@manipulativevixen
In a city of thousands or more, it is possible to avoid the physical shadows of one’s past in a way that one cannot evade the metaphysical. A flash of gold might make him think of Sharrkan, or a red hair might remind him of Spartos ( or on worse days, Mystras ). More than once he has looked skyward half in hopes that Pisti will descend from an eagle soaring above the city. It is easy enough to brush off these rare occurrences as mere homesickness until his eyes fall upon the spitting image of someone he’s never met in his homeland, nor in all his travels.
“Lust.”
Sinbad finds himself drawn to her, compelled not by her beauty ( not entirely ) but by her familiarity. Since he was seventeen, he has never been so alone. Try as he might to hide what lurks within him, there is a longing for companionship of any kind that he cannot seem to quell.
“My memory never has done you justice.” For all his confidence and desire, nearly every ounce of flirtatiousness disappears from his voice upon continuing. “It’s good to see you again.”
