"Ne, th' Voiaj were jus' young Crow. They—we, I was a'ight with 't all too for few maw too many—jus' got tired o' th' way things seemed t' be an' perhaps we all jus' had some anger t' deal with 'n all th' wrong ways. Criminals, a little, all 'f us, but no' like th' Hand. Jus' a group o' bochi with bones t' pick with th' world until th' world got th' better 'f us all, I s'pose." Tristaan was honest, just incomplete in the telling of his tales. He shrugged, finally meeting the dancer's dark-eyed gaze again with a lopsided smile. Maybe she was taller, but maybe he was used to that. He could ramble on about unnecessary things, too, especially in his current state of mind, but he did his best not to stare,
"Dze. If th' help ent gonna look out for you, then y' should learn t' take care 'f y'self, Sarinah." The dark-haired passive said quietly, taking the clean shirt she offered him, noticing her curious wandering over his person and wordlessly deciding that he was just fine with the way she looked at him, "D' you get out any? Time t' y'self an' all that? I'm b'tween here an' th' Isles lately—Muluku that is—an' if I can learn t' drop a beefy natt like that arse was, so can you. Y' ent weak—I might've watched a lil'—" Calloused fingers rubbed the back of his neck beneath dark hair in an obvious tell of chagrin, "—an' I can teach y’ where t' hit jus' 'bout anyone t' stop 'em from takin' advantage o' you."
He smiled again, his words an invitation, though he had no idea what her boundaries were under her contract for this Scarlett and the King. It was both genuine concern and an easy excuse to see more of the lovely witch outside the rather singularly-purposed context of this place he had no interest in returning to if he could find other avenues of possibility.
Tristaan paused at her question, however. Had he really found a way out? No. The ink under his skin proved that much—nothing could change who he was. Or at least that was what he’d been told, what he’d had beaten into his very existence over the years. He couldn't outrun his birthright. He couldn't get far enough away from himself that his somehow twisted genetics suddenly worked the way they were supposed to. There was nowhere in Anaxas that a golly wouldn't call him scrap, "I dusted. Can't say I'm really away ‘n some respects, but I'm far 'nough for now."
The passive's answer was quick as if it hurt more than the punches he’d endured in rebellious silence, and he held her inquisitive gaze even when it was clear he didn't want to. Swallowing extra words, he blinked and she was laughing, her hand slipping away from his chest where his heart beat furiously against her fingertips to wave at the door instead, shifting their words away from difficult things, though the depths of conversation they'd waded into were strangely comfortable in her presence for the otherwise private Tristaan. Their similarities were just enough to put him in a strange place of ease, and alcohol and pain loosened his tongue just that much more already,
"I don't have anyone waitin' up 'n me, 'cause if I did, I wouldn't be out with m' crew mates gettin' guttered an' bein' stupid in th’ first place, ye chen. I'd have better things t' do than get 'n trouble." He grinned at her without embarrassment so much as a wry twist of honesty in spite of how the expression stung his bruised, cut face, realizing that he somewhat hoped her choice of words were a clever disguise for further curiosity instead of just a way of putting herself down, "Ne, I can sleep on th' floor. Have a bed t' yourself an' let everyone leave you alone for a few houses. Don't bother me any—I've slept worse places."
He wasn't joking, that much was clear, and he watched her hover by the door to draw a bath for him, unable to help but be amused that she was flustered. Not that he deserved her attention just because he'd gone and punched an abusive arsehole who'd probably be let back in tomorrow night without question—because he didn't,
"Ne, keep talkin' all y' like, mujo ma. Got more sense than those laoso friends o' mine." He'd let her open the door, finally, chuckling awkwardly about it all. Still, he didn’t really want to let her go by herself, to be left alone in a room where apparently anyone could come knocking should they have the gumption. Tristaan was in no state of mind or body to deal with that at all, and so he followed the dancer, one hand trailing along the wall for support, shushing himself sheepishly with a more conspiratory smile than he would have intended had he been more sober and less sore, clutching the clean shirt she’d handed him against his chest.
Down the hall he’d follow quietly, ignoring the goings on he didn’t want to particularly imagine, and wherever their destination, he’d either offer to help or sit on the floor. Both were good options at this point, vaguely aware he’d reached the edges of his endurance for much of anything besides goofy, unfiltered conversation.