RP:Enastal Enastazi

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Summary: Making Onyx's acquaintance is a unique and pleasing distraction, but nothing can save Esche from the secret nightmares that plague him so.

The Tranquility

Lionel | A fine mist is in the air, oppressively humid. The sky is slate grey and the sea is choppier than these Chartsendian waters customarily exhibit. The Tranquility rocks more than sways as waves crash into her hull. Crewmen shout to be heard over the wind, barking orders to one-another regardless of rank. Everyone on-deck right now has a job to do, a job they’re better at than anyone else, a job whose merits must be taken at face value by all their peers to ensure the ship makes it out of these rough tides. Everyone but Esche. He watches the scene unfold from his relaxed sprawl upon a groove in the very bow as several people join arms to hoist the mainsail, adding superior force against the misty gusts and securing the Tranquility’s safe transit. Now the wind is on their side again, and the mist is merely an inconvenience, and the choppy sea is less dangerous. Esche pries his staff out from where he’d left it tucked beneath his shamrock green robe. The staff has a heft to its appearance but the elf has always wielded it as if it were as light as a feather. Once, while Esche joined Sundance on a leisurely stroll through Rynvale, the dwarf remarked that this strange case of weightlessness reminded him of Lionel’s abilities with his sword, Hellfire. Fortunately for Esche, Sundance was very drunk and he was able to alter the flow of conversation with relative ease. Esche quite liked Sundance, and would not have been pleased if he’d had to handle the situation less delicately.

The staff is made from the bark of an ancient tree. Esche has always been forthcoming about this fact. What he has been less truthful with is the location in which that tree had grown. Thankfully, it isn’t hard to choose someplace with similar enough flora when one has spent as many years traveling the world as Esche has. Baoa Qu is a land so distant, so different, that only a handful of the Tranquility’s crew had ever visited, and none in the Warrior’s Guild had even heard of it. Esche glides his slender fingertips across the wood, feeling its grooves, and remembering. Increasingly, he has needed this tactile reminder of why he does the things he does, says the things he says, hides the things he hides. “Enasal enaste,” he whispers to the wood. A prayer for the dead at Chartsend. “Enasal enastazi.” A prayer in advance for the promise of further death to come.

The harsh mist softens and the humidity softens with it. The slate grey sky gives way to something lighter and bluer. The crew cheers, although their cheer is weaker today than it would have been yesterday. Several in their ranks numbered the dead during the battle. Esche continues watching them. It’s all he can do to remember their pain.

Brand || Onyx is patching up holes. Everyone on-deck right now has a job to do; Onyx’s, for the moment, is to fill in the job left vacant by the late elf Nerys Cavraeni. So up the sails are hoisted, each rope and knot checked to make sure they hold. When it’s done and the Tranquility sets course for Cenril once again, Onyx goes to check the food stores and write up a list of food to pick up in the harbor city, one of the tasks of the late human Kimina Siddig. Then, their usual tasks as First Mate, assisting Brand with organization and planning of the days ahead. And when that is finished, Onyx is at last left to their own tasks. They retreat to their quarters for the night. The arrows they have recovered are repaired, if possible. New arrows are assembled as necessary to replace what was lost. The parts too chipped or broken for repair will be recycled for some other use: wood for toothpicks in the kitchen, arrowheads recarved to make enchanting reagents or jewelry. Everything has its place. Some, like Onyx, can fit in almost anywhere.

As the blue sky turns black, and the chilled air turns chillier still, Esche hoists himself from his leisurely perch and strolls across the deck. By now, he’s lifted his hood against the cold, and with his slow step and somewhat hunched-over posture, the crew on-deck see less ‘nimble elf’ and more ‘scholarly hermit’ from him tonight. He descends the stairs into the hold, fetching a light meal of dried andvari cheese and roasted weltalls from the galley. Another hour passes, and he watches the comings and goings of hungry -- or more commonly, thirsty -- people. Several further chapters are read in The Saga of Ae Mili, a tragedy centering on a legendary bard-turned-spy who raised an army against despots but gave her life for their cause. Esche finds the various historical inaccuracies at times riveting, at times revolting. He was there, after all, guiding Mili along her course while his own course was lost, only a scant three years after the fall of his beloved homeland. Too many of the books Esche reads feature shadowy characters whose identities were argued by the people who read them. Too many of the books Esche reads feature Esche.

With a sigh, Esche closes his book and contemplates. His mind is wandering, and when it wanders, it worries. ‘Be at peace, Falon,’ he feels Levant bid him. Levant, the Ishaarite spirit he carries deep within his heart. Levant, who kept him alive after The Fall, and who has kept him alive for nigh-countless generations since. Levant, beautiful and humble and sad, so sad. Sad like Esche. “Would that I could, old friend.” His lips cast a somber little smile. He needs a distraction. Learning has always been Esche’s first, best distraction. A thought dawns on him, slowly and then with great momentum. He should very much like to learn more about Onyx. He’s fought alongside them numerous times, but what does he really know of them? How much does he understand of their purpose? And why has Levant seemed reticent around them? ‘They are more difficult to fathom,’ Levant radiates a silent response through Esche’s vein. “Then we must work harder in the fathoming.”

Esche knocks twice, gingerly, upon Onyx’s door.

Onyx does not receive calls at this or any other hour, not usually. When the Captain requires them, they tend to be already available, already nearby; when others require aid, they tend to only approach Onyx as a last resort. And the undead child is content with this arrangement: strictly business. They have no need for friendship; or even if they did, who could possibly have a strong enough foundation of commonalities as would be required to build such a bond? Few have lived so long, and fewer still have seen the kind of things Onyx has seen. And so it is that when Onyx throws open their door to see who stands on the other side, there is a mixture of inquisitiveness and irritation masked by their neutral expression. Inquisitiveness, for who would even bother to knock at such a time? And irritation, borrowed from the future in which this person will surely have given cause for such a feeling. But the former emotion overtakes the latter when the door is cast open to find none other than Esche. This is… new. Always, there is something new, something unanticipated, even after all this time. “Speak.”

“I was wondering if you have ever found occasion to read through this book,” Esche announces as if on command, throwing back his hood with his left hand and holding out The Saga of Ae Mili with his right. “If so, what were your thoughts on the protagonist’s pivotal decision to die so that her people could have hope?” Esche does not seem to understand the concept of spoilers, as it were. “If not, please, take this and parse it when you have time. Oh, where are my manners,” he asks rhetorically, reaching into his robe with his now-free left hand and lifting a translucent sack of assorted candies. “Before we departed Chartsend I was besieged by a large flock of denizens who insisted on awarding me with prizes for my participation in the battle. Despite protests that my role was limited, I was gifted an array of items. This one made me think of you, and so it is yours.”

Onyx blinks. They blink at the bag of candies. They blink at the book. They blink at the candies. They blink up at Esche’s face. At long last, they relieve Esche of the candies and the book. “My thanks to you.” They stand there, holding the items gifted to them, and they stare. “I have had the pleasure of many books, but not yet this one.” For a moment, it seems that they might now shut the door in Esche’s face and retreat back into the solitary darkness, but with one final blink the moment passes. Onyx places the gifts on a console table that rests to one side of the doorframe and waves a hand in a languid arc; the motion brings the room into a cool blue-white light which emanates from a crystalline structure overhead. There is little in the room, and even less meant for entertaining guests, though there is an armchair in one far corner and a single chair and table rests in the other. Beyond that, the room resembles a storage closet more than it does someone’s personal space. Shelves full of assorted objects line the walls and fill the bulk of the floor space in between. “Would you like to come in?”

Esche blinks back. If there were a contest for best blinker aboard the SS Tranquility, doubtless this would be the final match. “Oh,” he mouths awkwardly. “Yes, that would be agreeable. Perhaps for a few moments. I do not wish to keep you awake.” Esche himself requires little sleep, and can go for weeks on-end without it; another side effect of synthesis with Levant. Lionel will never know it, because Esche will never say it, but his own bond with Halycanos has afforded him a bit of the same boon. Esche seats himself upon the chair beside the corner table and examines the room, squinting to identify any objects he finds familiar and assess those things of which he lacks an understanding. His eyes then settle on Onyx, a sentient whose identity rests closer to the latter than the former. “I have often found that our associates benefit from prolonged social interaction. Myself, I tend to prefer my books, but I try to find the time to find commonality with my allies when possible.” As if to emphasize his alleged purpose here, he quickly follows with, “it promotes mission synergy.”

‘I am undead,’ Onyx considers saying. ‘I have no need of sleep.’ The answer doesn’t seem quite pertinent to Esche’s intentions or Onyx’s inclination toward solitude, though, so Onyx discards it. Esche makes his way to one corner, and Onyx threads between a shelf of crystals and rune-carved stones and a shelf of worn journals and texts in order to follow. The armchair is given a moment’s consideration, but ultimately Onyx elects to whip up an illusory copy of Esche’s chair and sit across the table from him, instead. The fletching, flint and wood that litters the table is swept carefully to the side. “Mission synergy,” Onyx repeats, slowly. “Yes, the captain believes the same. I tend to leave the synergizing to him, though it certainly has its uses.” Esche has been thinking it, but Onyx is the one who comes out and says it: “You, though, are something of an enigma. I think he is content to leave you that way, out of some sense that you would gain far more knowledge of him from any conversation than he would gain of you.” Behind their placid facade, Onyx is smirking. “I imagine it is not a feeling he comes upon often, to be so unnerved by the prospect.”

If Esche had a teacup, he’d be sipping. “I agree with your assessment.” Teacups, after all, do a solid job masking one’s face at inopportune moments. Onyx is beginning to intrigue the elf; of all the interactions he has had here in Lithrydel, not one of his conversation partners has matched his often off-putting candor blow-for-blow. Esche’s little smile remains. “I am as open as any book for those who wish to read me. There are few subjects I prefer not to discuss. From art to philosophy to codes of law, I enjoy discourse. But…” His eyes briefly gaze upon the crystals on the nearby shelf as he ponders. “I do not believe the captain values such chats as much as I do, and my knowledge of spirits is limited to… magic, not malt whiskey.” This is good. An opportunity has arisen to potentially learn more of Onyx by way of Brand. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged him, however. If I knew the things that could establish a bond between us in pursuit of synergy, I might approach him anew. Well, emphasis on ‘might.’ He is a busy man. We are all of us so busy now.”

Onyx’s expressions are largely composed of micro-movements, subdued almost to the point of invisibility, but someone skilled enough would still be able to read the ‘smirk’ fading to an emotion that mirrors what has arisen from Esche. “There is always more work to be done,” Onyx agrees. The head tilt they give is substantially more obvious. One of the rune-carved stones draws their eyes with a gently pulsing light of sea green. “But no, I do not think you misjudge him. He is… a simple man, controlled by simple urges and possessing simple passions.” This is Onyx speaking charitably, and yet a hint of disdain leaks through. Not that there is anyone wholly exempt from Onyx’s disdain. “His intentions are in the right place, though, which is more than I can say for some.” Onyx rights their head on its axis and their gaze returns to Esche.

Esche’s little smile does not crack, but the urge to shatter it rears in his mouth. He can feel his tongue fighting to maintain its composure, sense his teeth shaking minutely, the instant Onyx’s last sentence is delivered. Centuries were spent learning the stagecraft mandatory for his performance, but even millennia couldn’t prepare Esche for this. ‘What do they know?’ Esche turns inward, sending the thought to Levant. But Levant is silent, leaving him feeling icy. Levant is thinking. Levant is scanning the child with the subtlest of magics, so minute as to be untraceable. But a deeper probe is needed, something neither Esche nor Levant will risk. Even then, there’d be no guarantee any information would be gleaned. ‘We can’t risk it,’ Esche thinks, and the Ishaarite spirit within him stands down. All of this in the span of a few seconds; all of this while the little smile holds firm. “We both trust Captain Brand’s intentions, then. It is an uncommon but not-unwelcome sensation, trust. It, too, is beneficial in the field. Sometimes, I wish that Lionel -- who I trust, of course -- would be more discrete, more selective, in who -he- trusts.” He sighs. “I was apprehensive about trusting the word of that assassin, Blut, in the lead-up to our recent battle. Yet… it appears I was mistaken.”

Onyx doesn’t appear to notice any hesitation before Esche’s reply, merely looking on attentively. “ ‘It happens to the best of us.’ A platitude, perhaps, but one of the few that needs no further nuance. And if we are wise, we learn from our mistakes and we carry on.” A shadow lingers just below the surface, perhaps a grimace. “Lionel seems to trust everyone and no one, to the best of my observation. He is different things to different people, and gives everyone who approaches a chance to be something to him in return, regardless of whether or not it is a full reflection of the truth.” Onyx leans back in the illusory chair; it creaks, just as Esche’s would if he were to do the same. “It worked in his favor, this time. It won’t always, but then perhaps the moments that trust pays off are worth the moments it doesn’t.”

A pang of guilt catches in Esche’s throat. Trust is something he has built, brick by brick, with Lionel. He takes no pleasure in deception, but he hadn’t anticipated real pain. “Lionel has what some would call compassion.” Including Esche himself, truth be told. But he has worked hard to match Onyx’s sterile examinations, in hopes of keeping them placated. It’s been easy enough, given what they seem to share. Until now. A part of Esche would have liked to be able to say more. “Everything he does is for some higher cause than himself. He lets that guide him, I suppose. To good ends and bad. I like to think you’re right, though, Onyx; that he gains enough from victories to endure all the loss.” He isn’t lying. “I have taken enough of your time,” he says, standing upright and heading for the door. “Onyx, I thank you for the dialog. May it be fruitful to us both.”

Onyx nods their dismissal and rises to escort Esche to the exit. “It has been,” they say, though -- has it, really? “We all serve a higher cause, I think. Whether we realize it or not. Willingly… or not.” Onyx’s statement might cast an overly dark aura over the conversation, if not for them bringing levity by popping one of the candies into their mouth immediately thereafter. The door is opened, and Onyx bids Esche enter the hallway with one final thought. “Lionel’s may be more noble than most.”

“You’re quiet again,” Levant whispered, drawing Esche away from his studies. His emerald eyes widened and he laughed nervously, patting his pale apprenticeship robe. He tried not to look up at her directly, but he was equally conscious of any strange attempts to look wayward. He was being spoken-to, and that demanded a certain degree of acknowledgement even when the speaker wasn’t nearly as beautiful as she was. Her chestnut hair fell in curls to her shoulders as she shook her head at him mockingly. He tried not to think of the scent of it, or the quicker beat of his heart. “I apologize,” he stammered back, unsure of why she should choose to giggle at an honest reply. His replies were always honest, to her and to everyone else, and for some reason she laughed at so many of them.

“Why did you show me that?” Esche, waking from his slumber hours after his conversation with Onyx, doesn’t think the words to Levant but actually says them. His breathing’s ragged and he’s covered in perspiration. ‘To remind you, Falon. You seemed distraught. I must remind you of the reasons for which we still exist.” Esche sits upright and sweeps aside the covers, placing his head in his hands. “We exist for a complete restoration,” he says bitterly. ‘But your thoughts draw you to certain elves especially, just as mine drift to some among my fellow spirits. It is only natural.’ Esche is silent as the tears run down his face.

Those who think they know him often remark that Esche rises long before the dawn, well-rested and ready to face the day. They speak behind his back and plainly to his face that his morningtime professionalism is as useful as it is infuriating. No one is ever awake before Esche, not unless they never slept. Whenever they awaken, there he is, in his robes and with his staff and eager to be of service. That’s where they’ll find him at the start of the new day, as if it were any other. He’s returned to his perch upon the very bow of the ship, watching the sunrise with a scholar’s grace. Today, like any other day, he has found no rest with sleep. He is haunted in ways few can fathom, and those few who might grasp even the faintest empathy for his plight are the very ones who can never be told his true mission. “Enastal enastazi.”