It’s been a long time since he’s stepped foot into a city.

At least, it’s been a long time since he’s stepped into a city like this– vast and so tight-knit the stitches become antinomically invisible all around you, alive to some degree no matter the hour. He’s passed through a number of smaller settlements over the past few months, little villages or towns populated by sparse amounts of people, just with the intent of staying the night or restocking on traveling supplies. It’s easier, really, to merely pass through– to step in and out, leave few traces, and continue on, ever in motion, never stopping, never giving too many places or things the chance to know you too well. Kvasir has an easier time with that, now, than the alternative– he has no seeds to sow, no roots to bury, so he’ll stay a night or two and pluck the weeds on his way out, leaving nothing but torn grass and marred dirt behind.

But there’s always something so nostalgic about the Moonglade that makes it impossible to merely… pass through. He knows, distantly, deep in the recesses of his mind, that it’s because this is his home– half of one, at least– and the familiarity is cloying, calling to the parts of him that are desperate not to choke on the dust and sand of ancient decay. So when he’d traveled out here to Eclipse City, merely with the intention of foraging on the outskirts and maybe making a few minor purchases, one night had turned into two, and…

Well, a week was just a sequence of nights stacked atop one another.

Considering he’d spent most of his travels camping, he could afford a few nights in an inn, as it was. And yet, the moonlight had seemed nearly too luminous as it breached through worn curtains and spilled over thin blankets, a pale kiss against his still-seeing eye, and no matter how he yearned for it, sleep refused to take him in her compassionate arms. So Kvasir had pocketed his key and stepped back out into the night, wandering the streets in search of something to keep his mind occupied– considering the size of the city, he has no doubts a few of the shops might still be open, or that the nightlife might still be thrumming along with the pulse of the stars glistening in the tapestry of night overhead.

He’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for as he saunters down toward the docks, but… he’s not quite sure he ever does.

Ah, but Atreion does so love the Moonlit Docks at night! The glittering city sprawls down to the sea, turning the water into a riot of light and colour. Tall ships rest in the bay, their silent sails witness to the people still thronging through the docks and taverns. The late night vendors hawk sizzling skewers of meat and sticky cakes, shouting at passers-by or trying to block their path to get a sale. Atreion has become adept at dodging them through the years, dodging to and fro with a cheery denial. More often than not he gets some good-natured cursing in return and they part laughing, on to the next and the next and the next. People are still out drinking and laughing, fighting or kissing in hidden corners. And above it all, the moon and her thousands of little sisters, bright and brilliant above it all. It's chaotic. It's beautiful. He loves it.

It's tricky to get coin here, what with all the competition, but for once Atreion doesn't mind at all. Their pockets are more than full after a few good nights and now is the time to relax and truly enjoy the fruits of his labour. More troubadors have set up in the closed fish market drumming and singing and Atreion lets himself revel in it, for once uncaring about silly things like comparisons and competitions. Some folk have gathered to dance in the open space and several comely lasses whirl by, laughing. One of them catches their eye: pretty with close-cropped hair and golden earrings, and on the second go-around she catches his hand and all but yanks him into the fray. It takes a moment to find their feet, but before they know it they find the drumbeat and they are spinning too, around and around while spectators clap and holler encouragement.

He loses track of time. After the girl with the earrings there's a sweet redhead, then a dusky boy with bright eyes. Their breath comes sharp, feet moving of their own accord, and it feels like being drunk without taking a sip. Perhaps too drunk, for after what feels like an age a step goes wrong or a spin goes off-center and he staggers giggling from the crowd, very nearly crashing into a fellow come to watch.

"Forgive me!" They grip the man by the shoulders to keep from toppling, still pink in the face from laughter, "Oh dear, I am dreadfully sorry! I didn't hurt you, did I?" Wiping tears from their eyes, they straighten up only for their mouth to fall open, astonished. "Wait-- I know you!"

Amidst the many things that have slipped Kvasir’s mind in the time since he’s last stepped foot into Eclipse City, it’s just how alive the Moonlit Docks become even in the throes of night.

The intersection between cobblestone streets and wooden docks are veins of activity, pulsing with the lifeblood of night vendors and tipsy tavern-goers and dancers, inebriated jubilation hanging in the air like a delicate mist. In the towns he usually visits, the people fall quiet with the rise of the stars, but here, they burn with them, as bright and luminous and alive as the lights twinkling overhead. There’s a veritable plethora of sights and sounds and activities to look over, and for once, Kvasir simply lets the stress melt from his overworked mind, wandering over to one of the vendor’s stalls to purchase a warm, sweet, cinnamon-laden snack to polish off as he weaves through crowds of boisterous people, letting the high spirits of the people around him wear down his frayed nerves.

He licks frosting and cinnamon from his fingertips as he stops by a circle of joyous dancers, all entangled in a mindless swirl of motion and happiness– it’s practically contagious. If Kvasir knew a thing about dance, he’d consider stepping in, but he’s content to merely watch from the side, his tail gently swishing back and forth in a lazy attempt to chase the rhythm of laughter and shoes against stone. Despite the almost overwhelming nature of the high energy, the contagion of the joy is paradoxically tranquil, and he’s wondering if he should linger for just a while longer before heading back–

And that’s when someone crashes into him.

“A-Ah–” Kvasir freezes, his breath hitching a little at the feeling of hands against his shoulders, saving him from hitting the ground, a voice so close to his ears that they twitch and flatten against his skull. He glances up at them with one wide eye, green ringed in gold, curious and confused as they continue talking–

…This person knows him. Someone here knows him, and yet when he stares up at those spring-green eyes, big and mirthful and framed in achingly-familiar auburn, Kvasir feels his mind veer around a blank corner. Of course they know him. Second largest city in Charon, and he runs into someone who knows him, and yet the only thing that stirs up even the slightest feeling of familiarity within him is the sight of the red-brown hair that cascades down their shoulders, and that hardly feels like enough.

Guilt blooms like a rose within his chest, thorns embedded deep in his lungs, but he chokes out a deep breath anyway.

“...I… sincerely apologize,” he starts, the remorse already bleeding through every syllable he speaks. He pauses for a silent prayer that confusion doesn’t overpower his expression, that this poor sort-of-stranger isn’t offended by his slipping memory. “I don’t… have the keenest of minds these days when it comes to remembering people, friend. Where do you know me from…?”