Familiar Stranger [Sarinah]

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

"He's no' comin' an' you know 't." Jonathan taunted, the tall, broad-shouldered human of a first mate hovered under the awning near the dock as the rain tumbled down almost gently on the worn, salty wood, "Too much 'f a balach for that place, he is—"

"—says you." Kip rolled his eyes, the young wick running dirty fingers through his already wet locks before glancing back over his shoulder and squinting in mild annoyance at the light drops that promised a downpour later, watching. They'd only been ashore two or three houses, unloading cargo in the not so welcoming end of Bethas weather with no small amount of grumbling from the whole crew. Well, all but one, as always. No one loved an early rainy season, especially in the Harbor, not really. Kip caught a glimpse of dark hair and smirked, slowly looking back toward the taller, bulkier Jonathan, "So, how much ging you wanna put on that?"

"None. I'm savin' all m' birds for th' Mad Queen, mujo ma." Preened the human with no hidden excitement.

"I bet y'are—"

"Epaemo, but even I know you'll have 'em all spent before y' even get there. Both 'f you." Tristaan gave the taller man a wink and a nod, laughing at their pair of surprised faces as the dark-haired passive kept walking, the steady drizzle soaking his cloak and making puddles where the dock met the cobblestones of the street. Only a little taller than the young wick, Kip, the human overshadowed both other men, and his laugh rang out loudly as the trio took to the streets of Old Rose Harbor in defiance of the weather,

"No' if we go there first!" Jon grinned like a shark, his crooked teeth and several days worth of an unshaved face making him as swarthy as ever. He gave the passive a knock on the shoulder, hooking his chin in the direction of the human's destination of choice, "Ent y' too balach for a tumble, Tristaan?"

"Oes, I sure am, but I ent too balach t' drink with your sorry arses—let's go to th' Dove first 'r find somewhere else nearby off Angler's Alley. Then you lot can go get your tumbles without me. Y' can spend th' rest o' your ging anyway y' like."

"Dze, I see how 't is. You're gonna get us fair guttered an' then tell us t' dust off." Kip was laughing, but he eyed his friend with accusatory amber eyes, "Then y' can find y'self a rosh y' don't gotta pay t' put out—"

"Ne, y' know it ent so bad t' keep a few birds around, Kip. Some folks jus' want t' save some coin in their pocket for a diff'rent rainy day than this one s'all. Y' sure y' don't want t' go somewhere with, well, less particular enjoyments?" Tristaan taunted him back, waving a calloused hand in self defense. Truth be told, no, the dark-haired passive wasn't comfortable in whorehouses and didn't understand the appeal, but it could have been a life of indentured servitude that turned him off to the idea or it could have been that passive was well aware he was more than capable of finding less costly avenues for such kinds of entertainment, "Besides, there may be some music playin' in th' Dove tonight an' I could use a bit o' that, mujo ma."

"Particular. Fine. Lessssgo." Grumbled Jonathan, narrowing his eyes at the dark-haired passive as if he found the other man's pronunciation occasionally suspect for a wick without a field. As far as the human was concerned, that's all he was anyway, for the first mate was ignorant of Tristaanian's actual heritage. He let the narrow-shouldered man win anyway, shaking his head with a hiss before he changed the direction of their walk a little, headed toward the Dove, "How's 'bout y' wag that pretty tongue o' yours less an' move them little legs o' yours faster in this clockin' rain instead o' judge where I get my bunkmates found at, eh?"

Kip snorted, the youngest of the three men reminding the passive far too much of friends lost years ago. Almost giggling, the fair-haired, tanned wick attempted to steer the three of them down the right street,

"That's enough, you two kov. Let's jus' all agree to have some drinks an' get a good look on things an' whatever you two end up doin', I know what I wanna do with my birds—win more birds at cards!—an' I don't care how you spend yours. Neither o' you."

"Boemo." Tristaan chuckled, the dark-haired passive suddenly smug in his small victory over entertainment, calloused fingers tucking wet hair back behind an ear as the drizzle continued, grey eyes wandering the street, the puddles, the rain, the unsavory faces already crawling out as the sun set and dark would soon settle over the Harbor. Lanterns were already being lit, hung over the street, hung in front of businesses, casting a ruddy glow and reflecting off of the water that ran over everything.

"Aye, then. My challenge for th' eve is to get you to come to the Queen with us, Tristaan."

"How drunk d' y' think he'll have t' be?" Jon the first mate eyed the passive with a predatory grin, gnarled fingers worn by a life built at see caressing his stubbled chin as if he was appraising the dark-haired man's entire worth.

"I dunno, but I'm willing to find out, eh, balach?" The young wick grinned, too, shaking his belt pouch of birds in his friend's direction, taunting him with paying for all his drinks.

"Alioe bless you, Kip. An' a bit o' good luck." The passive laughed, shaking his head, resisting the urge to roll his grey eyes before he gave the younger wick a playful shove.

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

“I ent going anywhere with you, ye chen? I’m just the dancer here.” The brunette said through grit teeth and a fake smile, dark eyes looking down at the hairy mitt wrapped around her arm as she tugged to free herself. The hand didn’t budge, fingers curling deeper into the supple olive skin as the man the arm was attached to leered at her.

”My birds say otherwise witch. Yer a whore in a whorehouse, and ye’ll do what I pay ye t’do.” The patron growled, breath stinking of alcohol and tobacco as he pulled her closer against his body with a press of hips that made her stomach churn. Sarinah glanced away from the drunk, looking for the Brother that looked after security in the Queen. He was leaning against the bar, watching with an almost bemused expression, as though the scene was some sort of sick entertainment.

Deep breaths.

”Look, how about this…” The wick said with a sultry half smile as she glanced back at the man, resting a hand on his own gently.

”Say you let me go, oes? I get you a nice drink, something good. You can settle in here, and watch the show. I promise it’ll be benny, and afterwards maybe we can…sort something out?” She lied with a soft breathy tone, wetting her lower lip with the tip of her tongue for good measure. The human’s leer turned into a rotten yellow smile, one that even a mother couldn’t love. He finally let her go with a shove, causing the raven haired dancer to stumble, but catch herself with a false chuckle.

”I’ll be waiting’ fer ye.”The drunk said with a waggle of one meaty finger, seating himself again as the young woman walked away towards the bar, rubbing the spot on her arm she knew a bruise would form. Her smile disappeared as she leaned against the wood beside the grinning Brother.

”Is there any actual purpose to you being here, or are you just decoration?” Sarinah scowled at him, waving her hand at the barkeep as she spoke. The large man laughed, a deep sound that sent shivers up her spine. It was the laugh of a man who was without conscience.

”I’m here to keep the patrons calm, love, not to stop business. It is a whorehouse, remember?” The wick smiled at the keep as she approached, a small young thing with bright golly-red hair and freckles. A passive, escaped from the servitude of Brunnhold into the ‘work’ of Silas Hawke. She was quiet, shy even, but she never once said no. Not to a thing. It made Sarinah angry, and sad.

”I need a Chrove’s Kiss for the lovely gentleman seated on table four, Robin, and make it double strength.” The passive’s eyes widened, but she nodded and immediately moved to make the potent drink. Sarinah looked back at the Brother with a shake of her head and a frown.

”You’re meant to keep us safe, too, you mung spitch. No girls, no business. Surely—“ Faster than she’d anticipated, the Brother’s hand shot out to grab her chin painfully, fingers digging into her tanned cheeks.

”Don’t think you’re safe, love. Just because you look pretty up there, doesn’t mean you won’t be on your back soon enough. Scarlett’s already been talking about it. You realise how much coin some of those fancy golly folks would pay to get a bit of the Dove?” Her brown eyes glared at his face for a moment, before the man laughed and let her go.

”Fuck off and do your job, witch, before I find something to stop that pretty mouth from talking back.” Swallowing down the fire that burned in her belly, Sarinah shoved past the man, stopped at his hand around her wrist.

“That drink for your friend ain’t free.”

Resisting the urge to bite back, the brunette smiled slowly and reached into her coin purse, placing a penny on the bar top. The Brother laughed as he let her go, the sound following her as she moved through the tables and patrons to the stairs that led backstage.

“You know, he’s not wrong.” A sultry rich voice said from the darkness behind the curtains. Sarinah felt her stomach drop, turning slowly to face the woman standing there. Her hair was a deep scarlett, pulled into a beautifully arranged up do, and she wore a shapely corseted red dress. Between two long red painted nails, she held a long thin cigarette that she took a slow delicate drag from. Stepping from the shadows, Scarlett Jezebel came close to the dancer, reaching out with her free hand to tuck a loose black strand away from the girl’s face.

”I’ve passed up a lot of good offers for you, mostly because I can’t afford another incident like last time, but I tell you…some of those bids are getting really tempting.” Taking another drag of her cigarette, Scarlett smiled and stepped back, gesturing to the closed curtain where Sarinah needed to be.

”But for now, the show must go on my pretty Dove.” The witch heard the familiar sound of the musicians starting her song, and the lights of the stage were turning low. Her brown eyes held her Madam’s for a tick, before she rushed to stand behind the curtain, heart pounding wildly.

She had to find a way out. Before it was too clocking late.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

"How gutter'd 're you?" Jonathan slurred curiously, his face flushed and his eyes already bloodshot. He was the bulkiest of the three men and never wasted a coin spent, having out drank the wick and the passive in a way that left Tristaan curious as to how the human was even still standing.

"I ent." The dark-haired man grinned, aware that he was far from sober but still had more of his faculties than his companions combined.

"Vrunta! I en'either." Kip grinned stupidly, so drunk that he wavered on his feet and leaned heavily against the passive, patting with his other hand against his rather large collection of birds. The young wick was a toft, a shark at cards, and even without all of his wits managed to out play far too many poor sods in the early hours of the evening at the Dove, "But I've got a lot o' ging t’ burn a' th' Queeeennn. Lookit all my winnin’s—"

Their first mate laughed, loud and calloused, the three of them standing in the ruddy glow of the lantern-lit street like some lost boys after having staggered out of the Dove rather quickly before Kip started a fight with more of his Alioe-be-damned winning. Tristaan eyed the taller man warily, quite sure that if he left the two men alone to head toward the Mad Queen without him, Jonathan would allow the poor guttered wick to lose all his well-earned birds at the willing hands of far too many eager women. Chewing the inside of his cheek, the passive blinked slowly, warmth of too much ale making the drizzle of rain feel refreshing against his tanned, scarred skin,

"—y' sure y' don' wanna go back to th' ubo, Kip? Sleep off all you’ve had t’ drink an’ spend that ging tomorrow?" The passive offered, reaching again to steady the fair-haired wick before the youth giggled and slipped from his grasp, already waddling in the direction of Angler's Alley,

"Uh, ne. I'ma gonna get me some tumble fo' sure." He keened happily, giving Jonathan a weak but quick punch in his broad, muscled arm, "C'mon, Jon, lessgo. 'Less you're comin', Tristaan?"

"Oes. Jus’ this once. I'm only comin' so Jon here doesn't let y’ catch a shiv in th' ribs at th' hands o' some macha tumble jus' 'cause she gets a glimpse at your winnin's instead o’ what you’ll be wantin’ her t’ look at. B'sides, I'm th' soberest here an' someone's gotta get you there, ye chen?"

"Mujo ma, balach." The fair-haired wick’s grin couldn’t get any broader, though he paused and ran a hand over his face as a wave of nausea swept over him, far too drunk to really be going anywhere else and the passive knew it.

"Such a good man, Trist, for such a dainty lil’ wick." Jonathan teased, leading the trio of inebriated men through the streets. He cut an intimidating figure, it was true, but even Tristaan knew he could take him. Big, well-muscled from sailing, sure, but hardly a real grasp of fighting skill in his ugly, dumb skull.

Totally disinterested in wasting his few birds on a half a house between the sheets that wouldn't matter to anyone the next day, the dark-haired passive was far from as excited as his companions were to wander past vagrants begging for money in the rain and lustful bodies headed in more or less the same direction. Their human first mate attracted attention first, a couple of tumbles in the street whistling and drawing closer, careful of the puddles down the derelict cobblestones of Angler’s Alley.

Kip was thrilled, bubbling, too inebriated to be put out when one woman slid past him to snake her arms around Jonathan’s overcompensatingly large bicep, purring invitingly, "Comin’ to the Queen, kov?"

"How’d y’ guess, lovely?" He laughed loudly again in return, even as the other woman gravitated in the passive’s direction, leaving poor, boy-faced Kip to just observe eagerly.

Tristaan didn’t resist the hand that reached for him, curling around his waist to lean against him as they walked, the freckled, red-headed tumble offering him a sultry, approving smile even while the dark-haired passive simply flashed a quick, lopsided grin before Jon was holding the doors open for them, the scents of hearth fire and more alcohol and so much perfume and too many bodies wafting out into the rain.

"I see ye three come a bit pre-seasoned, eh? Yer just in time fer a bit o’ show—did ye wanna sit an’ drink s’more an’ have a gander?" The red-head spoke to all three but her free hand teased at the buttons of Tristaan’s shirt, her eyes on him.

"Boemo!" Squealed Kip, green eyes wide as he took in all the sights from the bared flesh to the bar to the other patrons and their various excitements, "A show? Oes. More t’ drink? O—"

The dark-haired passive’s grey eyes wandered the room, not all of the faces entirely unfamiliar. He spotted the bouncers, noted a few of the rowdier patrons, and tried to divert his gaze from the more enthusiastic regulars. This wasn’t his wheelhouse, and while he wanted to keep his friends out of trouble, he wished that trouble had been anywhere but here,

"Ne for you, kov." Hissed the passive to his friend, though their human crewmate chuckled and slapped a calloused hand on the wick’s shoulder, his other hand sweeping the place.

"Let th’ man do what ‘e wants, balach. Y'ent his daoa. Jus’ relax, by th’ Circle." The tumble on his arm giggled with a well-practiced mockery of affection and led them to the tables near the stage, making sure there was somewhere for them all to sit by purposefully shooing a way a lone customer toward the lap of a waiting woman. Grinning, her and her companion were very eager to get the trio of inebriated men comfortable, mostly with their hands and bodies, settling everyone into seats just as the music began and the small gathering of on-lookers eagerly fell silent.

"It’s Mistress Dove, kov." The red-head whispered admiringly, one hand on Tristaan’s thigh and the other on Kip’s, her smile wan, "Ent any o’ ye boys got th’ ging ‘tween th’ three o’ye to take her out back—"

"Nor th’ moxie." Grinned the other tumble like a shark, eliciting some chuckles from the trio who were far too distracted. Standing reluctantly, she slid away from Jonathan’s eager hands and winked, "Lemme get you somethin’ more to drink. Jus’ enjoy the show."

"Oes! We’ll see ‘bout that, rosh." Squeaked Kip, the red-head attempting to split her attentions, though her charm for the young wick seemed to intensify once her wandering fingers felt a few birds more than she expected—just as Tristaan had assumed. The poor sod wouldn’t remember winning and he wouldn’t have a coin left to show for it. Music drew his eyes reluctantly to the stage, head swimming with the atmosphere and a bit too much ale, calloused hands raking through wet hair from the rain as he settled into his seat.

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

SpoilerShow

[youtube]https://youtu.be/bgl8aPfQ8ow[/youtube]

Sarinah took a deep breath in, standing only inches from the place where the thick heavy red velvet curtains met, her rich eyes dark like the first morning’s coffee. Her outfit, Scarlett’s outfit, was scarcely fit to be called an outfit at all. The ensemble consisted of a black halter style brazier, decorated with black beading and white feathery filigree embellishments, and black undergarments. Over the undergarment was a similarly embellished belted skirt that sat low on her hips, the black sheer fabric of the skirt split wide at each side, almost like an fancy loin cloth than a skirt. Her upper arms were dressed in symmetrically positioned bands in the same beaded and embellished style. That was it. The witch had argued the clothing at first, and had been given two choices. Work in that, or work in nothing.

Breathing out, she put a smile on her red painted lips. The musicians started as they had done so every other time, the drummer playing a beat with an almost primal rhythm on his skin drum. The other musician, a skilled string player, picked up a sitar and lay it across his lap to pluck it with a melody that complemented the drummer, a rhythmic combination that was a faint reminder of the music from home. It tugged at her heart a little as she parted the curtain and walked out into the centre of the stage, her heart pounding violently in her chest and feet padding on the wooden floor. A single dimmed spotlight lit up a simple black metal hoop, suspended on a thick rope that led up to a pulley, which the ebony haired wick kept her eyes on as she moved. She faced it, taking a deep breath, before turning around and lifting her arms to hold the cool metal frame. A familiar companion now, her bastion in the war for her body with Scarlett and Hawke. Her rich warm gaze swept the room, swallowing hard as she heard men and women alike, talking and laughing and drinking. They were settling she could tell, turning their vile gazes on her, and for more than the first time in her life Sarinah was grateful the glare of the spotlight darkened her vision. At least, for a while, it was merely herself and the hoop. Settling at the bar as the olive skinned witch prepared herself, Scarlett puffed almost delicately on her long thin cigarette, watching not the girl but the patrons.

Sarinah pulled herself up to sit almost daintily in the hoop, feet still on the floor as she crossed her legs, turning to uncross them so that the metal frame began to spin slowly on its rope. Behind curtain, a stagehand pulled gently to raise the dancer into the air as the spin gained momentum. Arms laced up behind the frame and back slightly arched, the brunette let her head tilt back to look at the ceiling, her black skirt trailing around long curled legs. Grasping the hoop with one hand, she leaned back with an elegant flourish and stretching herself to twist and lay across the bottom edge of the circular frame, face down. Her core muscles ached as she held herself horizontal, still turning in mid air, as the ground loomed below her far enough away to hurt just a bit if she fell.

Then don’t fall. An echo of Mistress Wren’s sarcastic voice whispered through her mind.

Dropping her hip back, Sarinah curled her body up to align with the arc of the hoop, before slipping through, until she was suspended only by her arms curled artfully along the lower curve of the frame, legs long and crossed together as they gracefully hung down. Pulling hard with her shoulders and a series of elegantly disguised movements, the the olive skinned dancer managed to sit in the cradle of the frame again, taking a moment to rest as the cold steel biting into the soft curve of her upper thighs. A swathe of dim lighting and red fabric mingled was all she saw as it slowly turned, like some dreamscape kaleidoscope. The music filled her ears with its sensual beat, hiding any lewd comments or catcalls from the crowd. Her smile had faded as she felt the familiar sickening turn of her stomach. What if she just fell? What if she just let go? It wouldn’t be quick, or painless, but it could be over.

Unless she didn’t die, then it would just be Scarlett’s final nail on her coffin.

Pushing away the thought Sarinah shifted so the hoop hooked into the arch of her spine to lean back and let go suspended by the balance of her body, trailing long fingers through her hair as it streamed behind her. The hoop was pulled higher still as the brunette carefully shifted herself further till the frame now rested on the nape of her neck. Tilting her head back and arching her legs to counter balance, the girl let herself hang by nothing but her neck.

From the crowd, there was a murmur of appreciation and a spattering of applause from the audience. It was exactly what the young witch had needed, her moment of validation in the eyes of her employer. The dark eyed wick grabbed the hoop, before the pain started in her neck, hanging by her hands and looking up into the spotlight as she was lowered to the ground. This was it, her final swansong. Stepping around, she let herself turn into a controlled fall that pushed the hoop into a rapidly renewed spin, and as it went up again the woman twisted and turned, letting the momentum of her movements and her legs take the hoop faster and faster. The music matched her tempo, increasing in speed and volume, building for the ending that was in sight. Curling into the frame, the world was nothing but a blur, a distant fog. Upside down now, her legs braced wide to hold her steady, Sarinah bent one leg on the outside of the hoop to grab her ankle, before letting go with a heart stopping drop. From the audience, there were gasps of shock, as though people expected she would fall, only to be replaced by cheers of encouragement. Whether they were genuinely from the patrons, or artfully called out by the staff, it was anyone’s guess. She hung suspended by her bent knee, her other arm and leg outstretched gracefully. As the music came down from its climatic crescendo, so did the hoop, and the brunette shifted herself up to be seated in the spinning frame. When her bare feet touched the wood, she let them drag across it, the spinning slowing, until she came to a stop facing the crowd with a well practised smile.

As the spot light died, the tavern lighting returned to normal, and Sarinah took her leave from the stage. Walking down the stairs, she looked over the people in the crowd. She could see them now, faces of strangers that cared about what they could buy. Nothing more. Her gaze scanned the trio at the front, settled comfortably with two of the girls from the street, the title-less girls. Three drunks, no doubt. A human and two wicks. Distracted for a moment, she smiled with a warmth that didnt reach her eyes as she walked past them, before a presence lingered heavily beside her.

“I wan’my af’ershow entert’ment.” A familiar, rottenly drunk voice slurred as the human from prior placed a hand on her shoulder. Sarinah swore quietly, turning away from the men at the front to look back at the man.

“How in the name of the Circle are you even standing?” She said with a smile that was more of a grimace, stepping back slightly and looking around for the Brother. Neither the burly help, nor her Madam were around this time. The witch glanced at Robin with a genuine flash of concern, even as the man laughed and stumbled closer to her. From the bar, the little passive dissapeared like a bird taking flight, running up the stairs that lead out of the Queen and up to Scarlett’s personal quarters.

“Y’din’t think’yer lil’drink would acc’shully do’nything di’you?” He said with a laugh, as though they were both in on the joke. Sarinah’s smile fell, turning into a frown as she took another step back, her weak field drawing closer around herself. The human reached for her hand, his own smile fading when she pulled away.

“Now’y said af’ershow we’co sort som’fin out. Don’like a liar.” The inebriated patron growled, angry that he’d managed to stay on his feet after her gifted drink for what was now nothing. He stumbled at her, backing the witch against another patron and grabbing at her hair. Sarinah balled her fist and growled back at the man, as the patron scrambled from under her. She noticed it then, the people moving away.

No one gives a kenser’s arse how pretty you are or how good you dance. You’re just property, replaceable as a piece of broken furniture.

“Let me go you laoso vreska!” She spat, wincing as he wrenched her head back and roared in her face.

“Wha’y’call me’y wick whore?!” The brunette felt tears springing to her eyes from the pain and fear, angry at herself for it. She grit her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the blow to come or for Robin to return with Scarlett or the Brother.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

The darker haired tumble from the street returned with more drinks that neither of the three men actually needed, Jonathan more eager for the woman's return than he was for more alcohol and Kip just so bright-eyed and flush-faced and distracted that the mug of something sweet and alcoholic was something to hold and grin about. Tristaan had changed his mind in her absence, deciding he'd probably need whatever was in the mug he smiled when he accepted in order to appreciate what he'd gotten himself into. The signs were clear that places like the Mad Queen were just another form of servitude, whether some who worked here were willing or not. He'd spent enough years a slave under the guise of freedom long enough to know the difference, and no matter how pleasing the woman's touch was who'd sandwiched herself between him and his young wick friend, it was well-practiced and far from genuine.

The dark-haired passive directed her hands off of himself and toward Kip with a wink, offering the red-headed tumble a sly smile as if it was the man's birthday just as the drummer began his beat and the curtains parted, drawing his grey eyes from his companions and back to the stage. The young woman who emerged from the curtain with the plucking of a sitar sent a ripple of almost tangible silence through the inebriated, lustful crowd, the sounds of laughter fading into murmurs of lewd appreciation and a few catcalls before the music drown out even those and the rowdy audience fell quieter, eagerly anticipating whatever was coming next. Tristaan had to admit the woman was beautiful and had this moment been around the bonfire of a caoja like a proper party, the dark-haired passive wouldn't have felt a hint of shame about being privy to so much olive skin because it would have been bared willingly. In the heady atmosphere of the Mad Queen, however, he found himself uncomfortable, wrong, uninvited, even, and unlike the rest of the audience, he willed himself to look away from the stage and into the crowd as much as possible.

Not infallible by any means, not when far from sober, Tristaan's gaze strayed back to the woman who displayed an impressive level of prowess and grace in an alluring way, distracted enough to feel a warmth wash over his face and a faster tempo to the beat of his heart in rivalry to the drummer near the stage. Not innocent, either, the passive had enjoyed the company of women, but there'd always been that moment tattoos were discussed—one, in particular—and the dark-haired man inevitably found himself in need of an escape.

And then his mug was empty—damn it all—yet what a kindness it was to his bleary senses that the spotlight faded and the audience cat-called for more. Finally glancing back over at his two companions, Jonathan had most likely missed the entire show, so thoroughly involved with the dark-haired tumble from the street that he was a scuttled ship, which was no surprise to the passive. Kip was, of all things, giggling and talking with the red-haired woman, blushing and enjoying himself without wandering hands as if the pair were old friends. It was, well, unexpected, but Tristaan knew that the wick was just that kind of random creature, even when so guttered he probably couldn't see straight. The rest of the crowd either expressed their disappointment that the lovely woman was done dancing or returned to their various vices, leaving the passive to set his mug on the table and settle in for inebriated boredom when that same woman passed by, the brush of a field revealing her a witch.

She smiled, sort of, a distant expression the passive was familiar with, and he returned something more genuine, almost sympathetic, but it was quick and shy, everything about the location oppressive and disconcerting. He thought to say something—hello or anything, really—but found the whole idea awkward and strange, even if none of that showed in his smile. The movement of someone else caught the corner of his gaze, and when the larger, very drunk man put a hand on the dark-haired witch's shoulder, the illusion of pleasant conversation was shattered and Tristaan was tempted to look away. Just like everyone else here, the woman clearly had ging to earn.

Something about the man's tone was more than just a little unpleasant, predatory, and the dark-haired passive understood what was happening far faster than most, having practically been property years ago in the Soot District of Vienda far from Angler's Alley, just long enough to hear the undertones of expectation and feel the implication of unpleasant consequences. Even here, in a whorehouse full of women willing to throw themselves at this ugly lugger for whatever birds he was willing to offer, this laoso creep clearly assumed he could take what he wanted without consequence. Tristaan had the scars to prove how well that went on occasion, and he tensed, grey eyes hardening as he swept the room for the muscle, assuming the bouncers here were on Hawke's payroll, after all. No one moved to intervene and he sighed his displeasure through grit teeth.

The witch exchanged a look with the youth at the bar and when the large human took matters into his own hands, grabbing for the dark-haired woman roughly and trapping her between some unfortunate patron and himself, the passive was on his momentarily unsteady feet. Not once did the man mention he'd paid for her time, and while he was obviously so drunk it was a wonder he could pick this particular woman out from the rest of the more naked than clothed crowd, Tristaan suspected he'd simply wanted something he couldn't have or couldn't afford and was the type of clocking bastard to try and take it anyway.

The patron slipped from between the two, cursing at them both, scrambling for the bar as the dark-haired passive stepped past his friends toward the argument. Kip watched him, eyes suddenly wide, looking up from the red-head who held his hands now,

"Ah, shit. Jon—"

"Don't care."

"Ne, but—"

"Shut yer head. Don't know 'im. Don't care." The human laughed, revealing his willingness to lie without a care in the world with a woman on his lap. He waved a meaty hand dismissively.

"He's gonna kick his ass." The fair-haired wick all but giggled, leaving who his opinion of a victor would be to hang mysteriously between himself and the tumble who seemed very divided about where to ply her attentions—back to Kip or on the drunk human assaulting that dark-haired coworker who was too good to get herself dirty like the rest of them.

Aware that he was a scrawny son of a galdor, Tristaan moved forward where others stepped back, his alcohol-flushed face suddenly serious where others were already grinning, muttering, curious and enticed by the promise of violence. The loud, angry drunk was bulkier, taller, and clearly used to speaking with his fists first, while the dark-haired passive was content to hide years of hard labor and travel under his clothes and behind an even-tempered tone of voice,

"I'm pretty sure she called y' laoso. An' a vreska. Did y' pay for that already, kov?" Tristaan all but stepped between the man and the witch, summoning up the bravado to not wince at the stench of uncleanliness and the tension of even the faintest of fields, both grating against his senses. His hands didn't move for anything sharp, not yet, aware of where his weapons were but also not wanting to spill any blood if he didn't have to. Instead, he placed a calloused hand on the lugger's arm that gripped the dancer's hair, unconcerned if the other man would take that as a threat or not, "Did y' pay extra for damaged goods? I'm sure that ent free, ye chen?"

"Who'd'y think y'are? Th'muscle 'round 'ere?" The drunk human rumbled, not releasing his grip so much as twisting the witch slightly out of the way, "Y'don' look 't. I'd know."

"Ne, I'm not, but I know how this place works, mujo ma. Y' can't have what y' don' got th' ging for." The passive spoke with a calmness that belied the rush of fear that filled his chest, his roguish grin both a taunt and a lie. He wasn't afraid of the beating—Alioe, not anymore!—but he didn't want anyone unnecessarily hurt and he preferred not to have to cott the laoso piece of kenser dung in front of a bunch of folks who'd just paid far too much for sex. Still, his fingers curled into the well-muscled wrist of the large human, now fully aware of the strength he was up against, shifting his feet in anticipation of what would follow. The crowd's attention had shifted and Tristaan felt more eyes on him than he wanted, all of them but Jonathan's, obviously.

"Fuck off. I'gots money. Y' don' work 'ere, y' can'tell me what t' do." Releasing Sarinah a thoughtless toss, his other meaty fist curled into the still-moist collar of Tristaan's shirt and crushed scarred knuckles against his chest, "'Less y'were gonna try'n'take 'er instead."

"Between th' two of us? I'm definitely th' better choice, if that's what you're askin'." The dark-haired passive's expression was suddenly without fear, baiting the human now but also attempting to stall him. He didn't really want to fight him any more than he actually wanted to pay for a night with anyone here, but he wasn't about to let the bastard get away with whatever he thought he could, especially with a woman who clearly had little say in the matter. He wasn't sure he was any more sober than the creature that all but lifted him off his feet, but he was pretty sure he could take him. His judgement may have been a little impaired at this point, however. Just a little.

The larger man growled at Tristaan's comment, shoving him forward and into a table without a second thought, though he wobbled with the effort. Surging toward the passive as he scrambled to get into a more defensive position, dizzy from the motion and scarred back stinging, the big, drunk bastard took a swing with his opposite fist. The smaller framed, dark-haired man didn't get any more options but self-defense, noting that even now, there weren't any bouncers stepping into the fray. He hated the Bad Brothers and loathed being under their thumb, but this was ridiculous. What a waste.

Unfortunately, his reactions were slowed and instead of dodging, the passive simply grinned almost stupidly and braced for impact, much to the roaring delight of the crowd. Alioe, the bastard could hit hard, though, and his vision blurred even while he held in giving the beast the satisfaction of any noise of pain, the human's fist finding his ribs, too close to his kidneys for the comfort of his stomach, which churned and threatened but managed to do him one last favor. The passive didn't double over, didn't wince, didn't make a peep, much to the large human's obvious disappointment. He did stagger a little, however, but then revealed he wasn't helpless. Despite his own lack of sobriety, Tristaan was quick, his smaller size and actual combat experience allowing him to take advantage of the momentum of being shoved by the hand of his opponent, gritting his teeth against the fiery hurt to twist and land his own knuckles actually into the larger man's soft body just behind his ribs, hitting to bruise organs and aiming to threaten,

"Y' should take your birds an' bother someone y' can afford, ye chen?"

"Nah."

The larger man groaned, made more angry and less afraid, surprised that the mouthy, smaller man could hurt him at all—by the Circle, the little shit hit harder than he did and that just fueled his rage. Surprisingly, Tristaan refused to dodge whatever the drunk sloppily tossed his way, taking every blow without a sound, tuning out the horror and delight of the entire Queen who'd now turned their attention on the man who had the nerve to stand up for a whore. The dark-haired passive let the bastard get a few swings in, blinking away stars and unconcerned if he bled a little, either biding his time to see if someone put an end to the scuffle or just studying his opponent, realizing the untrained lugger had no clue what he was doing other than pounding meat.

He waited until the beast had his collar again, ready to smash his galdor-born pretty face in before he brought himself back into focus with a hiss, a quick, hard, well-deserved knee to the groin and an elbow raised toward the man's throat as hard as possible, either to shove himself away or do some damage, whichever was possible. He didn't want the larger man to crush him and he didn't want to have to dig out a blade. Surely, eventually, they'd both get their asses tossed onto the street and that would be that. Tristaan just wanted to be conscious, honestly, if only to hang onto the handful of coins he wasn't willing to spend in this laoso place full of lecherous idiots like this ugly thing.

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

“I'm pretty sure she called y' laoso. An' a vreska. Did y' pay for that already, kov?"

Sarinah opened her eyes with surprise, looking at the stranger that had stepped up between herself and the drunk. It was the same wick she’d seen only moments before, and for a moment the raven haired witch was thankful, wincing as the larger human twisted her painfully away like a child withholding a toy from another. The dark haired kov spoke up, calm and smiling on the outside, but she knew better. She’d seen enough bar fights to know the wick was testing the waters. Baiting the big man.

And of course, it worked.

Stumbling to the filthy hard wood floor as the drunk patron pushed her away, Sarinah rolled to sit, leaning back on her hands and watching the two men with a flush of shame. It was painful to hear them talk about her like a side of beef at the market, her worth finitely defined by the amount of coin Scarlett had put on her person.

The two men moved then, almost wrestling against the table, and the dancer scrambled to get to her feet and out of the way. The first blow came from the larger of the duo, and Sarinah couldn’t help but make a shout of shock as the wick simply took the blow. From the tavern, people cheered with delight, clearly distracted from the girls by the more exciting brawl. It seemed an unfair match up, beefy burly human against the wirey wick, although as the second blow landed and the cheers went up again, the brunette saw that he didn’t make a sound. He didn’t double over. He just took it.

“What in the Gods names...” A rough voice growled from the stairs that Robin had disappeared up, causing Sarinah to turn and catch the Brother taking them two at a time whist buckling his breeches. Robin followed behind, and at the top of the stairs Scarlett, wrapped in nothing but a crimson satin nightgown and fiery hair loose around her shoulders. The sound of fists on flesh was sickening, and the dancer couldn’t help herself, turning on the two men that had come with the dark haired wick.

“Ent he your friend?! Do somethi—“ A sound caught her ear, and she turned in time to watch the bloodied and beaten man drive his knee into the humans groin, followed by an elbow to the throat. The human went down like a sack of rotten potatoes, just as the Brother reached them and grabbed the wick by the collar.

“No! Stop, stop! He ent the problem, it’s this mung vreska here. Let him go kov!” Moving across the space, she lay a hand on the Brother’s arm and looked up at him with wide brown eyes.

“Please.” The Brother shoved her off, dragging the man towards the stairs, coming face to face with Madame Jezebel, Sarinah on his heels.

“You want me to take him outside an—“ The witch stepped in front of the big bouncer and pleaded with her employer.

“Mistress please. This one ent the problem, he just...that one on the floor he...” Scarlett took in the situation with a sweep of gold rimmed eyes, before moving Sarinah gently to look at the wick carefully. After a moment, she spoke.

“I suppose I should thank you for looking after the merchandise whilst the help was...preoccupied. Let him go Wesley.” The large Brother did so, from height, uncaring if the smaller framed wick fell. Immediately, the dancer reached to help him, her dark eyes glancing at Scarlett again.

“Take him out back and get him cleaned up Dove. Be sure he gets whatever he wants in thanks for this mess.” The red head waved at the human groaning on the ground with disgust, raising her voice.

“Someone clean this up. Mistress Robin, a round of drinks for these lovely people. Don’t fear lovely people, plenty of girls to make you forget the shock of this terrible moment.” She said with a smile, before taking her leave.

“Come on balach, I got you.” Sarinah said softly to the stranger, helping him towards the stairs that led down and away from the tavern, all but glaring at his two companions on the way past. As they walked, Tristaan would hear sounds of carnal delight coming from behind closed doors of rooms that were built into the structure behind the Queen. The woman stopped at one, knocking before she opened it.

“I ain’t taking anymore tonight!” An older woman’s voice called out, before the door opened to show a woman with garish blue make up and greying hair. She looked at Sarinah, before glancing at the man with a narrowing of old blue eyes.

“She didn’t...” The raven haired girl shook her head, pushing her way in with the man and resting him on the bed. The room itself was small, big enough for a single bed and a chest, decorated in the same garish red fabrics of the rest of the Queen. On the bed frame were various pieces of clothing and implements of what could only be assumed pleasure.

“No Bridgette, he ent buying me. The mung kov just got himself beat up. For me.” She blushed and shook her head, looking at the older woman with hands on hips. Bridgette made a face of surprise, before grabbing her tobacco and waving her hand.

“Silly men. Like they ain’t ever been in a tumblehut before.” The older woman growled before leaving and shutting the door firmly, a small smile on her withered lips. The younger witch turned her face back to the man for a moment, as though now she had him here she didn’t know what to do with him.

“Mujo ma balach. Ent get many like you in here.” Reaching for the chest, she pulled out a tattered long sleeve shirt and tugged it over her head, before coming to sit beside him on the bed with a medical kit. Drawing out a cloth and some sort of cleansing solution, she smiled.

“Ent get any like you actually.” The brunette said softly, not sure where to quite begin.

“Far’ye? Ye got a name? You know...you didn’t have to do that. Ye chen?”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Fueled by adrenaline, anger, and alcohol, Tristaan stood over the human he’d crumpled for a moment, victorious and tempted to continue his winnings. He heard his pulse above the murmurs of the crowd, the cheers and cat-calls, the concern and surprise, fiery thoughts filled with the sound of breaking someone else’s bones drowning out his usually respectable common sense. He’d allowed just enough of a beating to feel like some free animal, and that rare expression of such freedom made him greedy for more. The scrawny son of a galdor really, really enjoyed sticking it to the bigger arseholes, and while he wavered on his feet, he was vaguely aware he couldn’t feel all the regret he and his body would have in the morning.

There were footsteps and a clear voice of surprise, loud enough to grab his attention away from the drunk who rolled and groaned in agony and drool. His grey eyes snapped to the blurry vision of two bodies approaching, coming into focus just as the muscle who’d been conspicuously absent during the whole scuffle grabbed Tristaan roughly by the collar … which was, really, not a good idea. Not at all in the state of mind for that motion, he hissed and spit blood at the wick, bruised face twisting into a sneer as if he was ready to take the other man down as well, planting his feet and beginning to move his hands defensively. He could handle one or two more, maybe, if that’s how it had to be godsdammit—

The witch’s voice filtered through the roar if his heartbeat and his angry expression faded for a thunderous heartbeat or two with her plea, blinking at the hand that curled into his shirt before Wesley threatened him and dragged more anger from his broken lips,

"Take m' out back so I can kick your arse, too? Sure, lessgo." He growled, "That’s clockin’ right I’m no’ th’ problem here. Lettin’ trash like that in is. Maybe if y’ were doin’ your job instead o’ hers," Shamelessly, Tristaan tilted his head at the red-headed woman and cared little for the reaction he caused, "bastards like that one wouldn’t need me t’ take care ‘f ‘em. I don’t want your thanks, but when that lugger’s done rollin’ on th’ floor, he owes that woman an apology. So does your good for nothin’ muscle."

The passive spit blood again for emphasis at Wesley’s feet once the man released him, staggering but not falling over, wiping his mouth with the bruised back of his calloused hand and feeling suddenly dizzy, desperate to cling to all of the adrenaline that coursed through his narrow frame. He did manage to cast a glance toward the table he’d been sitting at, at the two men who’d become willing strangers the moment he stepped up to some brothel dancer’s defense. Useless bastards, too. The lot of them. He shouldn’t have come and he knew it. Tristaan blinked at the red-headed woman’s dismissal, resisting the sudden urge to shrug off the next set of hands that reached for him, all full of fading fight and fire, but the pretty face of the witch stopped him and he wilted a little,

"Ne, s’fine. I’m fine. I can show m’self out, ye chen?" His objections faded into a whine under the curious stares of so many people, but allowed himself to be led away from the eyes crowd and the mess he’d made anyway, uncomfortable with the implications of Scarlett’s words and yet aware that he should take a breath and look over himself for a minute considering just how much he’d allowed the larger human to get away with against his person for the hell of it. The promise of drinks sent him away with a cheer, but the dark-haired witch guided him down some stairs and into the bowels of the place. Tristaan tried very hard not to require any physical assistance, leaning heavily against railing or the wall of the stairwell instead. Oh, by Alioe, he didn't need to be here, grey eyes fixed on the floor as they passed by rooms he felt very strange about being privy to hear everything from.

When the dancer stopped at one, he forgot himself and bit his lip with a hiss of pain—adrenaline fading to leave his nerves awake again. The door opened and he blinked at the woman in the threshold,

"Y' should see th' other laoso piece o—never mind. He deserved it." Tristaan's train of thought flowed freely in his inebriated discomfort and he almost grinned as the older woman waved a hand dismissively at him, "I ent ever stepped foot 'n one 'til now. Guess I'll know better." The dark-haired passive laughed, unfocused, attempting to ignore everything about the room and just sit down for a tick or two. The olive-skinned dancer was tugging on a shirt over her lack of an outfit and he did his level best not to watch her, not immune to the atmosphere despite his loathing of all the servitude a brothel hid behind so much flesh. He chose to look away and fiddle clumsily with a button or two of his shirt, peering with an arched brow and the drunken mockery of calculating concern at damaged flesh and soon to be bruises. She complimented him and he chuckled, a slurred sound that was more of a giggle,

"'Cause this sorta place ent m' kinda caoja, rosh. I came t' keep a friend from gettin' robbed an' left dead in a ditch 'cause he was way more guttered 'n me, but, well, he can kiss m' arse as a broke corpse now. Lil' ungrateful wretch didn't even speak up for me there. I don't get the thrill 'f a brothel—n'offense t' you 'r nothin'." She sat next to him and he almost shied away like a frightened animal, eying the cloth and cleansing stuff in her hands with a wary, begrudging look.

"Ent anythin' broken 's far 's I can tell, but I'll be real hateful o' tonight come th' morrow when I gotta unload more cargo an' feel like I look, that's for sure." He answered, grey eyes glancing at his bloodied knuckles before thoughtlessly unbuttoning the rest of his shirt in a practical, ignorantly unconcerned sort of way as if he forgot entirely where he was and who he was with. He didn't shrug any clothes off, however, simply shifting his attention away from the witch who was close enough to him to see fresh bruises next to old, faded scars of various ages on tanned skin and lean muscle. The dark-haired passive ran calloused fingers over his bare skin for a better, painful exploration of his damaged flesh from the meaty fists of someone who had appeared nearly twice his compact, galdor-born size. He exhaled sharply more than once, chasing what hurt, while he investigated to make sure nothing was broken or bleeding inside where he couldn't see,

"Junta. Name's Tristaan, an' I sure did have t' do that. Someone had to 'f that laoso natt didn't pay a single coin for you 'r anyone else in th' place, let alone bein' rough. Ent n'one deserves that, jus' folks don't know 't, godsdamnit. I do. Your bouncers here seem t' be on th' wrong payroll if they let kenser shit like that come in an' treat women—anyone, really—like trash. Must be broke an' desperate if that's th' way people like y'self 're allowed t' be cared for." The last words found him self conscious all of a sudden, blinking blearily at the young woman next to him, ready to torture him with antiseptic wash and more pain. She was lovely, too lovely for this sort of place and that acknowledgement in the fuzzy, off-kilter part of his brain forced him to swallow a mix of anger and concern all over again,

"Yer real name ent Dove, I'm guessin'." He shoved his hands in her direction first, implying the dark-haired dancer could start there with the cloth and the cleaning solution, giving her something to do so he didn't have to make drunk small-talk like an idiot. He didn't squirm or flinch, however, but his jaw clenched and he let his grey eyes wander the room in order to ignore the sting, "Y' don' seem th' same as h'others out there ... but I'm drunk an' hurting' an'—epaemo—that may no' make a bit o' sense." Tristaan admitted shyly, clueless to the extent of damage to his face, if it mattered, "Whatcha doin' here?"

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

Wesley stared after the wick as Sarinah led him away, a deep scowl on his face. Hawke would hear about this, that was for sure. Whether from Scarlett or one of the other workers, he would know. It wouldn’t be good, caught dipping his fingers in the pie during his shift. The coin Hawke made off the entertainment was enough to be noticed when it wasn’t coming in, and Wesley would be to blame. As far as Tristaan’s heroics they just made the burly Brother look worse, his job done by a half drunk patron, and he hated it.

“Fucking wicks.” He growled before grabbing the nearest worker and throwing them at the messy drunk on the floor, barking orders to clean it up.

As she sat beside him, Sarinah felt her jaw tighten at the comment about the thrill of a brothel, biting back her thoughts on her own situation. Did he honestly believe she worked in the Queen by choice?

“Epameo.” The brunette said again as he flinched, curious suddenly that the man who withstood so many blows from the human seemed to be afraid of her own hands. He reminded her of...well...he reminded her of herself. Following calloused hands to his shirt, her dark eyes widened slowly as the wick unbuttoned his shirt. Was he expecting his payment, with her?

“I ent...I don’t...” The dancer said in a panicked rush, stiffening and beginning to move away, before realising he was merely checking his injuries. Relaxing visibly with a sigh of relief, the dark eyed witch watched, wincing with each of his sharp inhales. She saw the scars, old against the new marks of his heroics. Were they maybe from his line of work? Maybe he was one of those pit fighters.

As the bruised and battered man continued to speak, her eyes dropped to her hands. This Tristaan, he had no idea her situation nor should he. As far as he was concerned she was just another tumble. She could hear the slur in his speech and smelt the alcohol on his breath, but he wasn’t like the others. He was intoxicated, but not inebriated. Just drunk enough to have a low brain-to-mouth filter it seemed. As he held his battered knuckles to her, the dancer shook her head.

“Ne. It’s Sarinah. Scarlett has a thing for birds. Dove, Robin, Wren. Protects identities, she says, giving us names. I say, it’s easier to lay with a tumble if she doesn’t have a name.” Gently, she took the wirey man’s fingers to hold the knuckles still, glancing up at him from beneath thick lashes.

“It ent a choice, ye chen?” Sarinah said softly, dabbing at his wounds with careful movements. Looking around at the room, she waved the cloth.

“All this, all of us, we belong to Hawke and Scarlett. Wesley, he’s Hawkes man. Ent high on his list of priorities to watch out for the chips, as long as no one dies it doesn’t really matter to him. We’re just the merchandise. So yeah balach, ye could say broke and desperate applies.” Taking his other hand, the young woman tended to the bloodied skin, shrugging her shoulders.

“I came to the Rose, looking for a job and a bit of ging. I had this notion that...anyway, it doesn’t matter. Signed a contract with Scarlett, to turn the cards. Read palms and the such. But...I ent much of a reader. It wasn’t what she said it would be. Oes, before you ask, I’ve tried to leave but Hawke, he runs the harbor. They have eyes everywhere, him and Scarlett.” Letting his hand go, Sarinah inspected his face, resting a gentle hand on his cheek as she used a fresh corner of the cloth on his lower lip, wiping away the blood from his chin. Her mahogany gaze met his own grey one for a moment, pausing her movements with a sad sort of smile.

“Ent nothing the spitch back there was about to do that I haven’t already had done. Well...almost nothing.” Turning his head gently, she cleaned his busted eyebrow, a touch of color dusting her olive cheeks.

“I ent a tumble Tristaan. I’m just the opening act. The caoja before vrawn. I’ll die before Scarlett ever gets a ging from my...from that.” The brunette said, her resolution clear in her tone, lowering the cloth and chuckling a little.

“What the clocks am I doing? Ye don’t need to hear all that, epaemo balach. So...I think that’s it, oes? No where else is bleeding? Take that shirt off kov, I’m sure I can find you something clean. We need to bandage anything broken and get some ice on those bruises. If ye want, there’s a benny heated bath for the guests. I can get one of the chips to...uh...to help you with that. If you need.” Sarinah said awkwardly, throwing the soiled cloth into a small wicker hamper near the door and tucking her raven locks away from her face, unsure of herself alone in the company of a strange man. In the company of a man for that matter full stop. Standing suddenly, she moved to the chest, digging through it to find the promised clean shirt and using it as an excuse to keep herself occupied.

“Tristaan is an interesting name. What tribe do you hail from?” The witch asked from behind the chest, presuming him a wick through and through.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

"Ne, I'm no'—I don't have those expectations. I don't need t' be paid for anythin', no' in coin 'r flesh, an' no' from you. 'R anyone else here. It's no' genuine. It's jus' a game—an' I don't play like that, no' with people who deserve better like y'self." He saw her defensive motion, heard the waver of fear in her voice, realizing that his movements to bare his skin in order to take stock of his injuries carried far different connotations in his current location. He had, of course, made assumptions about the dark-haired witch and her employment. Who wouldn't? But his tone wasn't derogatory so much as sympathetic—his refusal of her person meant as a relief and not an insult or an indication that she was at all unworthy of attention. By Alioe, she was lovely and if she'd managed to escape prostitution in spite of the cards almost literally being stacked against her, well, far be it from the passive to take advantage of such a gift when it wasn't actually given.

"Oes. It's easier t' do a lot o' laoso things t' someone when y' don't know their name, Sarinah." Tristaan agreed quietly, emphasizing the name she gave him with a smile despite the bitterness that soured his tone, her words about choice drawing his attention back to her face with a fullness his intoxicated brain really wasn't capable of processing.

Property. Merchandise.

The passive felt the chill of familiarity with those words snuff out the fire that violence had lit from his chest and he resisted the urge to tug his calloused hands away even though the dancer was almost finished her gentle cleaning. He'd obviously hit things before, that much would be clear to her. Or maybe he worked hard. Or both. By the way he seemed to invite a beating and endure it in eerie silence, probably, definitely both. Hands that could have been smooth and well-manicured had he been born a proper golly were rough and scarred from manual labor, fist fights, and travel. Tristaan did his far from sober level best to keep his expression even when Sarinah spoke of Silas and her unwitting contractual entrapment to the Bad Brothers through Scarlett and this place called the Mad Queen,

"I owe him a favor, too—Hawke. Well, I don't have a contract, 'less blood counts." The dark-haired passive didn't give details, his tone matter of fact and quiet. He hesitated when the pretty witch reached for his face, inhaling a quick breath as if he would lean away, but didn't. He sighed instead, not sober enough to hide emotions from his face or keep from saying things he probably shouldn't. He met her warm, brown eyes and tried not to get lost in them, though they were lovely. If he leaned at all too much against her palm, he hoped it could be mistaken as accidental, "I was property once, but I ent gonna be again. This is different, between th' Brothers an' me—I'll keep m' word until we're squared because m' word's all I've got."

His eyes fluttered heavily when she moved to angle his face to reach something else bloodied and he found himself staring at his clean, bruised hands, "N'one deserves t' be treated like that—folks should take care o' what's their's. That natt had no right t' act that way, whether you're a tumble 'r no'. Th' muscle should be here t' protect you. You'd think that Silas would want t' keep his investments safe, no' jus' let 'em wear out an' get new ones. That's no' how lives should work—you're a person, ye chen—though I ent one t' talk 'bout that, really."

What was he but scrap, anyway? Worthless.

His servitude in the Soot District would have worked him until he was just another unmarked grave somewhere, another forgotten piece of magic-less trash. But he got out. He ran away. Only to end up in someone's debt who had no real reason to make their score even when it was far easier to string him along and make use of his talents. Which was better? The passive wasn't always sure.

Sarinah was apologizing suddenly and Tristaan shook his head slowly, watching her awkwardness as if she didn't believe he sat on a bed in a whorehouse without a single expectation. The passive made no motion to remove his bloodied shirt and vest, their mutual talk of belonging reminding him he wore who and what he was in black ink under the tanned, scarred skin of his right bicep. The offer of a heated bath was an uncommon luxury, however, but he was wary to accept it if he had to require company he didn't desire, "Nothin's broken that I can tell, an' if it is, I'll be fine. Like y' said, ent nothin' that hasn't already been done before t' me neither. That wasn't m' first fight an' it won't be m' last. It's all jus' bruises—that lugger only looked big. He didn't hit 's hard 's he could've if he knew how. Trust me."

The dark-haired passive shrugged in a self-depreciating fashion, aware that he'd admitted to having far too much experience when it came to violence against his person. His grey eyes followed her to watch her dig through clothing, leaning back on his hands for a moment and feeling the room swim without adrenaline and with too much alcohol and pain competing for his physical attentions. Her question dragged a chuckle from him, wanting to give her one answer when he knew he owed her another. Conflicted over something as simple as his name, he knew she'd made the assumption that everyone else made, that he'd perpetuated for years—she thought he was a wick. He talked like one, lived like one, and looked like one when in worn out clothes and a few days too many without a shave.

But he wasn't.

"Red Crow." He answered distantly, though the words tasted like more blood on the way out of his mouth. Tristaan wasn't lying—the Red Crow had taken him in once he fled Vienda as a youth. They'd made him who he was, given him a home and fami. But he'd left them, too. He wasn't any more Crow than he was a golly, so long as he continued to live the way he did, "Though I fell 'n with th' Voiaj Kuatano o' tyat. I doubt you've heard 'f 'em. Now, it's jus' me, though. Driftin'."

It was better this way, anyway. He was dangerous, after all. He didn't deserve a family. At least, that was what he told himself.

Shifting to sit up again, he made to stand, instantly aware of every bruise and wavering a moment while his head swam to keep up with even the simplest of motions, "I won't say no t' a bath 'cause I don't get a hot one often, but I don't need help washin'. I don't want t' get you in trouble, neither, Sarinah, but I don't want anythin' for what I did, ye chen? How can I make sure nothin' else happens t' you on m' account?"

Tristaan would gladly find a way to get in trouble in her place. She'd said she wasn't a tumble, she'd implied she'd managed to escape that avenue of employment, even here. Setting that precedent seemed dangerous for the lovely witch, and the dark-haired passive had willingly waded in to keep her safe once already.

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 3rd, 2718

She couldn’t help it, looking over the chest at hard grey stone of his eyes, the brunette found herself looking for a moment too long. His features, currently swollen and bloodied, were once finer. Nose once much straighter between high cheekbones. Jawline strong under the facial hair that grew there. It was clear that his lineage leant towards the ancient bloodlines, aristocratic if he weren’t a wick. The warmth of his cheek against her hand had been…nice, and for just a second the young dancer allowed herself to observe him as a man, not as a patron. The kov was handsome, under all the bruising and such.

He thinks you deserve better too. The witch thought to herself with a small smile, hiding behind the chest like some shy boch, staring an old white button down shirt she had found and held almost revenantly in her hands. It had been a long time since anyone had said such nice things. He’d even emphasized her name, as though making it crystal clear he had no intentions to take his thanks from her person.

Surely he had some benny rosh somewhere, waiting for him to come home to her. The thought soured her momentary daydream, and she pulled herself away from his eyes as she turned back to the task at hand, listening to the dark eyed wick as he named his tribe. For a moment, she stopped, looking him over again. Paying particular attention to the scars under his open shirt.

“A Crow? Ye should know, once upon a time I was a Yellow Eye. My daoa would be furious if he knew—” The brunette stopped herself, unable to think about home, the hot sting of tears burning at the corner of her eyes. Swallowing the aching in her chest, Sarinah moved on.

“Ent heard of them before, true. Are they part of the Hand? Always were titchy those lot.” Grabbing a soft grey cotton shirt, the raven haired wick stood up, frowning as she watched Tristaan waver on his feet and moving to put a steadying hand on his chest.

“Ye don’t need to do anything else, ye chen balach? Just take it slow.” The dancer wasn’t entirely sure what would happen when the man did leave, unable to read Scarlett at all. The woman was older, smarter. She’d been around the world and back in the Queen before it became a brothel, and she held the ear and the purse of Silas Hawke.

“Hawke seems to have everyone under his thumb. One way or another. Silas might care if we’re still usable, but Wesley doesn’t. A dime a dozen in his mind. As long as the ging keeps moving like it should, then why does it matter which chip it comes from?” Sarinah said as she stood before the man, holding the shirt up until the scarred man took it, glancing down again at the tanned skin that peaked out from under her own hand now. For a few tocks, she seemed lost for words, before finally the witch found her voice.

“How? How did you find a way out?” She asked softly, picking up on his comment earlier about being property once before, her brow drawn and rich dark eyes lost as she lifted them again to meet his own. Catching her breath to say more, Sarinah suddenly laughed and shook her head, stepping away and gesturing at the door.

“I’ll get that bath drawn for you, private, so ye don’t have any unexpected visitors. Ye can stay here, if you need to. Myself and Bridgette can share a room with one of the other chips. Probably shouldn’t be walking around yet anyway, or not. Whatever ye need Tristaan. Ent sure, ye might have someone waiting for ye out there. Hopefully they ent to angry about ye visiting the Queen.” She hovered though, torn between doing what she’d promised and not wanting to leave. A stranger, in a brothel he’d never visited before, and probably wouldn’t again. There was no reason for Tristaan to stick around, but suddenly the witch didn’t want him to go, afraid that if he left she’d never see him again.

And she really wanted to see him again. As stupid as it was, she felt like she had made a friend somewhere between the mess of the fight and the now. She wanted to talk more, hear more of his story and give him more of her own. For what though? Clinging to the feeling that someone took a moment to care? The grey eyed man had better things to do than take pity on a tumble hut chip. Sarinah laughed at herself again, embarrassed and frustrated by her own thoughts.

“Epameo. I’ll stop talking, get this bath sorted.”