The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
"Oes." He grunted, watching the old witch's face carefully, aware that they weren't alone in the room with a few other fighters for the evening who called Hawke their Master somewhere up the chain. Some had debts to pay off like himself and some had made careers of their bloody exploits. Tristaan was, perhaps, a mix of both. Lil' Mo could speak volumes with her time-weathered expressions and there was something in the set of her lips that told the dark-haired man she meant what she said.
"Now, th' last lugger, well, I ent sure. I heard he's Hessean. He's prob'ly twice yer damn size, three times, an' shut yer head I know that ent make a difference t' ye but—" There was a twinge of worry that crept into the wrinkled edges of her dark eyes, even as she used her teeth to rip fabric and finished the job of protecting and supporting the passive's hands and wrists for all the impact they'd be making that evening, "—they calls him Drakebite an' he ent anyone t' sniff at. I'm a mant manna concerned—"
"There's nothing to worry about, Miss Maybelle." Randal Boriand's baritone voice was like fresh-poured coffee on a hungover morning, the older galdor a well-muscled creature that may have almost rivaled Tristaan in strength and power, though the passive wouldn't dare put such a theory to the test with the owner and manager of the Rose Arena, not yet. The man's field was all but alive with the Living conversation he wielded like a proper one of his kind, and as he closed the distance between himself and Hawke's new favorite pet, the man was smirking with a malicious mischievousness that didn't bode well for anyone, "It shouldn't be a long fight. You won't suffer, Mister Greymoore, because Silas has told me you're to throw the fight by the second round."
Tristaan blinked. In all of Autumn, he'd never been asked to do such a thing. He'd lost a few, sure, but not on purpose. He'd been winning. Bets had been raking in birds. He'd heard his name on the lips of strangers. He'd run into fans on the street. He was something. Or he was almost something.
And now he was supposed to lose?
Who did that?
"What?" The dark-haired passive bristled, his scarred, bare chest rising and falling with the deep breath it took to contain his confusion, "Th' hell for?"
"Money, of course, my little scrap." Master Boriand enjoyed taunting the other man, watching the flicker of resentment pass over his features with obvious pleasure at the possessive insult. He deigned to put his hand on the magic-less son of a galdor's shoulder, fingers curling into tanned skin and time-hardened muscle just above the inked mark of proof of his status, hidden though it was by the beautiful, rebellious celebration of his love for a certain witch who was, at this moment, serving drinks to a very eager crowd, "It's a big night and a big series of fights and the King wants all the profits. On both sides. He'll be collecting the losses from every smart body willing to bet on you while dolling out less for all the dumb twits who will be betting on that Hessean. He's all bark and quite a bit of bite, but he's nothing you can't handle. You're going to let him drop you and you're going to make it believable, do you hear me, Mister Greymoore?"
Tristaan's jaw set and his lips formed a tense line, feeling the heat of indignant rebellion smoldering against his ribs. Roughly shrugging his shoulder to free himself from the shorter, older galdor's not-so-friendly grip, he reluctantly grunted, "Oes. I hear you."
Did he even have a choice?
Refusing to meet the galdor's steady bright-eyed gaze with his own stormy grey hues, the dark-haired passive simmered in silence and glanced past Randal as if to gauge whether or not anyone was even listening to what was happening. Obviously, the Master knew his Arena and his fighters and had chosen to speak in a moment of far too much privacy. Throwing a fight didn't settle well at all with Tristaan, and yet he felt helpless to speak up considering money was on the line. Could he really obey such a command? Would he?
"Excellent. And while it's House policy not to patch up the losers, if you make it look good enough, well, I'll make an exception. Only because Hawke seems to like you so clocking much. Now, get out there and make short work of the early evening roster like a good man."
The passive and Lil' Mo made affirmation noises but stood still until the galdor and his most oppressive presence meandered away to make arrangements with and check on all of his other able-bodied prize fighters, four of them in total for a long double-header evening in Old Rose Harbor-style celebration of The Remembrance. A bloody and rebellious nod to the Resistance, the Rose Arena would be overflowing with bodies and coins, eager to see the best the King had to offer in combat.
— Passive Proverb