Page 2 of 2

Re: [Open] Ye Can't Keep Me Down

Posted: Mon Apr 15, 2019 11:50 am
by Tristaanian Greymoore
13th of Achtus, 2718
The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
"We have a victor!" Master Boriand's voice rang out above the jeers and the applause. Heavy, reinforced doors slid open and a couple of young, fightened-looking wicks scrambled out into the sandy arena floor, a meager sheet between them to roll the groaning, half-conscious galdor onto and drag him away while the galdor ringmaster of sorts prattled on about Tristaan's next opponent.

The dark-haired passive didn't get a moment of rest, either, though he used the brief speech as an opportunity to squint upward and scan the faces looking down, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sarinah somewhere in the loud, obnoxious crowd. Adjusting the thick wraps around his hands and hissing at the sting of fading magical welts, grey eyes found familiar mahogany hues and he flashed a smile—the flicker of a hopeful expression brief but sincere.

The lovely witch was fuel to his fire, after all, her love and the life that grew within her his reason for getting back up here on the Rose Arena's floor. Rolling his shoulders and shifting his footing when the door slid open again, a short, broad Mugrobi wick stepped into the sand, already grinning. Her hair was worn up in a shockingly traditional wrap, and the diminutive woman was a landscape of dark skin over muscle, her left arm decorated in raised scars in an intricate pattern perhaps indicating her Turga tribal origins.

"Hulali be merciful! Let the fight begin!" Randal was cackling from above them both, the last of his words drowned out in more eager cheering.

More coins were quickly exchanged while the pair of fighters sized each other up with a few preliminary blows, Tristaan immediately made aware that they were perhaps on an impressively even keel. It would be a fight of wits more than muscle and skill, the two opponents well-matched. Perhaps too well-matched for the dark-haired passive's comfort, aware that should he stay standing, he still had one more opponent to take on—an opponent his Master expected him to lose to.

He had no such plans, of course, but he had to keep enough of himself together to make good on those ideas and this Mug was eager to knock all of his good ideas out of his skull with surprising force.

She was fast on her feet, but she had a clocking hard kick that made staying on top of combat difficult for Tristaan. The crowd roared with every blow, a few even standing on tables to cheer and chant for the few heart-stopping moments the dark-haired passive spent face-down in the sand after a surprise knee to his forehead that left him seeing more darkness than stars. The thought of displeasing Boriand by losing here in this fight was tempting, jaw aching and ears ringing, but he didn't want to give up so soon. Sore fingers curled and he struggled with consciousness while the Mugrobi witch began to climb one of the chain link walls in hopes of leaping onto his prone form for a theatrical finish.

The chanting wasn't the name of his opponent, however. The jeers weren't in his direction at all. Instead, he heard his arena-given moniker on the lips of strangers begging for him to get back up.

With a growl, he found his feet again, wavering for a moment while the fog of near-unconsciousness cleared itself from between his ears. Some keen observers shouted their warnings to him and he heard the rattling of metal, looking up in time to see the decorated woman high above him, ready to jump. The entire arena erupted in praise when Tristaan stood, a wave of elated noise echoing off the walls.

The scarred witch didn't even alter her plans, launching herself from the wall toward the bloodied passive with a wild, shrill shout, arms and feet ready to rain blows on him with the force of her impact. Because he'd had time to prepare, however, the dark-haired man allowed her the illusion of his weakness, willingly waiting until the very last heartbeat to roll out of the way and let her crash into the bloodied sand where he'd just been.

Laughter rang from the audience, the Mugrobi witch slow to recover from her impact. Too slow. Ignoring his dizzying pain, Tristaan moved quickly to keep her pinned, knees against her spine and curling one hand into her wrap and hair to hold her down for a few swift, near-merciless punches, knuckles against flesh that struggled and writhed. She twisted beneath him, nails digging into tanned skin while he shifted his weight and continued to slam blows where he could without a hint of apology until she was unconscious and he was left panting over her crumpled form.

It was more a movement of desperation than any lingering desire for victory that drove the passive, and even as he leaned away from the witch, he took no pleasure in the moment. His name was once again chanted, but Tristaan didn't feel the praise, anticipation twisting like a hot iron in his gut, aware he still had the headliner human left to defeat. Master Boriand was most likely quite confident in his loss now, given how he swayed on his feet and dribbled blood and sweat onto the sand, but the dark-haired passive wasn't about to give anyone exactly what they wanted out of him, not now, not ever, aware that the consequences were a terrible risk.

The magic-less son of a galdor was still too stubborn to be broken.

He groaned, waiting for the next announcement while the audience seemed ravenously reluctant to settle down.
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb

Re: [Open] Ye Can't Keep Me Down

Posted: Wed May 01, 2019 7:14 am
by Sarinah Lissden
13th Achtus, 2718 (32 Weeks)
ROSE ARENA | EVENING
Image
The brunette saw him look at her, caught his eye with a brief smile back, before her mahogany gaze lifted to the door as it slid open to reveal a Mugrobi woman. She frowned, concentrating on reaching out with her field, sighing with some relief. Not a galdor, but a wick. Still not a fair fight to be honest, but better than a clocking wick.

As Randal signalled the start of the fight, Sarinah cheered with the rest of the crowd, calling out encouragement for her scarred passive lover. Every blow, she winced. Every feint, she held her breath. It was painful to watch, though it was no doubt more painful to be on the other side.

“Ne! Get up Tristaan!” The witch cried out, fingers wrapped around the wire and shaking the cage, her brow drawn and face hard. Heart beating in her throat, the dancer looked around as the voices around her registered, shouting the nickname they’d created for the man. Urging him as much as herself to get up. Banging in time on the cage, Sarinah fell in line, yelling his nick name loudly with the rest of the Arena. She whooped when he stood, turning her gaze sharply to see the Mugrobi on the other side of the ring attempting to make an attack from above. The Arena saw too, and weren’t about to sit silently whilst it happened.

As the woman leapt at him, Sarinah shoved past people to get closer to Tristaan as he waited till the last minute before letting her fall to her own heaped mess. The sound of flesh and bone pounding against each other was horrific, but it meant he had the upper hand, and she refused to look away. Bloodied, broken and unconscious, the passive’s opponent lay in the sand as he rolled away from her to catch his breath.

“Hama. Hey, hey hey!” The dark haired woman called as she knelt down at the edge of the cage, still technically on the floor so therefore not breaking Boriand’s rules. Clinging to the wire, she took a shuddering breath, trying hard not to cry as the bleeding man wavered on his feet.

“Stay with us Tristaan. One more. One more and I’m right here when ye come out the otherside kov. We’re here.” Unsure if he could hear her or not, Sarinah climbed to her feet, looking up for the next opponent. Her eyes strayed further, glaring at their temporary owner under thick lashes.

“Drinks!” A hand grabbed for her wrist, tugging her towards a table full of drunks. Sharply pulling away, the pregnant witch waved at them.

“Ne, ye cut off.” She said defiantly, turning back to the ring. One of the drunks, a young woman with blonde curls and more bust than brains made a choked sound of disgust and threw back her chair to stand and point.

“Get us our fuckin’ ale whore!” The woman roared, and Sarinah stared her down with anger, before growling under her breath and storming to the bar. Pulling a round of ale, she held the mugs with both hands, fingers laced through the handles and hurried back to the table. Smacking them down hard enough to slosh over the sides, she held out her hand for payment, ignoring the whines of protest from the inebriated bastards. Shoving the coins in her apron pocket, the woman turned back to the arena.

"Ye hear them boch? They're cheering for ye da, just like us. Come on da, one more. Ye can make it one more round." She whispered, holding the round curve of her stomach almost as though hugging the life inside protectively. She didn't want to see one more round, Alioe just let it end. Surely enough was enough?


Re: [Open] Ye Can't Keep Me Down

Posted: Fri Oct 11, 2019 10:21 am
by Tristaanian Greymoore
13th of Achtus, 2718
The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
Only her voice had meaning above the roar of the crowd, barely audible, reaching his ringing ears, begging him back on his feet, keeping him standing once the Mug was down for the count. He couldn't see Sarinah, but he knew he'd heard her voice—the Arena lit in such a way that combatants couldn't see the faces in the crowd so much as focus on what was in the pit with them.

Mister Boriand raised his hands from his balcony and the entire place reluctantly grew quiet, a few lingering jeers the last to fall into silence. Tristaan dug a sandy heel of his palm into some tender spot on his face, attempting to wipe his eyes of sweat and blood only to groan in pain. He huffed hair away and glanced upward, meeting his so-called master's gaze with all the intensity of a creature fueled by the kind of ferocious, indomitable passion the dark-haired passive lived by, clung to.

"Well done." Randal smiled, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. A pair of young harbor boys scurried from one of the gates to drag the unconscious Mug away without much concern for the state of her body, trailing blood across the sand and casting the man left standing glances of admiration and awe. He would have smiled had this been a meeting on the street, but it wasn't. He couldn't with the bit in his mouth, protecting his teeth anyway.

"And your final opponent for the evening? Alllllllllllll the way from the desert wilds of Mugroba, I do so hope you enjoy the beating—"

The dark-haired older galdor smiled with a sadistic benevolence, a shark's expression, and raised his hand with a waggle of his fingers to indicate that another door should be opened and the human Tristaan was meant to lose to—no matter what—released into the arena.

A hushed, expectant silence fell.

The passive shifted his stance and turned toward the direction his opponent would emerge from, hardly ready for another fight but always ready for another beating. He'd already decided to defy his master. He'd already decided to defy Silas' request. He'd already decided that no matter what—no matter how much it hurt—he was going to win this fight. He was going to stake a claim in his own profits, in his own reputation here in the Rose Arena. If he owed Yulina, if he owed the King anything at all, he didn't owe either of them everything.

From the darkness emerged a tall, broad beast of a man, the Mugrobi fighter well over six and a half feet in height and at least thrice the narrow, lithe passive's bulk in width. Fists like hammers, bound and scarred, the man in front of him was surely meant to be a painful, horrible finisher for Tristaan. Not only was he expected to lose, but he was expected to be broken.

Well.

Fuck that, honestly.

May the Good Lady have mercy on them both.

Rolling his shoulders and reaching up to move his mouth guard to spit a bit of blood onto the sand, the dark-haired magicless son of a galdor shot the hulking creature a defiant grin before shoving the boiled rubber curve back into his mouth and planting his feet. He looked up to Mister Boriand, narrowing his eyes as if sharing with him his intentions, watching the man's expression sour as if he understood them. He shook his head in warning and Tristaan chuckled, chest aching with the motion.

He couldn't see Sarinah. He couldn't see Lil' Mo. But they were probably watching, and he was determined to put on a good show either way.

"May the best man win!" Randal shouted, stepping back from his balcony when the bell sounded to begin, disappearing into the roar of the crowd as they leapt from their seats and pressed themselves against the linked chains and barriers that kept them back from falling into the sand below, chanting and shouting eagerly for bones to be broken and flesh to be bruised.

Tristaan didn't waste any time, leaping toward his opponent with a spray of sand, scrambling to find some sort of advantage before the larger human had any opportunity. Either he wasn't fast enough or he'd already spent much of his energy on besting two other opponents, for as he moved close quickly, ready to swing, the towering human had a fist ready for him, smashing the passive right across the already aching side of his face, knuckles cracking against bone, sending him straight back to the ground.

The crowd jeered, laughed, and hollered.

The human cackled, tensing for a kick, but Tristaan rolled with a groan, seeing stars and shoving himself up from the ground in time to slam a shoulder into the larger man's chest while he was perhaps his most unbalanced, sending both of them toppling over backwards. There was roaring from the stands, the passive full of a desperate fury to be defiantly victorious against this beast of an opponent but also to not be too destroyed by his clearly superior strength.

The pair wrestled, exchanging blows, the human angrily attempting to toss the lighter, smaller passive off, to toss him anywhere while the quicker man sought to strike his face with knuckles and elbows, knees digging into darker skin than his own, gripping as tightly as he could. It was not quite enough, however, and after several moments, the Mugrobi twisted his body, superior weight coming to bear on the already worn-thin Tristaan, trapping him against the sand. He heard a loud pop, feeling the searing pain of tendons stretching in one of his shoulders, the larger man leaning heavily on his narrow-framed body.

Perhaps Hawke would have his way after all.

Chants and catcalls echoed off the walls, and several lookers-on began to pound on the chain fences and thump on tables.

The human turned his head and spit out the guard in his mouth, making sure to drool blood all over the panting little magicless thing beneath him,

"You're to lose." He growled huskily, too close.

"I ent gonna." Tristaan wheezed, having lost his mouthguard several blows ago, buried somewhere in the red-stained sand. He coiled his body tightly as if preparing to make an attempt to escape, "Havakda t' yer deals an' yer coin."

The Mugrobi leaned forward, massive forearm crushing the passive's scarred chest, causing him to gurgle for breath, churning up familiar memories while his grey eyes widened in instinctual fear. His body stilled, waiting to find his opportunity, taut and ready while he gasped for a bit more air.

"I gots my guarantees, you lil' piece of chroveshit." The larger human laughed, shifting his hips and drawing forth a small knife.

Someone in the crowd must have seen the glint of metal in the flickering lights because a cry went up among the audience,

"Blade! He's gotta blade!"

"Master Boriand that's cheatin'!"

"Stop th' fight!"

"Toss in another! Here!"

A wave of boos reverberated through the Rose Arena and the older galdor in charge raised his ring-laden hands, attempting to get some kind of quiet.

No one listened.

The dark-haired passive growled, twisting his body to get his arms free from the rough pin, wildly glancing toward the balcony to see Randal's dark eyes full of anger and surprise—this had, apparently, not been a part of his gamble, not been a part of his deal. He didn't have time to attempt to discern more, however, Tristaan lithe and small enough for his strength to be underestimated, even by opponents he'd already exchanged blows with. He writhed and twisted his whole self, shoving hard with knees and hands, but as he did so, the human shoved the blade forward with equal force, lodging the small thing into the passive's side.

The normally quiet creature groaned in pain, but he didn't let any of it stop his momentum, gritting his teeth and rolling them both again over and over in the sand, once again fighting for dominance in leverage. Ignoring good sense, he yanked the blade out somewhere in the continued wrestling, somewhere in the midst of the blur of combat. He hissed, inhaling more sand and sweat than air, aware of the sharp edge of the small weapon as much as he was aware of how he was now moving on the edge of consciousness, thin as it was.

Unfortunately, the dark-haired passive found himself beneath the Mugrobi again, smashed by meaty fists and unable to do enough defending against the other man's superior weight and strength. He gripped the hilt of the small knife tightly—his last chance, really—and sank slowly into a dizzy half-light, a twilight of wakefulness and pain, waiting for the human to take a moment and gloat over the mess he'd made.

And gloat he did, sitting up and raising his hands to the booing and anger and loud displeasure of the crowd while Tristaan bled beneath him. For a moment, it seemed as though the passive was surely already out, that the Mugrobi was victorious, until the smaller man's arms moved quickly, flash of his opponent's own blade catching in the light and lodging itself firmly in the side of his throat, tilted upward into his jaw with the kind of precision that everyone forgot the once-Tashwa was capable of.

The gentleness and the quiet hid something Tristaan rarely enjoyed showing, and in the desperation of the moment, he forgot that he wasn't just being watched by strangers. Somewhere, among the drunks and the bloodthirsty gamblers eager for the show he was giving them, his lovely witch, laden with his child, was watching—

The human's eyes bulged.

The crowd gasped in collective surprise.

Tristaan's battered face became a barely-recognizable sneer and he twisted the knife in pure savagery and rage, feeling the man grow slack, gathering every part of himself still functioning to roll him toward one side.

He gurgled, blood oozing from the deep wound in his side, and climbed without any grace to his feet. It took a few tries, the dark-haired passive seeing more black than light, dizzy and broken, one arm dangling and the other reluctant to slide away from the knife. He planted one bare heel against the panting chest of the Mugrobi, leaning heavily, and let his bleary gaze drift up to Randal Boriand's face.

The galdor was clearly displeased with everything—with Tristaan's abilities, with the knife, with the money he was now about to lose—and yet, there was a hint of relief there, too, as if, perhaps, somehow, he'd not wanted to see the passive meet such an end after all. As if, perhaps, somehow, he secretly approved of the rebellious victory.

"Once again, our very own Mister Greymoore is the last man standing!"

The Master's voice rang out, waving one hand for the gates to open and to signal for the doctor's boys to run out, Tristaan slowly crumpling to his knees as applause and cheers rang in his ears.
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb

Re: [Open] Ye Can't Keep Me Down

Posted: Wed Oct 23, 2019 9:38 pm
by Sarinah Lissden
13th Achtus, 2718 (32 Weeks)
ROSE ARENA | EVENING
Image
Boriand hushed the crowd, and like magic wrote by monic will, the silence fell over them, a few stray jeers escaping before they too disappeared. Sarinah glared at him, pushing through the people to the edge of the cage, standing beside her lover even if he didn't know it. Even if he couldn't see her, stretching her glamour out as much as she could, hoping to let him know she was there. Around her, the mona buzzed with a tingling touch of something odd. Curiosity? Interest? Eitherway, the witch moved her hands to the wire, determined to stay and watch Tristaan no matter the interruptions or restrictions placed on her.
​​
​​The woman was dragged away, her blood leaving crimson trails on the sand, as the Arena Master announced the final participant. Another mug? By Alioe, we're the desert folk all so desperate for coin? Her eyes turned on the bloodied passive, before turning further still to look at the doorway, a chill washing over her as the human appeared. He was unnatural, a hulking chrove of a man, clearly chosen for the outstanding advantage he would have on Tristaan.
​​
​​ “Havakda.” The dancer whispered, drowned out by the roar of the crowd as they lusted for the thrill of the gauntlet. She didn't hear them, pressed against the fence, eyes wide and heart in her throat. Tristaan moved, a viper in the sand lashing out, but the beast of a mug moved faster. The sound of bone against bone was horrific, and Sarinah couldn't help the whimper that escaped her, fingers hurting they gripped the fence so tightly.
​​
​​Then, true to his fighting spirit, Tristaan was up and on the man like a wildcat, fists flying and for a moment it looked like he had the advantage. For a moment it looked like he would end this before it began, and the witch watched with baited breath. Like a raging bull however, the human turned the tables again, pressing down on the smaller man with too much weight.
​​
​​ “Get off him! Get off him!” She cried out, lost in the din of banging fists and screaming cheers. Rapidly, the brunette began to shove her way along the fence, ignoring Boriands conditions and warnings, determined to get into the area that Lil’Mo was waiting for the man.
​​
​​ “Move ye clockstoppers!” The pregnant wick shouted, her voice thick with emotion and vision blurred with tears. It was too familiar, this moment. Too much like Wesley’s attack in the harbour, where she’d watched the grey eyed man nearly die. Without the Deep Water wicks, he would have.
​​
​​They weren't here this time. No one was.
​​
​​ Blade! He’s got a blade!
​​
​​The cry was enough to stop the brunette dead in her tracks, blinking away the tears to look frantically into the arena. She couldn't see it at first, this knife the crowd were screaming over, not until the sharp point was shoved firmly into the passives side. Not until she heard his groan, almost felt it in her chest.
​​
​​Crying his name in horror, voice hoarse and legs weak in true unbridled fear as she shoved harder, moving to the back area where Lil’Mo waited. She had, for a few heart wrenching moments, no view of the ring.
​​
​​ “Mo! We have to get him out of there! We have to get him out!” She sobbed as she burst into the back, rushing to the viewing area that the other woman had been watching from just in time to see the Mugrobi beating down on her partner again with thick heavy fists. Her hands were going for the doors, even as the older woman pulled her back, knowing full well what Boriand would do should she interrupt the fight.
​​
​​ “Let me go! He’s killing him, the ersehole is killing him!” Dark sable eyes frantically peered through the barricade, surrounded by the angry boo’s of the crowd and the smell of blood on sand. She gathered her glamour, not at all sure what she was planning to do, but not about to stand there and watch him die.
​​
​​The movement of the passive was so fast, it was shocking, the blade ripped from his side shoved up and under the humans throat. The gasp was loud, a collective sound of shock, as the crowd watched in abject horror and delight as blood expelled from the opened wound to flow down the scarred man's arm and spray over the sand.
​​
​​Sarinah stared, eyes wide and heart pounding, the vicious look on Tristaan's face unlike anything she’d ever seen before. It was hard, wild and almost cruel. A face from his past, something he’d needed to have to survive. Something about the way he rolled to kneel over the dying man, smeared in grit and gore, it sent a chill through the dancer.
​​
​​It shocked her.
​​
​​No, it frightened her.
​​
​​That was not Tristaan. That was someone else, someone running on animal instinct and rage.
​​
​​The Master’s voice rang out, the gates opened, and without consideration for the repercussions Sarinah tore herself from Mo’s arms and ran into the ring. The cheering was deafening but she couldn't hear it, her eyes only on the crumpling bleeding passive.
​​
​​ “Hama…” She whispered, falling to her knees beside the man, hands reaching to hold him whilst the world seemed to muffle around her. Her glamour was full of concern and tinged with a gentle wash of yellow, the fear still there, unsure of who she was talking to. Her lover, or the beast she’d just caught a glimpse of.


Re: [Closed] Ye Can't Keep Me Down

Posted: Tue Nov 12, 2019 5:00 pm
by Tristaanian Greymoore
13th of Achtus, 2718
The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
Tristaan heard the roar of the crowd as a loud, jarring buzz of noise that only served to further scatter his battered thoughts. Above the din of strangers, above the catcalls, the boos, and the panicked shouts about the knife, he was very sure he heard Sarinah's voice. The sound of his name was the clearest, and he let that become his focus while he clung to consciousness beneath the human while he'd pummeled the dark-haired passive into the sand. He let his macha lover's voice drown out everything else, from the crunch of flesh and bone to the slow rumble of his pulse, from the screaming eagerness of the rest of the Arena to the growling breath of his opponent, and with only a brief moment of lucidity, he'd taken his chance.

Beyond pain, Tristaan moved in the abstract world of shock: feeling nothing, moving swiftly. When knife met flesh and he drove the weapon to the hilt in a precise, fatal blow, his bleary, grey-eyed gaze held the dark orbs of the Mugrobi's for as long as he could, and when he realized there was no acceptance of his wordless apology, when there was only desperate cruelty, the gravely wounded passive who'd endured all three fights, who'd been told to lose, who'd been held beneath the calloused thumbs of just about everyone else snapped.

Defiance welled in his bruised chest like the fluid that was most likely pooling in his lungs and all the savagery of one too long oppressed was given just a brief moment of much-needed freedom: Tristaan twisting the blade he already knew had been a fatal blow, the heat of someone else's lifeblood as it rushed down his hand and arm barely registering.

The Mug's body slid over, both now too heavy and strangely too light. He had trouble seeing, and the entire arena sounded hollow save for the sudden thunder of his heart.

He had to get up.

He had to stand up.

He had to prove he was—once again—undefeated.

His limbs refused to work properly, numb with shock, chilled with blood that soaked his side quickly—too quickly—too much—and he was forced to use the corpse of his opponent to scramble to his feet. The sound of the arena audience was overwhelming, nearly knocking him to his feet again, sagging to his knees instead.

His gaze came into focus on the hilt of the knife. He wanted it—he wanted to keep it—but before he could reach for it, a bright and shocking glamour washed over him, a glamour that would have been familiar had he been far less delirious, and the dark-haired passive recoiled, entire self far too ready for another round of combat after dropping three opponents than he was ready for the arms of his lover.

"Ne—" Tristaan groaned, only able to raise one bloodied hand in defense as if he expected there to be some secret fourth round that would surely kill him, though the motion threatened to tip his tenuous balance on his knees in the sand. If there was a moment of threat, if it appeared as though the gravely wounded man was about to strike out at the woman, gloriously round with his child, it was brief. It was a tense of muscle, a clench of a swollen jaw, and a groan. It was a flame snuffed out as quickly as it was lit and the passive leaned heavily into her hands when Sarinah reached for him. He caught a glimpse of more fear than concern, more caution than should have been necessary from the witch he cared so much about, the gentle colors of her glamour filtering through the dark of his stubborn, angry grip on consciousness—

Hama.

"—ne, macha. Ent s'posed t' be out 'ere. Nothin' t' see down 'ere." Slurred the passive, an edge of anger and sudden pain in his tone, words dribbling from bloodied lips. It was difficult to focus on her lovely face, difficult to meet her mahogany gaze which had surely seen everything, surely seen too much. He gurgled, bruised hand reaching to place hers over the hole in his side, digging her palm hard against the wound with a wet gasp, wordlessly demanding she apply pressure, "Th' Mug were cheatin'—Boriand wanted me t' lose—I had t'—epaemo—I—"

Out into the sand came two young boys and a stretcher, and their wary glances entirely ignored the corpse, stopping instead next to Sarinah with obvious expectation. The older boy stepped aside and moved to reach for the passive's arms, unsure of which one was dislocated.

"Lemme do that, boch." Grumbled Lil' Mo, spitting on the sand and using her small stature to shuffle past the gawking boys, both of them staring as if they'd never seen a fight before in their lives, let alone the aftermath, "Get 'im up. That's not gonna stop bleedin' on its own an' we ent got time for talkin'."

She was far less afraid of causing any more harm at this point considering he was probably in shock anyway and her rough hands wrapped around his injured arm, dark eyes narrowing at Sarinah in instruction for her to assist in rolling Tristaan onto the stretcher. He didn't resist—thank Alioe—though he growled as the world spun and wheezed once on his back, both boys dutifully taking their places and struggling for a moment to lift his compact, small-frame, one arm dangling uselessly over one side.

Lil' Mo gently nudged his lovely witch to stay by him, shaking her head and muttering while the arena grew into a more acceptably normal level of volume as coins exchanged hands in the wake of such an unexpected sort of victory.

They'd barely straggled off the sand when the simmering field of Randal Boriand threatened to suffocate them, the small-statured galdor having stalked all the way downstairs through a press of bodies to meet them on their way toward the waiting arena healer, opening his mouth as if he had something important to say, but quick to shut it again, surprisingly, when the small human woman glared at him, keeping the galdor back by her sheer presence in order to let the boys and Sarinah shuffle past, the knife wound in Tristaan's side dribbling a trail down the hallway,

"This be yer fault."

"What can I say, Mo? The money was good." Randal grinned with obvious threat, hiding his concern behind more comfortable annoyance. To say that he'd come to admire a godsbedamned passive would have been to admit weakness. To admit weakness would have exposed the seasoned Bad Brother to the teeth of his hungry peers. He ran a tongue over his teeth instead, hissing in displeasure, "I didn't plan on the Mug bringing a knife. He already knew he was going to win."

"Then ye best find out who made that plan." Lil' Mo frowned, pointing a bony, gnarled finger at the galdor's well-dressed chest, "Ye still gonna heal 'im. Even though 'e didn't win, ye chen. On account 'f cheatin'."

"I'm what—"

"Or he'll die an' ye won't have anyone rakin' in th' coin."

"—I'm not responsible for unplanned—"

"Ne. I ent gonna allow it, Master Boriand. Tristaan ent done nothin' but right by ye 'is whole time here. Yer gonna make 't right, or I'll take 't t' Hawke m'self."

"For fuck's sake, go on. Get the puncture wound healed—" Randal was obviously flustered by Lil' Mo's fast-talking assault of words, the woman in his personal space.

"—an' that shoulder—"

"F-fine! Just go!" Growled the galdor, field flaring in anger, red and strong, curling close to him as if he was going to soon follow up with some kind of spell.

Tristaan was hardly conscious, only somewhat aware of where he was and what was happening with his injuries. Obviously in shock, however, he stared at Sarinah while he was carried down the hall, swollen, bruised face one of sadness.

Broken.

But hadn't he always been?

Perhaps he'd thought when she'd first seen his passive tattoo, she'd seen the worst in him. It hadn't mattered, and they'd made it into something new with fresh, bright ink and meaningful sentiments. Perhaps he'd thought when she'd experienced the uncontrolled chaos of his diablerie, she'd experienced just how horrible he really was. It hadn't mattered, and she couldn't bring herself to fear the curse he'd been born to bear against his will. He'd kept waiting. Waiting for her to seen the truth—

Had she seen it now? Finally?

"Hama—I ent—"

Tristaan had so much to say, but it was hard to form words in coherent sentences. He felt cold, and the sensation wasn't unfamiliar. Panic filled him as they arrived in the small clinic set up beneath the Rose Arena for injured fighters deemed worthy enough for care after their victories (or defeats, depending on Randal's whims). The healer in charge was a galdor, flowery and Bastian, but her assistants were mostly skilled wicks and witches, much to her once-status-reliant displeasure.

"Oh, we have so much work to do here!" Came the delighted giggle as the graceful, dark-haired woman flowed into the room, her blue eyes taking in the passive bleeding out swiftly, the pregnant witch beside him, and the two boys, "Good. Good. Let's see—do you have Randal's permission, my dear?"

"Fu—"

"He does, Jenna." Lil' Mo huffed her way in, glaring, "I gots it m'self."

"Alrighty then. Lovely. Does the knocked up witch with the sad eyes wish to stay?" Jenna didn't even look at Sarinah. Then again, she hardly looked at the older human woman, either. She hardly looked at the boys, signaling them to help get Tristaan onto one of the hard cots carefully, her full attention focused on him, "I was not informed of a knife fight this evening."
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb

Re: [Open] Ye Can't Keep Me Down

Posted: Mon Jan 20, 2020 7:38 am
by Sarinah Lissden
13th Achtus, 2718 (32 Weeks)
ROSE ARENA | EVENING
Image
"Shut ye head, ye moony kov.” The brunette witch whispered when he scolded her, voice thick with tears and throat tight with apprehension. She pressed her hand where he held it, leaning on the wound and watching the bright red blood ooze between her fingers, far too familiar to a time not so long ago. Swallowing hard, she nodded, brushing the dark curls from his forehead and making soothing sounds with her tongue.

“I know hama, I know. We all know, ent a single soul here who didn’t see his cheating clocking erse." Her mahogany gaze swung to the boys as they approached, protectively glaring at them as they fumbled like children over a puzzlebox, relieved when the older woman appeared and guided the three of them to move the broken passive. Sarinah walked beside the stretcher, looking down at the face of her lover, barely paying attention to their path. It wasn’t till she felt Boriand’s field pressing down on them that she looked up, catching her breath and curling her lip in preparation to speak her mind to the man, silenced by Lil’ Mo’s scathing glare at the galdor.

"What can I say, Mo? The money was good."

Oh, if only she wasn’t trying to help save Tristaan’s life….the dancer grit her teeth and forced her legs to walk instead of turning to punch the man square in the nose. Their voices followed the group as they moved down the hall, and Sarinah muttered things in Deep Tek that her father himself would have balked at.

"Hama—I ent—"

The wick looked down at the muffled sound of the passive’s voice, shaking her head and stroking his cheek.

“Ne. Ne, ye ent doing that. Ye just ent. There’s time for talking later, ye chen? When ye ent dying.” As the healer swept up to them, her voice so musical and giggling like it was just the dandiest thing to see them, Sarinah drew her field close to her in shock. After all this time, around the harbour folk golly and wick and human alike, the powerful sweep of their fields still caused a knee-jerk reaction in her stomach. As if also affected, the boch in her belly kicked hard, causing the brunette to growl her words.

“Randal can bi—” Her insult was cut short by the appearance of Mo, and she moved with the boys to take Tristaan to the bed.

“Well I certainly ent leaving if that’s what ye asking.” The dancer said shortly, looking down at the man bleeding under her fingers, realizing suddenly that it wasn’t just her he would leave behind if he was to die here and now. The child that was yet to be born, it would never know its da. Never know the man he was, and what he sacrificed for them.

“Ne, weren’t meant to be any shiv’s. The Mug tsutser pulled one, to his own end for that matter.” Glancing at the galdor, Sarinah bit back her fear of the woman’s field, frowning a little.

“Ye can fix him, oes?” She said quietly, finally letting herself feel that shred of doubt that had been screaming in the back of her mind as Tristaan bled out. Hardly waiting for the woman to reply, she knelt down by the man’s head, stroking his forehead again.

“Ye can’t die Tristaan, not here. Not like this, ye chen? Our boch needs to meet ye, oes? Need’s to have someone to teach them how to throw a punch, and how to stand up to this clocking world. I ent enough on my own, I ent.” The olive skinned woman whispered, kissing his face gentle and pressing her forehead softly to his. Closing her eyes, she took a shuddering breath.

“Look, I hate to break up this lovely moment, but I cannot help him with you in the way dear.” Jenna said in her lilting Bastian accent, still smiling that infuriating smile. Sarinah opened her eyes, clenching her jaw and moving to allow the galdor to cast her spell. Her gaze strayed to Lil’ Mo, and she shook her head.

“This ent right Mo. Ent fair.”


Re: [Closed] Ye Can't Keep Me Down

Posted: Fri Feb 07, 2020 1:41 pm
by Tristaanian Greymoore
13th of Achtus, 2718
The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
"She stays. Don't tell me y'ent golly 'nough t' cast 'round a witch." Tristaan gurgled his challenge, narrowing his eyes at Jenna as she smiled and attempted to dismiss everyone else from the room. The passive's eyelids fluttered heavily, what of them that could move at all on his swollen face, and bloodied fingers, cold and numb, tangled with one of her hands, "Ent anythin' in th' damned way but yer jent egos."

Randall Boriand sniggered instead of expressed any displeasure in the passive's grating words, watching the dark-haired, broken thing make demands as he bled as if he was in any position to do so.

"You don't get a cut of any profits." The galdor grunted, pointing for emphasis at Mo first, then Tristaan. Not that there were any, given how things went. That wasn't how the fight was weighted, and now that the dead Mug had cheated, well. It was all up in the air. His eyes fell on Jenna, who had busied herself preparing various items on a tray that looked more suited for torture than for healing, humming lightly to herself, totally unruffled by what was going on, "They can stay, but I'm taking the time out of your pay, too."

Master Boriand glared at the pregnant witch, eyes not dropping anywhere below her face as if he refused to acknowledge what was so obvious. His lip curled and he raised his hands, miming wiping them clean of the whole thing before he turned and strode out, grumbling. Everyone could hear the roar of the arena still—there were scores to settle and coins to exchange, after all.

The strange physician made a little sound that could have been a laugh, could have been a complaint. Glancing at the short human woman, finally, she forced herself to address the thing,

"Mo, is it? Yes, okay. If he needs holding, that's your job."Reluctantly, Jenna looked to Sarinah, "And when I'm done, sweetie, let's hope you know how to sew because I'll leave that work to you. This scrap is yours, after all—"

Tristaan wasn't conscious enough to comment, though he probably would have had he been able to. Grip loosening on Sarinah's fingers, he was at least still breathing as the galdor next to them both gathered her thick, heavy field. It felt grating in the small, barely clean room, cloying like too much Roalis humidity. It pressed against the witch and seemed to seep into all the empty spaces, all the empty spaces save one. The lovely witch, sitting so close to the passive, would feel a sense of buoyancy where there shouldn't have been any, a sort of lack of absence where she'd simply come to assume one existed.

As Jenna's powerful aura drew inward and she began to cast, the sensation was overwhelmed by her spellwork, by the flurry of monic motion, but for a brief moment, the strangeness was undeniably there. As often as Sarinah had been around her dark-haired lover in need of healing, wick magic had simply not ever felt so odd. If the galdor noticed at all, she was far too focused on her Quantitative analysis, fingers prodding and sliding over bruised, broken and bloodied flesh, uncaring of any additional pain she caused the half-conscious Tristaan.

Curling one spell and taking stock, her sharp green eyes flicked to the pregnant witch, lingering only briefly on the round sign of life growing within her—a passive's bastard. She sighed, "I have no guarantees that my magic won't have any ... effects." She threatened coolly, "But I don't see that as a detriment, honestly. Doing the world a favor, really. Linger at your own risk."

It was a lie, sweet-tongued and blatantly racist, Jenna laughing at the end as if it were meant as a joke. Inhaling and looking away without another word, she set about casting potent Living magic spells, Monite graceful and evenly measured on her well-practiced tongue. Despite how sharply she could use it as a weapon, it was clear she also knew how to use her voice as an instrument of healing after all. It was what she was paid for here in Hawke's service, obviously, but if she was gentle and kind to those who might have mattered to her, she saved no such mercies for the Harbor trash she saw beneath her palms.

Tristaan, true to form even when hardly present, might have gurgled and grunted in discomfort, but he didn't cry out when Jenna knit together arteries and closed holes in organs, the burning pain of flesh mended was just as familiar as the searing suffering of that same flesh rent in the first place. Lil' Mo helped where she could, the short, older woman stronger than her small stature belied and more than capable of putting weight on a stray arm or leg, though the passive hardly struggled, in and out of awareness during the horrible process.

While the galdori woman didn't exhaust herself in her work, choosing to heal only what was minimally necessary—the knife wound that would have killed him in another few minutes and the torn shoulder that would probably have not set right had it not been for her expertise—she was thorough and knew what she was doing. The last words of her monite were spoken softly, sweat on her forehead and a tiredness seeping into her sharp, delicate features.

Leaning away and looking down at her bloodied hands, she cared very little if the dark-haired passive was conscious or not or whether his witch so burdened with child was capable of helping him home. Wiping fingers on her apron, she reached for a tray and shoved it in Lil' Mo's direction instead of Sarinah's,

"The rest of this work is yours. I want you all out of my office in an hour or less." Smiling sweetly down at Tristaan, she added without any decorum, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again, however."

She had little mercy for the Rose Arena stabled fighters, aware that they came and went, more often cold corpses instead of stubborn, scarred things like the dark-haired passive who might have been impressive in his indomitable spirit had he not been some godsbedamned scrap. Jenna wasn't invested—not in the sad stories, not in the bastard child he'd made, and not in the lives of the flotsam that Hawke made his coin on.

Not quite able to respond, her words and disdain sunk into scarred flesh, settling like bruises into an already battered soul. None of it was new, but to say that Tristaan could endure such deep, personal wounds with the same tenacity he took a beating would have been giving the magicless son of a galdor too much credit.
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb

Re: [Open] Ye Can't Keep Me Down

Posted: Wed Feb 19, 2020 11:52 pm
by Sarinah Lissden
13th Achtus, 2718 (32 Weeks)
ROSE ARENA | EVENING
Image
"Ersehole. Absolute clocking ersehole. Scum of the harbor, lord of beggars and vagabonds. Tsutser lasao spitch.” The brunette witch growled between grit teeth, glaring back at the man who so blatantly washed his hands of the situation, her hand gripping Tristaans tightly as though to hold herself back. Her lack lustre field swelled with anger, but it was of no consequence to the galdori in the room. Boriand snorted a laugh at her as he turned to leave, sneer on his lip and disgust in his eyes.

“Oes he’s mine, ent a scrap though. Ent anything close to ye vroo peddlers. He’s a Crow, and a balach. Ye do your bit, and I’ll do mine. Fami looks after whats theirs, gollies be damned.” The dancer snapped, her voice thick with anger and frustration, dark eyes narrowed on the woman before turning her attention to the passive. Mo frowned at her, but said nothing, moving to hold the scarred man as Jenna gathered her immense field. The boch in her belly twisted away from the field as it pressed against them in the room, kicking and fussing against the oppressive force. Sarinah exhaled through her teeth, collecting Tristaans hand in both of hers and leaning closer.

That’s when she felt it.

The curious sensation of…what? Her brow drew together, and she looked at Mo and Jenna for a moment, did they feel it too? Mahogany eyes tracked back down to the face of her lover, almost opening her mouth to mention it, when as suddenly as it was there the feeling was gone as the galdori cast her magic.

"I have no guarantees that my magic won't have any ... effects." She threatened coolly, "But I don't see that as a detriment, honestly. Doing the world a favor, really. Linger at your own risk."

At the sick, cruel joke, any thoughts on the strange sensation were swept from her mind. Sarinah’s lip curled, and she began to rise to her feet, face flushed with anger.

“Fu—” Her word was cut short by a stern glance from the older woman holding down the passive, and with the sting of angry tears at the corners of her eyes, the brunette dancer bit back the aggression she so fervently wanted to spout at the woman. As the spell wove its magic, the mona dancing through the air and across ley lines, the olive skinned wick felt each groan and muffled stammer from the unconscious man. She looked at him, brow drawn, wishing a different world for him. For their boch. Silas Hawke was an ersehole, playing his hand right down to the last card, taking everything he could from the passive before they managed to find some sort of freedom.

Would they ever though? The days were creeping closer and closer to his deadline, and they were no closer to a solution. And by the time they found one, would they still be the same as they were now? Or would the King’s bidding wear thin on the love that they shared, that kept them going when the darkness was so overbearing.

Sarinah could only hope that they would endure. That time would be kind, and that there would be light at the end of this endless tunnel.

Jenna finished, too soon in her opinion, healing only the things that might leave the passive un-usable by Boriand and Hawke. The witch clenched her jaw, blinking heavily and glaring up at the golly through thick lashes.

“Ye kindness knows no bounds.” She said flatly, looking back at her lover with a sigh. He was iron and steel in the face of their fists and their blades, but there, in his eyes, she saw the wounds that came from words. Unavoidable, sharp, deadly. They wormed into his mind and ate at him, lashing his soul with the reminders that no matter what he did, where he ran or how far he went, Tristaanian Greymoore was and would always be in the eyes of society, a Passive.

As Mo moved to begin stitching him up, Sarinah sat in silence, moving to place his hand on her stomach. There was life, glorious in its creation and its secret development, but also dangerous in its existence. Would their child be a wick, or a parse? Did passiveness have the capability of passing down through the generations? As much as she loved Tristaan, the brunette hoped within her heart it couldn’t be. She didn’t know what lay ahead for a passive’s child, but surely a wick would stand more chance than a parse.

Surely.