[Closed] Familiar Faces

[Sarinah Lissden]

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38th Roalis, 2720
​​SHERRYS PENINSULA, NEAR THE DOCKS | PAST SUNRISE

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Morning seemed to be so much cooler these days, and so much more radiant and clear. Vibrantly colored whice sang to each other in the still leaves of the palm trees that hung along the coastline of the harbor, dancing in and out of the hardy scrub bushes that protected the dunes away from the main docks of Old Rose. Further out from the shore, lazy pods of dolphins arched through the shimmering gold kissed water, their dorsal fins rising and dipping like signal flags. Fishing boats were still leaving, sailors sipping rum to warm their bellies whilst breaking their fast on stodgy ship stews unlovingly prepared by bleary eyed cooks and their apprentices, tossing out crab pots along the way to their deeper sea destinations. Voices yelled from the docks, cargo to be transferred and manifestos to be checked—and of course the King’s personal lists to be quietly shuffled. Stray osta’s danced along the moored ships, looking for a free meal with delighted chirrups and purposeful purring.
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​​Away from the business of the waking city, on the soft white sands of the beach that outlined the cove near Sherry’s peninsula, Sarinah lay down in the sand with her legs bent, hands holding two tiny ones to keep Linora’s balance where she sat on her stomach. The youngster babbled her toddler talk whilst giggling at the witch, not at all still as she bounced and wriggled in place.
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​​ “Wo chet!” The brunette would exclaim with each bounce, delighted by the peak of laughter from the boisterous child, unable to contain her own laughter at the sweet abandon of it.
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​​ “Maybe da should have a turn of this, oes boch?” She said with a giggle, lifting Nora up and off her whilst turning on her side to place her on the threadbare blanket that was spread beneath them. The smaller wick defied any seating arrangements, instead lifting on chubby legs to laugh and make a run for it.
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​​ “Oes, I see! Catch her hama!” Sarinah said with a laugh, trusting Tristaan without question to intercede before Linora made it too far from them both. She sat up, dusting sand from her where it had managed to elude the blanket, looking across the beach with a smile.

After all that had happened, all they had weathered, this was the moment of serenity they deserved. It was a moment in time, Sarinah knew this. There was a countdown somewhere, in the hands of Silas Hawke, she was aware. Or with Scarlett. Perfection wouldn’t last, but for the while whether it was pity or fear of each other, the King and Queen had let them enjoy family life.

Further up the beach, the once dancer could see an encampment, small but comfortable. A couple of kints, a fire and some crates to sit on. She’d not yet seen anyone stirring, and couldn’t help but chuckle. Perhaps they were spokes who’d indulged a little to heavily the night before.
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[Tristaanian Greymoore]

38th of Roalis, 2720
SHERRY'S PENNENSULA | A PINA MANNA EARLY YET

There'd been a time that Tristaan could remember very clearly where he'd been quite sure there was absolutely no reason to hope for anything better than what he'd had in whatever that moment had been. Honestly, there'd been several times, marked into his skin with ink or with scar tissue, that he'd reminded himself of that very sentiment:

Don't hope for more because after this moment, there can be only worse things.

Or—you are less, therefore this little moment is only significant to you.

Or—if you think this moment is good, it's just your suffering lying to you.

Gods, really. His whole life. The worst part was the passive still woke up in the dark at odd hours of the night, the warm bodies of his lovely witch their child right there pressed against him, and still truly believed that there was little else to hope for but this tiny, strange, fought-and-bled for slice of perfection he'd fallen into.

Some day, he was sure, everything would be turned on its head again, but for now?

For now he could walk on the windswept sand of Sherry's Peninsula, barefoot and shirt open to the sea breeze without a clocking care—freedom was not a concept handed readily (if at all) to magic-less sons of galdorkind like himself, but he stole it without regret.

Staring at the waves briefly, not far off from the babbling of his tiny daughter or the cooing tones of Sarinah, Tristaan turned back to join them just in time to watch Nora slip with toddler-fueled purposefulness from his hama's grasp and take off at surprising speed across wet sand, the sparkling of the water catching her attention while sea foam tickled the shore.

Laughing at her giggles, the dark-haired passive was swift enough to catch the mixed-blooded, giggling perfection that was his daughter, scooping her up and letting her tiny little toes skim over the water as he waded into it just for her, the Roalis heat making the bay encircled by Sherry's Peninsula warm and comfortable. There was much squealing in delight before he hefted her up on his shoulders, narrow but strong as they were. Unconcerned about sand or seawater, he only winced when chubby little fingers immediately curled into his now-short, wavy hair,

"Gentle, pina'hama."] He smirked, making his way through the shallows toward Sarinah and noting the shift in her attention,

"Some kov 're missin' Surwood Isle, I think. Tryin' t'get that waterfront feelin' back." The dark-haired passive wondered out loud, leaning in for a kiss while keeping a careful hold on Nora while she babbled on, "We can walk that way an' see what they're about, oes?"

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Sarinah Lissden]

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38th Roalis, 2720
​​SHERRYS PENINSULA, NEAR THE DOCKS | PAST SUNRISE

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Watching the passive catch their wayward offspring, the olive skinned wick stood gracefully, grains of white sand trickling from the black fabric of her long flowing skirt that split on either side to the knees. Barefooted, her feet sank into the soft ground as she dusted off her hands, russet colored top loose around the shoulders and tucked into her skirt. Smiling as the shrieks of the pina boch threaded their way back to her, Sarinah pushed thick brunette locks back behind her ears, watching Tristaan take Linora into the water to dip tiny toes in warm waves. The child could almost be believed as a Deep Water, living her short time on Vita so far in the sea faring city of the King, a sea-boch as good as any.
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​​ “She doesn’t know gentle, kov. Ent that right nanabo?” The woman said as she shifted to welcome the familiar kiss, turning her face to press one or two against a rounded toddler calf. Her mahogany gaze drifted back to the encampment on the beach, making a musing sound in the back of her throat.
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​​ “Oes, maybe. Surwood. Might be we could make it there in the new maw.” Sarinah said with a soft smile, her brow drawing slightly. She’d missed the Festival for such a long time stuck in the Rose, finally making it there only to see the beginning of the end for many things. It was so long ago now it seemed, a lifetime ago. And they were back where they’d started. Maybe, just maybe, she could hold only a tiny bit of hope that they could escape the holding pattern that had now played out between Hawke and Scarlett. They were free, and they weren’t.
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​​And that was perhaps harder than knowing that you weren’t free. You knew the boundaries to cross or not.
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​​Shaking off the melancholy of the past, the witch smiled more broadly and nodded, looping her arm in Tristaan’s without disturbing his hold on their child.
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​​ “Ent a bad idea, hama.” She said as she began to lead him towards the group, blanket left in the sand for the moment. As they strolled towards the simple set up, Sarinah noticed movement between the kints. Someone was awake, walking between the mobile homes towards the fire, rubbing their hair in one hand and holding a mug of something hot and steaming in the other.
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​​ “—it’s not like I’m rubbing shoulders with him you know.” A gruff voice wafted from the figure as they groaned to sit down beside the morning flame, sipping the beverage with a wince. It was a man, thin framed and greying with wild hiar. From the kints, another man appeared, shorter and also sporting a cup of something to sit by the fire. They called out to the other in frustration as they followed along.
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​​ “No but you’ve got a way with folks, and frankly we need that right now. Just a chat, that’s all I’m suggesting. A space to rent, for a time, on the outskirts here. To practice, to live for a bit, and a few shows before we move onto Vienda. It’s not like we’re strangers Winslow. We’ve been in the Rose before.” The brunette’s brows shot up at the name, her head turning sharply to look at Tristaan, before slipping her arm free to move a little faster. The first man
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​​ “Before all that mess. We left it all behind then Balder, it’s been two years. Time’s have changed. No one cares about—”
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​​ “Wo chet! Balder? Winslow?!” The dancer called out in shock, hardly able to believe what she was seeing. The two men looked up, and for a moment Sarinah was sure they didn’t recognize them, until Balder lept to his feet.
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​​ “By the Ten, I don’t believe it!” He laughed, rushing to greet the young couple with genuine warmth and hugs, his balding head exposed to the morning like a shining beacon. Winslow stood more sedately, approaching with a measured step and a slow nod.
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​​ “Thought you were dead.” The clown said in a tone that didn’t express as much warmth as Balder, holding something deeper within it, his eyes searching Tristaan’s face as Sarinah squeezed the stout ringmaster tightly.
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[Tristaanian Greymoore]

"Ah, now, I think more bodies would know gentle from birth were they raised that way, ye chen. Ent like she's quite known rough yet, an' I wanna keep 't that way 's long 's I can. Unlike some 'f us." The dark-haired passive would've said he'd been raised better once, but he knew now the difference. Born into his galdori fami, had they really been people who cared at all, considering how he'd ended up on the street?

A bit of hair tugging seemed to pale in comparison, honestly.

Tristaan curled his toes in wet sand and squinted back up the beach, thoughts on Surwood a strange, mixed set of emotions and memories. Walking close enough to occasionally brush shoulders with the witch and have some of the ebb and flow of the tide tickle his ankles, he smiled at the thought of heading back there again under totally different circumstances,

"I'd ne be opposed to th'idea. It'd be nice t' travel a bit again." He offered, stepping a little closer when Sarinah tangled her arm with his, shifting his hold on Nora only slightly, quite aware of how content she was currently on his shoulders by the sensation of occasional sharp discomfort in his scalp and her giggles. He supposed shorter hair had its advantages, after all, even if he'd once been somewhat reluctant to trim away his long waves.

They walked a bit, surf at their ankles, and it was impossible not to recognize the voices that drifted their way on the wind, the familiar tones of people they'd spent a bit of time living and working alongside. His grey eyes widened and he slowly slipped Nora from his shoulders toward his hip, arms holding her against his chest as he tilted his head in Sarinah's direction, mouth a little agape until his lovely witch called out before he did, shouting names they knew.

A flutter of nervous expectation and the tickle of fear danced along his spine, between his shoulder blades like beads of sweat, some lingering memory of how things had been torn apart between them all by the riots and—

—dead might've been an understatement.

"Junta. Me, too. Ent gonna lie." Tristaan knew the look and his jaw clenched briefly, steely gaze softening as if under the heat of a smith's forge. Slowly, he grinned, pretending there wasn't any moisture stinging the edges of his gaze when he met Winslow's stare,

"Maybe for a pina manna, we were close, but look—full 'f life an' livin' now." He shifted gently, offering the very curious toddler he held in the old clown's direction. The little witch didn't know any better and she was already smiling, reaching, curious about the strangers that da and daoa seemed to recognize.

The human snorted, briefly hesitant before he laughed, coarse but soft, gently taking the very cute proof of the pair being very much safe and alive as well as in love from the dark-haired passive, smiling at the young babe. Finally letting his disbelieving eyes slide away from Tristaan, Winslow fawned over Linora with all the proper joy the girl deserved,

"I'd ask what happened, but maybe now ent the time to share." The human murmured, arching a brow toward Balder while tiny hands smooshed his face.

"Well, all 'f it? Ne. It were a lil' rough in th' middle. What 'bout yerselves? Y' managed t' all stay together, I see. Jus' here from Surwood? Everyone else safe?"

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Sarinah Lissden]

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38th Roalis, 2720
​​SHERRYS PENINSULA, NEAR THE DOCKS | PAST SUNRISE

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Drawing back from Balder’s embrace, the brunette glanced at Winslow almost with a sense of guilt, her gaze drifting to Tristaan with a frown.

“We—I—” She tried, unable to think of what to say, where to even start. As the passive spoke, Sarinah blinked back the wave of emotion that his words brought on, almost overwhelmed by them. So much had happened since the riot, so much, and in all of the insanity of their confinement to the Rose there’d been no way of knowing the outcomes of their friends. She watched as the grey eyed man passed Nora over to the old clown, heart swelling at the child’s innocence, unable to help the small smile that came to her lips watching Winslow melt into the depths of her tiny gaze.

“Oes, might be best to share that conversation over a meal and a couple of drinks kov.” Sarinah said softly, agreeing with Tristaan that their story between the riots and now was best saved for another time. Balder came closer to Winslow, chuckling and smiling at Linora as she reached for his moustache.

Y' managed t' all stay together, I see. Jus' here from Surwood? Everyone else safe?

The two circus folks looked at each other, something unspoken passing between them. Balder wriggled his fingers at the toddler, taking her from the reluctant clown and poking her rounded stomach gently to elect a small giggle. Winslow rubbed the back of his neck, before resting his hands on his hips.

“Yeah, Surwood, though wasn’t for performing mind. Just for the festival, a bit of a reminder of why we’re together in the first place. But uh, well. Most of us are here.” The witch frowned, feeling a sense of dread in her stomach.

“What do you mean?” She asked quietly, glancing around the encampment that the circus folk had set up, looking for telltale signs of the others. The older human made a ragged sound, something between a sigh and a growl.

“Well, Dorian’s here, and uh, Kellie-Mae. The rest of the band, we lost them in the riots. Arrested by the blackbacks, ain’t seen them since. Taegan he—uh…” Winslow shook his head, looking out across the beach, words stuck in his throat. Sarinah raised a hand to her mouth, feeling the hot sting of tears burning her eyes as she looked at her lover with horror.

“He’s not dead, dear.” Balder interjected, though it wasn’t entirely said in a way that gave her confidence. The wick frowned.

“Well then what?” She asked, brow drawn and glamour shifting in concern and frustration.

“He might as well be.” A hard, younger voice sounded from the encampment. A man approached, with brown hair and a drawn face. Sarinah scarcely recognized him.

“Dorian?” The youth nodded in greeting to them both, though his once boyish and lighthearted features were marred by whatever hardships the troupe had faced since the riot. Crossing his arms, Dorian stood with the small group by the fire, glancing at Nora.

“Looks like you, got your eyes. What’s her name?” He asked Tristaan, before turning narrowed eyes on the fire.

“Taeg’s alive, but he got messed up in the riot. Really messed up. Doesn’t perform anymore, but he’s family. Don’t leave family behind.” Nora started to fuss in Balders arms, whining and reaching for her da, finished playing with the funny hair on the other man’s face. The once-dancer looked at the young man, still not clear.

“Was it the fire?” Shaking his head, Dorian looked at her.

“Would have been better that it was. No, it was Clarabelle.” Sarinah’s brows raised in surprise, her mahogany gaze shifting to Tristaan in shock and confusion, even as Winslow found himself again and waved a hand.

“Ah, this isn’t what a reunion should be about. Come on, come see him. Taegan could do with the visitors.” He said, leading the way should they want to follow.
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[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Tristaan understood the looks exchanged, grey eyes watching expressions without needing to really hear what went unsaid anyway. His smile faltered for his own memories of Vienda, of the riots, and of all that followed here hardly pleasant, either. He'd just never really been given a moment to even think about what happened to everyone who'd been left behind—or, perhaps worse still, the dark-haired passive had simply convinced himself they'd gone unscathed, they'd carried on happily without himself and Sarinah. It felt better that way, in his mind. It hurt less.

Winslow's words cut to the chase and even though his lovely witch asked carefully, he was already running through possible scenarios. He'd heard of the mass arrests and the unnecessary use of force by the Seventen to quell the riots. He'd heard that even the AAF had been called in, finally, to bring a semblance of peace, but the cost had been heavy. The precedents set against tekaa by galdorkind were dizzying, but the passive had done his best not to try and think through the lasting consequences. He'd frankly not been given the clocking time, not while stuck under Hawke's thumb, desperate to survive.

He could piece together some of what Baldur and the clown were saying, and Tristaan would've opened his mouth to ask questions had Dorian not appeared. The young man was no longer the carefree creature he'd once been, and if anyone standing around the fire here on the beach of Old Rose understood, it was the passive.

It wasn't as if he'd even had a godsbedamned childhood.

"Linora. Our little light." He smiled, reaching back for the little witch once she tired of all the attention, nuzzling her briefly while he listened to Dorian's harsh words. He leaned closer to Sarinah, passing their daughter over to her without letting his smile fade this time.

He didn't have to entirely imagine the kind of damage a chrove could do—he'd seen it a few times first hand in the Dives as a factory child and also as an adult here in the Harbor—the Seventen on Hawke's payroll didn't exactly live by the same standards set forth by Hans Morde in Vienda. That was for clocking sure.

His mind turned over the sobriety of a reunion that wasn't unhappy necessarily, unsure of what to expect of the extent of Taegan's injuries.

"Oes, you're right, ye chen. Fami is fami, Dorian, an' real folks that care ent th' type t' go turnin' their backs on those that matter." He thought of that first night he'd slept on the streets alone as a child and clenched his jaw, believing against most odds that whatever'd happened to Baldur's Circus was a wound that could be healed with time.

As someone who'd stared death in the face too many times and refused to be guided by those golden antlers into rest every time, the dark-haired passive was a man of indomitable hope and determination. He knew that if there was nothing else infectious about him—not even his smile—it was that hopefulness that often shined through. Sometimes it wasn't even he that saw it, for the magic-less son of galdori struggled with his own worth as if in direct opposition to the strength of his determination to be worthy.

Tangling his calloused finger's with Sarinahs, Tristaan gave the witch's hand a gentle squeeze, whispering, "It's alright, hama. We didn't even expect t' see 'em all again. How good th'Lady is t' cross our paths again."