[Closed] Of Pride and Property

Sarinah and Tristaan are welcomed back home to Old Rose Harbor by the King himself.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Tristaanian Greymoore
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Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
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Wed Nov 28, 2018 4:21 pm

38th of Yaris, 2718
THE KING'S PALACE | EARLY MORNING
The Palace was a decadent place when it wanted to be, bedecked in a defiant kind of finery and weighed down with all the sorts of baubles that made a fitting mockery of the power and authority and wealth found upriver in Vienda where the King and Queen sat properlike over all of the Kingdom of Anaxas. The Palace was a terrifying place when Hawke wanted it to be, oozing with lawlessness and darkness in the house before dawn while the Yaris heat sighed through the open windows and buzzed like flies that would soon be gathering over the three fresh bodies piled outside the grand steps leading into the stucco'd mansion once the sun rose to bake their corpses in the Dry Season's relentless temperatures.

Yulina stood over them, a look of mixed triumph and disgust smeared onto her scarred face like the splatter of blood on her cheek, her hands stained red like the daggers she bent to wipe on the clothes of the largest of her henchmen she'd just murdered in the half light. Seagulls called overhead and the break of waves could be heard even this far from the beach. The witch sheathed her blades and let her amber gaze snap to the only other figure standing in blue light before sunrise—Wavorly, Corwynn's pirate wick companion.

"Don't go wakin' yer blond bastard bruno yet." Spat the Henchwitch, wiping her face with the back of her wrist and resisting the temptation to lick blood from her fingers in front of the lanky redhead, catching the flash of his gold teeth as he laughed,

"I'm not gonna, love. It's too early for Cor. I'm just here for that clockin' gun."

"I bet ye are, kov." Yulina rolled her eyes and cocked her dreadlocked head in the direction of the Palace, "C'mon then."

The lithe assassin led the way up the stairs and left bloodied fingerprints on the door as she opened it for the tattooed old wick, both of them heading up another set of grand stairs, past guards and the watchful eyes of a couple of tired prostitutes making their way down to return to their homes. The Palace was quiet at this house—eerily so considering the excitement of the past few days—and the silence didn't settle well in the old bones of the mansion because it felt like the ominous weight of the calm before a storm.

She nodded toward the burly Mug at the door, a signal he knew, and he turned down the hall a different direction to fetch the pair of bodies that had been her present to Hawke: his property finally returned.

Wavorly paused once they'd made their way through familiar hallways and nodded that he intended to wait his turn outside the set of double doors that led into the throne room—the affectionate name for the main hall where Silas received both guests and prisoners.

"Suit yerself. I'm sure it'll be a show." Yulina grinned wickedly, wiping her hands on her coat and blowing a kiss in the pirate's direction before she opened the doors with both hands and shut them behind her, letting the wash of fields and words fill her with her typical cruel form of excitement.

Her King looked tired and she was quite aware that Silas hadn't slept since her boat arrived sometime in the night, impatient for his returned property to arrive at his feet. He'd spent his time since gathering Scarlett from the Mad Queen during the busiest hours of the night and giving Yulina a moment to deal with what she claimed to be the failure of her personal entourage.

The wick sat in his makeshift throne, an oversized chair bedecked in his favorite tributes, and he turned over in his hands the weapon that had been so forcibly wrest from the calloused fingers of one fucking annoying passive. Dark eyes flicked up from the strange firearm, quite entertained to have simply made Scarlett wait, grinning hungrily as Yulina closed the doors behind her, not even bothering to ask the question the Henchwitch already knew,

"They're coming, my King." She promised, offering a bloodied grin at the Madame before she stepped up to lean against Silas' throne.



Tristaan had been in and out of consciousness for the week long trip down river, isolated and bound, wounds left largely untreated. He had no idea where Sarinah was or if she was safe, and no one bothered to let the dark-haired passive know of his fate, let alone hers. Yulina enjoyed the long game, the torturer for the King of the Underworld a cruel creature who now was far too aware of the contents of his heart for his own safety, especially not for the safety of his lovely witch.

He knew not to ask, but the defeated creature wasn't entirely capable of backing up such questioning anyway. Weak and sore, he was dragged from the boat in the sticky, salty darkness of night, hauled up the Palace's private, well-hidden docks and through the underground tunnels, blindfolded and restrained. He spent silent hours in agonizing impatience, his only recourse a betrayal of his own mind: those same hours were spent reliving the past few beautiful months and searching desperately for every moment he'd done wrong.

He hadn't been careful enough.

He'd let them stay in Vienda too long.

He'd not kept them enough to themselves.

He'd taken their freedom for granted.

He'd loved—

Rough hands shook him awake and lifted Tristaan to his feet without regard to his bruises, fingers curling into the sack over his head to remove it, revealing the haggard passive's face to a pair of sharp green eyes and a flash of missing teeth,

"Welcome home, kov. Your king says it's time for an audience." The wick was laughing at him already, pushing him roughly toward the door and leading his weak, unsteady self down the hall.

"Where's Sarinah—"

"Don't worry your head." Purred his escort, sucking his bottom lip between his ragged teeth, "Saw 'er pretty self I did jus' an hour ago. Still breathin'. A bit round tho’—"

The dark-haired man growled in warning, scarred chest filled with a sudden bright fire of protective anger and hopeful relief, stopping in his tracks to ram a shoulder into the taunting wick who'd raised his hands in order to make the motions that implied his awareness of her growing baby bump. With a hiss, the restrained passive pressed his so-called escort against the wall, grey eyes wild and able to exhale a few choice words before the other man had a chance to gather his wits,

"If you've hurt her, so help me—"

The green-eyed wick was laughing louder instead of at all afraid, stronger only because he was well-fed and uninjured, and he brought his elbow up to strike the side of Tristaan's head and shove him away with both hands in one smooth motion. He crumpled the angry, magic-less beast to the floor, and he was satisfied by the groan that escaped the passive's cracked, dry lips.

"Tsssk. Ent gonna damage Scarlett's things. I ent stupid like you." Kicking the man while he was down, the guard cackled and dragged him back up to his feet again, leaning close enough to whisper way too loudly in the smaller-framed man's ear, the stench of his hot breath nauseating like his words, "I suggest you behave, kov. It's cute an' all, your feelings, but you're back home now and it's time to suck it up and stop playing house, ye chen. Ent gonna be pretty, what Hawke has in mind for runaways. He ent killed you outright, neither of you, which is what you deserve."

The wick hefted Tristaan thoughtlessly toward the doors, pressing him against one of the two heavy wooden things with a knee while he opened the other with his free hand, twisting hard at the passive's hands that were tied behind his back and tossing him into the throne room before him. The dark-haired man staggered, kept on his feet only by the grip of his captor,

"Special delivery, my King."

"It's about clocking time." Silas sat up eagerly in his throne, bare feet curling toes into the lush rugs that littered the decadent room, bejeweled fingers curling tighter around the gun in his lap. His dark eyes narrowed at the battered beast, Hawke quietly hoping he could finally break the scrap's will before the sun rose, "Bring our friend Mister Greymoore here so he can kneel and beg forgiveness. Where's the witch and their bastard?"

"On their way, I'm sure." The green eyed wick smirked, shoving Tristaan forward and all but forcing him to his knees while they waited.

A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb

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Sarinah Lissden
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Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
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Wed Nov 28, 2018 9:34 pm

38th Yaris, 2718
The KINGS PALACE| BREAKING DAWN
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Scarlett stood by the opulent throne that Hawke languishly occupied, puffing impatiently on a long thin cigarette, squinting at Yulina as the henchwitch entered. She was wrapped in a silken red robe, feet dressed in red heels and under it all a blood red corset and laced red knickers. Her fiery locks were pulled into a curled, perfectly set up do, and her wolfish amber eyes were pristinely painted under dark scarlet brows. Her lips were cherry, pursed in annoyance. She’d been summoned by Silas himself, in the night at some ridiculous hour, demanded to be here for the arrival of their rouge property. Her wayward tumble and his meddling dockhand. Her feet ached from standing, but she refused to let it show, waiting with silent impatience as Yulina dealt with her underlings.

“About time.” She said briefly, narrowing her eyes at the witch as she drew closer, blowing a breath of smoke over Silas’ head at the woman. Hawke was grinning, a hunter waiting for its prey, and once again Scarlett pondered what value he held for the dockhand. Sure, she had some use for the brunette dancer, but the male? He wouldn’t fit in the Queen, too much willpower, too much self-entitlement, as though he had a say in his future.

We’ll see I guess.

“You sure you didn’t go have a nap whilst we waited? I’d like to imagine efficiency is part of your skillset, but I have yet to see it.” Drawing another puff, her amber gaze lazily dropped to the gun in the Kings hands, looking it over with a mild curiosity. It was the talk of the whole palace, the whole harbour in fact. A six shot firearm, unheard of. Not even magical. Her field, carefully tucked close to her, warmed with curiosity and just a touch of apprehension. If the guns got into the hands of humans or wicks on the regular, well, the galdori had no hope. Six at once, no one could hope to cast in time to stop the deluge. Lifting her eyes to the doorway, the Madame crossed her arm across her chest, supporting her cigarette holding hand by the elbow and sucking on her teeth.

“Let’s see what our birdies have to say then.”


Sarinah was beside herself with worry, with fear and with anger. She had watched with defeat as Yulina and her thugs collected her lover off the grass, riot raging across Vienda as they moved, and screamed in protest as they left her fathers body behind to the elements. The brunette dancer had looked for their friends, the circus they called fami, only no one came. The moment had been perfect, too perfect, and more than once Sarinah wondered if the Bad Brothers had in fact started the whole riot just to get to them unhindered. Eventually, they’d put an old sack over her head and bound her hands behind her. It stank of rotten potatoes and dirt, and something else, but it didn’t stop her ears. Keeping her mouth shut, the pregnant witch listened carefully, to everything.

The sound of people talking, of water rushing, and the padding of boot heels on the wooden deck of a riverboat.

Tristaan’s groans, at least she knew when she could hear them, he was alive. For now.

Names. Scarlett. Yulina. Hawke.

Eventually, after days and days, they arrived in Old Rose Harbour. Sarinah didn’t need to see it, she could smell it. She could practically feel it oozing into the pores of her olive skin. Obediently she walked, barefoot and still in her acrobatic outfit, starving for something to eat and worried for the life that swelled in her abdomen. It wouldn’t be obvious to all, but for those who knew what to look for, it was clear the dark eyed witch was with child. Her ears strained to listen for Tristaan, but as they moved across the sticky darkness of the night, stumbling up stairs and through doorways, Sarinah realised that she’d lost him. They’d taken her hama somewhere away from her. Panic gripped the brunette and she’d struggled against the hands around her arms.

“Where’s Tristaan?!” She demanded, digging her heels in and gathering her field. A sharp laugh barked in her ear and she stumbled as rough hands threw her to the ground. Struggling to her knees, she heard a door slam shut. Listening carefully for anything that could tell her where she was, the brunette sunk to the floor with a sob.

It was sometime later when she was roused from a restless dozing, the sack removed from her head and sharp green eyes grinning at her with a flash of missing teeth. The witch yelped a sound of surprise and scrambled to sit up, hands still bound in front of her as she leaned back against the wall behind her. The eyes and teeth became the face of a wick, cruelness etched in his features. A Brother of the Kings.

“Mornin’ pretty lil’ Dove. I weren’t sure if I’d thrown ye to hard b’fore. Jus’ checkin’ ye breathin’s all.” He leered down across her form with a lick of his cracked lips and chuckled.

“Where’s Tristaan?” She asked angrily, ignoring the disgust in her gut, hoping somehow Scarletts possessiveness of her whole person still stood. The wick laughed, standing from a crouch to look down at the woman.

“Around, jus’ be patient. Ye’ll see him soon enough. Can’t promise he’ll be in a decent state, but he’ll be breathin’.” The brunette swore, glaring up at the man and gathering her useless field as though she had some grand plan to break free. The green eyed man shook a finger and tsked at her.

“Ye don’t wanna do that chippy. Might end bad, an’ ye got more than y’self t’look after now, oes?” Sarinah’s eyes widened, and her field released like the wash of a wave on the beach. She didn’t speak, not acknowledging his suspicions. The man laughed again, moving to the door and nodding to the witch.

“Exactly. Sit tight, someone’ll be back f’ye soon.” Sarinah waited till he’d left, before struggling to try and find footing on the hardwood floor. She moved to the door, trying it with her hands to no avail. Looking around, she tried to find some way out, like a rat trapped in a cage. Except there wasn’t a way out. It was a storage room or something of the sort, nothing useful and nothing escapable. Sooner than she expected, there was turning of the door handle, and another Brother appeared, grabbing at the witch even as she backed up.

“Where’s Tristaan?!” She asked for a third time, pulling at her restraints even as the lugger grabbed her bound hands and marched her out. Her dark eyes scanned the building as they walked, trying to look for the familiar passive in a sea of unfamiliarity. They approached two heavy wooden doors, and with one large meaty hand the Brother shoved one open, pushing the brunette ahead of him. Sarinah saw one thing, one singular thing before anything else.

“Tristaan!” She cried out, fresh tears stinging her eyes as they darted from the man forced to his knees to glance at Silas and Scarlett.

“Ye bastards, what did ye do to him?! Ye had us, ent ne need fo—“ Scarlett strode across the room, gown fluttering behind her, and slapped the dancer with glowering yellow eyes. Sarinah felt her head snap to the side, gasping and staring at the floor as the woman leaned close to her ear.

“You would do well to keep your mouth shut, my naughty little birdy. Lest you intend for both you and that thing inside you to meet your ends right clocking here and now.” The brunette looked back at the woman slowly, hatred seething behind the mahogany of her eyes, a battle of wills for just a moment before she dropped her eyes.

“Yes Mistress.” She muttered quietly. Scarlett lifted her chin, puffing on her cigarette, before stepping back to allow the lugger to move Sarinah to stand before her King.

“Kneel.” He grunted, to which she complied, glancing at Tristaan with a half breathed sob.

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
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Mon Dec 03, 2018 9:37 pm

38th of Yaris, 2718
THE KING'S PALACE | EARLY MORNING
The King of the Underworld watched the return of his wayward subjects from his throne with a look of casual detachment, his intimidatingly powerful field an almost unreadable mask of barely contained threat. Yulina grinned of course, the scar that ran from ear to ear across her face puckering the expression in the strangest of ways, and she hummed her approval when the bruised passive was forced to his knees in front of Silas. She'd enjoyed offering him his life in a similar position, and it burned in her sadistic chest that he'd not been grateful enough with all she'd given him that he'd dared to run away.

Did she care for the witch and the child? No.

Did Silas? Perhaps. Everything had value.

Tristaan's defiantly deadpan expression didn't falter when he heard his name from Sarinah's lips, feeling the hot claws of fear and worry rake up his sore spine and dig through bone and flesh until they curled with a fiery fierceness around his heart. His eyes fluttered heavily at the motion of Scarlett as she stepped so angrily from next to the grinning, comfortable Hawke, and he barely managed to contain himself, to keep from leaping from his feet at the sound of a hand against flesh. Instead, he grit his teeth and Silas' dark eyes slipped toward him with an arching of one slim brow.

The King blew him a kiss just as the passive's lovely witch was brought beside him and ordered to her knees. Clapping his hands and leaning forward, the wick’s expression would have otherwise been gloriously devious had it not been so full of barely contained outrage. The anger bled into his tone of voice instead while he spoke with a quiet wrath at the couple before him, tilting the dark-haired passive’s chin just so with the butt of his own pistol,

"How clockin’ quaint. What a cute pair o’ lovebirds ye are, ent ye? Aw. Ye can answer that. Go on. Don’t ye just both have the bleedin’ hearts for each other, eh?" Silas hummed expectantly, his smile souring when Tristaan refused to respond to his taunting, the other man’s grey eyes distant and hard. Shifting in his seat, he fluttered his eyelashes heavily at Sarinah, still holding the passive to look in her direction, "Ye don’t have any feelin’s for this scrap, rosh? Ye must have felt somethin’ to dust like ye did. Is the tumblin’ that good? Is it really?" Dark eyes flicked so callously downward over her person as if to imply more than one reason for her absence, though it was obvious the dancer wasn’t that much with child to have fled pregnant all those months ago.

Close enough.

Hawke clicked his tongue in judgement and felt the impatience of his audience while he played with his food. Sliding away from them both to settle back in this so-called throne, gun in his lap and legs carelessly strewn over an arm of the tall chair, he sighed with dramatic flair,

"Tristaan, how many Brothers have ye killed for this witch? I want ye to count them for me."

Yulina sniggered, but was otherwise an unmoving dark serpent leaning against her King’s throne.

The passive’s jaw clenched, but he blinked, shoulders sagging as he looked away from Hawke and glanced up at the Henchwitch as if daring her to comment, as if recalling unspoken memories, "Three ‘n Bethas. One ‘n Vienda, at th’ least. Two, m’haps. N’one let me see—"

He was not ashamed of this, and that was clear by the lack of fear in his tone, the battered, magic-less creature feeling no remorse for those who would have shown himself or Sarinah no mercy had the tables been turned. He even had the bravado for sarcasm.

"—An’ how many of yer friends died for yer life all those years ago, scrap?" Hummed the King as if he was balancing scales or getting books in order, half bored, half digging for something important under the scarred skin of the man on his knees in front of him. Perhaps he wanted Sarinah to hear everything with particular clarity, for he flashed a smirk in her direction before toying with the rings on his long fingers.

Tristaan balked, swallowing the memory with visible difficulty, "Six."

"Mmm. Clock the Circle, pretty thing, that’s ten. Or more." Silas cackled, "Do ye have ten years worth of life left in that body of yers? Are ye willin' to bleed for a few of them in order to balance the scales? In order to keep the garbage ye’ve gone an’ made in the womb of Scarlett’s retirement fund of a witch? Because, Yulina would be more than happy to test yer mettle right here an’ now—"

The wiley wick waggled his fingers, sunlight catching off wild colored stones and so much gold and his scarred compatriot brandished something sharp from somewhere on her leather-clad person. In an obvious act of impatient defiance, however, she stalked behind the throne and around to the other side, stepping down toward Sarinah and running her fingers through the dancer’s hair as if stroking her dark locks affectionately, licking her blade and looking at her King,

"I could make it twelve dead if ye want, sweets. Call the score settled. Ye can walk away a free man, my dearest Tristaan, if ye can run faster than the Queen can sashay after ye once her darling Dove bleeds out at her feet." She sneered, taunting the Madame with a wink and curling fingers tighter into the pregnant witch’s hair as if to tilt her head for a better glance at her throat.

"Ne." Tristaan answered plainly, finally looking in Sarinah’s direction.

"Good boy. Tryin’ to do right now that ye got a fami, eh? Bit late innit? Should’ve thought of that before ye got it in your mind to steal her. From me." Purred Hawke, scowling at his henchwitch as if they bordered in having an unspoken disagreement, but he shifted in his seat again to lean toward the olive-skinned dancer again, "What good is she anyway? Now that ye’ve had her—an’ I sincerely hope she was plenty worth the while, kov, all those dead bodies under yer bed ye sleep together on—an’ now that she’s growin’ yer illegal, shameful, disgusting half-golly-bred spawn, what kind of coin could she possibly earn for me if she ent on her back under payin’ customers where she deserves?"

"Let me pay it all." The dark-haired passive spoke out boldly, firm and desperate,"Let me take on both our debts, Silas. If Sarinah’s no’ worth th’ coin, then let me be doubly so."

The King of the Underworld laughed like a thrilled child opening presents, all but falling out of his throne as his amusement rang off the expensive decor of the mockery of a throne room. Sliding from his seat, he twisted and swung the butt if the pistol with careless force at Tristaan, knocking him over with a crack against his skull,

"Don’t ye dare tell me what ye think yer sorry erse is worth in my Harbor! Ye think this is us negotiatin’?"

"Oes. I do." Tristaan groaned, quick to get back up on his knees even as blood trickled down his dirty neck, the throb of pain flooding his senses with a sharpness he was desperate to hang onto. Fear gnawed at his nerve endings, threatened to burst his heart from behind his ribs, and he looked to Sarinah with concern and apology, ignoring Yulina above her, "Everythin’ has a price, don't 't? If I’ve tarnished her value, then let me pay for us both."
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb
Last edited by Tristaanian Greymoore on Fri Dec 28, 2018 2:44 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
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Wed Dec 05, 2018 6:51 am

38th Yaris, 2718
The KINGS PALACE| BREAKING DAWN
Image
Sarinah looked up at Silas Hawke as her cheek throbbed hotly, her true owner, above and beyond Scarlett’s claims. She’d seen him once or twice, but not up close, and his field was terrifying. The raven haired dancer couldn’t tell if he was a wick or a galdor, the power contained in the man almost electric. She could see there was an attractiveness to the King, if he wasn’t seething with an ugly and cruel temper. She watched with a frown on her brow and a dark glare as the wolfish man brought Tristaan’s face up with the butt of the pistol, keeping her mouth firmly closed as the criminal purred at them. He didn’t need their arguments or their begging, taunting them with baited words that the brunette did her best to ignore. It was the slow purposeful glance to her small bump that gave the witch a shiver, her eyes dropping from his with a hard swallow, tears stinging her eyes.

Damn it all. Damn all of them and this sinkhole of a city. Damn her father. Damn Scarlett and damn Hawke.

Breathing a small soft sound of relief as the King sat back in his seat, the mahogany eyed dancer looked over at Scarlett as Hawke asked Tristaan blatantly who he had killed. For her. The Madame dragged on her cigarette, watching the woman through the curl of smoke with a narrowed gaze, as though daring her to listen to the exact responses that would come from her lover. The pregnant wick forced herself not to let fear drench her field, lifting her chin in silent defiance, kneeling in solidarity with the passive by her side.

"—An’ how many of yer friends died for yer life all those years ago, scrap?"

Turning her eyes on Silas, Sarinah didn’t flinch at the comments, though she did turn her gaze briefly on her lover. She knew there’d been death in Tristaan’s past. The group of tsats he was with when he left the Crows lost in violence and death. They’d shared their pasts, she’d listened with her heart on her sleeve and accepted him no matter what. Ten. Ten lives the King counted, threatening to bleed the scarred man to make up for the lives he’d taken. An panicked heaviness filled her chest at the words that spilled from the powerful wick, her breath stolen with a soft gasp, as though punched in the chest. Scarlett’s money bank, tainted by the beautiful life growing within. It was cruel, and it was a clear indication that she had never been intended to be let free. Not ever.

Alioe, why hadn’t they just left Anaxas?

As Yulina moved at the wiggle of Silas’ fingers, the brunette followed her movements with her eyes, leaning away from the woman with a shake of her head and a tek curse. Unable to get away from their captors, Sarinah swallowed back a small sob, closing her eyes for a moment as she felt the witch stroke her hair, tears spilling onto the floor beneath her knees. At the mention of Scarlett, the dancer opened her eyes to plead with her Mistress.

“Epaemo Mistress.” She whispered, a sound of terrified pain slipping from her throat as Yulina grasped her hair firmly and pulled her head back. The Queen glared openly at the scarred witch, her cigarette burning slowly on its own and her well dampened field flexing as her concentration ebbed. Amber eyes looked down at Silas with a hissed tone.

“That’s mine Hawke, get your lapdog to back off.” There was an edge of desperation to the red heads voice, as though she was not entirely sure where this would go anymore. Her eyes slipped back to Yulina with a definite scowl, bolstering her aura tightly, a clear threat to the witch. Sarinah was her nest egg, her retirement fund, and like hell the ex-pirate would let some two-bit whore of a witch ruin that. Sarinah felt the self worth she’d built up in the seasons with Tristaan slipping further and further away with each word that dripped from Hawke’s lips, her heart heavy with a sense of hopelessness. A terrible cold feeling sunk in her stomach as the King made it plainly clear that any of her little dancing tricks were no longer going to be enough.

Tumble. Just like that.

“Stop Tristaan, I ent—” She began to say as the man offered himself as payment in her place, wincing at Yulina’s firm grip on her hair. As the dangerous man laughed loudly, the brunette felt goosebumps raise on the olive expanse of her skin, his false amusement more frightening then if he raged at them. The movement of the pistol and the crack of the butt against the passives skull caused the witch to scream, tugging against her captor in desperation.

“Ne!” She cried, tears now unhindered on her cheeks, looking at the passive even as Yulina tugged her head back harder and teased the blade across her throat with a grin. Scarlett lifted a hand rapidly, the situation escalating too quickly, both women at a sort of standstill with the pregnant woman between them.

“Silas!” The red clad madame snapped loudly, giving him a chance to call off Yulina before she acted, field electric with barely contained mona bristling to escape. Sarinah looked at Tristaan with a sob, his words digging further into the inescapable truth of her worth. She was nothing. Worth nothing more than what Hawke deemed her to be. What he deemed she could do for him.

In the warm, somewhat safe confines of her abdomen, a small soft flutter ticked at her. A little twisting wriggle, barely noticeable.

Except the witch noticed it.

“I feel it.” She whispered, afraid that if this was their last moment together, she wanted to be sure her last words to the passive were ones of love. Not of fear.

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
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Sun Dec 09, 2018 12:43 am

38th of Yaris, 2718
THE KING'S PALACE | EARLY MORNING
Yulina enjoyed antagonizing Hawke's mockery of a Queen, her grin in Scarlett's direction one of unfiltered malice but not jealousy. The henchwitch knew her place in the King's court and feared very little despite her somewhat unorthodox methods, mostly allowed free rein so long as she didn't overstep Silas' own plans.

Why the pregnant dancer meant anything to anyone at this point was beyond her, and her amber eyes narrowed when the Madame warned her, "I ent anyone's lapdog. Yer the one who deals in living flesh, after all. This one's not gonna turn any heads or line yer coffers any more now that Mister Greymoore's made his mark. She ent worth anythin', poppet."

She smirked at the passive with those words, laughing when Hawke all but leapt from his seat to smash the mouthy scrap in the skull for his insolence. Her fingers curled tighter still into Sarinah's hair when the witch shouted in fear and surprise at her lover's well-deserved pain, and she wrestled her with an easy strength back into stillness, blade against Sarinah's throat in her typical unnerving calm. Tristaan, as always, recovered with stubborn speed, and the assassin's gaze lingered hungrily on the blood that ran down his neck from the force of her master's blow.

"Dze, whore, don't act like I don't know what I'm doin'." Hissed Yulina to Scarlett with venomous vehemence, her scarred face puckering into a frustrated sneer, narrowing her eyes as the redhead moved like she was going to intercept, "I ent gonna kill anyone 'til Silas says so."

"Enough!" Hawke hissed at them both, annoyed by their bickering and ire boiling as the dark-haired passive at his feet persisted, but his words only served to open a Pandora's box of bickering that the King quickly regretted: Voices raised in protest, first Scarlett's and then Yulina's, the pair of them voicing their disagreement over the treatment of their prizes returned home, too greedy to care about anything other than themselves and their needful desires. The henchwitch released Sarinah to step closer to Scarlett, her field crackling with irritation even as she sneered and taunted, dagger raised at the Madame instead of the Dove.

Silas attempted to mitigate their complaints, sitting up in his chair and growling at them both to calm down. When they refused, he stood, waving the empty pistol as if it were loaded,

"Get out! Both of ye! I can't think with yer bitchin'. I don't fuckin' care what ye think's yer property, 'cause it's all mine! These two—" He tilted a handsome chin in the kneeling pair's direction even as his lithe finger pointed to the door, powerful field all but crackling with so much illegal power, "—belong to me before anyone else, yerselves included. Now, what I decide, ye both'll thank me fore. Get out!"

There was a pause, everyone tense and wide-eyed. Yulina's expression soured before it became deadpan, her amber gaze pure hatred for Scarlett and then for Sarinah. Her last glance, however, was for Tristaan, and the scarred witch had the nerve to wink at him before she licked her lips, turned on her heel, and stalked out, clearly fuming.

Tristaan saw stars and his temples throbbed, curling his calloused hands into his knees as he blinked away the pain, grey eyes glancing to the pistol the King of the Underworld held so greedily in his long-fingered hands while the wick barked retorts back to the two other women in the room. He risked a glance at Sarinah, longing to reach out for her in defiance of the angry glares meant to devalue and demean them, in defiance of those who were foolish enough to believe they could ever truly reclaim the freedom they'd found together with each other.

His grey-eyed gaze was full of apology, but he heard her words and something in his expression changed and shifted. There was a flicker of recognition, an understanding of what his lovely witch was desperately admitting to. The life they'd made together was there, very alive, and making itself known. Heat stung the edges of his eyes and he inhaled sharply, filled with a sudden fire.

Gods, how he loved her. Alioe forgive him! How he hated to be here again like this. How he hated that he'd not been more persistent when it came to staying on the move. Clock the Circle and their curse on his existence!

—Scarlett hesitated, furious, concerned, and her stare at Hawke was far more angry than even the King was used to,

"Ye heard me, mujo ma. Out. Go!" Breathed Silas one last time, rolling his shoulders while his half-open fine silk shirt danced with the movement, his bejeweled fingers waggling to shoo the red-head away. He didn't even let his dark eyes linger on her once she was on her way to the door, the wily wick simply waiting for the satisfying slam of the heavy wooden thing before he shifted on his feet to return his attentions to his captives.

Dark eyes drifted from Sarinah to the passive and back again and he rubbed his ruddy-stubbled chin with the back of the hand that still held the firearm so casually, aware it was empty,

"Now then, we've got some proper privacy." He purred, hovering between them, gloating above them, "Let's talk economics, shall we? Sarinah, Dove, how many have ye killed for yer kov here? Anyone? None—oh—ne, y'ent killed a soul, have ye? Ye've just thought to give him a gift there," Silas pointed downward again, his grin more a threatening leer, "and how much is that there babe worth to ye? Is it really worth ten lives? Is Tristaan worth that much to ye? Now, Scarlett's willin' to forgive ye an' find a place for ye—"

Tristaan's jaw clenched and he inhaled a ragged breath, clearly uncomfortable with the thought of using any unborn child of his as a bartering chip for their service. His hard, steel-like gaze shifted once again to his lovely witch before he decided they simply needed more room to negotiate in before someone's life was sold before its birth.

With a growl, he looked away from Sarinah and leapt to his feet, snatching Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld, by the collar of his shirt and without any hesitation at all, smashed his forehead into the wick's face, head butting him with such swift, determined violence that the three of them could hear clearly the sickening crunch of bone, Tristaan moving with such pent-up, helpless rage and speed that he twisted and followed up with a hard elbow across the other man's face before the powerful wick could even react, toppling them both over so that the dark-haired passive was actually on top of their captor. The pistol slipped from his grasp and slid over the polished marble of the throne room, glinting in the sun that filtered so lazily through the open windows.

It was, of course, just out of reach of either man, the Gods taunting them with their unspoken mercies.

"I think it's 'bout time we start considerin' time already served int' th' equation for this term o' captivity, Mister Hawke."

"Do ye now? Well, fuck," Silas was laughing, bloodied and trapped beneath the wild creature, nose broken, grin wicked. He held up a hand and placed it on the passive's chest, palm open before he threatened with a firm tightening of his field, "maybe I'll hear y' out just 'cause yer a bit creative with yer methods, but ye could've asked with more manners, scrap—"

His insult was followed swiftly by Monite, the quipped phrase for Push so strong from the King that Tristaan was tossed like a toy, Hawke scrambling to his feet and bleeding, twisting to reach for where he thought the weapon should be if only to have it as a bludgeoning tool. The dark-haired passive was fast enough to leap after him, scrambling not for the empty pistol but simply to step on the wick's bejeweled fingers and keep him from making contact with the firearm. Silas hissed and gathered his field, casting something again with such speed, it simply sounded as though he was exhaling in pain, but the strange spell was far more sinister.

Tristaan felt his entire body stiffen like stone, muscles cramping in crushing agony as they refused to move, as if he'd been pushed to labor too hard for far too long. Sarinah would only feel the ache, a sluggishness overtaking her but it wasn't strong enough to keep her from moving her body. The King of the Underworld didn't bother moving, still trapped beneath the passive's boot, save to raise his other hand and wipe his nose with the back of it, smirking at the pain and blood. His field was so powerful, heavy and bastly, practically humming with readiness to crush them both,

"—y'know, I like the cuts of yer jibs. I really do. Yer jus' such a fighter, Mister Greymoore. Yer lil' witch, too. It's ... what's the word? Cute. Endearing. The stuff o' fairytales, I reckon. If I raised my voice, ye know Yulina will kill all three of ye without blinkin'. Tell me, what do ye think ye deserve in a deal an' maybe, just maybe, I'll meet ye in the middle with better terms than we started. 'Cause, right now, I'm this close to makin' ye both food for fishes in th' Harbor."

"Sarinah ne'er goes back t' th' Queen. Where I go, she goes, an' y' let us stick t'gether. I don't care where an' I don't care how, but if y' want me fightin' for y' instead o'gainst you, Silas, then y'd best cut your losses an' take what y'can get. 'R Alioe help us both, y'd better kill me now, 'cause m' terms be few but I know m' use t' you be nothin' worth ignorin'. Else we'd both be dead already, an' we ent."

"Don't care where or how, eh?" Silas was actually listening, thinking, slipping his fingers delicately from beneath the immobilized man's boot and letting his dark eyes dart to Sarinah with the most predatory of grins, "I can't promise never, little lovebirds. Yw must pay ywr homage to the Queen eventually. Besides, she deserves to pay a bit of the price herself, don'tcha, Dove? Even if I let ye grow that disgusting sprog, there's no guarantee it'll live long enough to see either of ye free. So, Tristaan here wants to pay both yer debts—I'll make him pay, alright—but ye there, Dove, ye'll be payin' the interest when I decide to tally it up, oes?"

The dark-haired passive struggled to breathe, silent despite the pain that felt as though he was being crushed on all sides at once that filled him. It tasted like a trap, but it also tasted like just a little bit of hope.
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
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Writer: Raksha
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Sun Dec 09, 2018 5:49 am

38th Yaris, 2718
The KINGS PALACE| BREAKING DAWN
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T​​he sound of Silas’ voice snapping at the two women caused the brunette to flinch, dropping her bound hands to rest on the floor between her knees with a gasp as Yulina let her go to advance on Scarlett. Her mahogany eyes watched with wide eyed fear as she looked between the madame and the henchwitch, before snapping back to Hawke. In the pause that followed his threats against the fighting women, Sarinah followed Yulina’s hateful gaze as she finally made an exit, the wink to Tristaan turning her stomach heavily.
​​
​​Her hands shifted to rest on the soft curve of her stomach, surprise in her eyes as the passive caught her gaze and she breathed her realisation of the life fluttering inside her. As Hawke growled at Scarlett to get her to leave, the witch scarcely heard it, holding Tristaans gaze with the barest of nods and a tearful sigh. She could see the recognition in his face, and deliriously she wanted to laugh and reach for the man, to experience the moment as they should have been able to.
​​
​​Hamaye. The frightened dancer mouthed at the man, jumping at the sound of the door slamming. Her eyes dragged back to the King, protectively curling her arms around herself as best she could as his glittering gaze drifted between his wayward possessions. The sound of her name, her stage name, falling from the wicks lips made her skin crawl.
​​
​​ “Ne, ne I ent going back to the Queen.” She said softly, tears falling as she shook her head firmly, fear pulsing from her field in a palatable wave. No way was she giving their child to Scarlett or Hawke as payment for their crimes. Desperation edged its way into her voice, and she began to look over at the bleeding passive when a sudden sound tore from the scarred man and he moved with speed to launch himself at the King. Sarinah brought her hands to her mouth, clamping them tightly over her lips to stop the scream that wanted to peel from her throat, adreneline surging in her veins as she watched the man she loved—the father of her child—fight the King of the Underworld. The sickening crunch as Tristaan’s forehead connected with the dark haired wicks nose was gut wrenching, and as the pistol slid across the marble floor her eyes stared at it in wide eyed shock.
​​
​​She could feel his field gathering, and with a scramble the witch moved towards the pistol as Silas did so, climbing to her feet as she stumbled for the gun. The Push spell was strong, stronger than she expected and with a sob she watched the grey eyed man fly through air, only to come straight back like some hellish chrove to stand on the hand of the King as he grabbed for the weapon. As though shaken from a dream, she blinked and pounced on the gun, holding the unloaded item triumphantly in both hands with absolutely no idea of what to do next.
​​
​​The spell was so fast, she didn’t even feel his casting, the run off causing an ache in her muscles and a sluggishness. As though moving under molassas, she turned her view on the passive. He was in pain, the brunette dancer could see it, and she half expected Hawke to take them both out there and then. Instead, the King seemed to pause to gather his thoughts. The wick proposed a barter with the passive, and Sarinah couldn’t help but whisper Tristaan’s name as he once again laid his life on the line for hers. The tears on her face continued to fall, unnoticed by the olive skinned witch as she looked back at Hawke, clutching the pistol guiltily against her chest.
​​
​​ “Don’t hurt him, ye chen. I’ll do whatever ye ask Hawke, I promise it, just chen don’t hurt him.” Licking her lips, she looked at Tristaan again, whining softly as another sob threatened to escape her. Within, the new life danced, warm and unaware of anything beyond the safety of its protective home. The lithe witch felt trapped by his words. If she said no, he would most likely kill all three of them. If she said yes, the King held a future claim on her.
​​
​​She was caged again.
​​
​​ “I accept.” Sarinah said flatly, nodding her head and meeting Silas’ gaze again.
​​
​​ “When the time comes to collect, I won’t fight. I’ll pay whatever it might be, only…” Her heart bashed wildly against her sternum and she swallowed the terror that threatened to overwhelm her.
​​
​​ “Only if ye can keep us together. Oes? I ent got anything to give if Tristaan is gone, if we ent together. If ye can’t promise that, then…then I can’t. I won’t.” The pregnant woman lifted her chin, field held tightly as she waited to see if she would be met with laughter or pain. Her dark brown gaze avoided the hurting passive, afraid he would look on her with anger or disapproval at her readiness to accept Hawkes terms.

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
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Fri Dec 28, 2018 5:35 pm

38th of Yaris, 2718
THE KING'S PALACE | EARLY MORNING
Silas knew what kind of man Tristaan was, what kind of stubborn, life-hardened magic-less son of a galdor he'd become somewhere beyond Old Rose Harbor, probably through hard work and harder beatings. He knew the passive would run again, he knew the bastard would fight until he was a broken mess. He knew the type, and, in all fairness, he preferred to let Corwynn shoot good-hearted, strong-willed beasts like the passive really was and be done with them. But, for whatever reason, for all of his annoying inbred defiance, the dark-haired bastard always came out on top and had the King of the Underworld been any other man besides the betting kind, he may have glazed over that sort of luckiness. But he didn't, for the wick loved games of chance.

He was willing to keep playing with Tristaan, if only because there was thrill in the risk and profit to ice the bruises the troublesome scrap left in his wake.

Sarinah felt different after her taste of freedom, though Hawke had once made the mistake of assuming the young witch to be compliant until she'd proven herself otherwise with that damn galdor. Refunding that ersehat had been a far larger embarrassment than Silas ever desired to admit, and it seemed as though the olive-skinned dancer had somehow gotten it into her skull that she could be her own person after that. And now that she had taken up company with this godsbedamned passive? Even as she begged no harm come to the man she clearly loved, Hawke regarded her face carefully, blood dribbling down his chin and dark eyes narrowed. Her compliance was quick, but, as he expected, the streak of defiance both of them shared put a heated edge to her words.

"Havakda." Spat the King, releasing Tristaan from his spell and watching out of the corner of his eye when the dark-haired man crumpled and gasped for breath, calloused palms on the marble floor. Sarinah held the pistol tight to her chest and Silas held out a bloodied hand for it, waggling his bejeweled fingers in expectation of her placing it where it belonged, "Give that lovely thing back here an' I won't sell yer wick bastard to some Black Hand caravan before its weaned."

The passive recovered slowly, whatever black magic the wily leader of the Bad Brothers knew felt as though it'd sapped his strength while crushing him in its grip and he sat back on his heels, finally reaching up to brush fingers over the back of his head and feel the bloody lump the butt of his pistol had left behind with a wince, "Sarinah—" He didn't frown so much as whine, trapped now between too many rocks and too many hard places, feeling the weight of them in the pit of his stomach.

"—I ent gonna hurt him, love, but I ent gonna say he won't get hurt fightin' for me in the Rose Arena. There ent a better place for a rough lugger like yerself that I can think of. They do like to bet on the underdogs, an' half the Arena's house roster will surely wipe the floor with your scrawny, magic-less erse." Silas spoke up boldly, interrupting any opportunity for Tristaan to object or further negotiate, "In my forgiving kindness, boemo: ye can have a place to live an' ye can have free walk o' my Harbor an ye can get a little bit o' coin for yerselves, but yer my prize fighter now, Mister Greymoore. When ye lose, Master Boriand won't patch ye up, neither, but so long as ye win, ye'll be right as rain for th' next fight. Ye don't fight, neither of us get paid. Ye chen?"

Any hint of defiance left in Tristaan's expression faded with Hawke's words, not ignorant of the establishment nor its reputation. He could take a beating, sure, and he could deal one, but for a living? He'd rather be put back on the docks or sail to the Muluku Isles or rustle up taxes for the King than become a plaything for bloody sports and gambled coin. Narrow shoulders sagged and the dark-haired passive looked at his lovely witch with an expression of unfiltered helplessness.

"As for yerself, Dove—" Silas shifted his attentions, quite aware that Yulina would be furious with his decision for her favorite scrap, but also aware that he could drag Tristaan away to serve him however he wanted in a pinch. The man was a veritable jack of all trades, always the wild card in a tight spot, even with his godsbedamned diablerie. He just refused to let his spirit be broken, and so the King of the Underworld was determined to break all his bones instead. He was willing to endure Scarlett's horror at his sentence for Sarinah as well, deciding it was only fitting the pregnant witch witness the price her lover had begged to pay for on the behalf of his pathetic little fami,

"—well, rosh, mayhaps yer gonna want to keep an eye on yer lover, oes? Ye can serve drinks an' hostess all th' patrons o' the Arena while watchin' Tristaan bleed for ye an' that bastard he's gone an' got growin' in yer womb. They're a rowdy bunch, that lot who likes to watch such a violent sport, so ye'd best keep yer wits 'bout ye while ye wipe tables and slosh beer."

Tristaan simmered, his face a deadpan look of barely restrained frustration. It was obvious he would have leapt at the King again had he thought he had the advantage, "Boemo, Silas. Is this a debt that can be paid in full?" He grunted, jaw clenching after his words, crestfallen.

"Ye mean paid off? Without dyin'? Sure." The wily wick licked the blood from his lips with a sneer, tossing long hair from his handsome face and rubbing his chin with his less bloodied palm, "I reserve the right to call ye for special assignments, an' Master Boriand'll understand. If ye want free o' yer debts to me an' my Brothers, then ye'll have to bring me Yulina's corpse. An eye for an eye sorta deal, that is, so if ye can find an equivalent or if ye ever really murder a Henchwitch, I'll let ye walk outta the Harbor a free man an' yer family without another glance at any of ye. She's awfully fond of yer reckless danger sort of self, an' I'd say a bit disappointed to see ye've taken such a fancy to Scarlett's Dove here, though she'd never say that out loud—"

Standing between them, he looked to Sarinah for emphasis, "—an' I ent gonna keep the Queen back from ye for long, ye chen. If ye can come up with a line o' work that pays more 'n what she thinks yer worth on yer back, then I'd be willin' to strike a deal for yer freedom, too. Until then, if ever, though, yer both property of me, Silas Hawke, until I say so."

With a defeated sigh, the dark-haired passive shifted heavily on his knees, closing the distance between himself and the lithe dancer while keeping his grey-eyes on the bloodied face of the King of the Underworld, reaching for Sarinah's hand without a hint of apology. He was quiet for a few moments as if he had any decision to way, as if he had any choice if he wanted his life and his family in any capacity, weighing the price he was so very willing to pay,

"I'll keep askin' for hard numbers, Silas. I'll earn m' keep an' so long as ye keep yer word, I won't run, but I ent gonna stay anyone's property, even if I gotta kill for freedom, ye chen? I've done m' time, an' not even th' King o' th' Underworld's gonna hold me down for th' rest 'f it."

"We'll see about that, scrap. I always keep my word. Unless I don't." Hawke grinned with a calculating wickedness, turning over the other man's words in his mind, aware of how the passive meant every syllable. He sighed with a theatrical sort of drama, dark eyes lingering on entwined fingers before he tilted his head at the pregnant witch, "Ye've got more than jus' yer life t' look after now, eh? Ye gonna play by my rules even if yer kov doesn't, I hope. Maybe yer the smart one. Maybe y'ent. I'm being mant manna generous with ye both 'cause I ent such a cruel King, ye know. I like to see my Harbor full of smilin' faces that put pretty ol' Vienda to shame, but I also don't like folks stealin' what's mine, neither. We all have our understandin' plumb straight 'r ne?"
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Writer: Raksha
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Sat Dec 29, 2018 6:21 pm

38th Yaris, 2718
The KINGS PALACE| BREAKING DAWN
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B​​reathing rapid and eyes wide, Sarinah glanced at Tristaan as he crumpled in relief the spell disapating from the room with a tangible lifting of weight. Her mahogany gaze drifted back to Hawke, looking at the bloodied bejewelled fingers that waggled at her and clutching the pistol a little bit tighter. She knew the threat wasn’t hollow, but she’d had no answer to her plea yet, unwilling to release the prized possession until Silas could reply. Of course, he could simply take it from her, the witch knew that. Gods, she knew that, but it didn’t stop her. Panic, fear, defiance? Something within her knew it was insanity, but she refused to let it go.

Sarinah— The whine from the passive tore at her chest, dragging the brunette’s eyes back to him with a tearful soft sob. Their unsuspecting audience member fluttered within her curved abdomen, reminding the dancer of all that was at stake with such innocent perfection. Her ears heard Hawke’s decision for the passive, and her hands gripped tighter on the pistol. A pit fighter, a Rose Arena dog. The wick saw the change in her lover, the sagging of his shoulders and the helplessness in his eyes. He was defeated.

They were Hawkes once again.

Looking back at the King of the Underworld, Sarinah slowly withdrew the pistol form her chest to hand it to the long haired wick with trembling hands, just as obvious as the tremble in her field. Dropping her hands to her knees, the raven haired woman listened carefully even as the stage name dug under her skin. Dove. It reeked of her imprisonment, her mistakes, her wasted life. He’d put her to work in the Arena too, on the tables with the patrons, where she could watch whilst Tristaan wore beatings for ging. It wasn’t the Queen, but was it better? Her chest ached, memories of the riverboat flashing in her mind. She’d watched the passive be beaten thrice already, she’d nearly watched him die. Could she do it daily, until the time that Silas decided they had paid up? Was it really better than the alternative.

It wasn’t a good deal, but there was no winning move in this game. At least she was there with Tristaan. At least she could be with him.

Stomach turning at the mention of the Henchwitch, Sarinah held Hawkes gaze as he turned back to address her, the feeling of cold water being poured down her back sinking into her spine. She wasn’t free of the Queen forever, not unless she could find something that would bring the same if not more for bedding The Dove. Her mind raced, unable to think, cloying with panic. What in the Ten could she possibly offer that would be worth the price? She had nothing, she was nothing. Her dark eyes lost focus, drifting to stare through the man, feeling the small bit of hope she had nurtured whilst away from the Harbour be crushed like a bug under the man’s boot. The brush of a warm hand against hers brought the brunette back from her dispair, shifting her hand to lace her fingers between Tristaans and refocusing on the King’s face.

We all have our understandin' plumb straight 'r ne?

Swallowing hard, Sarinah pressed her free hand to her stomach and nodded slowly, letting her eyes drift downwards to the floor and painfully supressing a sob.

“Oes, we do.” She whispered, head bowed, kneeling at the feet of Silas Hawke. Balanced like a house of cards, waiting for the gust of wind that would topple them, the wayward lovers had no choice. It was a oes, or it was tumbling and death. It was a oes, or it was the harm of their unborn child. Her rich sable eyes tilted slightly, blurred by tears, to look at their entwined hands. Had this been worth the trouble? Had all of it been worth this ending?

Was this the ending?

Sarinah clenched her jaw, holding Tristaans hand a little tighter. Ne, this wasn’t the ending. They had fought before, they had fled before. They had each other, and the babe growing within her. Hawke had given them an out, granted almost impossible outs, but they were on the table none the less. Lifting her chin, the dancer looked at her grey eyed passive and nodded again.

“We do.”

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