and he's got loose beach boyshorts on.

He'll come over to take up a branch of his own after a bit of inspecting, before quite suddenly he firms a grip on both ends and slams the middle against the trunk to snap it in two. He takes the branch with the finer, jagged point. )

I make no promises about anything short of death. ( He grins, once again with some mischief, and step back to a position across from Trahearne. He'll take this more as a duel than a brawl like with Tartaglia. ) On your mark, then.

Edited 2023-02-02 22:41 (UTC)

[ A grin tugs at Trahearne's lips as he weighs the stick in his hand. ]

It's been a while since I fought like this, but I expect nothing else. You'll have to forgive the rust.

[ There's a pause as he takes a ready stance, eyes piercing Mishka. ]

Let's begin.

[ And in sudden movement, Trahearne leaps backwards, the sand beneath him bruising at his feet. What does it mean? Find out soon! ]

( Trahearne kicks back, and the strange pigment of the sand is not lost on him; were he with his usual weapons, he might have the luxury of pulling back and striking from afar.

As it is, he is not intent on being the first to pull out his special tricks, and so he presses forward, dashing in with nimble rapacity even on the shifting sands, and swipes low, intent clearly on knocking him off his feet to interrupt whatever he's concentrating his energy on. )

[ Ah-ha, so he's the fast sort.

Trahearne, unfortunately, is not. He does, however, have more survivability than he ever lets on. He realizes that he won't be able to dodge in time, so he opts to take the hit, letting the momentum of his fall carry him across the sand as he rolls, skidding to his knees.

Even while he's incapacitated, death coalesces behind Mishka to form a couple of flesh golems. The creatures are almost as large as the both of them, and the raw, exposed hunks of flesh and bone follow Trahearne's will to rush up to him, swipe at him.

He just needs to slow Mishka down. From his spot, he thrusts his stick into the air--large skeletal hands burst from the sands and loom over his opponent, threatening to come down and pin him in place. ]

cw: illustration of fantasy spiders in link

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