12th of Dentis, 2718
The BLACK DOVE | AFTER DARK
"Been a mant manna time since we've had a proper night out, an' I know that 't ent feel as right 's 't could, all things considered. Clock 't all, though, I ent gonna mope 'round th' Harbor neither—" Tristaan's smile was persistent, indomitable as always, and gentle despite the dark line of a scab that split his lower lip and disappeared into fading yellow of a healing bruise beneath the days' old stubble that graced his aquiline chin, "—home's what we make 'f 't, Bad Brothers be damned an' all."
The dark-haired passive hummed his sentiments as if to hide the vehemence those words stirred in the scarred cavity of his chest, fingers at the buttons of his vest while he ignored the calloused, scabbed landscape of his knuckles that had become a rather common sight after a few days straight of fights at the Arena. The nature of the business often gave him just as many days off, days that found him picking up work on the docks for pay under the table or days that found him in bed sleeping off injuries because Master Boriand refused to heal losers.
Tristaan had reconnected with his shocked old compatriots, finding Kip on the street and reaching out to Jonathan. No one had expected to see his face again, and yet no one asked questions when it came to deals made in the dark with Silas Hawke. He'd spent the earliest hours of the morning moving cargo from ship hulls to the Harbor docks, claiming it exercise, claiming it training, and earning more than mere pocket change while allowing Sarinah to sleep off a long night on her feet serving rowdy gamblers and rowdier luggers in the Arena to watch the fights.
He'd come home to their bigger-than-a-kint two-story flat in a rundown line of rowhouses with the only decent view of the beach this side of the Harbor with breakfast and sweaty kisses and an aching need for a nap, but the rest of the day had been spent in each other's company with the promise that for a rare evening, his lovely witch didn't have to wade through violence with beer at the Arena.
To the dark-haired passive, this was, of course, an excuse to take her out, to find some entertainment and pretend for a brief handful of hours that everything was as it should be and at least make the most of their thinly veiled form of captivity.
Grey eyes wandered with no small amount of appreciation over the woman he had the fortunate privilege of sharing such unwanted servitude with, calloused hands reaching for her in order to convince her further, pausing over the beautiful swell of her belly with the coyest of winks before tangling fingers with hers, "We don' gotta go far, ye chen. Find somewhere with music an' I'll have a drink for us both, eh? Kip promised there'll be some folks playin' at th' Black Dove, an' he's always 'n th' know. Better get our gettin' out done b'fore winter anyways. All th' tekaa be sayin' it's gonna be a cold one, hama."
Once they were both ready enough, Tristaan was happy to lead them both through the streets and toward the Pier, glancing in taverns as if curiously looking for alternatives that were more interesting than the direction they were headed. Not that the Black Dove was as unsavory as could be—there were far worse places—but his face had begun to become familiar among the crowds that frequented the Arena and it was only a matter of time before someone recognized him.
Too early to be famous or infamous, his name not even on the lips of those with deep pockets, his place as Hawke's favorite wouldn't keep him an unknown for long.
The Dove wasn't quite yet crowded and the passive was willing to find them both somewhere to sit, glancing up as a few musicians made their way to the ramshackle stage, wicks by the look of them, their leader sporting bright purple hair and intricate tattoos. The three of them—one with hand drums, one with a mandolin, and the last with a violin—all were colorfully dressed, but not in any way that gave any indication of tribal affiliation. One was obviously Mugrobi, the deep, rich tones of her skin tinted with the honeyed brown that marked her as a Muluku Islander.
They tuned their instruments and those gathered in the tavern began to pay attention to the trio out of curiosity and anticipation.
"Can I getcha somethin', macha?" Tristaan hovered between sitting himself and standing, hooking a thumb toward the bar instead of wanting to wait for Naulanda to make her way over to serve them.
"Sometimes we are born with the keys to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb