[Closed] All For Us, Always.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
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Writer: Raksha
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Tue Jan 08, 2019 9:12 am

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37th Dentis, 2718 (24wks)
​​HOME SWEET HOME | EVENING
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“Vrunta.” The raven haired witch groaned as she entered through the door way of the small, almost ramshackle home that Silas had so kindly provided to his property, lest they find another reason to flee Old Rose and the debt they had agreed to pay off. Tristaan, Alioe bless him, had fought for it. He’d refused to let them be parted, not by work nor by accomodation. It had been a toss up between the home, or a nearly broken down kint on the beach, but the warnings of a stronger than usual winter this year meant that they had opted for a grounded enclosed place to live. Something that could be roomy enough to keep warm and start their journey with the one tiny boch growing inside her.
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​​The witch had a noticible bump now, easily distinguishable as pregnancy as it curved out before her. If she sat down, there was a great need to find the nearest place to relieve herself, or to lean back slightly to stop the pressure on her lungs. The aches of stretching ligaments had subsided however, and for the first time in what felt like the whole pregnancy, Sarinah was able to enjoy it. Not quite large enough to be always uncomfortable, it was almost pleasant knowing someone you loved that you hadn’t even met yet was with you at all times. Removing the long thick grey knitted wool cloak she wore to protect herself from the cold, she began to kick off the felt lined boots that had become a must-wear in the chilly Achtus weather. As though in sync with her thoughts, the little being inside rolled, a curiously stronger sensation than the little flutters a few weeks ago. She smiled, stopping in the living area and lifting her hands to rest on her belly through the soft black fabric of her long sleeved top. It flowed freely from under her bust, embroidered lightly with red and yellow roses along the sleeves and the hem and matched by a long flowing skirt.
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​​ “Ne little one, ye just calm down. Da’s here somewhere, we’ll find him.” The passive had taken a decent beating the night prior, enough that he’d needed more than a few houses to recover. That didn’t mean Sarinah stopped her work however, Boriand had made that very clear. Thankfully, even after all that had happened, Lil’ Mo and Kip had been ready to welcome him back into the fold, and the younger boy had eagerly accepted walking the pregnant witch home when she had to go alone. Finishing taking her boots off, Sarinah moved through the home, peering into the kitchen before making her way into the bedroom.
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​​ “Tristaan?” She said softly, pausing in the doorway to look over his form, huddled under the covers to keep warm in the cooler room of the house. He was bruised, always, and a barely healed gash graced his eyebrow. The dancer frowned. It was wrong, seeing him like this every clocking day. Her field hummed with her concerns, the mona in it almost more attentative as she came along in weeks. Given the man’s profession, and her magic, perhaps she should reconsider Az’s words so many seasons ago. If she could connect with the presence around her, perhaps she could help heal the passive. The idea clung for a moment, before shifting to thoughts for a later time. Moving forwards, she climbed awkwardly into the bed, scooting under the covers and snuggling into the warmth of the dark haired passives back. The sound of his gentle breathing was soothing, a sign that he still lived.
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​​ “Epaemo hama, I couldn’t resist.” The olive skinned woman sighed into his sleeping form, delighted to be off her feet finally. Everything ached, but she wouldn’t tell the man that. Not when it paled in comparison to his injuries. Her arm snaked around him, hugging closely so she was pressed tightly against the scarred plane of his back.
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​​ “Ye feeling any better?” She asked softly as she pressed her lips to his shoulder, wanting to wake the man up, wanting to be sure he was okay. Selfishly, wanting to just be with him.
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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
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Writer: Muse
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Tue Jan 08, 2019 4:23 pm

37th of Dentis, 2718
In BED | Sometime in the EVENING
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Tristaan had long ago become the kind of man who could take a beating without complaint. Unsure if the same sort of character development awaited his magic-less peers behind the red stone walls of Brunnhold, the dark-haired passive only knew the life he'd been handed as a servant in a factory, but he had assumed for most of his adulthood that his upbringing had been only different in location, not in treatment. What he'd proved to have a natural talent for—beating and being beaten—had been honed and perfected under wick tutelage, nourished and focused into less of a survival instinct and more of a set of skills, all with the hope that such endurance and fight would never, really, be necessary.

When he'd gone and walked away from the Red Crow who'd brought him peace to attempt forge his own angry path alongside other dissatisfied youths as tyat, Tristaan had fed the wrong fire. It was only in the brief but beautiful months of freedom on the road and on the run with Sarinah that he could see such things so clearly, and yet here he was, back again under someone else's authority against his will, fighting for not only his life, but the life of those he'd come to care so much about. Not that he wouldn't anywhere else, of course, but when Silas handed him over to Master Boriand and signed his contract as if he was some stabled creature to be bridled and ridden into the dirt, the dark-haired passive understood the weight of his responsibility lay mainly in making every damn attempt to stay alive.

Some of those attempts were more successful than others, and even Tristaan wasn't skilled enough yet to win every fight he was thrown into as house entertainment for the Rose Arena. In some ways, he'd come to understand that it was simply his turn at the Circus: certain fights were meant to build interest, attract attention, and some of what the tattooed passive was expected to do were more of a performance in nature than violence for the sake of violence. It was a strange conclusion to come to, one that didn't lessen the loathing that came with beating stranger's senseless or getting beaten and sent home a bloodied mess.

This was not at all what he'd wanted, free or in debt.

And while the galdor who ran the arena for his King had no shortness of healers, magical and conventional, he was, oddly enough, stingy with his decisions on what was necessary and what was, as he put it, purely cosmetic. Randal's hard policy was, of course, that losers went home with their injuries regardless of what they had on the docket for the next few days, for that was, as far as he was concerned, what they deserved.

Even when told to lose.

Not that Tristaan had been asked such a thing—yet—but whispers between the regulars informed him that such expectations were very real.

The night before hadn't been a loss, but the bruising to his face and body had been deemed minimal enough to send him home to sleep it off for a few days, Master Boriand unaware that his pet passive spent many of his off days earning side income on the docks, unwilling to be idle regardless of what ached or bled. He'd rolled out of bed in the quiet hours before dawn this morning for the third morning in a row since his last match, unconcerned about the bruises or the gash that probably could have used stitches, to unload cargo from newly arrived ships and ignore the protest of sore muscles and cut knuckles.

Usually, he'd make it home before Sarinah began her shift serving at the Arena, eager to see her off in their schedules that felt so opposing when they weren't in the same place at the same time. He'd been later, much to his disappointment, stopping to spend every coin that had made its way into his pocket on food (he was far hungrier than ever before given the physical nature of his current employment and he wasn't even the one growing a new life) and (finally) an extra blanket since every clocking sailor warned of how bad the coming winter would be.

An extra blanket he willingly curled up under and collapsed in an exhausted lump on the bed with until cold hands wandered over his warm, scarred skin and a chilled body pressed against him needfully, stirring him from dreamless sleep with a surprised hum. The comfortable, rounder shape that curled into his back brought a groggy smile to his face before he could even quite form words,

"Mmmne, s'fine." He was still for a few more moments, rough hands moving to rest over hers, Tristaan's half-awake voice more a rumble in his bruised chest than anything else. His eyes opened at the brush of her lips and he yawned before putting together more syllables into words, "Epaemo for no' makin' 't home earlier, macha. I spent more time than expected 'n th' market 'cause I was shoppin' hungry. There's some fresh fruits all th' way from Mugroba for you."

With a sigh he shifted, rolling to face the lovely witch while not at all wanting to move her hands from around him. His own found comfortable places to settle, admittedly enjoying how the lithe dancer's body changed as if by magic to grow someone new, "I'm alright. Tired. Sore. Y'are too, hmm?" The dark-haired passive paused to kiss Sarinah now that he could, now that their faces were so close, lingering while he tangled their bodies together like the greedy for cuddles animal he really was, totally not in a hurry to crawl out of the blanket or get out of bed, "Ent anythin' that won't be better 'n a few days anyway. 'Til I gotta do 't again."

Tristaan still chuckled about the truth, his humor obviously self-deprecating, aware that by the time his bruises had faded and his scabs had healed, he'd just be back in the arena for more. Some nights were far less injurious than others, but it wasn't as though he could predict such things unless given warning by someone else who had their ears open for his sake like Lil' Mo or even a few of the other fighters who'd he begun to call friends,

"Give me a few more minutes 'n bed before I make us somethin' t' eat."

"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
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Writer: Raksha
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Thu Jan 10, 2019 4:09 am

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37th Dentis, 2718 (24wks)
​​HOME SWEET HOME | EVENING
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“Dze, ne need to be sorry hama. I’m a big chip, a really big chip at the moment! I can be alone with my thoughts for more than a pina manna second or so.” She chuckled softly, tightening her arm around him as he held her closely.

“Fruit from Mugroba oessss. It ent me that loves them, I swear it’s this boch. It’s all I seem to be able to think about.” Even now, she contemplated how easy it would be to slip away and grab something sweet, so mouthwateringly juicy and good. It was like her stomach ruled her every action and everything she put in her mouth. Bossy, unpredictable, and obsessed with fruit. Dropping the thoughts as Tristaan shifted to roll towards her, still wrapped in her arms, she smiled as they tangled closer as best they could with the third party between them. She hummed in agreement as he pressed his lips to hers in welcome.

“Mmm sore oes. My back a little, mostly my feet ye chen? I ent sure wicks are designed to carry two people on them. It’s alright though, I’m fine. Ye however—” Her free hand moved to brush soft fingertips over his brow with a tsk.

“The mona and I need to have a chat, like that Aziza witch said. This, I should be able to heal this Tristaan. I’m just a little scared that I’d probably accidentally set you on fire or something before I did any good. Ne’er you mind though, that’s for me to worry about.” It wasn’t that the brunette was uncomfortable talking magic with the scarred passive, given his inability to draw from the pool of sentient beings that danced around in her field, it was more that she had no clocking idea what she was doing. Her da—Alioe rest his mung soul—had often tried to teach her to sit down and meditate, but it was so boring as a child. As a woman though, she should try again. Meditate and speak to the mona. Dark eyes searched his face, smile faded as he mentioned going back again.

Of course he would go back. He was Hawkes property. She was Hawkes property. They didn’t get a choice.

“Ne, no rush hama. It’s fine, oes? Just relax, ent any reason to rush out of bed yet.” A bump in her belly made the brunette smile, moving her hand from his side to the swell of her abdomen and looking distant for a moment before focusing on Tristaan’s face with a smile.

“Here, give me your hand kov.” She took his hand, shifting back slightly so that she could settle it firmly but comfortably on the side of her rounded middle. She lay quietly, looking at him for a short while with a strange sort of concentration, before she grinned widely and held his gaze.

“Did you feel it?” If he was to lay still, keeping his palm on her belly, after another few seconds, there would be a small thud on his hand from the inside of her person. A tiny little kick from a tiny little person growing within and testing their newly developed muscles. The dancer giggled softly, searching his face as this time another more powerful kick tapped his hand, visible by the shake of her belly if one was to watch very carefully.

“Please tell me you felt that one.” Sarinah said with a ridiculous raise of her brow, absolutely smitten with the sensation. Her mahogany gaze looked down between them with a hum.

“I think our boch’s trying to say hello da.” The brunette said softly, moving her other arm to tuck it under her head so she could watch the little bumps of her belly as they lay together as a fami, almost. It was fascinating, and adorable all at once.

The intimacy of the moment brought a sting of tears to the olive skinned witches eyes, and she laughed softly, brushing them away with the hand under her head whilst stroking a thumb across the back of his hand.

"Why can't it be like this always Tristaan? Why can't things just by like this for us?" She said quietly, the edges of frustration creeping into her voice. It had only been a few weeks, but the dancer felt like there would never be an end. Hawke had given her an ultimatum, to find something as profitable as being on her back in the Queen, and he'd given Tristaan his freedom for Yulina's death. They both felt like impossible tasks, beyond either of their capabilities. Hormones running rampant, the brunette had to fight back the panic that wanted to ruin the moment.

"Do you wonder what it will be? A boy, or a girl I mean?" The young pregnant wick asked with a slight waver to her voice as she brushed the panic aside to replace it with happier things.

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
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Writer: Muse
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Tue Jan 15, 2019 4:17 pm

37th of Dentis, 2718
In BED | Sometime in the EVENING
The dark-haired passive curled comfortably around his lovely witch, not at all bothered by the growing roundness between them. Had he been asked, he would have honestly admitted he found it all alluring and fascinating, Sarinah now glowing at the height of the so-called better part of pregnancy in the comfortable season of autumn before the chill of winter and the most likely tiring final weeks. He couldn't help but smile at her self-depreciation,

"There wouldn't be tekaa 'f y'weren't, hama. 'Sides, I'm jus' a delicate magic-less but o’ golly trash, so y'ent carryin' a boch with any hopes o' bein' too heavy. Mayhaps they don't gotta be short an' small like me, neither, but still." He teased her, closing his eyes as she touched the tender injury on his face, quiet for a moment because he was aware he had very little to say about the mona who'd ignored him for all these years and magic he had no hopes of using. Still, Tristaan sighed and met the right depths of her mahogany gaze, unable to help but bristle sleepily at her dismissing his concern like he couldn't have an opinion at all,

"I ent gonna say what y' should an' shouldn't b'able t' do for me 'r anyone else, Sarinah, but if ye wanna grow yerself closer t' th' mona, y' should. 'Cause y' can. I ent gonna complain 'f you're able t' fix what Boriand refuses t' heal, 'specially in th' times I lose. Ye chen? Jus' 'cause th' mona won't listen t' me doesn't mean I ent capable 'f understandin' what it's all about. If you jus' wanna learn t' make straighter stitches than Lil' Mo, I'd be benny with that, too. Gotta work more on yer fightin' either way, jus' t' keep Arena patrons from gettin' too curious with their hands, eh?"

He shifted a little, tilting his head to rest against her own, welcoming a moment of quiet closeness because he couldn't really think of a better way to spend time doing nothing other than hiding in bed with his lovely witch—

"Oh!"

She was moving his hand and he blinked, the purposeful placement of his calloused palm on the warm roundness of her belly granting him the briefest sensation of something firm and definitely small. Wriggling inside, hidden from view. Sarinah had attempted to time this before, but the life they'd made together had proven itself mischievously elusive to his touch. This time, it was very obvious what he could feel and Tristaan's reaction was immediate and almost involuntary: a little gasp, grey eyes widening. He smiled, but it was tight-lipped and far more full of emotion than an elated grin, the expression a mixture of sudden tears and weighty realization.

He didn't answer, the dark-haired passive obviously aware, gaze trailing away from his lovely dancer's face downward, hoping to see what he could feel as his other hand trailed lower to tuck underneath the other side of her belly in obvious hopes of there being more movement.

The witch said da and Tristaan made a noise that was both a giggle and a sob, the word unexpectedly sharp and real as their boch moved beneath his palms, his bruised, scabbed knuckles an ugly contrast to the smooth olive skin that hid the growing babe from view but allowed for this glimpse of a little body,

"Epaemo."

He whispered at her question, salty tears burning the injured side of his face on their way to fall softly on the sheets. He glanced back up to her even though he couldn't help but scoot himself lower as if suddenly her belly had its own gravity, trailing a few apologetic kisses along the way until he could press gentle lips where wiggles had just been, speaking quietly to both the witch he loved and their child she carried, "Epaemo—I don't know why 't ent our place t' be jus' so every day, t' be free, but I promise 't ent always gonna be th' way 't is now. Ent a boch o' mine gonna belong t' anyone, ye chen? I ent gonna let any 'f us stay this way, beholdin' t' Hawke, for long, hama."

The hoarse, tired depths of his voice didn't go unheard, and while he may have had more to say, he was hushed into silence again by more movement, finally grinning stupidly despite also fighting more vehement, convicted tears. This was not how he would raise a fami, and he'd pay any price to find them all free again. Pressing a stubbled cheek against her skin, his storm cloud gaze sought the lovely witch's dark eyes again, smile indomitable and determined now,

"I ent thought 'bout that, t'be honest." Tristaan admitted shyly, hearing the thrum of her nervous heartbeat beneath his ear, aware he couldn't hear their child's so much as still feeling the boch settle again in the dark safety of the womb, the sensation of her uneasiness tangible in her field in ways he'd come to be able to distinguish even if he couldn't offer the same insights as a cursed, non-magical scrap poured into the shape of a magical being, "I ent sure I'm biased. I had a sister once, but th' Circle only knows if I'm enough 'f a man t' keep a daughter safe. T' keep any boch safe, knowin' I were a rough an' dirty sort o' boch m'self. I s'pose th' gods already decided that, though: boy 'r girl—I'm benny either way. We ent said a word 'bout names, ye chen."

The dark-haired passive lingered, curled around Sarinah's lower half, closing his eyes for a few moments longer and ignoring the ache of a sore body and a troubled heart, attempting to still the wild what ifs and the frustrated observations of the present that writhed through the scarred cavity of his chest, filling himself instead with the love he'd let grow between them and the elation at making life together, literally and figuratively, as beautifully as possible.

He wasn't without unspoken regrets: the twinge of guilt so ingrained in his passive mind for his rebellious act of reproduction very sharp and the knowledge of his undesirable, imperfect genetics a burden he didn't share out loud with his Yellow Eye lover because he had learned to carry it on his own.

Tristaan had broken the law: branded as a scrap and welcoming a child, but he'd already so willingly ignored galdori expectations with his love for a witch, a love he was completely unapologetic for. The world was far too harsh a place to limit who he could give his heart to, and the laws of Anaxas were so clocking backwards, he could care less about breaking them,

"I'm sure you've thought 'f a few, hmm?"

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
Passive Proverb
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Writer: Raksha
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Sat Jan 19, 2019 11:27 pm

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37th Dentis, 2718 (24wks)
​​HOME SWEET HOME | EVENING
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Image
The brunette nodded as Tristaan encouraged her exploration into her relationship with the mona, appreciating the level of acceptance it took from the passive to discuss the situation with her. His lack of magic was not necessarily a sore point anymore, but it was still there in the background. A fear he didn’t have to vocalise for her to know he still worried about it. The pit fighting was a powder keg, tempting the worst from the abandoned son-of-a-galdor. One day, he might not just take the punch, he might…

The witch paused.

He might what? Something had niggled at the dancer about the lack of field that the scarred man held, the badge of dishonour he bore. She’d been with Tristaan long enough, intimately enough, that she had noticed something. It wasn’t a field, that was obvious, but it was a….crackling? A feeling that surrounded the passive like a gentle static. It didn’t hurt the witch, and she couldn’t sense mona or emotions from it, but it made her ponder. When the diablre had come down on them all that day in the harbour, the wick had felt it swell, gathered like an oncoming storm to congregate in a real and powerful field. Ramscott, that was what the gollies called fields like that, only it was more. So much more.

Did he even know, could he sense it himself? The olive skinned woman opened her mouth, thinking to speak of it, before closing it again, distracted by the baby making its presence known between the two lovers. He didn’t answer if he’d felt the little bumps, but his face said it all, and she couldn’t help the stammer of her heart at his half sobbed laugh. It made her want to hug him tight and press kisses all across his lips, made her feel giddy with delight. Of course however, the panic and fear tugged at her, thinking of their predicament and the ever creeping count down that Hawke had set somewhere in his own maze of thoughts.

“Ne, don’t ye say epaemo. Ent for ye to say it, Tristaan, coz ent anything here ye fault. Oes?” She said softly, a gentle smile on her face as the grey eyed man shifted down to her belly. Lifting her top to allow him to touch skin-to-skin with her rounded abdomen, Sarinah choked back a tearful laugh as the boch within seemed to respond to his voice with another strong kick. She brushed her own tears away with the heel of her palm, reaching down to stroke his dark hair as the man looked up at her.

“Dze, enough of that hama. Ye man enough for a little rosh, and by Alioe I pity any kovs that come yaching around her way when she’s older.” The brunette said with a chuckle, offering him a rare wink, before bursting out with nervous laughter.

“Uh..ne. Ne I haven’t. Truth be told, if I ent thinking of names, it sort of doesn’t feel like I’m only a season or so away from having a small tekka make their way out of me.” Sarinah’s field jittered again, before she sighed and lifted her eyes to look at the ceiling.

“What was ye sister’s name Tristaan?” She asked softly, fingers absentmindedly stroking his hair, knowing she had to have heard it before but unable to recall. The passive was pensive, and thoughts of his fami always made it worse, but she asked anyway.

“If it were a little kov, I would want a strong name. Something that would make people go ‘here he comes, the Greymoore boy…’” Blinking, the dancer blushed as she realised what she’d said, clearing her throat.

“I mean, or Lissden. I ent…it’s…last name’s ent important.” She said quickly, closing her eyes and resting a hand over them.

“Benny go at putting my foot in my mouth there. Epaemo hama. I just assumed things.” The witch continued, removing her hand and looking down at him apologetically. They weren't bonded formally, not in the eyes of the Circle or before friends and fami, but by the ink on their bodies Sarinah felt they were. Things like this had always come to mind in his last name, but it was an assumption to make that the passive would want their boch to be a Greymoore. He might want it to be a Lissden, or the last name of his adoptive fami. There was an opportunity here to wash his heritage should he choose to, and Sarinah was more than happy to support his decision. She had no ties to the Lissden name. Her father had betrayed them, and her mother wasn't a Lissden after leaving him.

"Aliyssa is pretty though. I knew a chip by that name once. Or, what is that story ye Crows tell? Iolanthe's Lyre, that's the one. Maybe she'd be an Iolanthe. Ent sure, a kov, maybe he should be named in honor of those who saved ye, oes?"

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
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Writer: Muse
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Sun Jan 27, 2019 10:29 am

37th of Dentis, 2718
In BED | Sometime in the EVENING
"Well, technically speakin', part o' this is kinda m'fault, oes. I fully participated 'n th' makin' o' things, but only th' cute parts, ye chen." Tristaan teased, quite aware of his very admittedly active role in the creation of life and all of the physical enjoyment that was had in the process, but also willingly accepting the burden of the own mistakes he'd made in becoming a wanted man by Silas Hawke and his Bad Brothers.

The babe within his lovely witch shifted and moved at the sound of his voice and he couldn't help but be distracted by the surprisingly strong bumps. Lips against olive skin, the dark-haired passive closed his eyes for a moment, Sarinah's fingers in his hair and her nervousness filling the intimate lack of space between them. There was a healthy sense of anticipation, but also a deeper worry, a fear. He wasn't privy to being intimidated by birth like she was, not in the same biological way, but his protective nature haunted him with his own concerns and anxieties over a new life and the new mother he would be responsible for.

He tilted his head to rest his cheek against where he could guess the small, still-growing body of his child was nestled in the dancer's womb, feeling the boch shift and wiggle with the sudden awareness that the very gentle weight of his face and the depths of his voice could be felt and heard. "I ent thought much o' names, either. I guess we've been so busy worryin' 'bout everythin' else, haven't we?"

Tristaan's smile faltered at the nervousness in her voice and the ripple of fear in Sarinah's field, grey eyes searching upward again, "—oes, it's gone by so fast, hama, but we ent been able t' savor 't proper-like. Ent every day y' get t' grow someone new inside, an' y' make 't look so lovely. It's gonna be alright. Ye'll make welcomin' a boch t' th' outside jus' as easy an' beautiful as y' do carryin' one." He assured her gently only to be surprised at her question. A hint of nostalgia in his tone, he answered quietly, hands shifting to chase the fleeting motions of the babe settling again into stillness,

"Nia—er—Nevinia's m' sister's name. She called me Ian, ye chen."

Kissing her round belly before leaning away, unable to help but keep a calloused, bruised hand on warm, olive skin, the dark haired passive grinned broadly as his lovely witch blushed and stammered over names, "I ent gotta preference on last names—y' can have mine whenever y' like if y' want it, but it's a golly's name I'm too stubborn t' change. If we ent able t' join our lives on Surwood, I ent particular 'bout where 'r when so long 's it's special for you. I—"

He sighed, painfully aware of the kind of rebellious hope that burned in the scarred cavity of his chest: his indomitable denial that he was worthless as the real reason he'd clung to his family name for all these years.

Glancing down, grey eyes blinking away the sting of tears, Tristaan was suddenly filled with a flood of emotions while Sarinah offered ideas for names. Gods, look at all that he'd done—loved a beautiful witch and made amazing but scandalous life, only to end up in captivity. Again. Had he been anything but magic-less trash, he'd have tarnished the name he so desperately held onto. He ran a hand over his bruised face and sat up, grunting at sore, protesting muscles before he shifted toward the end of the bed, rough hands drifting downward over olive skin to reach for Sarinah's feet and place them in his lap. Picking one, he began to rub away soreness with gentle care, not looking up right away.

"—last names don't matter t' me, hama. I jus' want a healthy boch who can decide what they want 'n life 'cause they're free." Thumbs kneaded at the arch of his lovely witch's foot, finally meeting the rich depths of her mahogany gaze, "Aliyssa's nice, oes. There are names I remember from m' factory life—friends, fami—people who were somethin' when I had nothin'. Erich was a passive like m'self. Kieran was a balach 'f a wick—like me. Kaia was older 'n us, but she looked out for us rabble 'n th' factory, sneakin' us treats 'cause she weren't owned. She worked for coin an' spent it all on us. There's too many folks t' choose from 'f I wanna honor th' Red Crow. My da? Guaril? Well, he always said he were 's ugly 's his name. He said his wife who died before he took me in 's name was Naomi."

Tristaan smiled, chuckling with the warmth of nostalgia coloring his stubbled cheeks as a pleasant contrast to the scabbed-over gash that marred his brow. He switched his attentions to Sarinah's other foot, rolling his shoulders with a slow exhale, "Names 're harder than I thought. Vrunta. I feel like it's gotta mean somethin', ye chen? All this work an' th' boch ent even born yet."

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
Passive Proverb
User avatar
Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Writer: Raksha
Post Templates: Post Templates
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Sun Feb 24, 2019 9:57 pm

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37th Dentis, 2718 (24wks)
​​HOME SWEET HOME | EVENING
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Sarinah smirked and tapped his cheek as the passive made light of the situation, her dark eyes dancing with mirth even if she was wearing her nervousness on her sleeve.

“Remember ye said that hama, when I am in pain and looking for someone t’ blame. Remember ye said that.” She laughed, humming softly as their boch responded to the lower timbre of his voice with a series of kicks. It was beautiful, too lovely for words, and so she watched quietly as the man pressed his lips to her belly.

He saw her fear, she could tell, and bore it for both of them. A rock in the swirling raging river that was her current emotional state, something to cling to that centred her and stopped the witch from spiralling into worry and despair. He reassured her with lovely words, even if they both knew neither one of them had any real idea of what to expect. Just the stories and words of others, some far far more graphic then they needed to be. Tristaan’s tone changed at the mention of his sister, calloused hands warm on her belly as he mused.

Ian? The name sat as uncomfortably as a chrove in a handbasket. It was a golly name, and to the brunette a representation of everything the passive wasn’t.

“Nevinia? That’s a macha name kov. Nia.” She tested the name quietly, before listening to him continue on about last names, picking up the thread she had left open. The dancer sighed, shaking her head with a soft laugh.

“Ent important to me hama when or where or how. Far as I am concerned, we’re already committed. My hama, your hama, ent really any need for the rest of the world to understand or sign off on it.” The sudden surge of emotion was clear in the passives features as he shifted suddenly, moving his sore and bruised body to capture her feet, even though the woman protested. It was short lived however, Sarinah sighing as skilled fingers worked on sore muscles, letting herself indulge for a moment in the pillowy softness of their little humble bed.

“We can figure last names out later. When it matters, oes?” His grey eyes lifted to meet hers finally, both of them feeling the weight of Hawkes presence even if he wasn’t around. What life awaited their boch, born into the arms of parents who were practically slaves? Sarinah was petrified, but she pushed it down, unwilling to try and think of just how they would get out of it all. Her time was ticking down, the Queen was waiting with open arms for it’s escaped bird to come back to her cage, only this time it was more. Much more. The dancer knew she needed to come up with something that would see them free.

Either that, or Tristaan had to murder Yulina. The wick refused to let him wear that, again. Already there had been so many lives lost for her sake. She wouldn’t accept another.

“I like Kaia, but Naomi. That is macha too. If its a chip. If its a little kov, I would love a name that meant something. I ent got men who mean something to me, except you Tristaan. All the men I’ve known have been mean, ugly. Betrayers.” Her brow creased, and she looked away for a moment, mind travelling to easily to the father she had left dead in Vienda.

“Kieran is a good name. A strong name.” Glancing back at the man’s chuckle, the olive skinned woman smiled again at his words.

“Oes, and this is just the beginning hama. This ent even changing or feeding or ensuring the boch is alive and well at the end of each day. I ent sure I get myself through the days that well, let alone a little person!” Her hands curved around her belly protectively, the life inside declaring protest to her words with another powerful kick.

“It will be fine though. Ye are right. As long as we are together, it will be fine.”

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