Dawnmorrow
02-28-14, 02:09 AM
The Peaceful Promenade had always eluded Treyn's sense of logic. Its name inspired imaginary scenes of sifting green grass and cream cobblestones, watched over by some mellow guardian with sleepy resolve in his worldly eyes. Surely he might have even preferred that. Strange things can be discovered and mused upon in any haven that holds peace close to its heart. What the Peaceful Promenade was, of course, was a warm tavern -- cosy, of course -- filled to its tentative brim with lively laughter and the occasional dirty glance.
And then there was Treyn Dawnmorrow.
He did not look out of place at the drinking hole of Scara Brae. All sorts came here to idle away their time, fishermen like him included. It was easy for him to spot them; not by the colour of their flesh or the roughness of their trained hands, but the distinct smell of sea life upon them. There was no fragrance that Treyn enjoyed more than that which came from the sea, glorious in salt and fresh tang . . . though the aroma of a creamy ale came quite close. Treyn's father had given him the taste for these drinks. One's tongue grows used to its bitter aftertaste after enough desperate swallows. As of now, the quiet son took slow, thoughtful sips, and the glaze of his noticeably blue-green eyes had the touch of a man lost to his dreams. Noise surrounded him like a helmet full of song, but Treyn was deaf to the living.
He saw in his mind's palace a great and unwavering ocean that spread like giant's hands to the edges of the world. In its centre a lone boat shook and waddled and trembled in shrunken fear. The water was too vast for it to defeat. At some point, it must grow and never look back. The giant's eyeball glowed hot and accusing in the sky, but the creature was not aware of how beautifully its reflection danced on the shimmering green waves below. The boat might take heart to know that if he could reach the eye-lit path across this great, unconquerable ocean, he might yet learn his way to grow.
Take heart; sail onwards. Words Treyn's father always mumbled, rubbing the great brown palm of his hand nervously across the shorn stubble that dotted his jaw. The son unconsciously mouthed them over his ale, though his eyes did not once blink. It would surely have been discomforting for any who watched him. Within his mind, a small boat pushed gleefully forward into the light of a giant's gaze, trumpeting a glorious start to his great and true adventure. A slender yew staff rose triumphantly out of the sea and parted a way through the water for the boat. Too much water moulds the wood. Where did that come from? Too much water moulds the wood.
Treyn started in his seat, wiping his lips quickly and nervously across the back of his hand. His consciousness had surfaced again in the Peaceful Promenade. He was a little boat in a wooden sea that stunk of ale, and the giant's eyeball was the lamp that swung overhead and threatened to spill hot wax on any who walked past it too violently. The young man blinked down blearily at the drink placed before him. Another thoughtful sip. The warmth spread like a million candle flames gathering together in the depth of his belly. If the wood would mould, use it for the fire. Keep yourself warm. Make use out of your tragedies and turn them into blessings.
Wide, sharp eyes took flight from the imagination to closely observe the reality. Treyn was fond of watching people, trying to find out as much as he could about them from sight alone. This had often been mistook for shyness, or an unwillingness to interact. Treyn was an outgoing man -- warm, even, and encouraging in his friendships -- but he was fond of silence where words were unnecessary. So much more could be learnt from simply looking, if one truly cared to do so. The woman there with a nervous twitch to her fingers was anxious and unsteady around drink. Maybe she had witnessed too many tragedies around it. Maybe she only knew others who had. The fellow who served her the drinks made too much of a point not to look at her. He came across as haughty, disinterested -- too much so, that Treyn was rather wondering if he was interested, and a little more than his own liking. The bearded sailor who drank without pause, laughed without instigation, and bellowed without listening, sought to drown his worries with taste and sound. The seas were roughening from an oncoming storm. Treyn could not blame him for his woes.
And what of you, fisherman? Treyn paused, amended his thoughts. And what of you, son of a fisherman? He fell in the puddle between fisherman and adventurer, the difference divided carefully by the yew staff clasped loosely in his left hand. What of you? And yet, when he attempted to observe upon himself, the answers were always cloudy. I am a boat that has yet to grow, and I must sail on-on-onwards.
As a toast to his own adventures (blooming still, and yet to truly be consumed), Treyn tilted back his gleaming bronze head and downed the rest of his ale in a single long gulp. The candles in his belly erupted into fireworks. He thought he could smell his charred insides, and held back a whimsical chuckle.
On-on-onwards.
And then there was Treyn Dawnmorrow.
He did not look out of place at the drinking hole of Scara Brae. All sorts came here to idle away their time, fishermen like him included. It was easy for him to spot them; not by the colour of their flesh or the roughness of their trained hands, but the distinct smell of sea life upon them. There was no fragrance that Treyn enjoyed more than that which came from the sea, glorious in salt and fresh tang . . . though the aroma of a creamy ale came quite close. Treyn's father had given him the taste for these drinks. One's tongue grows used to its bitter aftertaste after enough desperate swallows. As of now, the quiet son took slow, thoughtful sips, and the glaze of his noticeably blue-green eyes had the touch of a man lost to his dreams. Noise surrounded him like a helmet full of song, but Treyn was deaf to the living.
He saw in his mind's palace a great and unwavering ocean that spread like giant's hands to the edges of the world. In its centre a lone boat shook and waddled and trembled in shrunken fear. The water was too vast for it to defeat. At some point, it must grow and never look back. The giant's eyeball glowed hot and accusing in the sky, but the creature was not aware of how beautifully its reflection danced on the shimmering green waves below. The boat might take heart to know that if he could reach the eye-lit path across this great, unconquerable ocean, he might yet learn his way to grow.
Take heart; sail onwards. Words Treyn's father always mumbled, rubbing the great brown palm of his hand nervously across the shorn stubble that dotted his jaw. The son unconsciously mouthed them over his ale, though his eyes did not once blink. It would surely have been discomforting for any who watched him. Within his mind, a small boat pushed gleefully forward into the light of a giant's gaze, trumpeting a glorious start to his great and true adventure. A slender yew staff rose triumphantly out of the sea and parted a way through the water for the boat. Too much water moulds the wood. Where did that come from? Too much water moulds the wood.
Treyn started in his seat, wiping his lips quickly and nervously across the back of his hand. His consciousness had surfaced again in the Peaceful Promenade. He was a little boat in a wooden sea that stunk of ale, and the giant's eyeball was the lamp that swung overhead and threatened to spill hot wax on any who walked past it too violently. The young man blinked down blearily at the drink placed before him. Another thoughtful sip. The warmth spread like a million candle flames gathering together in the depth of his belly. If the wood would mould, use it for the fire. Keep yourself warm. Make use out of your tragedies and turn them into blessings.
Wide, sharp eyes took flight from the imagination to closely observe the reality. Treyn was fond of watching people, trying to find out as much as he could about them from sight alone. This had often been mistook for shyness, or an unwillingness to interact. Treyn was an outgoing man -- warm, even, and encouraging in his friendships -- but he was fond of silence where words were unnecessary. So much more could be learnt from simply looking, if one truly cared to do so. The woman there with a nervous twitch to her fingers was anxious and unsteady around drink. Maybe she had witnessed too many tragedies around it. Maybe she only knew others who had. The fellow who served her the drinks made too much of a point not to look at her. He came across as haughty, disinterested -- too much so, that Treyn was rather wondering if he was interested, and a little more than his own liking. The bearded sailor who drank without pause, laughed without instigation, and bellowed without listening, sought to drown his worries with taste and sound. The seas were roughening from an oncoming storm. Treyn could not blame him for his woes.
And what of you, fisherman? Treyn paused, amended his thoughts. And what of you, son of a fisherman? He fell in the puddle between fisherman and adventurer, the difference divided carefully by the yew staff clasped loosely in his left hand. What of you? And yet, when he attempted to observe upon himself, the answers were always cloudy. I am a boat that has yet to grow, and I must sail on-on-onwards.
As a toast to his own adventures (blooming still, and yet to truly be consumed), Treyn tilted back his gleaming bronze head and downed the rest of his ale in a single long gulp. The candles in his belly erupted into fireworks. He thought he could smell his charred insides, and held back a whimsical chuckle.
On-on-onwards.