Familiar Stranger [Sarinah]

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

"Th' Eye, eh? You're far from home, rosh." The dark-haired passive chuckled, but his tone was wistful. He was far from home, too, but at least she could find her people again if she wanted to. His real people didn't want him. The part of his people who were like him didn't want to be found. Her words were homesick or something like it, the sting of regret one he recognized easy enough. Her hand moved to steady him, warm and soft against his chest, and he couldn't help but glance down and smile a little, shyly, not bothering to remove her touch once he'd found his somewhat sloshy balance. Tristaan didn't look back up at the lovely witch to answer her about the tyat that put him in debt to the Bad Brothers, about his mistakes, grey eyes on her olive skin instead,

"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.

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

“Ye watched a little? Just a pina manna kov?” The witch said with a slow grin that could have boarded on wicked, her dark eyes lighting up with genuine amusement. It was her job, and she mightn’t enjoy the location or the need for her work, but the dancer was aware that she was decent. She had to be nothing less, not if she was going to keep her head above the water to avoid the sharks.

“I have free range across the harbour if I want it, mostly during the early morning before sun up through till just before noon, but I ent allowed to leave the Rose. If I do, they’ll find me and bring me back.” He smiled again, and Alioe be damned if she didn’t feel her face turn a shade darker with delight.

“I ent sure...ye don’t need to. I mean, it would be nice to see ye...I mean...it’s...you’re nice. To me, you’re nice to me. It’s...oes. Oes, I’d like that.” Resting her hand on the doorknob, Sarinah glanced back at him, pressing her ruby painted lips together and nodding a little.

“Well, as long as there ent some rosh out there wanting to shiv me for taking up your offer, that’s benny. Mujo ma.” Turning the handle, the brunette smiled as she led the wick from her room, through the hall and down more stairs.

“Scarlett would have a litter of hingles if she knew ye were left to sleep on the floor.” She said with a hoarse whisper as they made their way down. There was a plain door at the bottom, and it was a much quieter area of the ship. The sounds of the rooms left them, and after a quick knock, Sarinah beckoned the man into a dimly lit room. It was plain wood from floor to walls, empty save for a large brass bath that dominated the centre and a shelf at the back for a neatly folded pile of toweling. The man would find it had enough room for him to rest back comfortably when filled. It was warmer here, as though the steamy waters had only recently been drawn. From somewhere, something fragrant burned just enough to be pleasant.

Leaning over the tub, Sarinah turned the taps, allowing steaming water to pour into the brass basin in a noisy splash. She turned back to the man with a chuckle.

“The marvels of modern technology and friends in low places.” She said with a note of sarcasm, moving to the shelf and drawing a large thick towel for him. Standing before the dark haired man, a slow look of realisation rolled across her features, eyes darting away from him again as she placed the towel back on the shelf.

“I’ll...wait. Outside the door. Till you’re done. Towels are there, soap’s in the dish near the taps.” Moving to leave him, Sarinah paused for a moment, looking her drunken and beaten savior over slowly before shoving down the awkward nervousness that roiled within.

“Ye are going to be alright alone, oes? Ent gonna drown on me? Because I can...I can stay if you need help.” Her cheeks damn near burned, but the witch was genuine. She didn’t want to leave if he really needed help.

“I can just...close my eyes. Or something.” The dancer said with a wave of her hand, unable to meet the terribly lovely smile Tristaan had worn to the bath.

“Come on then.” She said with a bravado she most definitely didn’t feel, stepping forward to reach for his shirt as platonically as she could possibly manage, heart racing in her chest.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

"Oes. Was hard no' to—I mean—jus' oes." The dark-haired dancer was smiling at him and he looked away for a tick or two because the coyness in her expression immediately flustered him and he'd only get himself into conversation he was too intoxicated to have if he complimented her out loud. He could have, he wanted to, but at the same time he felt awkward in the hull of the Mad Queen telling her what anyone could have, even if perhaps he would have actually been genuine. He should have left already, should have said his thank you's and your welcome's and gotten away, but here the passive was lingering like a fool over some pretty witch.

There was flirting now between them, in her tone and in the way she, too, stumbled a little over her words. Tristaan wasn't dense, and while he could have just been drunkenly projecting whatever in Alioe's name he wanted into the moment, he was pretty sure that Sarinah wasn't just playing a part with him, not after her insistence that tumble wasn't in her job description even if enticing dancing was. It was alright to play along, he told himself, if only because she'd never really take him up on his offer. This was fun in the moment, adrenaline's parting gift, a shared illusion of connection over violence and shared situations that were comforting in their familiarity. But something else? Something more than a little wordplay?

Nah.

The passive didn't fall into good luck often enough to have a pretty rosh look at him twice. Still—

"I don't have to, ne, but I will. Here 'n th' harbor, a rosh like you should know how t' defend herself. Laoso arseholes like that one don't jus' come t' th' Queen." The olive-skinned witch was blushing, captivating his attention on her face with a roguish grin of his own, "Drop a few luggers on th' floor durin' workin' hours an' maybe you'll get promoted away from all th' fleshy stuff. Happy t' help."

Tristaan laughed, putting a calloused hand over his mouth as a reminder to be quiet, awareness of his surroundings suddenly flooding back in as she led him down the hall, "Early's good. Unloadin' cargo's usually b'fore dawn, anyways, so, I'd be free 'n th' mornin's. Folks know me 'round th' docks if y'ask. Th' newspaper bochi all know me by name 'cause I tend t' spoil 'em with candy when I've got some extra forts."

Oes, he was that kind of balach.

"I don't think I care what Scarlett thinks o' me, nelo qe. Jus' don't tell 'er where I slept an' it won't matter." The inebriated passive giggled and whispered as if they were sharing secrets, following the dark-haired witch down stairs and trying desperately not to let his gaze wander too deviously over his view, admiring the lithe creature he'd already seen more of than he felt he should have, biting his sore, swollen lip to remind himself to behave. Praise the Circle the bath was empty, and he found somewhere to set the clean shirt while Sarinah turned the taps. Her promise of hot water was true as true could be, and while he was aware that such heat was probably not the best choice for all of his fresh bruises, he didn't clocking care about the pain,

"I really don't remember th' last hot bath I didn't have t' pay for. Seasons ago, probably. If not years." Tristaan sighed, running hands over his sore face and through his hair, aware once there was a towel being handed in his direction that the dark-haired witch was staring at him again. His smile was more coy than shy, but then she was gone, flitting back across the room to replace the towel before he could reach for it, ready to flee and give him the privacy he most likely should have been asking for already.

"Oh—uh—I can undress an' wash m'self, rosh. I ent that injured 'r that drunk, 's far 's I know. We'll find out, an' if I do need a hand, you've got two 'f 'em." The passive managed to retort without laughing, though she would have seen a broad grin and flushed cheeks not colored by steam or alcohol had he not simply tossed a nearby towel over her pretty head with unreserved playfulness to purposefully hide her view. His tone was warm, amused, but also suddenly very aware that this was the kind of teasing that got bodies in all sorts of trouble. "Shush. I've been beaten worse b'for an' this 's really nothin'. I ent gonna drown 'n some tumble hut bath 'f I can help it, mujo ma."

Although, there were probably some who'd pay for that, being the strange place the Rose was, after all.

Tristaan smirked, calloused hands gently shoving hers away and patting the towel on her head with another barely contained laugh, turning her around to face away from the tub with a lingering touch on her shoulders, not ignorant of his reluctance, "Y' want t' stay an' chat an' make sure I'm safe, that's fine with me, Sarinah. Ent really wantin' someone else walkin' in anyways, so you've got your guard duties. No peekin'."

He'd leaned a little too close to tell her those things, wavering again before he stepped away and left her in the soft darkness of the towel to turn off the taps and stare at his face in the dimly reflective, steamy surface once it became still, grin faltering when he met his own steely-eyed gaze. He was mung spitch for playing such a game, and the dark-haired passive looked away from his bruises and cuts, from the broken galdor hidden beneath the guise of a wick, from his own decent smile to tug off his bloodied shirt and vest, both of which appeared mostly salvageable. Half-heartedly attempting to give himself a more thorough once over in the dim light of the bath while he slid out of his boots and moved to remove his belts and pants, Tristaan ignored the inked symbol etched into his right bicep, noting bruises instead, feeling which motions caused a few hisses of pain.

One slow, curious glance to make sure he hadn't just undressed for an audience and he quickly put the soap and a few towels in reach before easing his way into the tub, admittedly excited and grateful but also quite aware he wasn't alone. The dark-haired passive couldn't help but whine a little at the sting of heat, carefully lowering himself into the water despite how much it hurt, letting the fiery sensation consume his thoughts for a few hurried heartbeats before he sank entirely under the surface, liquored up mind racing with his pulse for the breath he held, though the warmth and the water and the objection of his bruises were a very sobering combination. Which was, honestly, for the best at this point. For both their sakes. Maybe. Mostly.

He waited until his lungs screamed at him, far too leanly muscled to be anything but the sinking type in any volume of water, before he sat up again with a sharp inhale and a mumbled mujo ma from under calloused hands as he shoved hair from his face before leaning over the edge of the tub to reach for the soap and let his eyes wander the back of Sarinah as she obliged his privacy, willingly or not,

"As an Eye, y' weren't born a tsat," Tristaan rambled quiet conversation to ignore all his stings and aches while he made use of the soap, wrinkling his nose at the over abundance of fragrance and reminding himself to be grateful for all of it no matter the circumstances, "Have y' been t' Surwood, rosh? For th' festival an' all that?"

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Sarinah couldn’t help the sound that escaped her when Tristaan revealed just where and how she could easily find him, making a small ‘awww’ as she let him in the private bathing room.

That kind of balach.

“Well I ent about to tell her tekka. Secret’s safe with me.”

As they stood awkwardly before each other in the quiet room the sound of the running water seemed overwhelmingly loud to the witch, her ears burning as the grinning wick kindly declined her offer to help. Relief and sincere appreciation welled within her, when without ceremony or warning he threw a towel over her head.

“Ye toft.” Laughing she began to reach for the soft cloth, freezing like a deer caught in the torchlight as two warm hands rested on her shoulders. It was instinctual, too many years in the Queen, but a surge of fear rose within her and her body tensed ready to fight or flee. He was only turning her away from the tub, and for a hot moment, the witch was embarrassed by her reaction. Allowing herself to be turned, she smiled listening to the voice beside her ear. It was innocent in wording, but by Alioe if she didn’t feel a rush of giddy warmth from her head to her toes.

The hands moved then, and for a tick Sarinah wished they wouldn’t, keeping her back on the tub as she reached up to pull the towel away. She wished to be that brave, shameless woman she pretended to be on stage. Instead, she held the cloth, listening to the whisper of fabric being removed and the gentle chink of a metal belt buckle. Her dark eyes focused very firmly on the unoffending fabric in her hands, cheeks still burning with the very obvious realisation that not only was she now alone in a room with the man, he was naked.

This was going to be hard to explain should anyone ask.

The sounds of pain dragged Sarinah from her awkward musings, and she lifted her head to stare at the door, tilting her head ever so slightly to the side to hear better.

“Ye alright Tristaan?” She asked, voice an octave higher with concern, preparing herself mentally to be a grown woman and deal with it if he said no. She’d seen plenty of bared skin in the Queen before, walking past rooms with open doors or people strutting the halls naked, but this was different. This was a person with her, with a name. There was no reply, and for a moment the brunette dancer turned around, just in time to catch the wick come up from under the water, rivulets cascading down tanned skin and dark wet hair. Eyes wide she quickly turned back to the door, afraid he’d think she was stealing a look, two ticks of a view burned into her brain.

“Oes, born in the back of my da’s kint in the nomadic lands. Ent never in one place too long, always moving with the seasons or the food. Or to avoid the Crows.” The woman said wryly, keenly remembering the bitter feud between their tribes. Her da was of the opinion that if he saw a Crow on fire, he wouldn’t even piss on them to put them out.

“Durg Lordes, I remember he’d been trying to unite the tribes, to get us to settle down. But da’s an old nomad at heart. Didn’t take to it, and left with my daoa and me, along with a few others of the Yellow Eye to keep the traditions alive. But dze, it wasn’t for me, ye chen? I ent a spoke, not at heart. I need a foundation, a home, somewhere to come back to every day where little bochi can grow and—“ Cutting herself off, Sarinah laughed softly and shook her head, finding it far too easy to talk to the grey eyed man.

“Anyway, da wasn’t happy. We didn’t part on the best terms. Probably for the best. I don’t want him or daoa seeing what I’ve got myself into.” At the mention of the festival, the dancer nearly forgot herself, gasping and making to turn around with excited delight. She caught herself firmly, squeezing her eyes shut and turning back with a wistful sigh.

“Oes, many maw ago now. Wo chet, I loved the Festival. I miss it. Alioe, the Onna-stick, ye know the proper ones that ye knew would probably make ye sick the next day but they tasted so clocking benny. Not this upper class spitch the gollies like. And the music, such beautiful music. From the soul, like happiness in sound. Oh, and the dancing...Oes, I remember it. It’ll be happening again now, Bethas. I wish...I wish I could see it again.” The brunette toyed with the towel, her distant eyes coming back from the fond memories to focus on the not-so-glamorous reality she was in.

“What about you? Surwood I mean. Ye visit it at all?”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Tristaan heard her words, but when he surfaced, hands over his face, he missed meeting her brief glance. None the wiser, he answered anyway, "'M fine. Hot water 'n' fresh bruises don't mix, but I ent complainin'. Much."

He chuckled, aware that while he listened to her talk about her spoke life, he was supposed to be washing, but he found himself pausing for a moment or two just to watch her body language, just to get caught up more than he wanted to admit in her momentary fantasy. Chagrined at himself, the dark-haired passive couldn't help but reply to her, though he kept his mouth shut on tribal politics and family, "Not for travelin', eh? Maybe y' jus' haven't had th' right travelin' companions. Home's where y' make it—an' I sure as th' Circle jus' ent made for tsat life. Too many mung golly rules an' too many clockin' people, all crammed together. Grew up 'n th' Soot District, y' could say, an' I ent ever gonna live a stationery life 'f I can help it. There's too much t' see an' too much t' do that's better when there ent anyone wantin' in your business."

Tristaan skirted around many of his personal issues and limitations with a well-practiced ease, able to skillfully navigate around his galdor-born, passive-marked heritage all under the guise of wick preferences. It stung a little, much like the bruises that ached in the heated water, blood pooling in places under his skin from the warmth. Disappearing under the water one last time, he came up again quickly, cleaner, less intoxicated, but reluctant to leave the luxurious warmth. She almost turned as if she had more to say and the dark-haired passive was prepared to grin and tease her, hidden from view as he selfishly took a moment to just relax and make conversation from a tub of all places.

Oh Alioe—he was sure he'd never before and never again find himself in such a situation!

But Sarinah caught herself, eliciting a laugh from the man as he reluctantly began to shift and stand, reaching for towels to dry himself while he spoke quietly, strangely compelled to continue exchanging personal similarities with the lovely witch as if he couldn't at all help himself in her company,

"I'm no' really on th' best o' terms with my—m' da either. Well, Guaril took me in—I can't say he's m' real da but he's th' only one I'd ever call such. I'm no' a Crow by birth, but that's another story." Tristaan's tone firmly implied that it was a story for another time, not tonight, voice muffled briefly by soft cloth while he dried his face and hair,

"Oes—onnastick! We used t' go t' Surwood every maw. I hated 't at first—so many folks, all 'n one place isn't m' cup 'o tea, nelo qe. Once I got over all that bit, I can't remember anythin' I didn't love 'bout it. I miss 't, too. I haven't been back 'n too many maw. Felt like I shouldn't, but I can't say why so I'm pretty sure that's jus' me bein' dumb. I bet your folks miss you, too, no matter how y' left 'em. People who care 're like that—forgivin'. 'Least that's what I tell m'self when I miss havin' fami."

If the rosh kept making him honest, he'd soon be telling her too much!

The passive chuckled again almost dismissively, though his words made his chest ache like he'd been punched again, even harder than that ugly lugger from upstairs had hit to bring him suddenly into such company as Sariniah. He began to dress, not bothering with his boots or belts when he didn't need them quite yet, tugging on his pants first as if to save them all from the suspense. Reaching for the clean shirt she'd found for him last, forgetful now of his scarred, marked, bare-chested self in the dark-haired dancer's presence, Tristaan continued speaking,

"I know I've already been here 'n th' Harbor too long. I'm eager t' get unstuck, but I s'pose it's only 'cause I can't run. Done that too much already, but once I find an out, I'm takin' it. It ent so bad here, rosh, but, then again, it ent so good neither—"

Tristaan stopped himself from admitting it was a little better tonight, in this particular moment, than it had been in a long time, but he smiled anyway, shyly, slipping on the shirt she'd given him with a slow exhale of discomfort in the motion, his ribs objecting. Unloading ships in the harbor was going to be uncomfortable for days,

"—What about you, Sarinah? Have y'been told you're stuck forever 'r can you pay y'self out? Ent somethin' I can pay if I don't know what I owe, an' I know I'm bein' kept in th' dark on purpose."

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Sarinah chuckled again, running a hand through her loose black locks to move them away from her face as she looked down at the towel again.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Ent really sure anymore. Been in the Queen for four maw? Five? Ent sure if I could even live the spoke life anymore, but sure could enjoy it for a while. With the right company, I guess.” Taking a breath, she frowned at his bizarre place of childhood memories. The Soot District, in Vienda? How the clocks? She’d always thought the gollies hated wicks there. Enough to physically remove them rather than bind to servitude. Tristaan continued to speak, of his father. Or rather, the man that took him in. Her brow drew further again, as he pointed out the Crow weren’t his kin by birth. A wick in Vienda, from the Soot, and taken in by the Crow. Her head spun, but it was clear by the man’s tone that he had no desire to discuss it, and she had no right to pry. So it was, they moved on.

Her grin came back tenfold when he mentioned the onnastick, delighted to find a connection to their childhoods with something so simple yet so loved. She nodded, picking at the pilled weave of the towel and chewing the inside of her cheek, hearing the slosh of water as the scarred wick stepped out of the tub.

“Sounds like I ent the only one that needs to see their fami balach.” The dancer said gently, unwilling to pursue a conversation he clearly didn’t want to have. The movement as he reached for his shirt drew her attention, realising he was now half dressed. The witch glanced him over, brown gaze taking in the old scars and new bruises on tanned skin and the muscles of a hard life. She swallowed hard against the warmth that curled in her stomach, realising stupidly that she still held a towel no one needed. Moving, mostly to drag her gaze from his person, Sarinah put the towel away and pulled the stopper from the tub.

“It ent so bad tonight, at least.” She said softly with a smile, unaware she was voicing his own thoughts. Truthfully, the raven haired woman was two ticks shy of admitting to herself that Tristaan’s heroics had in her book elevated him to some sort of handsome hero. Attractiveness aside, she was grateful and flattered, and it made her feel... comfortable. For the first time since being at the Queen she felt comfortable to talk and laugh and joke. Biting her lower lip with a smile, Sarinah looked away as the wick carefully pulled on the grey cotton item and opened the door. As they climbed the stairs back to the Hall of Sins, the woman stopped at the top, hand on the rail. She turned and looked down at Tristaan with a confused frown.

“Pay myself out? I don’t...” One of the doors beside them opened with a soft creak, and a ruffled blonde slipped out, wrapped in a bedsheet. She shot Sarinah a strange look, before glancing down at the dark haired man with a slow triumphant smile.

“You finally been had then, Dove! About clocking time, thinking you’re better than us with your twirly hoop.” Her hazel eyes took in Tristaan with a waggle of her brow.

“How much then aye? How much this cost you? Can’t ‘ave been as much as Scarlett’s been saying, by the looks of you.” Turning back to Sarinah, she almost sneered, placing a hand on the other woman’s shoulder.

“Did you kick this one too, or was he like that before? I hope it was everything you never thought it would be Dove.” The witch shrugged the hand away, beckoning to Tristaan.

“Shut your head Sparrow, it ent what ye think, ye moony chip. Sod off.” Sarinah snapped, grabbing the man by the hand and guiding him away from the cackling tumble. Once they’d reached the little room she shared with Bridgette, knocking again for good measure, the dancer brought him inside and shut the door firmly, letting go of his hand quickly.

“Epaemo. Again. Vrunta.” She muttered, before moving to the chest and angrily pulling out a pair of dark jodhpurs. Throwing them on the bed, she swore again, standing with hands on hips and shaking her head. Turning the dancer crossed her arms and looked at the wick carefully.

“I don’t get any ging, everything I do is for the Rose. They feed me, house me, own me. I signed my name, and that was that. Ent no one ever said anything about...” A fleeting look of hope crossed her face, and the witch came closer to him, looking into the man’s eyes as though to be sure she was getting the information right.

“What do you mean pay out kov?” Sarinah asked softly, feeling as though she was on the cusp of something revolutionary, heart hammering in her chest.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

The dark-haired passive admittedly couldn't remember the exact year of his birth, too many years on the streets and factory life in the Soot District shortly after his eighth birthday made time a blur for him. He could guess that he was a few years into his twenties, but if pressed for specifics, he couldn't give them, considering himself lucky enough to remember his birthday month, even if he'd forgotten the year.

Not that it mattered, anyway, for Tristaan had long since accepted that his useless life as the magic-less son of a galdor would be short and insignificant in the end. Still, when Sarinah admitted to being here in this place for four or five years, he balked. Their ages were similar enough in his eyes that she'd had been quite young five years ago, not that he even really remembered what childhood felt like, let alone youth,

"I'd go back, oes. Doesn't mean anyone wants me."

His words were true on so many levels that the passive was forced to bite his sore, bruised lip, immediately grateful for the distraction her expression caused him when she turned. He didn't miss her wandering gaze and smiled somewhat boldly about it, not ashamed of the story of survival written on his skin, not really. Still, it was instinct that twisted his right side almost instantly from her view, that led him to tug on his shirt with his right arm quickly tucked into a sleeve lest the tattooed reminder of what he was come into her view, even if she wanted to admire the rest of him, "To th' Crow, that is. No matter th' feudin' between tribes, they're good people."

He didn't bother with buttons, reaching for his belts and boots and bloodied clothes, attempting to make a neat pile of things while the lovely witch emptied the tub, "Ent so bad, eh?" Tristaan couldn't help but grin, aware that she was complimenting him and enjoying it. She was obviously trapped here, and as far as he could tell, no one looked out for her. While he hoped she had a few friends hidden somewhere, he couldn't imagine the lifestyles required by the Mad Queen encouraged such things. He'd spent plenty of his life alone, though most of it was on purpose, but he still hated it. Her smile was distracting when genuine, for while her talents were attractive enough on stage, the dark-haired passive already preferred the witch behind the curtain instead of in front of one.

Sarinah opened the door from the steamy, dimly lit bathroom and began to lead them back up the stairs and into the hall,

"Oes, pay—Havakda!" Another door opened and Trstiaan all but jumped out of his warm, sore skin, free hand almost reaching for a knife that wasn't there on a belt he wasn't wearing out of muscle memory and habit, out of fear. The blonde woman wore nothing but a bedsheet and her words stung, reminding him where he was and who he was surrounded by, the place thick with expectation and so much sex.

He scowled, grey eyes narrowing, once the blonde reached to taunt the lithe dancer further, stepping forward almost protectively, but then Sarinah took his hand and he found he didn't have the wits to make some rude comment back at the tumble, to sneer at her accusation of a worthlessness he already knew or a price that the dancer somehow wasn't worth paying for. His calloused fingers tangled with hers instead, thoughtlessly, though he was unable to articulate the weight of disappointment once they slipped back into her room and she let go.

The room was small and Tristaan stood awkwardly, curling his clothes against his bare chest as he moved to hold them with both arms and lean against the door, reality seeping into his bath-warmed, distracted thoughts like so much thick blood,

"Godsdamnit. Me bein' here's gonna get you 'n trouble, Sarinah. Epaemo. I should go b'fore anyone else sees me an' thinks things they shouldn't—folks're gonna have expectation's o' you 'n m'account, thinkin' things happened between us that didn't, assumin' you've done things with me you don't want to. I'm ruinin' your protection—makin' you out to be like everyone else 'cause I'm a kov an' must need payment for doin' a decent thing." She'd managed a fistful of years playing at being untouchable, somehow convincing Scarlett and everyone else that she wasn't another tumble, that she wasn't another body to be sold and used. She'd kept the darkness that clouded the lives of so many of the other tumbles at bay. Her smile was restless, but it wasn't sad. He'd stepped in to prevent a useless beating, and now her employer would assume he took his reward from the touch of her lovely olive skin instead of from their friendly, comfortable conversation, that he'd take the one thing that'd kept her safe thus far just because he'd been given their permission, not hers.

He loathed the thought that precedent—no matter how untrue—meant, aware that most people who paid to be here were out to please themselves, not who they paid for. He'd made a mistake. He'd made things worse, not better for her.

Tristaan frowned, grey eyes holding her gaze when she told him she signed her name and received nothing but a roof over her head and half-assed protection as payment. He set his things on the floor near the door and turned to face her,

"Y' can't read, can you?"

The dark-haired passive swallowed hard after his words, his tone not meant to be accusatory but he was raised a galdor, after all. He'd often read writs and checked contracts for Crow and tyat alike, and when the lovely witch described her so-called contract, the fire of guilt in his scarred chest roared to flames of anger,"Your contract, rosh. Did y' read it 'r did they tell you what 't said? Everythin's got a price—" He waved a calloused hand to the door behind him, implying the whores in the rooms around this one, "Here in th' Harbor, everyone's worth somethin' t' Hawke. You're not doin' what they're doin' b'cause you've managed t' bring 'n birds b' dancin', but seems like folks resent that outta you, eh?"

The lithe dancer stepped closer and he faltered for a moment, taking in the hope on her very pretty face and resisting the overwhelming urge to reach for her hands again, to curl his calloused fingers with her softer ones. He bit his sore lip and blinked at her, knowing someone in servitude when he saw them, though he was afraid she didn't really even know it, not really. This was a subtle thing, a sly trick, a simple deception that didn't surprise him—not from Scarlett and not from Silas—but he hated it already. Ambiguously trapped like he was, only she had something binding she'd signed. He'd been allowed to live on the whim of another witch, surrounded by the bodies of friends. His contract was his life for now—so long as he remained within reach, so long as he breathed the salty Old Rose air. He doubted she really knew what her contract said, if it said anything at all,

"You must be worth somethin', though, an' I don't mean in bed like they keep threatenin', an' I don't mean up on stage so strangers can ogle an' wish for somethin' more they can't have. Y' ent an employee. This ent a job if y' ent earnin' wages. Ye chen? This be slavery, veiled by made up words, but you're jus' a bird in a cage." Tristaan knew too much about servitude and his words wavered as he spoke them, heart against the back of his throat making it hard to breathe,

"Scarlett's greedy. She's got this racket for th' coin an' th' benefits she can seduce outta th' help, it seems. Surely, enough coins would convince her she could find someone better 'n' you. 'R 'least make her think so long 'nough for you t' get out an' get away."

Not that he had the coin. But if he did, he'd gladly spend it all and then some. For anyone, he reminded himself wordlessly, but in this moment, perhaps especially for the lovely witch whose stories mirrored at least a few of his own.

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Y’ can’t read, can you?

Sarinah felt the blush creeping slowly from her chest, washing up over her throat and across her face, jaw clenching slightly and brown eyes dropping from his face to her crossed arms. She didn’t need to say it, her stupidity and shame enough of an answer for her. He kept going, and her brow drew down, ire building slowly.

“I didn’t read it, ne, because I can’t. Not then, not now. I was told it was for proper official things. I shouldn’t have...dze.” She waved a hand, frustrated by her own young and dumb self. Years...she’d been here for years, all because she couldn’t read. The brunette was angry, at herself and at her employ—her captors! Her owners. They knew it. They had known it, and tricked her. Tears stung her eyes and she swore angrily in colorful tek.

“I’m worth something. Oes. To Scarlett. The chips hate me, ye saw that. All of them ‘cept Bridgette. Wren. They just...they let it happen. But I won’t let her...she tried. The spitch has tried, but I ent...I can’t. She can’t have that part of me. I’d die first.” Her words were a jumble, angry rantings of someone slowly discovering her situation was more complicated then just being ‘signed’. Did the other tumbles know? Did they sign contracts they didn’t read.

“Vrunta! I need to talk to Bridgette. Not now though, not like this. Ent safe like this. After that before.” Weaving her hands into her dark hair, the dancer pushed her thick locks back and took a long deep breath before releasing it slowly, closing her eyes to calm her temper.

“Ne. Don’t leave. Ye chen. I ent sure I could live with myself if ye left here in this state and something happened. Besides, Wesley no doubt is waiting for ye. Scarlett will know ent nothing happened. She’ll know, and that’s enough balach. The chips can mind their own clocking business.” Opening her eyes, the brunette smiled again, pushing away the anger that seethed in her. She was reminded of why Tristaan was here in the first place, and his lovely words, seeing his concerned grey eyes. The man who had a past, a history that she knew spoke to her. He understood her situation, in more ways than even the girls here did.

“Ye’ll stay here, on the floor if ye insist. In the morning I can see ye down to the docks.” Sarinah moved to the bed, pulling a few of the many pillows off to toss them on the floor. From under the frame itself, she dragged out a spare thick winter blanket, laying it down like a thin mattress. Looking back at the man, she made a small nervous giggle, fingers reaching for the tie at the back of her neck under the tattered shirt she wore.

“Your turn. Turn around kov?” The young dancer said with a blush, waiting till he’d obliged to release the tie, reaching up under her shirt at the back to loosen the other. In the mysterious way of all woman, she removed the brazier top and pulled it out from under the shirt. Dropping the garment on the bed, she reached for her skirt, tugging it over her hips and dropping it to the floor. Grabbing the jodhpurs, she tugged them on and straightened her shirt.

“Alright, ye can look.” Folding her working clothes carefully, the now comfortably dressed wick put them away carefully in her chest, before crawling onto the bed and sitting cross legged. She looked at Tristaan with a smile.

“Are ye sure ye don’t want some privacy. I can go find Bridgette.” Sarinah said with another shrug, toying with a lock of hair nervously, unsure what to do with herself now. It was late, he needed rest and the witch needed to distract herself from all the things that made her want to run upstairs and punch her Madame.

Sleep. Sleep would be good. Sleep was safe.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Tristaan leaned away from the door and felt guilty for the accusation, for calling the lovely witch out on a weakness he didn't need to say to know. His hands ached and he told himself not to let go of his things that he held lest he be tempted to reach out and touch her in comfort, remembering the tension of fear in her shoulders when he'd playfully turned her away from him in the bathroom. Still, his words had stung and he was sorry,"Epaemo, Sarinah. Readin' an' fightin'—I can help you with both, if y'want."

He sighed, her anger striking a chord in him. How he understood injustice—or did he? Narrow shoulders sagging, the dark-haired passive couldn't help but watch her put her feelings away slowly, the events of the day finally weighing him down. He'd worked the docks all day, he'd caroused, drank, and fought. Alioe, he was tired, and there was something that gnawed at the edges of his mind, something that told him he should go, something afraid to stay because their conversation held meaning he wasn't at all in the state of mind to process,

"Wesley? I ent afraid o' him. Can't keep his head 'n th' job, so he's probably not real muscle. Not where 't counts, anyways."

Tristaan smirked deviously, but his tone was deadpan and not full of bravado. The wick was big and tough, but the passive had been beaten by all kinds of luggers in his time and simply didn't fear such things anymore. This Wesley had enough trouble keeping his pants on, and so he found it hard to believe the wick could actually through a decent punch in the thick of things. Even if he could, he could take it. He always did.

Sarinah asked him to stay again, though, and his smirk became an awkward, flustered smile that he hid behind setting his boots and bloodied clothes and belts down in a neat pile near the door, picking up and catching the pillows she tossed with a chuckle, "Oes. Th' floor's benny, rosh." His grey eyes watched her while he helped her with the blanket, preferring a spot by the wall and the door, wanting some sense of security that he couldn't put into words, "Mujo ma—oh. Oes."

The dark-haired passive turned at her request, sitting with a sigh on the folded blanket that would be his bed, grateful enough to hide more of his expression from the lovely witch as he was left to listen to the soft whisper of clothes and attempt to imagine nothing. Chagrined that such effort was difficult because he was aware that they'd shared stories that felt familiar, that he'd most likely made waves in his wake for her so-called employers, that she was pretty. Tristaan ran sore, calloused fingers through damp hair and finally let tiredness seep past his defenses. Turning once he was told he could do so to lean back on his palms, he shook his head at her offer,

"Ne, boemo. I don't think either 'f us need t' be alone here, but at least y' can pretend for a house 'r two that y' get a bed t' yourself. I don't snore, neither. I promise." He offered with a very shy, quiet laugh, grinning at her as she sat on the bed. Yes, after all that had passed between them in only a few hours, the witch was lovely and distracting, but this place existed to make fools out of men and Tristaan didn't want to be foolish with someone like Sarinah. He wanted to be sincere because she deserved sincerity from at least one person here in the Mad Queen,

"But I ent good at sleepin' in, so I don't have t' wake you when I leave. Look, talkin' t' you 's been, well, more 'n jus' a lil' nice an' epaemo if I end up causin' more trouble than y' already had, but I told you where t' find me—if you want to, that is, ye chen?" His words weren't a plea by any means, but at the same time, it was clear by his warm expression that he wanted to see her again, somehow, preferably outside of the noisy walls she was otherwise trapped behind.

By Alioe, he didn't need someone. Not like that. He was too dangerous. He wasn't made for usefulness. Stretching with a groan to hide all the awkwardness, all the discomfort, all the implications, Tristaan moved to figure out what was comfortable on the floor for his bruised body, trying to find the best position that hurt the least,

"You're a rosh among some tofts here, Sarinah."

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC

You know we can pillow talk for pages, so I don't know if we can just EoT of if you have more words. Hahaha. I have no preferences.