Festival sounds greet Naomi as she wakes—the subtle shift in the house as her family rise with purpose, the hurried footsteps creaking on the stairs, and the first strains of music drifting in from the distant square, insistent even through the thick timbered walls. It's Temera's day, the day every household in Tarith's Crossing seems to await with restless, giddy anticipation. It's a day to celebrate the goddess of Dance, of Joy, of all things bright and unrestrained. But for Naomi, it's a day she dreads, a day that feels too sharp, too bright, too much.
Long before her family calls her name, she's already awake, curled into a tight ball beneath her heavy quilt, the faded green one her mother sewed years ago. She presses her cheek against the linen, hiding from the slant morning light that has found its way through a gap in the curtains, hoping—fruitlessly—to disappear. She can already hear the first signs of the festival beyond the window; laughter that is too loud, voices that echo up the lane, the far-off thrum of drums and pipes turning up for the celebrations to come.
Every single year is the same.
Naomi dreads the noise most of all—the way the sound pours in through every open space, pushing into her skull until it's all she can feel. She hates the way the streets fill up so fast, bodies pressing in from every side, the forced intimacy of strangers' hands grabbing at her wrists, pulling her into a dance she never asked for. Even the air feels charged, too thick with the scents of roasting meat, sweet wine, and summer flowers wilting under lantern heat. Bright colours and swinging garlands make her eyes ache, a riot of red, gold, and blue that seem determined to chase all quiet from the world.
Worse than the noise or the crowd is the expectation. On Temera's day, everyone is meant to be joyous—to laugh, to twirl, to talk and talk until their voice runs dry. She feels the weight of this every year, as if the whole town has agreed to test the limits of her endurance. Her sisters always tease her for slipping away, for hiding on the edges of the celebration, for ducking behind cider stalls or pretending to help at the family booth just so she can breathe.
They don't understand the way the crowd makes her skin prickle, the way words get stuck in her throat when too many people demand her attention at once. She's never liked being watched, never liked being asked to perform. The swirl of bodies and voices is like a storm she cannot weather—a tidal wave she can only hope to survive until night falls and the world grows quiet again.
And every year, her family sends Deema—the youngest, softest, and least likely to startle her—up the stairs when it's time to the join the festivities. Deema always tries to coax her gently, tiptoeing into the room, her face always etched with worry. Naomi can never say no, not when her little sister tugs at the blankets and pleads with wide eyes, so she always ends up rising, dressing, and joining the chaos—smiling when she must, shrinking where she can.
But this year, there is something different; a thread of anticipation wound so tight beneath her anxiety, a reason to leave her bed beyond obligation. Jareth. She tries not to think about it too much, tries not to let herself hope, but she can't help the flutter of her heart when she remembers last night: the way his rough voice softened just for her, the warmth in his eyes when they talked beneath the trees, the strange, unexpected comfort of not having to hide.
He's leaving today. His ship sailing at the end of the festival.
Naomi wants, more than anything, to see him off. To stand at the harbour, even for a moment, and know that he saw her there.
As her family stirs to life—Aven's cane tapping against the floor, her mother's voice low and purposeful in the kitchen, the older girls laughing and arguing as they dress—Naomi burrows deeper under her quilt, delaying the inevitable. She breathes in the clean scent of linen and lavender, letting it settle her nerves for just a little while longer. She wishes, as she does every year, that she could be invisible—just for today.
But she can't avoid it forever.
The sounds of the house grow sharper: the rattle of plates, the hum of conversation, the uneven footfall of someone climbing the stairs. Naomi closes her eyes and waits, knowing what comes next.
Soft footsteps, then a gentle knock at her door. Deema, it's always Deema.
"Elora," her sister calls, her voice muffled by the door, but full of hope, "it's morning. Temera's day, remember? Will you come down?"
Naomi sighs quietly, dragging herself upright, rubbing her eyes as she traces to gather the will to face the day. Her long hair, still in its two braids from the night before, tumbles over her shoulder in a dark, tangled wave, the blue-black shining in the early light. She runs a finger through it absently, willing herself to be braver than she feels.
She doesn't answer at first, hoping Deema will take the hint and leave. But after a moment, her sister cracks open the door and pokes her head in with a shy smile. "Mother says we need your help with the flower garlands. Please, Elora?"
It's always easier to give in than fight. Naomi slips from her bed, drawing her shawl tightly around her shoulders, and nods, the gesture small but certain. But for Deema's sake, she can do this.
She presses a kiss to her sister's forehead, drawing strength from the tiny ritual. "I'm coming," she whispers, her voice scratchy with sleep but sincere. "Just give me a moment."
Deema beams, darting down the hall. Naomi lingers for just a heartbeat, letting herself breathe in the quiet of her room, the last refuge before the world comes crashing in. She glances at the spindle carving on her windowsill, tracing the familiar pattern with a fingertip—Oses' mark, a reminder that fate, at least, has brought her something to look forward to.
Naomi finds herself lingering at the wardrobe, her fingers still hovering over the familiar, plain green dress that has long been her shield for days like this—festival days, market days, any day when she wants to blend into the wood, moss, and shadows. The fabric is soft with wage, the colour muted like ferns in the rain, its comfort so deep it almost aches. She clutches it to her chest, ready to disappear into her usual patterns, when Jareth's words from the night drift back through her mind—gentle, teasing, and almost playful: If I see a flash of green and gold, I'll know it's you.
She freezes, the phrase replaying itself with every beat of her heart. For a moment, she stands motionless in the soft morning hush, only the distant music from the town square stirring the surrounding air.
It's such a small thing—a silly thing, maybe—but it catches something inside of her, something equal parts hope and dread.
Is she… dressing up, then? Or simply wanting him to find her, wanting to be seen—not by the world, but by one person, for once? The thought flusters her so thoroughly that she has to close her eyes, willing her cheeks to cool.
When she turns back to the green dress, it's not to hang it back, but to reach instead for the box at the bottom of the wardrobe where she keeps her rare treasures. There, folded with care, is the gold sash—soft, lustrous, woven with tiny threads that catch every flicker of light. She remembers when she first received it: a rare find from the market, gifted by Alvina as a joke, a dare to wear something "bold" for once. It never felt quite like hers—until this moment.
She drapes it over her arm, running her thumb along the smooth edge, her mind turning over all the ways she might look foolish, or proud, or simply seen.
As she weighs the sash in her hands, her gaze shifts to the far end of the closest, where another dress waits—a far less practical one, left untouched for nearly a year. It is a thing of hesitant beauty, knee-length, made of fabric that is as light as mist, the shades shifting gently from deep twilight blue at the hem to a smoky violet to a soft, moonlit lavender at the bodice. Her mother had bought it for her at last year's festival, declaring that one day her daughter would want to be seen, and this dress was for this day.
She'd never dared to wear it; the colours felt too bold, the cut too playful, the world too watchful. But now, with the memory of Jareth's words still fresh—a flash of green and gold—she finds herself reaching out, her heart thumping with uncertainty.
Her sandals too, sit nearby—worn only for rare excursions, their leather supple and dyed a pale shade that matches nothing else she owns. Naomi hesitates, running her thumb along the straps. Most faeries in Tarith's Crossing wander barefoot, their soles toughened by years forest paths, a subtle claim that to their heritage and the promise that they belong to earth and air before anything else. Elders and those who walk the market, however, wear shoes when they must—to ward off splinters and stone, to mark the difference between wildness and the necessary dignity of towns.
Today, Naomi tells herself, she will join their ranks, if only for the comfort it might bring.
She draws a breath and slips out of her nightgown, shivering as the morning light paints her pale skin in watery gold. She tugs the dress over her head, smoothing the soft, glowing fabric down over her frame. The hem dances just above her knees, and she feels exposed, but also lighter, as if the fabric has taken some of the heaviness from her bones. The blue and violet hues bring out the subtle glow in her skin, the cool undertones of faerie blood that mark her both as kin and outsider.
The gold sash is next. With trembling hands, she threads it carefully around her waist, tying it off with a gentle knot just above her left hip. It shines with every movement, catching the sun as it climbs above the trees, a small sunlit promise to herself—and, perhaps, to someone else.
She pauses, studying her reflection in the warped mirror above her dresser. For a moment, she doesn't recognise the girl staring back. Her usual shroud of hair falls her face, the black silk framing her features and almost hiding the gentle, uncertain set of her jaw. Naomi hesitates, then step closer, sliding her hands up to undo the only braids she's worn since before she could even walk. Two front plaits, a tradition older than memory, their ribbons faded from years of worry and idle chewing, marking her apart from her sisters.
With slow, careful hands, she unwinds each braid, fingers nimble as she replaces the old, threadbare ribbons with the ones she's saved just for this moment—a deep violet and a soft gold, one for each side. She rebraids her hair, working on the familiar rhythm, letting her mind wander to nothing at all. The simple act is grounding, a ritual of her own making.
For a long moment, she considers leaving the rest of her hair down, the way she always has—loose and wild, a curtain she hides behind. But today, the world feels too sharp, the dress too fine for old habits. Instead, she draws the remaining hair back, gathering it into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, fastening it with a ribbon that matches the gold at her waist. The gathered length falls to the middle of her back, swaying with each movement. She feels the strangeness immediately—the weight of change, the awareness of every strand.
Standing before the mirror, Naomi studies her reflection, eyes tracing the unfamiliar lines of her silhouette. She looks older, somehow—softer and braver and infinitely more exposed. Her dress is not extravagant, but the colours mark her as someone to be seen, not just a shadow at the edge of her celebration. Her hands tremble as she smooths the fabric down, unsure if this is bravery or foolishness.
Her wings, hidden beneath the fabric for now, press close to her back, sending tiny shivers down her spine with every motion. She wishes, suddenly, that she could shrink back into bed, but the anticipation in her chest keeps her moving, a flutter that is equal parts dread and hope.
Finally, she slips her feet into the sandals, the cool leather strange against her skin, and stands tall—well, as tall as she can manage—in the centre of the room. Her heart pounds. She presses her palm to the golden sash, drawing a shaky breath, and lets the truth settle in her bones: today she will be seen.
Naomi lingers for a moment at the door of her room, her hand hovering over the frame as she catches her breath and straightens the soft folds of the dress. The morning's light slants through the window, bathing her in pale god as she ogresses her palms over the flutter of her heart. For a moment, she hesitates—one last, quiet pause to gather himself, to let her mind settle before she must meet the world. She smooths the delicate ribbon at the end of her braid, feeling the unfamiliar silkiness between her fingers, and with a final, bracing breath, she steps out.
Her sandals barely make a whisper on the worn wood as she descends the stairs. Her nerves prickle at her skin; she pulls at the hem of the dress, feeling as though the fabric—so much finer and more colourful than what she's used to—will draw every eye the moment she enters the room.
She is right.
Darla is the first to notice her. She stands by the hearth, halfway through tying a new bundle of wild thyme, her brown hair tumbling loose and wild, a smudge of flour on her cheeks from sneaking a hell of bread. As she looks up and sees Naomi, her eyes go wide with delighted surprise. "Elora!" Darla exclaims, dropping the herbs and bounding over in a flurry of energy, her hands reaching for Naomi's. "Look at you! Stars above, you're beautiful—when did you get so bold?" her voice rings with genuine joy, her fingers warm and sure as she twirls Naomi lightly by the wrists, her laughter like water tumbling over stones.
Aven, sitting at the long table with a mug of tea, lifts his gaze from his morning notes. His weathered face softens, and a fond, wistful tugs at his lips. "Elora, you look so much like your mother when I first met her," he mumbles, his mauve eyes shining with memory. "It suits you, this dress. The colour brings out the spring in you." There is a pride in his voice—a gentle, paternal warmth that speaks of all the times he has watched his daughters grow, change, and surprise him.
Alvina, always the quietest, sits by the window, fletching arrows with the careful patience of someone used to being overlooked. But she looks up now, blue eyes sharp and approving. "I knew that sash would fight you," she says, a faint smile quirking her lips as she nods to the cold at Naomi's waist. "I almost thought you'd never wear it. I'm glad you finally did, Elora." Her tone is low, her approval unspoken but felt.
Deema, perched at the corner of the bench, a half-woven daisy tangled in her hair, is all wide-eyed wonder. She gasps, clasping her hands beneath her chin, her feet swinging above the floor. "You're so pretty, Elora!" she squeaks, voice bubbling with the pure, unfiltered admiration of someone who has never learned to hide her heart. "Can I have ribbons too? Please? I want to match!" She beams, the earnestness in her voice as bright as the sun.
From the other side of the room, Lukarius lounges with a cup of spiced cider, one eyebrow raised in dramatic approval. "Well, well," he teases, voice rolling like thunder over the hills, "did we wake to find a blossom among the moss this morning? I might have to start locking up my coats—at this rate, you'll be the best-dressed in the house before long." There's a gentle laughter in his voice, but a gentle, familial pride in it.
Kyanne stands near the kitchen, her long fingers busy slicing apples for a tart. At the sound of her daughters' voices, she glances over, her emerald eyes brightening as she takes in Naomi's appearance. For a moment, her face softens even further, the pride and affection mingling with quiet awe, "You look lovely, Elora," she says, her voice firm but full of feeling. "It's good to see you take pride in yourself. The festival's spirit is meant for all, even those who shy from the crowd." Her tone is both encouragement and gentle nudge—a gentle reminder she sees Naomi, truly sees her, as she is.
Asteria stands off to one side, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. Her posture is rigid, her expression hard to read. She flicks her gaze over Naomi, and after a too-long pause, lefts out a soft scoff, the sound sharp as the snip of scissors through thread. "Well, don't you look fancy," she says, words brittle as old glass. "Maybe the festival will finally make a dancer out of you." But the edge of her voice is dulled when Kyanne shoots her a warning glare—a look that brooks no argument. Asteria glances away, shoulders tense, the old wounds between them still raw.
Naomi stands at the centre of the room, flushed and shy under the weight of all their eyes. She fiddles nervously with the ribbon in her hair, her stutter creeping back in as she tries to speak. "I—I just thought… m-maybe today, I'd t-try something different," she manages, her voice small but determined. "Thank you, Elari, for the sash. And the dress, M-mama." Her gaze flicks from one to another, finding courage in their affection, even as her nerves threaten to unravel her words.
Darla hugs her again, her energy wrapping around Naomi like a whirlwind. "You'll turn heads today, Elora—wait and see. The whole square will be looking at you!" she teases, only half-joking, her eyes full of sisterly pride.
Kyanne, her gaze lingering with a mother's silent strength, steps forward to tuck a loose strand behind Naomi's ear. "Let them look, my dear," she says, her voice gentle but unyielding. "You're a Virellis-Gypsum, and no festival crowd is too great for you." Her touch is grounding, the reassurance steady as stone.
Deema practically skips to Naomi's side, already tugging at the edge of her sleeve. "Will you dance with me later?" she asks, eyes wide and hopeful. "Just one dance, please?"
Naomi laughs, the sound a little breathless but full of warmth, her nerves settling as the love of her family surrounds her. "M-maybe," she says, her cheeks pink. "But only if you promise n-not to spin me too fast."
Aven grins, leaning back in his chair, a rare, contented ease about him. "That's the spirit, Elora. Your mother and I always said a day like this would bring out your colour." His words, soft as morning sun through leaves, carry the weight of memory and hope—a promise that today, at least, Naomi will step out into the world not as shadow, but as herself.
For a few moments, in the kitchen's bright, bustling heart, Naomi feels almost at ease. The tension from the day lingers only at the edges; the sting of old hurts is softened by the simple, everyday magic of being loved—awkward, shy, and different, but never invisible.
And outside, the festival's music is just beginning to rise, weaving its promise through the air, calling them into the sunlit day.
Jareth awakens abruptly, torn from the deep, restful embrace of sleep by the lively, incessant strains of music drifting rudely through the ship's timbers. He groans softly into his pillow, a low rumble of irritation vibrating in his chest. The cheerful melody of bright pipes and rhythmic drums feels entirely out of place against his sleepy haze, battering its way relentlessly through the hull until his mind is forced into begrudging awareness.
He squints at the narrow beam of sunlight piercing the cracks of the cabin wall, noting with weary resignation of the sun. It is barely eight in the morning, far too early for any sane soul to be stirring. With another displeased grunt, he pushes himself upright, his gigantic frame creaking the wooden cot beneath him. The cool air bites gently at his skin as he swings his leg over the edge, feet finding the familiar worn surface of the plants. One rough, scarred hand reaches up, running irritably through his dishevelled dark hair, trying in vain to chase away the grogginess.
Jareth has never been—and will never be—a morning person. Early rising feels unnatural, an affront to the body's desperate plea for rest, but after years on the sea, he has learned grudgingly tolerate it. He sighs and stretches slowly, joints popping and muscles unwinding from their reluctant stiffness. He slips on his boots and grabs his coat from a nearby chair, tugging it roughly over his shoulders. The sleeves still bear traces of salt from their recent voyages, the coarse texture strangely comforting against his palms.
Yawning deeply, Jareth steps outside on the ship's gangplank, immediately assaulted by the bright morning sunlight. It slices across his vision, forcing him to narrow into slits as he surveys the busy streets beyond the docks. The harbour teems with villagers and travellers alike, the air alive with an energy that seems almost tangible. Garlands of flowers cascade from building to building, bright banners wave merrily into the coastal breeze, and the tantalising scent of roasted meats, spices, and sweet pastries wafts temptingly toward him.
He blinks, trying to shake off the lingering fog of sleep. Recognition finally flickers in his groggy mind—the festival. He recalls Naomi's soft, hesitant words from the night before, explaining the celebration: Temera's Day, a faerie goddess devoted to celebration and dance. Jareth's lips twist slightly in mild amusement, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Such devotion has always baffled him. Festivals dedicated to the divine, people dancing, and celebrating, raising voices and songs to being that, as far as he sees it, scarcely acknowledge them at all.
For Jareth, this reverence of gods and goddesses—these so-called divine beings—is a strange and alien concept. To him, they are not gods but 'godlings'—beings born of immense arrogance, capable of power, yes, but hardly deserving the praise and worship mortals heap upon them. He knows the stories of the gods, and he understands too well why his kind have such a contentious relationship with them.
His own kin, the Thrundeli, were never meant to exist according to the divine order. Born naturally from the union of Dwarfs and Grendeli during the harsh years of the Second War of the Gods, the Thrundeli were the product of survival, necessity, and defiance. Forged in a crucible of strife, his very existence became an affront to the gods. The divine beings had declared war on mortal races, demanding absolute submission. But the Dwarfs and the Grendeli, proud and resilient, refused to bend the knee, and from their alliance emerged something new—something stronger, something unanticipated: the Thrundeli.
As a child, Jareth had learned from elders about how their ancestors stood at the very epicentre of this divine conflict. The Thrundeli were born warriors, raised in the harshest conditions, trained not merely to fight, but to prevail against beings who claimed themselves untouchable. The tales were grand and terrible: battles fought beneath the skies of fire, mountains shattering beneath divine wrath, rivers running red with gold and blood. Each story ended the same—with his ancestors emerging from the chaos, not broken but forged anew, strong enough to end the war.
The gods had underestimated the determination, the cunning, and the sheer stubbornness of the Thrundeli. It was the Thrundeli, legend said, who captured Utar, the God of Magic himself, wrenching from him the secrets of forging chains powerful enough to bind a god. And it was the Thrundeli who, in their ultimate act of defiance and victory, shackled Eotl, the dreaded God of Extermination, imprisoning him so that mortals could live free from his relentless destruction.
Though centuries separate Jareth from these storied ancestors, their defiance, their pride, still run thick in his veins. Thrundeli carry this history like a badge, wearing their ancestors' triumphs and suffering openly. They do not worship the gods; they mock them openly, dubbing them mere 'godlings'—children playing at power, forever sulking over old defeats.
Gods, to the Thrundeli, are little more than tyrants who deserve neither praise nor prayers.
Yet, there is one god Jareth respects—perhaps begrudgingly—but respects, nonetheless. Welios, the God of the Seas. He alone earns the title of 'God' from Jareth's lips. Because Welios' domain is not temples or prayers, but the vast, unpredictable ocean. Welios doesn't demand empty devotion, or meaningless offers—he demands respect. The ocean doesn't pretend to love mortals, nor does it promise protection; it is honest in its fury and generosity alike. To Jareth, Welios is the truest embodiment of divine power—raw, merciless, beautiful, and unfathomable.
He chuckles softly to himself, leaning against the ship's railing as he watches the celebrations unfold before him. Children weave through the crowd, laughing brightly; townsfolk dance and share cups of wine; Faeries flutter gracefully, spinning ribbons through the air, their wings glimmering beneath the morning sun. Yet even amid the warmth and cheer, he remains separate—an observer, curious but detached, unable to fully embrace such carefree joy.
Jareth's gaze drifts, inevitably, toward the outskirts of town where Naomi's family lives. He remembers the gentle shyness in her voice when he spoke of this day, the quiet reluctant in her eyes that hinted at discomfort. For a moment, he wonders if she will appear as she said she would, a flash of green and gold among the celebrants. The thought brings unexpected warmth, a gentle tug at his heart that confuses and intrigues him.
Shaking off the distracting thought, Jareth straightens, running a rough hand once more through his hair. He lets out another sigh, heavier this time, resigning himself to the day ahead. Soon, his crew will gather, readying themselves and the Sunlit Rose for departure. He knows he must rally them, to remind them of their mission and the endless call of the sea.
Still, for a brief moment longer, Jareth allows himself this quiet indulgence, watching the colours swirl, listening to the music's cheerful strains rise, tasting the faint sweetness of celebration on the wind.
Soon, he will return to the sea, to Welios' embrace, where he belongs.
The ship now bustles gently beneath Jareth's feet, the morning's rhythm slowly picking up as more of the crew emerge from the decks below, rubbing sleep from their eyes or squinting gruffly against the morning sun. The festival music carries over the waters, bright and cheerful, somehow managing to further sour Jareth's already dim view of being awake this early. He sighs irritably through his teeth, fingers tightening around the rail as if it alone keeps him tethered to patience.
A rough chuckle breaks his grim contemplation, accompanied by the familiar creak of small, sturdy boots across the deck. Borin steps up beside him, the Bramlings captain's diminutive frame hardly reaching Jareth's chest. Yet for what he lacks in stature, he more than compensates for in presence. Borin's thick white beard is groomed and tucked neatly into his wide leather belt, and his sharp eyes gleam warmly behind his ever-present reading glasses.
"Well, lad," Borin says with a broad, knowing grin, nudging Jareth companionably. "How'd ye like the captain's cabin? Told ye it'd suit ye better than a hammock, for once."
Jareth grunts again, a low rumbling down vibrating through his chest as he rubs a weary hand across his face. He glances sidelong at the older pirate, his lips quirking slightly in begrudging affection. "Comfortable enough," he mutters, shifting restlessly on his feet. "Still prefer the hammocks. Cabin feels too much like land sleep."
Borin chuckles again, clearly unsurprised by the younger man's reaction. He jumps, clapping Jareth on the shoulder, his board palm solid and reassuring. "Aye, that's what I thought ye'd say," Borin nods, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "The sea rocks us different, eh? Cabin's good for rest, but a hammock keeps yer senses sharp!"
With an acknowledging grunt, Jareth straightens and peers down at the bustling festival crowd. He notices that some of their crew have already given into the festival's pull—faces he knows well, mixing easily with townsfolk, their laughter and voices rising amid music and dance.
His keen eyes pick out Darrow almost immediately. The hulking Orc's broad shoulders strain against his faded linen shirt, emerald-green skin vibrant among the festive colours, and his amber eyes burn warmly. Intricate tribal tattoos trace a bold tapestry across powerful forearms and broad chest, his deep laughter echoing distinctly through the crowds.
Not far off, Orick moves quickly through the crowd, the diminutive halfling around, cheerful face framed by wild waves of sandy-blond hair. Sky-blue eyes sparkle with excitement as he chats animatedly with a pretty Fae woman selling flower crowns. Orick's effortless charm, marked by his smart wit, makes him invaluable in gathering information at port.
Nearby, Tomas lingers in the shadow of an awning. The younger Thrundeli mirrors much of Jareth's sturdy frame—tall, powerfully built, with thick, dark hair tied loosely back and eyes polished like onyx stones. His quiet seriousness is occasionally softened by a rare, faint smile; he prefers watching quietly from the edges, ever vigilant and reliable, a steady presence Jareth counts on.
Torren, the lithe, silvery-haired elf, moves silently among festival stalls, his sharp and angular features calm and composed, his steps graceful, bordering on silent. Torren has always held himself with a sense of quiet dignity—rarely speaking, but his presence is felt like a whisper of moonlight, subtle yet reassuring.
Near the water's edge stands Grel, the stout dwarf leaning comfortably against a barrel. His beard is a deep, burnished auburn, meticulously braided and adorned with silver rings etched with ancestral runes. Piercing grey eyes peer out from beneath thick brows, calmly surveying the celebration with mild amusement. Grel often serves as the crew's voice of reason and steadiness, his deep rumbling voice capable of both quiet guidance and stern commands.
Further along, Grask—a towering half-Grendeli—stands imposingly yet utterly relaxed among the townsfolk. His massive height looms above crowds, ruddy-brown skin rugged and weathered by sea and wind. Tattoos in shades of deep blue mark the stories of his lineage upon his enormous limbs, his laughter hearty enough to draw startled smiles from even the shyest of villagers.
Across from Grask is Alric—the lean and wiry human sailor—leans casually against a lamppost, a sly grin on his youthful face. Dark curls tumble freely around his shoulders, his brown eyes filled with mischief and quick intelligence. Alric's tongue is quicker than most blades, an asset in negotiating or distracting, yet sometimes lands him in trouble, which the crew often teases him about.
Thalro, the enigmatic Drow sailor, stands slightly apart, observing the festivities with wild disdain. His elegant features—skin of dark obsidian, eyes sharp crimson, hair starkly white and meticulously braided down his back—lend him an air of dangerous elegance. Thalro's aloofness makes him difficult to approach for most, but the crew values his keen intelligence and ruthless efficiency.
Jareth sighs, straightening fully now, as he sees more of his men scattered throughout the festival—Arlan, the spry young wood-elf who delights in music and song; Kaelen, a tough, fiercely loyal human warrior with scars across his knuckles, and Rurik, a cunning Kobold with scales shimmering bronze, whose small size and agility makes him perfect for sneaking and scouting. They're all scattered about, distracted by laughter, drink, and pretty faces.
"I'm gonna round them up," Jareth mutters, stretching his broad shoulders and glancing back at Borin. "We won't fail today if half the crew are still stuck among these ribbons and flower petals."
Borin nods approvingly, folding his stout hands arms across the chest as he surveys the festival thoughtfully. "Good plan, lad," he replies calmly. "Don't be too harsh on 'em, eh? Even pirates deserve a bit of joy now and then. Let them take their fill; ye'll know how ta remind 'em where their true duty lies."
Jareth grunts softly again, moving back toward the gangplank with long, purposeful strides. He understands Borin's words, appreciates them even. But today, he feels restless, impatient to reclaim control, to return to the comforting routine of sea and sky. The noise of celebration, of people and their endless dances, grates against something deeper in him—something yearning for clarity, simplicity, the embrace of the sea itself.
"Just keep the ship ready," he calls gruffly over his shoulder, descending the docks. "I'll bring them back soon enough."
Borin watches him go, the older pirate's glinting thoughtfully. He sees beyond Jareth's irritation, sensing the deeper restlessness that troubles the younger man. Perhaps it's the Faerie lass, perhaps the past weighing heavy on his shoulders, or perhaps just the call of the sea tugging at him once more. He trusts Jareth to gather the crew. He trusts him to lead them safely, to steer them through the storms, both literal and emotional.
Stepping away from the familiar stability of the ship onto the bustling docks, Jareth pauses briefly to orient himself amid the festive chaos. The music crashes around him in vibrant waves, each note a sharp intrusion on his already frayed nerves. The sun is brighter than it has any right to be at this time, and his weary eyes narrow against the glare as he scans the crowd methodically, a flicker of hope betraying the irritation on his rugged features.
Green and gold. The thought brushes his mind again—Naomi's echoing softly, hesitant yet earnest. Jareth feels an odd twist in his chest, a quiet tension coiled around the faint expectation of seeing her amid the swirl of colours and movements. He grunts softly, a self-directed admonishment, and squares his shoulders, forcing his focus back onto his mission: finding his scattered crew.
First, he moves toward Darrow, the massive orc easily visible among the smaller townsfolk. Darrow stands at the centre of a circle of enthralled villagers, recounting some exaggerated tale of their latest sea skirmish. His amber eyes gleam with good-natured pride, his broad chest puffed out like a preening peacock. At Jareth's firm approach, the orc's exuberant expression falters, momentarily replaced by sheepish guilt.
"Ah, there you are!" Darrow booms heartily, a hand rubbing nervously over his tattooed neck. "We… were just tradin' tales, Redbeard. You know how these festivals are—people ask, and I just have to tell 'em."
"Enough, Darrow," Jareth says firmly, though a reluctant fondness slips through his stern tone. His blue eyes are piercing, yet there's a quiet understanding, a flicker of warmth hidden beneath his authoritative mask. "Borin wants us ready to sail. You can finish boastin' once we're out at sea.
Darrow nods immediately, his grin tempered. "Aye, Redbeard understood!" The orc claps a massive hand onto Jareth's shoulder briefly, earning a grudging sigh from the taller man, before moving obediently back towards the docks.
Next, Jareth finds Orick, the cheerful halfling surrounded by a gaggle of bright-eyed youths, performing tricks with deft hands and a winning smile. Orick's bright laughter rings out clearly, and his sky-blue eyes sparkle mischievously. As Jareth approaches, Orick notices him immediately, freezing comically mid-juggle, causing several children to burst into laughter.
"Oh, hullo J—Redbeard!" Orick calls out cheerily, scrambling to catch his scattered props. "Jus' entertainin' the wee ones! They've never seen a juggling halfling before, y'know?"
Jareth's expression remains stern, but the corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. Orick's perpetual buoyancy and boundless energy always manages to chip away his gruff exterior. "Entertainment's over, Orick," he says gruffly. "Ships waitin', and Borin's patience has limits."
Orick's round face sobers instantly, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. "Aye, understood, Redbeard!" He turns dramatically to the children, bowing low. "Duty calls! But next time I'll teach you all to juggle!" He winks at them, earning delighted giggles before scampering off after Darrow.
Moving onward, Jareth locates Tomas quietly observing from a shadowed alcove. Tomas, silent and watchful, acknowledges with him a subtle nod. Jareth's expression softens just slightly—Tomas is dependable, disciplined, rarely requiring a reminder.
"Already headed back," Tomas mutters, dark eyes calm and steady. Jareth appreciates his quiet efficiency, giving the younger Thrundeli an approving look before swiftly moving on.
Torren, the Elven sailor, stands gracefully near a musician's tent, his moonlight hair rippling gently in the breeze. He catches the sight of Jareth and straightens immediately, his expression serene yet respectful.
"Captain calls?" Torren asks softly, voice melodic yet steady.
Jareth nods curtly, approving of Torren's immediate attentiveness. "Time to move. I trust you're done dancing."
Torren's elegant mouth curves faintly into a rare, amused smile. "I wouldn't dare linger, not today," he responds smoothly, falling into a step towards the docks.
In contrast, Grel the Dwarf looks thoroughly annoyed by the festival's bustle, standing stiffly beside a food stall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Spotting Jareth, he huffs irritably, "'Bout time! I was beginnin' tae think the old Bramlin' the Rose into a floatin' tavern!"
Jareth snorts quietly, appreciating the Dwarf's frank bluntness. "Come on, Grel," he mutters dryly. "I promise your suffering will end once we reach open sea."
The Dwarf grumbles assent, swiftly stomping off toward the ship, clearly relieved.
Nearby, Grask—the massive half-Grendeli—laughs uproariously, completely absorbed into an arm-wrestling match against three burly dock workers simultaneously. The crowd cheers raucously as Grask effortlessly pins their arms. At Jareth's stone approach, Grask looks up sheepishly.
"Jus' havin' a wee bit o' fun, mate," Grask protests cheerfully, his massive hands spreading innocently. "Can't be blamed for celebratin' a wee bit."
"You've had enough fun," Jareth rumbles firmly, eyes sharp but not harsh. "The ship waits for no one—not even a half-giant with the strength of ten men."
Grask chuckles good-naturedly, his large shoulders shaking. "Fair enough, Redbeard! Back tae duty, aye." He claps Jareth affectionately, causing the Thrundeli to stumble slightly, grumbling low curses under his breath.
Further long, young Alric the human lounges lazily by a flower stall, offering sly winks and charming smiles to passing women. At Jareth's approach, his carefree expression falters slightly, quickly replaced by a sheepish, roguish grin.
"Redbeard! Was just securing some… cultural exchange," Alric explains unconvincingly.
Jareth scowls slightly, brows furrowing. "Your 'exchanges' have secured us enough trouble in the past," he growls mildly, gesturing sharply toward the ship. "Back aboard, now."
Alric chuckles nervously, swiftly obeying. "Aye, aye, no trouble today!" he calls over his shoulder, disappearing quickly.
Thalro, the dark Drow, proves slightly harder to find—leaning quietly against the shadows in an alleyway. His crimson eyes meet Jareth's unflinching, calm, and sharp look. "Already moving, Jareth," Thalro murmurs, voice cold yet respectful. Jareth appreciates this silent efficiency, nodding in approval as the Drow melts away from the docks.
Lastly, Jareth rounds up Arlan—the energetic wood-elf playing his flute enthusiastically with local musicians—Kaelen, caught mid-drink but obediently dropping his mug at Jareth's silent flare, and Rurik, the bronze-scaled Kobold, whose quick tongue earns wary looks from festival guards. They react with varying degrees of guilt, respect, and good-natured compliance, swiftly returning to the ship with little protest.
With his crew gathered and properly chastened, Jareth pauses once more, scanning the vibrant crowds. Green and gold. His eyes sweep restlessly, seeking that delicate, familiar combination.
His heart jumps uncomfortably, a brief pang of vulnerability tightening his chest. Naomi isn't here—Not yet. He knows he can't wait much longer. Duty, the sea, Borin's expectations—all pull him towards the ship. Yet his steps linger, his gaze still searching for one last glimpse, one small assurance.
Growling softly at himself, he finally turns away, forcing his gaze back to the Sunlit Rose. He moves purposely towards the docks, shoulders tense, expression grimly determined. Yet, despite his outward resolve, beneath the stubborn pride and stern discipline lies a quiet, stubborn hope:
Perhaps there's still time.
And quietly, beneath the grin set of his jaw, Jareth feels a gentle tug of warmth—like an anchor dropped softly within his heart, tethering him not to the land, but to a fleeting, fragile hope that somehow, against all his better instincts, he'll see a flash of green and gold before it's too late.
Naomi's hearts pounds violently in her chest, the rhythm drowning out the loud, incessant drumbeats that echo relentlessly throughout the crowded streets of Tarith's Crossing. Her pulse thunders in her ears, the harsh, vibrant music pressing in around her like a physical force, overwhelming and dizzying. The kaleidoscopic blur of colours—the swirling skirts, the flash of jewellery—all merge into a chaotic mess, blurring her vision as she desperately tries to search for him.
And then, the dizzying cacophony and disorienting lights, she sees him. Jareth stands tall and commanding near the docks, unmistakably distinct even amid the bustling chaos. His broad shoulders, his dark, unruly hair catching hints of sun, the serious expression that makes his features sharp, precise, and intense—these details draw her gaze inexorably towards him.
Her breath catches sharply as relief floods her chest, tinged with urgency. "Jareth!" Naomi calls, her voice barely audible, swallowed instantly by the festive noise. Panic begins to tighten her throat, constricting her voice further as she desperately tries to push forward through the pulsating, surging crowd. People move against her, hands reach out to grasp her arms, pulling her playfully into impromptu dances, unaware of the distress their cheerful intentions cause.
"No, please—" she stammers softly, her stutter growing more pronounced as anxiety climbs sharply within her. She tugs away sharply, almost stumbling into another group of dances, their laughter bright and oblivious to the panic shining in her mauve eyes. Frustration mingles with the mounting desperation as Naomi feels herself get pulled into another whirling spin by strangers, disoriented further as the world blurs.
Each time she manages to break free, she's lost valuable ground, her view of Jareth obscured. The fluttering gold sash catches against someone's arm, her delicate sandals slip against the worn cobblestones, and all the while her pulse races, a sickening, panicked urgency tightening painfully around her chest.
"Please, let go!" she begs, voice cracking, thin and frail against the deafening festival music, struggling through the dizzying madness. She catches glimpses of Jareth through tangled limbs and whirling skirts—a brief moment, fleeting but steadying—his silhouette beginning to move towards the ship, the crew gathering around him obediently, methodically.
Her heart sinks sharply, her hope flickering dangerously close to despair. She fights harder, elbowing her way through, her careful composure completely unravelling as she stumbles, gasping for breath, through the sea of relentless, joyous strangers. The irony is bitter and piercing: surrounded by laughter, music and carefree abandon, Jareth only feel anxious and desperate isolation.
By the time she manages to escape the festival's insistent pull, the ache in her lings is searing, her breaths short and ragged, her heart throbbing against her ribs. She bursts from the crowd, stumbling slightly, hair askew, trembling faintly against her back.
"No—no, no—" she whispers, panic twisting in her stomach as she sees the sail being unfurled on the Sunlit Rose, the massive anchor already creaking upward as the crew begins to push capstan. Borin's gruff voice carries across the docks, clear and decisive as he directs the crew, his silhouette distinct at the helm, strong and steady.
Naomi staggers forward, her sandals slipping slightly, her heart wrenching painfully at the sight of the ship pulling slowly away. She inhales deeply, gathering every fragment of courage left within her trembling frame, and calls out desperately, voice hoarse yet louder than ever:
"JARETH!"
Her call rings sharp and clear across the water, echoing softly between the ships moored port. Jareth stiffens instantly, turning swiftly toward the shore, his gaze narrowing intently. His blue eyes, dark and stormy like a turbulent sea, widen just slightly as they lock onto hers, surprised, vulnerable, uncertain—so different from his guarded intensity.
For a breathless moment, they stare at each other across the rapidly widening distance, the water yawning between them—a silent, implacable barrier. Naomi's chest rises and falls sharply, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within her, the frantic urgency of the chase giving way to the crushing disappointment that painfully around her heart.
Jareth's heart clenches sharply at the sight of her standing there on the shore, chest heaving, hair tousled, desperation raw and palpable on her lovely, anxious features. His throat tightens inexplicably, and an unfamiliar ache settles heavy and cold in his chest. He hadn't really expected her—hadn't truly thought she would come. They barely know each other, yet he realises bitterly, he had hoped.
Had hoped to see her, even if he hadn't fully allowed himself to admit it.
Finally finding his voice, Jareth shouts across the widening gap, words carrying clear and gentle amusement, attempting to mask the deeper, sharper emotions twisting within him. "Not exactly green today, lass! Thought I'd see you coming from leagues off!"
Naomi, momentarily confused, glances down abruptly at herself, noticing the shades of twilight blue and soft lavender cascading down her dress, starkly different from her usual, comforting green. The gold sash gleams brightly around her waist—a shy attempt to ensure he'd spot her—but her dress, delicate and decidedly not green, now feels foolish, vain, and out of place.
Her cheeks flood scarlet instantly, embarrassment washing hotly over her features, her breath hitching painfully in her throat. Her hand curls instinctively around the sash, eyes prickling sharply with the bitter sting of regret, feeling inexplicably vulnerable and exposed.
But as Naomi lifts her gaze back to Jareth, the embarrassment fades slowly, replaced by an aching sadness she can't quite name—a hollow feeling lodged painfully in her chest. She wanted to say goodbye. She had needed to.
Now, standing at the edge of the dock, she watches helplessly as Jareth's figure grows steadily smaller, the ship pulling smoothly out to sea, sails billowing gracefully against the bright morning sky.
From the deck of the Sunlit Rose, Jareth's gaze remains firmly locked on Naomi, unwilling—unable—to look away. His heart leaden, heavier with each passing second, sinking quietly within his chest. He feels a strange ache, a longing grips him fiercely, sharply, painfully—completely unexpected, thoroughly confusing.
He watches Naomi stand utterly still, eyes wide and shining softly, wings dropping, the golden sash fluttering gently in the breeze—a delicate, fragile figure fading slowly against the bustling backdrop of Tarith's Crossing.
The aching silence between them stretches impossibly, filled with the gentle creaking of the ship, the distant festival music fading into nothingness. Neither understands why this hurts so deeply, why a single goodbye means so much.
Yet it does.
They stare until the distance grows too fast, until their figures blur gently, swallowed softly by sea and sky. Naomi stands motionless on the shore, dress shifting faintly in the wind, the colours of twilight and lavender now bitterly beautiful, heartbreakingly lonely.
Jareth stands rigid upon the deck, fists clenched tightly, blue eyes fixed on the receding shore—unable to turn away, unable to understand the sharp, inexplicable ache that has lodged firmly within his chest, deeper than logic, stronger than reason.
In the fading distance, the festival resumes joyously, oblivious to the quiet heartbreak etched sharply into two strangers—bound briefly by chance, by fleeting moments, and now inexplicably, painfully parted, unsure if their paths will ever cross again.