Bethas 8th, 2718
Tristaan appreciated the sunset—just not today.
Growing up in the Soot District on the Arova River, sunsets were a rare sight for the passive who often worked fourteen hour shifts from first light until dark. The few and far between he did get to glimpse were never enough, but when he was finally free, the setting sun from the back of a kint sure was a clocking nice view. He could remember his first sunset from a ship at sea, too, just a few years ago, and the open ocean was both terrifying and beautiful. Old Rose was sort of the same, really—full of some very lovely things if you knew when to look (or, in his case, even when you didn't) and full of some very ugly things you didn't really want to see but didn't have a choice about.
He should have, perhaps, been a little concerned that his day had almost been too good, almost been too nice, that unlike the sunset which didn't promise rain, a storm had been building on his horizon instead. Jonathan would have told him as much, but thank the Circle that natt bastard hadn't said a word. Somewhere in his gut, he knew he'd willingly stepped over a line he shouldn't have but it had been quite some time since insults had cut him so deeply or stung so harshly.
To be fair to the lovely witch, jent was entirely new territory for the passive's list of things that hurt him—that blood was fresh. Words like scrap were far more comfortable against his scarred, tanned skin. He could wear that one like the ink on his bicep—it was his right. But golly? Galdor? Jent? No. He was none of those things. Nor would he ever be as far as he understood things. Liar, sure. Nobody, fine. Refuse, apparently.
The dark-haired passive had stuck around the warehouse for an extra hour or so even after everyone had tried their damnedest to drag him out again. Tristaan had refused, lingering because he needed the quiet, lingering because his thoughts were jumbled and no amount of drinking was going to unravel them without turning into violence and taking the entire tavern with him. The dark-haired passive was desperate not to deal with his hurt in all the wrong ways, but it was difficult.
He shouldn't have said anything.
He should have kept his mouth shut.
He should have waited for a better time to tell the truth—no, really, there was no better time but the beginning of things. What had he thought was beginning, anyway? He'd just pissed away a friendship because he had to be so clocking honest all the time, but wasn't that what real friendships were for?
Godsdamnit, his genes really were a curse and he hated it.
Restless and fiery, he forced himself to sit on the deck of someone else's galleon that he'd spent the late afternoon emptying of its contents, bare feet hanging over the water while the vessel bobbed in the Harbor waves, he watched a steam-powered boat fade over the horizon with the brilliant, dying sunlight glinting off the waves. He knew he could stop and count all of his mistakes, run out of fingers and toes, and give up. He had many, and all of them seemed to hang like a shadow over Old Rose, but the lingering warmth in his narrow, scarred chest told him that Sarinah was not one of those mistakes.
Dangerous? Yes. Hawke's property wasn't anything to mess with, that much even he knew.
Worthwhile? Tristaan had learned early in his magic-less son of a galdor life what was worth fighting for and what wasn't. He'd already made up his mind about the lovely witch, too.
Or, at least, he had. Until he went and fucked it all up being the balach again.
Movement caught his attention as he weighed his choices, and while the passive was about to call out to tell someone he knew to quit trying and clocking bugger off, but he recognized Wesley immediately—the burly wick who'd been too busy taking advantage of his job perks between the Mistress' legs to actually be doing his job protecting her property.
Grey eyes narrowed as the dark-haired passive took in his two companions—a Mug woman as burly as he was and some lanky natt. Outnumbered was not a problem he considered, but he was, perhaps, outfought. Slipping back into his boots, he stood on the deck of the galleon and brought calloused fingers to his lips for a loud, clear whistle, brazenly attracting their attentions and flashing them the most wicked of grins, a fire in his chest smoldering and crackling to life with a dangerous need. Slipping over the railing with well-practiced ease and dropping to the dock, Tristaan made sure the flintlock at his hip was visible as soon as he began to walk toward them, even if his sharp, pointy objects on his belt and in a boot were not,
"Hesta. Can't tell one ship from another, kov? Yer Queen's no' seen a pina manna o' water for far too many maw, so you'd best turn 'round an' head back th' way y' came, ye chen. Y' can't even do your job, though, so maybe y' are a lil' lost out here on th' docks." He was sober, and while the dark-haired passive could probably handle one or two of them, the three of them was going to be a problem if this was going to be a physical altercation.
Not that she wasn't worth the beating, that lovely witch. He'd already proven that she was. Not that he didn't deserve it, either, because he did. But he'd take as many of them down with him first.
He didn't really need to be told what they were here for—he'd put ideas of freedom in Sarinah's head and opened her eyes to the truth of her situation. He'd showed her kindness and given her more of his time than he should have. Time that any other sod off the street had been begging to pay for but not been given, not yet. He'd been honest and had his words shoved back at him sharper than any knife. Tristaan ached and he hid it from his expression, hid the wounds the lovely witch had carved into his heart with her words, hid his frustration behind a smirk and sarcasm, longing to spark something with these interlopers just to feel their fists,
"I'm sure y' ent come t' me for directions."