Welcome to Gaia! ::

Jatine was large, bustling, active, and a beautiful city in many ways. Its greater access to water kept it flourishing with more greenery than most anywhere else in Oba, adding variety to the otherwise incessant yellows, browns, reds, and oranges that made up the rest of the nation, and for the most part, Damis enjoyed it. The busyness was familiar enough, having grown up in the capitol, and general liveliness and activity was what he felt most comfortable in.

It would have been even more pleasant if not for the near constant, sporadic assaults to the senses by, in particular, the singularly most repugnant smell he was familiar with: fish. Fried fish, baked fish, steamed fish, fish on a stick, fish in a roll, fish on a leaf, raw fish, fish head, headless fish, fish bone necklaces. Their proximity to lakes and streams within and around the city in addition to the sea itself to the south made business in aquatic products a lucrative and popular source of livelihood. Much to Damissan’s chagrin.

He hated fish. And was prone to saying as much to anyone who had the nerve to shove them directly into his—

“Fresh caught, seasoned mahisi! Direct from the southern ocean, and—”

Lips twisted in a grimace, Damis stepped out of the way of the offending, skewered piece of a ‘seasoned’ offense to the senses—dare he not call it meat—and the young shopkeeper trying to tote it.

“I would rather starve,” Damis said, and was out of range again, moving at a quickened pace through the crowds before he could hear or see the seller’s reaction to the comment, if she’d heard it at all.

On his first day in the city, Damis had found Jatine’s local keeper of messenger birds, and sent word out to his parents of his arrival, among other things. In the days that followed, he had managed to speak before various ‘audiences’ with greater and lesser amounts of success. Despite the mocking nature of the comment at its time, Damis had taken a snip of Xilarn’s ‘advice’ and attempted speaking with schoolchildren. This earned him very little of their attention, and some heated ‘discussion’ from the more opinionated of them—until a schoolmaster intervened, decidedly displeased with his general presence. He had spoken to smaller clusters of townsfolk, or tried, but hours spent on the streets netted him only a handful of persons who even listened long enough to hold a conversation with. Perhaps two or three stood out as individuals who he might have persuaded to at least think about his words on some level, if not extensively.

Eventually, he had found himself at the doors of the local churches, and that had garnered him as much positive support as could be expected. He managed to make his way out before having guards called on him to have him seized for insanity and preaching false gods. On the fourth day, by midday, after a heated morning debate with a different priest and the sun bearing down overhead, Damis’ patience for the town, and the fish—and the city’s guards’ patience for him, all seemed to be wearing thin. In the distance, a sliver of darkness stained the far horizon, but not enough to be properly noticeable.

Damis headed for the inn he’d taken residence in with his guard.

Xilarn was not in his room. Nor was he in the stables, or otherwise about the place. When he asked the front desk keep, he was directed towards the local pub. Immediately, Damis’ misgivings with the entire situation spiked. But he thanked the woman at the desk, bid her a good day, and started for said pub, quite literally praying that his hired company would not be inebriated before the sun had even made it fully to its highest point.

The portion of relief he felt to actually see that the man was indeed there and upright as he entered the establishment was shadowed by the fact that he was there, at a pub, at midday. “Xilarn…” He approached from behind, stepping off to the side of the man’s stool on arrival and tapping a finger to the counter. “I am done with this city. It has too many fish and I’ve spoken to everyone with functioning ears. We’re leaving today. Now. As soon as Nazakai is packed to depart, I do hope…” Looking at him, it actually didn’t appear that the man was intoxicated much, if at all, “…that you’re still capable of navigating yourself. What are you doing here?”

Given the timing of Damis’ arrival, he came on the scene only just soon enough to notice, as it ended, the direction of Xilarn’s attention towards—he squinted, perplexed for a moment. But no, Xil’s attention was already on him, and surely he’d imagined it anyway. He grunted, and opened his mouth. “I—”

But Xil’s hand, and mouth, deterred him.

“Of course I can decide to leave as I want t—don’t push—” Damis sat, and managed to look likely more miffed and petulant than he even was after doing so. He hadn’t come to sit or be pushed about or lectured. They had things to accomplish. Was his guard that drunk already? It didn’t actually seem so. And, unfortunately, once he was already on his arse, seated, in the familiar space of a shady, surprisingly cool and comfortable tavern, there was a certain amount of appeal to the situation. It felt like ‘losing’, though, not to put up any argument. “I didn’t come to join you in your morning drinking habits. We’ve been here four days. I’ve spoken with—”

At a tap to the counter, he glanced to the barkeep. The man certainly wasn’t unattractive, and though that oughtn’t have been the first thing that crossed his mind, it was, and by that point his teeth were already flashing in an instinctive, reactionary smile.

“No, thank you, I…” He glanced to Xilarn’s drink, across the bar to the very limited patronage, and then out to the burning yellow that was Jatine’s street in the day beyond the tavern doors. “Actually,” he amended, “make that just one drink, please. Water. Thank you.” As the barkeep turned, working behind the counter to fill him a glass, Damis returned his attention to his company. “How many times do you recommend going over our belongings? Haven’t we already cleared out all my ‘mountainous excess’ or were you looking to do more of that? Surely there isn’t enough to merit an entire day’s delay. Perhaps an hour or two if you want to avoid the sun. Or…”

A glass tapped the counter. He took it, sparing the server a glance, and then sipping, relaxing back in spite of himself.

“Three…at most. What inspired you to spend your morning here of all places?” As their server moved further down the counter in order to service another customer, likely out of earshot, Damis tipped his head, gaze casually assessing the rearview. “Taking time out to appreciate all the views Jatine has to offer, or did I imagine that?”

“Surely nothing bares that many times ‘over’ repeating.” Damissan eyed the man as he spoke — at length — about timing, temperatures, and the costs and benefits of planning or lack thereof, and perhaps there was some logic to it. Though he’d never traveled extensively himself, or hardly at all for that matter, he had lived in the desert all his life and knew of its dangers. Still. He didn’t especially want to simply concede the point, and was fully prepared to defend his choice in the matter—the day was only just at the tipping point of ‘halfway’ and so of course there was time left in it to use or waste.

But the topic moved to more interesting things, and for the moment, that was enough to deter immediate continuation on that particular subject.

“To some extent, I’m sure, I suppose I simply took you more for a woman’s man.” Damis supposed he could still be corrected, but at this point, presented with the opportunity, he saw no reason not to make some guess on the topic and learn one way or the other. He considered adding, too, some comment in the range of scolding the man for eyeing foreign city ‘prospects’ when he had a wife at home—except that, as soon as the thought occurred to him, Damis realized he had never once heard Xilarn speak of or even hint at a wife or woman in his life of any sort.

It was the mention of a son, alone, that lead him to assume—and, well, perhaps the man’s age as well. He seemed to lend himself to that category of person. But thinking on it drove home the fact that he did not actually know much at all in regard to the make up of the other man’s family. And he likely would not for quite some time. Under other circumstances, he might have asked freely, but given the chilly, dismissive, and sometimes even borderline angry reactions he had gotten from him each time the subject came up, Damissan opted not to raise the curiosity.

Instead, he grunted as his arm was tapped, and shot Xilarn a look caught between low-key bafflement and amusement. He was boring? “All work and no play,” he repeated. He squinted, speculative. “You know, I think I can honestly say that I have not ever had a person describe me that way before. Certainly not to my knowledge. And you’re wrong, besides. I’m fascinating and engaging, and you’d know as much—” He reached, catching his fingers at the handle of Xilarn’s mug and taking a swallow before proper opportunity for objection arose, “—if you’d been making conversation with me and enjoying my company as opposed to socially isolating yourself a half-league overhead or in lonely taverns like a shy woman at an overly large party.”

Damis raised two fingers of his free hand as the barkeep returned to earshot.

“You—yes. Another of these?” He tapped the mug. “Thank you.”

Waste.

Damissan’s lip curled with miffed amusement as he watched Xilarn’s reaction. Granted, he knew well enough that it wasn’t considered generally polite to steal someone else’s drink, and a mild outburst could have been expected. It had seemed to him, though, to be an appropriate, harmless jab at the man’s uptight, quietly brooding demeanor meant to stir that up in some way. He hadn’t anticipated turning him off the drink entirely, and when it became obvious that Xilarn was serious, Damis rolled his eyes, still smiling.

“Come, don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “It’s not wasted. I barely touched it. But if you insist on being a child about it—” When ‘his’ drink arrived, he edged that in front of Xilarn instead, taking back the one ‘tainted’ by his mouth. “Have the new one. You’ve barely drank any to begin with, it will hardly make a difference.”

Sipping again at Xilarn’s—or rather, now his own—drink, Damis gave a grunt and shrug in response to the latter commentary.

“I did intend to travel on my own,” he admitted. “And your company was a surprise. But in the end I do prefer company to none at all. I don’t much enjoy being alone, and while I can tolerate it, of course, the fact that you are traveling with me now seems to naturally lend itself to a little camaraderie. At the very least some conversation, and forced isolation seems like a great deal of effort, but…” He spared the man a glance, frowning thoughtfully before setting ‘his’ drink down and fishing into the coin pouch at his hip. “I suppose I didn’t account for how unpleasant my company is for you in particular.”

After taking out enough to cover both drinks, Damis flagged down the barkeep, smiling again and thanking him for his ‘service’ as he paid. Then, he adjusted his stool back and slipped off of it to stand, hands brushing down his front instinctively to straighten his clothes.

“I’ll leave you to your…” He glanced about the bar, “…‘not’ isolation, and look over our supplies once more. If I am not at the inn or stables with Nazakai, I’m likely about the city again, not that I expect you to feel any pressing need to find me. We will be leaving tomorrow before the sun, so…do be prepared for that. And try to enjoy yourself. It might do you some good.”

Damis paused. He blinked. His eyebrows rose the slightest fraction. And then, with the corner of his lips tugging back up and betraying his amusement, he glanced once to the hand at his wrist, and sat, taking the ‘offered’ mug as his smile grew. His hybrid snort-laugh was quiet, and muffled behind the drink moments before he took another sip.

“‘Chugging’ carbonated ale is, in my experience, rarely pleasant and best reserved for much larger and louder scenes than this where the drink is a means to an end, not a process. Here, I’m afraid you’ll have to bear my…” He cleared his throat, eyes lit with good humor, “…not unpleasant company for a minimum of a few more minutes if you want me to finish before you can return to your not-isolated state of solitude.”

He gave a sweeping, speculative glance to the bar scene again as it was, taking another drink and using the opportunity to debate safe topics of conversation. Not family. Not the divine. Likely not how lonely and dejected the man had looked when sitting specifically by himself and prodding moodily at a barely-touched beverage. But, as had recently been revealed, perhaps—

“So what were your thoughts. ‘Pleasant from a distance but wouldn’t actually pursue,’ or—” Damis quieted temporarily, lifting his mug to his lips as the barkeep passed within range of earshot and speaking up again only once he was back out of it, “—‘perfect material for testing the true durability of a bar stool with given the proper opportunity.’ You know, if you weren’t actually planning on drinking that, you could dispose of it in a strategic manner somewhere useful for giving everyone else a show and I’d consider it coin well spent, personally, but that’s your call to make. It’s unlikely we’ll see any of these people again anytime soon.”

If anything, being told not to laugh specifically seemed only to make any given event more amusing on the whole—but Damis managed to ‘obey’ regardless, restricting his amusement to his eyes and lips as he sipped and listened. “No laughing.” He nodded his agreement solemnly. “Very well, my apologies. It probably does ruin the overall mood you were so close to perfecting before my arrival. I’ll try to do better to match?”

His ‘efforts’ in that regard involved a slight stooping of his posture, a subtle narrowing of his eyes to a brooding squint, and a closer lean over his mug as he edged a finger along it but managed to drink almost nothing when he sipped, eyes trailing the barkeep. It was a short-lived mimicry, softened by Xilarn’s later admittances, and midway through, around the point of ‘in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Damis’ smile had returned of its own accord.

“I did manage to notice, shockingly. I can be very astute, though, so try not to let it catch you off-guard.” Taking a more proper sip of his ale, he spared the other man a glance, and then propped an elbow on the counter, relaxing his weight sidelong on it. “And I suppose, since you do work so hard at it, it’d only be polite to return the favor. You haven’t managed yet to deeply offend me, so it wouldn’t do to let you think so…”

As Xilarn’s tone softened and angled downward into his mug, however, Damis’ good humor shifted again from casual pleasantry to something edging back towards a teasing grin. “What? ‘Wouldn’t pursue.’ Come, you can’t be that old. And by ‘above it’ I assume you mean, ‘far too shy to attempt?’ If I were to engage in such a thing of course I’d have the courtesy to…” Damissan cleared his throat, teeth flashing briefly before he lifted his mug, drank, swallowed, and set it down again. “‘Help’ him dry it, among other things. I’m not that rude.”

“Oh, I’m sure I could,” Damis agreed amiably. “But more attractive options were available as well. I was just aiming for something close to ‘accurate.’ So, you’re welcome for that.”

For all of his company’s grumbling, Damis’ expression remained lit with good humor. A single drink — less than that, even — was of course nothing in the long haul, but the several healthy swallows he’d taken from it were enough to at least feel physically: that initial, blossoming warmth. Outside, it would have been most unwelcome, but in the shade of the tavern, after having been sitting for long enough to have cooled for the most part, it wasn’t unpleasant, and as compared to being argued with or batting away flies or in general being out in the raw heat of the day trying to accomplish anything, this was pleasant.

He raised his eyebrows at the later commentary. “Well, no, not a mess in itself, but…” His gaze dipped, catching on the quirk of Xilarn’s lips, and for half an instant, it stayed there. Then, he blinked, surprise shortly thereafter chased by amusement of his own. It was a bait. Of course it was, and he knew it—but far be it from Damissan to pass up on a challenge, even if the older man was teasing. “I am, and I will.”

The prospect of doing in the real world, naturally, was slightly more complicated than simply setting oneself to a task. But, when fortune ran in one’s favor, it wasn’t much more than that. Damis raised a hand as the barkeep passed.

“Excuse me—yes, I’m sorry—” He paused a half-second. “Did I get your name?”

The man looked momentarily bewildered, but to his credit, moved past it the next instant. “Rasaff,” he said. “Is there a problem?”

“Rasaff,” Damis repeated. “Yes. There’s this large—” He made to stand, and then paused, gesturing to something beneath the counter, out of the barkeep’s sight. “My apologies, could you come around front here a moment?”

“Is it an animal?” Though not visibly concerned — which made Damis wonder if the tavern had frequent animal problems — the barkeep did set aside the mugs he had, temporarily, and slipped his washrag to tuck at his belt before walking around to the counter’s front. As he approached, Damis moved again to rise, taking his drink in hand.

“No, it was—” The stool ‘slipped’, tipping back as the barkeep—Rasaff—made it just near enough so that when Damis jerked forward to catch it, his drink also sloshed, upending and solidly depositing the remainder of it down the man’s front from navel to groin, and a good halfway down his thighs besides. Needless to say, being the large mug that it was, his tunic and trousers clung, soaked in the target areas, and leaving little to the imagination. “Oh, gods, I am sorry about that—”

“Did you do that on purpose?”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean to pour quite that much,” Damis admitted immediately—which evidently wasn’t the answer anticipated because Rasaff spent the next several moments staring blankly while Damis redeposited his mug on the counter and took the towel from the man’s waist in order to dab—Rasaff’s hand caught his wrist. A light grip, at least, his expression still miffed.

“You intentionally—”

“I did apologize.”

“What were you hoping to—”

“You looked as though it would do you good to cool off, you’ve been working so hard, and I’ve just been informed that I’m doing nothing else this evening. Let me make it up to you. As soon as you have the time…I could buy you a drink, or—”

Rasaff’s expression was some peculiar mixture of many things, but it prompted Damis to temporarily shut up, and in the time that took, the barkeep relaxed his grip, releasing his hand and taking back the towel, but not looking away. “I was busy.”

“My friend and I will give you a generous tip in added apology to make up for it.”

Rasaff’s gaze flit to Xilarn, and then back. “You and ‘your friend.’ How generous? I’m not a—”

“Professionally generous,” Damis said. “With the offer of the drink standing non-exclusive.”

A pause ensued. Then: “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard—”

“I’m sure at least a half dozen people have come onto you today alone, and it isn’t yet barely past noon.” Damis couldn’t tell immediately whether the sound Rasaff made was a scoff or a laugh, the upward twitch of his lips as he dabbed at his clothes and made to retreat back around the bar seemed at least encouraging. Enough so not to give up, in any case. “But if you’re far too busy or have already decided on better things to do with your time, please just tell me you already have some wildly lucky—”

“You’d be more attractive,” Rasaff said, “if you talked less.”

“I’ll have another ale.”

Rasaff glanced to him. Damis flashed a grin. He was fairly certain the look that followed was amusement, but too soon, the man was turning away. “Of course you will. You’ll have to wait on my replacement while I change.”

“You wouldn’t have t—” Damis cleared his throat, letting the statement die as the other retreated just to the edge of visibility. Some conversation occurred in the back section of the tavern, but even with the minimal crowd, there was too much background interference to make out what, exactly, only that moments later, a young woman appeared from the back. After another several moments of quieter exchange with Rasaff, she flicked the whetted front of his tunic, giggle barely audible, leaned up to deposit a quick kiss on his lips, and then took up a bounding gait over to Damis and Xil.

“One ale, was it?”

Damis managed a nod, and after she had set off to filling the request, spared Xil a glance. “Well. I think that went well.”

Damissan blinked, taken aback for a moment, because of all things he anticipated in reaction — embarrassment, mocking, or even, by God, a good laugh even if it was at his expense — a bitter attitude was not on the list, and he opened his mouth, but after a moment, re-thought his first instinct and kept those words to himself. Instead, he thanked their new barmaid when she brought him his newest drink — which he unfortunately had little interest left in actually consuming, but no matter — and then turned his full focus back to his company.

“It might have,” Damissan said at length, “if I were wearing any. Alas. Regardless, no one was hurt, you got your view, and I can rest well knowing I tried. There’s no harm in that. You could relax, you know. It wouldn’t kill you. You were doing so well for a moment there, and you look significantly less like a crotchety old man when you’re smiling. But. I will leave that to you to decide, I suppose.”

As promised, Damissan left a sizeable tip. More, likely, than he ought to be setting out on open bar counters when he wouldn’t be bringing in any income of his own on the journey forward. But that seemed less of a concern in the moment, and he trusted his parents’ purse to alleviate the difference. Afterward, since his presence was clearly no longer wanted — even less so than he’d begun with, perhaps — he made his way out.

As it happened, taking the remainder of the evening to set their affairs in order was not a complete waste of time. Some rearranging of their goods did occur, and by sundown they were in a far better position to depart than they would have been had they set out immediately into the noon-day sun. Damissan saw no specific need to comment on this, feeling that it was obvious enough without any extra apologetics on top of things, but he did make mental note to forego suggesting immediate departure at high day in the future.

He rested as soon as his body allowed, and woke before dawn to the dim grey of morning not fully underway.

In the privacy of his single-bed room — for Xilarn had wanted separate spaces, and that was no issue so far as Damis was concerned — he knelt at his bedside, and prayed. It had once, many years ago, been a habit of his, instilled in him as a young boy by his parents and tutors alike. A habit, of course, that he lost over time in the span of his teenaged years and now, naturally, the words were not the same as they had been—a testament to his God and his new faith as opposed to the many gods and goddesses traditionally named by his people. The concept, however, was at its core familiar, and easier to re-adopt than he had expected at first.

After it, he rose, washed, dressed, gathered his things, and then set across the hall to Xilarn’s door, tapping his knuckles to the wood. “The Lord brings dawn to us within the hour, Xilarn,” he said. “I hope you slept well…”