A Morning's Trist [Tristaan]

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Pre-Dawn

It was early, some hour before the sun had even decided to rear its beautiful face to the Rose. In the still dark street a light Bethas drizzle had left mud tainted puddles, forcing the drunks under the awnings of houses and establishments down the somewhat quiet streets. The Mad Queen glowed with her red lights, inviting day and night no matter the time, although it wasn’t as noisy as it could be. The patrons were all either occupied, asleep or not yet in. It was the quieter time, time for the girls to have a moment to rest or do their own little thing. For the cleaning to be done and the bellies to be filled.

Sarinah took the opportunity presented to her to escape before the dawn, the words of her owner ringing in her ears from the night before. She’d confronted the fiery red head, with questions about her contract. It was clear to the brunette that the woman was not happy with question that Tristaan had raised, and that she didn’t intent to let Sarinah go without a fight. Frustrated, confused and lost, the young dancer had slept on it. Now with the morning, she fled the Queen to wander through the streets of the Rose down to the docks. It had been a few days since she’d seen the grey eyed wick from her room, and he had promised to show her how to look after herself.

As she walked, the olive skinned wick smiled a private smile, dressed in her tattered shirt and jodhpurs, arms wrapped around herself against the chill pre-dawn morning. They had slept in the same room, he on the floor and she in the bed, with no expectations or asks. It had been difficult though, her eyes open in the dark when they should be shut, listening to the gentle breathing of the man in the dark. Her heart had fluttered in her chest a few times as he tossed and turned, but eventually she had closed her eyes. On the morning, she woke safe and sound, true to his word. To see him leave had been almost sad, but it was made better with promises to visit him at the dock.

It was moony, really clocking moony, but the brunette couldn’t wait to see him again. If someone were to label it, Sarinah had a crush on Tristaan. He’d swooped in and saved the day, not only physically but also with his revelation around her freedom. Or possible freedom. He had had given her a friendly ear that not just listened but understood and helped.

Arriving at the dock just as the sky was beginning to change from black to a deep blue, the dancer approached a group of young children already up for the day, selling papers or hawking their own small collection of trinkets. They looked at the witch warily, and she offered them a broad grin, lowering herself to their level as she came closer.

“Hesta bochi, ent any of ye know where I can find Tristaan…” She faded off, realising she didn’t know the man’s last name. How clocking stupid.

One of the children, a young red-headed human boy jumped up with a smile.

“Yeah! He’s down that way, probably. I dunno if he’s still around though. Got himself in trouble with some big fella. All knocked up, but I heard he kicked his arse.” The other children giggled helplessly at the swear as the woman stood again. Their laughter followed Sarinah as she nodded her thanks and moved towards the direction he’d pointed her, brown eyes searching the dock hands for the familiar dark haired wick.

Her smile had dropped a little, concern in her stomach turning slowly. What if the wick had left? Or worse. What if Scarlett or Hawke had sent someone to ‘talk’ to him after last night. The smile turned into a frown as she looked around, hoping for the former over the latter.

As she wandered, the sky lightened a little more, sunrise creeping ever closer. Crews were moving from their ships to the cargo on the busy dock, and back again, a few eyes glancing at the witch with sky grins or even a moment of vague recognition.

“That’s Mistress Dove ain’t it?” One of the younger men said as he handed a box to his colleague on the gangplank of their ship. The other, an older greying sailor looked over and chuckled.

“Aye, it is. Don’t see her down here, should go and see if she’s off the books. Might finally afford some of her....time.” They laughed again, as they continued to work, smiling at the witch as she walked past.

“Mornin’ Mistress Dove. You look lost love. Might be something we can help you with?” The younger man called out with a grin, not impolite but not entirely sincere.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

Their ship for the day had arrived early and they'd been rolled from their beds without fanfare in the dark. A chill still hung in the air, remnants of Intas and the winter before, making their breath thick in the lantern light as the small crew moved about the salty, worn wood of the dock, unloading boxes carefully before dawn. There was laughter and teasing, hoarse voices and sore bodies with calloused hands, the dark-haired passive among the favored topic of conversation for days.

Jonathan had been too drunk, too distracted, and missed it all, but Kip, ever-observant, bubbly wick that he was, had watched it all. He respected his friend, but at the same time, he hadn't gotten up to help him. He knew Tristaan could handle himself and wasn't about to get in the way of the other man's hard, fast fists,

"I still think yer lyin'." Jon rumbled, threatening to drop the heavy crate he and the passive were walking down the gangplank together, their crate full of imports from Mugroba—spices by the smell of things but possibly Hawke's drugs, too.

"I ent."

"Chroveshit." Hissed Lil' Mo, the diminutive human woman standing on the dock put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. Forewoman and cook for their little crew of dock workers, the auburn-haired human had a mouth and knew how to use it. She, of all the others, knew the passive's secret but had no interest in turning his scrawny ass in, "Ye shared a room with th' Dove in a clockin' whorehouse an' ye didn't ask 'er to be th' wind in yer sails. Clockin' croveshit. Yer a real waste, Greymoore. At least I've got some balls."

Kip just about dropped his handle on the crate he shared with Vern, a quiet young human hardly older than kip. The hazel-eyed boy smirked as the blond wick laughed wickedly, "I keep tryin' to tell y'all, that man's a balach. He's too good for us—"

"Too good t' get it on with a whore, aye." Jonathan sneered from over the crate at the silent passive who'd endured the teasing with some otherworldly grace and patience. He needed the job, even if he wanted to hamstring the bulky bastard of a natt in front of him,

"Shut yer head already. Th' lot o' you. Ent gonna take what's not mine, an' she's not like th' rest 'f 'em. She's not a—"

"Sure she is. If not now, then one day." Jon was grinning like a shark, like Tristaan was bleeding in the water near his hungry maw, "You're just clockin' sweet on 'er an' can't see it."

The dark-haired passive's eyes narrowed and his grip loosened an inch or two on the crate they shared, already halfway down from the ship that bobbed in the harbor toward the dock. While he said nothing, years of learning when to be silent raged to be forgotten inside the narrow confines of his scarred chest, though Jonathan wasn't wrong and both men knew it.

"Havakda! Jon, stow it. Get back t' work." Lil' Mo hissed. The men finished the rest of their work in silence, begrudging silence. Jonathan loved to get the passive worked up and Kip was always in the middle, leaving poor Vern to be awkward and quiet as always. But Mo held them all together with her fiery, motherly self and her loud voice and her delicious cooking. The promise of breakfast once the hold was empty held the crew captive like a bunch of half-mad slaves.

text

She'd built the brick stove herself near the docks, a little oasis under a rusting overhang of one of the warehouses near her little office. A griddle was her weapon of choice, and just as the sun colored the salty horizon, she had her six sweaty, tired boys sitting on boxes and on the chilly ground huddled over a basket of biscuits and fresh bacon and eggs,

"Ye lot's gotta get yer heads together." Mo was carrying on, "Buncha' luggers fightin' like children ent gonna make Hawke happy when it takes ye a whole clockin' house t' unload his cargo."

"Oes, ma'am." Tristaan was always first to apologize, much to her chagrin. She could tease him, but he really was the good one.

"Shut yer head. I was talkin' t' yer mates this time." She laughed at him, but her dark eyes drifted down the docks toward where another ship was being unloaded and a few men had stopped working, where a few men were paying attention to a dark-haired woman who wasn't at all interested in them. Lil' Mo never missed a glimpse of laziness, "Well, I'll be damned. Greymoore, that's your woman there, innit? Better catch that, m' thinks."

"I don't have a wo—oh." The passive was up, plate set down and immediately forgotten, save for the bacon he wasn't about to leave to the wolves who watched him walk away.

Kip giggled and then slapped a greasy hand over Jonathan's mouth just as the big man inhaled, ready for a comment, "Ne, let it be."

There was laughter behind him, though, and he didn't care, the flutter of a thrill in his chest far more powerful than the weight of embarrassment at the teasing of men who knew him well enough. Bruises faded, yellowed, Tristaan in the dawn was already a tired mess, scarfing the last bites of bacon as he strode down the dock, a bit more quickly than normal. Part of him hadn't really expected to see her again, the lovely witch, Sarinah, whose face had been in his thoughts more than once over the past few days. Part of him had been restlessly worried over the trouble he'd caused, both for her and for her employers. Part of him had felt foolish for missing someone he hardly knew.

But his grin was as calm and cool as it could be as he appeared behind the two eager, flirtatious deckhands hoping for an after hours discount with the Mad Queen's beautiful Dove,

"Wo chet, kov. She ent lost. She's lookin' for me."

The dark-haired passive spoke with a confidence he didn't feel, watching the two men balk at him, the unimposing son of a galdor he could be. In front of Alioe and everyone in the slowly growing light, he reached for her hand and almost greedily entangled their fingers, heart ringing in his ears but more than willing to step on the toes of the other men right there and then to make sure they knew their place in this moment, "Junta, rosh. Far'ye? It's good t' see you again. Come have some breakfast."

The expression he gave the two deckhands as he tugged the lithe dancer away was pure, unfiltered victory, though he did his best to hide it from Sarinah. As they walked back to his crew, who were, of course, all looking, Tristaan began to untangle his hand from hers unless she stopped him, "Epaemo—I—uh—did I say it's good t' see you again already? I did. Oes. I jus'. Well. I didn't think you'd come lookin'."

He hadn't felt this ridiculous in years, but at the same time, it felt good. It felt nice to have found a friend.

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Pre-Dawn

Sarinah looked at the younger deckhand with a wary shake of her head, glancing away back down the dock from where she’d come from. Perhaps the bochi had been mistaken, perhaps the wick was at the other end and she’d just walked this was for nothing. She sighed heavily.

“Ne, I ent lost. I’m looking for—“ A familiar voice broke through her muttered reply, filling her chest with a warm glow as she turned back with an almost star struck smile.

“Tristaan.” The raven hair dancer breathed his name, a gentle flush of color touching her cheeks as the attractive wick entwined his hand in hers. She welcomed it, lacing her fingers in his with a grin and unable to stop herself from wrapping her free arm around his neck in a friendly hug.

What are you doing?!

“Junta kov! I wasn’t sure you’d even be here.” Heart pounding in her chest, she drew back casually, fingertips sweeping his shoulders, as though hugging the man was perfectly natural. It felt natural, knowing that he’d not taken advantage of her the evening prior she felt safe. Still, it wasn’t really appropriate. Was it? Taking in his features, captivated again by the stormy grey of his eyes and the square line of his jaw, Sarinah drew her lower lip between her teeth for a moment.

Vrunta, she was useless.

Unable to hide the color on her cheeks and overwhelmed by the intensity of his grey gaze, she looked away with a giggle, missing the looks all three men gave each other. The younger deckhand pouted, whilst the older scowled at Tristaan. As the couple began to walk he shook his head and spat.

“Probably one of Hawke’s boys. Perks of the business.” He muttered, turning back to the morning’s work with less enthusiasm then before.

“Me? I’m...I’m benny.” The dancer said evasively, unwilling to bring up the conversation with Scarlett. Not today. Not now. She felt her stomach turning butterflies as they walked, glancing over at the tanned man with an almost shy smile. The swelling and the bruising had faded, and in the dawns slowly creeping light the young witch was able to see the wick in his full glory.

“Ye look better, kov. Really...really benny.” Another sweep of color crossed her face, and she curled her fingers into his own to keep his hand in hers for a tick or so longer.

Yes, she most definitely had a crush.

As Tristaan spoke, her smile turned into a giggle and she released his hand with an awkward shift to cross her arms against the chill morning air, walking close enough to the man that she could bump against him with her hip gently.

“It’s...oes...you too. Ye did.” She said with another laugh. The witch glanced up finally, noticing a group of people watching them. No, staring at them. And they were walking towards them. Her smile faded into a frown, wondering if she’d come at the wrong time.

“ f course I came balach. I mean, is it okay? I can...I can go...if now’s not good? I...uh...” Her dark eyes picked out two of the people as the grey eyed wick’s friends, and she glanced at him again.

“I ent got you in trouble, have I?” The dancer said softly, feeling completely out of place. She was used to leering, gawking, even staring. But not outside of the Queen. Not like this. Reaching to tuck away loose black tresses, Sarinah looked down, embarrassed by her attire. She didn’t own anything else, but right now, she wished for something more...presentable.

“They must think you’re moony, meeting with a tumble in rags outside of the Queen. I...maybe...” The witch didn’t know what to do, lost in her own unfamiliar feelings, laughing again at herself.

“Epaemo.” She said softly, lifting her mahogany gaze to meet his own from under thick lashes, a contrite grin on her full dusky lips.

He was wonderfully distracting.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

"I told y' this is where I work for now—did some bochi give y' directions, then? I may've been givin' 'em some extra treats for a few days, t' be honest. Ssh. Don't tell 'em." Tristaan winked at the lovely witch as she willingly allowed him to entwine their hands. He turned to lead them both away when Sarinah shifted toward him to wrap an arm around his shoulder and for a moment he thought of nothing else but her grin and the tickle of her fingers and the brush of her dark hair on his tanned skin. The passive smiled in return as she slipped away and paused just long enough to catch the grumbles in his direction.

He made a choice not to answer them—under Hawke's thumb there were no perks and he knew it. His benefit was the breath in his lungs and little else, though he was admittedly freer than the witch who kept their fingers together just a few ticks longer. The lithe dancer would get him in trouble eventually, this much even he knew, but at the same time he didn't care. There was a reluctance to letting go of his hand and he almost laughed,

"I look a'ight, oes. Benny 's a lil' generous after a mornin's work. That other lugger, though—he's ugly forever. Alioe bless 'im." The passive teased, grey eyes taking in her threadbare outfit before she fell in step so close to him that their bodies grazed each other. Tristaan owned very little on purpose—only what he could carry, truth be told—but what he owned, he tried to take care of. He'd once had nothing, so he understood. He would have found something further self-deprecating to say had he not caught her gaze, aware that his crew mates were now all watching the pair approach,

"Trouble? You? Ne. They're jus' a bunch o' erseholes, but they ent mean, not really. Y'think they really care what y'are, rosh? Vrunta. Buncha' bastards, all 'f us—they don't know you, so who cares?" His grin bordered on the devious, the tone of his voice admitting that perhaps she'd get him taunted later but his expression told her it was fine by him. He was used to it, truth be told, and whatever his ragtag group of deckhand companions could say, it wouldn't be worse than anything else he'd heard as a passive,

"Don't apologize—"

"Hope yer hungry, chip."

Lil' Mo spoke up before any of the others. Kip may have even waved, his fingers greasy from bacon waggling in her direction with a shy, apologetic half grin. Jonathan, the other man who'd been with Tristaan at the Queen said nothing, but Vern quickly looked down to his biscuit with a blush as if he'd never been around a woman before in his young life. The small human woman was shoving a plate in Sarinah's direction, a fried egg and fresh bacon, nodding her head toward the wicker basket near where the men were sitting, "They don' bite hard. Just kick 'em in th' shins. 'S what I do. Sit an' eat."

The dark-haired passive mouthed a silent mujo ma in the woman's direction, and Lil' Mo may have winked or maybe she just had something in her eye. It was hard to tell with her. Grease and sweat and salt and all that here by the docks.

Jon stood, kicking his small crate he'd been using as a chair of sorts in her direction, "Here. Have mine." He eyed Tristaan, though, wary and judgmental as if he wanted to speak a word of warning instead of greeting. The damn balach always seemed to like playing with too much fire, "I'm goin' anyways. See yer ugly luggers later. Thanks, Mo."

The big man leaned down and planted the most platonic of kisses on the older, smaller woman's wild-haired head.

"Eat up, then we can do some sparrin', rosh." Tristaan spoke around more bacon, never one to let any food go to waste.

Vern blinked, "Yer gonna fight 'er? She doesn't look li—"

"Ne, kov. He's gonna teach 'er to kick laoso bastards where it counts." Kip grinned eagerly, nodding at Sarinah almost approvingly, even if his gaze lingered a little curiously on her person now that he was here with her outside of the Queen, "I'd stay an' watch jus' for th' fun, but I've got drinkin' to do. Vern, you comin'?"

"Oh, well. S'early yet, but aye?" The lanky human had most of a biscuit in his mouth but he smiled anyway, somewhat stupidly. Both men shoved their plates at Lil' Mo, who took them as she finished her washing in a little soapy bucket near her stove. The pair cast lingering, amused glances at Tristaan and Sarinah before waving and wandering up the docks. There would be more work to do later in the afternoon—one last ship for the day.

Lil' Mo was the last to leave the passive and the witch alone, waiting for the lithe dancer to finish her meal before she smiled, "Ye can spend time in th' warehouse, but no funny business. Ye know what I mean, kids." The small woman cackled, her implications obviously devious as she wagged her griddle at Tristaan, "Jus' 'cause I serve breakfast don't make me an inn."

"We're jus'—oes." The passive smirked, chagrined and embarrassed by her implications, but also amused that Mo would find it necessary to tease him at all.

The short human laughed and sauntered away, waving her hand dismissively and leaving the two alone in the reluctantly warming sun as it sparkled above the horizon and off the water of the harbor. Standing, the dark-haired passive stretched before he reached up to tie back his hair, tilting his chin when he was finished toward the small warehouse currently full of spice crates and a few odds and ends, the bay doors open to the breeze, "Y' ready? A bit o' stretchin' an' we can see what you're capable 'f."

Tristaan smiled and led the way, his sleeves already rolled up and shirt already untucked from the earliest house spent unloading cargo. He did remove his belts as they walked, careful with the flintlock at his side, setting his things on one of the many large, Mugrobi-marked boxes that filled the small space. There was enough room to maneuver in, however, and as the dark-haired passive paused to slip out of his boots and wiggle his toes on the dirty, wooden floor, he looked at the lovely witch,

"Speakin' o' trouble, I didn't get y' 'n any more, did I? I mean, you're here, so, maybe no', but tell me straight, ye chen?"

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Pre-Dawn

Sarinah offered up another small chuckle at his words and a nod, delighted by the wick’s confident comments. They don’t know you, so who cares? She liked it, and couldn’t help but grin back.

Hope yer hungry, chip.

The dancer turned her head away from Tristaan as they approached the group, finding her hands filled with a plate piled with more food than she could possibly eat. Shifting her dark eyes to the short human, she smiled warmly.

“Mujo ma, rosh.” The witch said with a nod at the smaller red haired boy that waved. Finding her way through the group, Sarinah flinched a little closer to Tristaan as the bigger man, Jon, stood and kicked his crate towards her. He clearly had problems with either herself, or the grey eyed man, and the brunette couldn’t help but drop her gaze to her plate with a small frown. She knew the wary look, she’d seen it before. Not at herself, but at the Queen’s birds. Jon thought her a tumble, most likely, and not to be trusted. She couldn’t blame him, it was true that none of the lovely words or gentle touches were genuine, not in that place. They were strategically trained to coax as much going as possible from men looking for love...or lust.

Taking the seat with a quick smile at Tristaan, she tucked into the meal, closing her eyes and savouring the taste of the salted meat with a sigh.

“Wo chet! I haven’t had anything this benny for a clocking long time. Mujo ma.” She said to the shorter woman known as Mo, dipping a piece of the bacon in her egg almost indulgently, with another satisfied sound. As she ate, the dancer looked up at Vern and Kip with a warm smile. She liked the two men, even if one of them had done clocking nothing at the Queen when Tristaan had been hurt. She could see it though, Kip was in no way ever going to hold his own in that situation. Not for long at least.

“Fotamos kovs. Benny to meet you.” The brunette said as they passed, waiving with her bacon free hand. There was more than she could finish, and with a shake of her head, she handed the plate to Tristaan as she finished the piece in her hand.

“It’s so good, but I can’t eat anymore balach.” Looking at Mo from her seat, Sarinah blushed and glanced away, unsure whether she was joking about the two of them or about her current job. It seemed motherly almost, without malicious intent, and so she looked at the grey eyed with with a small embarrassed smile.

“Oes rosh.” She muttered, nodded to the woman as she left them be. Standing with the wick, she glanced at the doorway of the warehouse, reaching up to twist her thick black locks up and around themselves into a high bun. Looking back at Tristaan, she shielded her eyes from the peaking sunrise with a one eyed grin.

“Ready as I’ll ever be I guess?” Following the man into the building, she stretched her triceps as he removed his belts and boots, arms one at a time up and over behind her head to touch her shoulder blades. Standing on one foot beside the large box, she lifted a bare foot behind her to stretch her quadriceps, before switching to the other one.

“Ne. Ye didn’t.” The young woman said softly, leaning down to grasp an ankle with straight legs to stretch her hamstrings, pulling gently so her chest and stomach were flat against her thigh and shin. She switched to the other side, before straightening and shaking out her limbs.

“I...I did talk to Bridgette though. And Scarlett.” Standing barefoot on the floor, she faced the man with a shake of her head.

“Ent...ent really sure what to do to be honest Tristaan.” She said softly, dark eyes searching his face for a moment, before she waved a hand.

“I’ll figure it out, ye chen. Just need some time to think.” Unwilling to drag the man into the mess even more than she already had, Sarinah smiled.

“Right, where do ye want me?” She asked, glancing around the room with no idea where to even begin.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

Lil' Mo took all of Sarinah's compliments with a smile, her watchful gaze on her crew as if to make sure everyone behaved themselves in the dancer's presence. She may have even chuckled when Tristaan was handed leftovers, aware that what the dark-haired man may have lacked compared to most in stature, he made up for in appetite.

The passive grinned, of course, eager to take the lovely witch's plate, "Y' sure, rosh? Y' may need it." He taunted her, wanting to make sure she knew he wasn't playing. When he still ended up with the plate in his hands, he didn't waste time or food, "Mujo ma."

Hardly resistant, he seemed to object more to Mo's teasing than anything else. Her words embarrassed him because he knew the older, diminutive woman had a rather accurate understanding of the personalities of those under her leadership. Her words were hardly a judge of the witch's employment, her grin and tone making such things evident, but she said them nonetheless for either her own edification or just as a reminder of Tristaan's status as her employee of sorts.

Once alone with Sarinah, the pair took some time to stretch. Tristaan did his best not to let his grey-eyed gaze wander or linger, made very aware that he neither had a dancer's well-practiced grace nor her admirable limberness. To his credit, he had just been unloading crates from a ship for two houses, those six hours more warming up than anyone actually needed for a few self-defense lessons,

"Y' what? So y' did talk to folks ... an' they told you that y' were stuck, didn't they? Scarlett, especially, I bet. She said y' don't have an out, I'm guessin'." The dark-haired passive didn't need to know the actual words, listening to the way the lovely witch attempted to avoid the subject, feeling her confusion as she looked at him thoughtfully. Tristaan frowned, not liking the way things sounded for her and this contract, for an opportunity for her freedom, "Vrunta. I jus' made things worse, no' better. Epaemo. They ent gonna tell you anythin' useful. Jus' have t' figure 't out yourself. Well, ne, don't leave me out in th' dark, ye chen?"

He meant that, too, not because he felt obligated to help out of guilt or pity, but because he was rather passionate about freedom, especially for those who didn't deserve what they'd been handed. The passive may have had a general problem with authority, but the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke were no exceptions. Being stuck almost just as ambiguously, only without even a sheet of paper between his so-called debt and freedom, Tristaan was just as eager to find his own solution as he now was to find some way to help the lovely witch.

"Where? Well, uh, oes, I've got some ideas, but you'll have to trust me." The thoughts that came to mind for a tick or two at the way she worded the question were enough to elicit a chuckle from the dark-haired passive, which he quickly quieted, blaming Lil' Mo's warning for putting any such distractions into his mind at all, "Let's jus' start by figurin' out whatcha can an' can't do, eh? Give me an idea an' don't hold back on m' account. Ent gotta worry whether I can take 't 'r no'—I'll be fine."

His plan was somewhat unorthodox and perhaps more risky to himself than anything else, but Tristaan didn't give any further instruction so much as quickly step toward the lithe dancer, immediately closer into her personal space than would have otherwise been appropriate. He reached with one calloused hand for the dark hair she'd just tied back, a motion that had all the clear signs of an attack. While he was hardly the height or the bulk of the laoso bastard that had harassed her nights before, he moved with a similar intention, to trap her in an unexpected grasp and invite her to defend herself. Maybe he should have warned her or at least made the suggestion she be ready, but in his curiosity to discover her strength and her instinct to fight back, he simply went with surprise.

The passive was faster and far stronger than he looked, but he possessed enough control of himself that he neither sought to hurt her or actually pin her should she choose to retreat instead of strike back. His free hand was ready to defend himself if necessary, depending on her choices, aware that this element of surprise could definitely get him in over his head if he wasn't prepared.

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Pre-Dawn

“Bridgette has a contract, but she ent stuck. She’s working for her ging. Actually choosing to stick around and…I don’t know. Why would anyone choose that clocking life?” The witch said with a scoff and a shake of her head, frustrated again by the conversation the night prior. She looked down at her hands, brow drawn angrily as the conversation burned fresh again in her mind.

“Scarlett she…she said I ent got anything to payout, because I’m not indentured? I signed something that says Hawke owns me…terms of usage…something like that. She told me to talk to Hawke about it, it ent her call, but…dze…I just don’t know.” Biting her lip in thought, the dark eyed woman glanced up again with a small smile at his comments, flattered by his concern, unable to hide the fact that he was right without her even saying as much. Scarlett’s thinly veiled threat danced on her tongue for a moment, but with a sigh, she pushed the words away. It was too much to talk about now, and the witch was afraid if she did approach the rest of the conversation with the kind wick she’d probably end up in angry tears.

“If anything I can say for sure Tristaan, ye ent made things worse. Not from where I’m standing. If it weren’t for ye, I wouldn’t even know I might have a chance to get out. Mujo ma. Again.” She laughed then, knowing she’d said thank you so many times already this morning that it seemed ridiculous to hear it again. But it was true. As the scarred man chuckled to himself, she raised her eyebrow with a questioning glance and moving to stand a little more centrally in the open space they had to work with. Admittedly, the resonance of the chuckle in his chest was a pleasant sound, one she would be happy to hear again.

“Trust ye, oes, sure.” The dancer said softly, resting her hands on her hips as he spoke, unsure what to do with them as she stood there facing him.

“Sure kov. I ent sure I have much to work with, but I ent gonna hold back. Do I just—wo chet!” Sarinah said with a grin that quickly disappeared with a gasp as without warning the grey eyed wick came towards her rapidly, hand reaching out for her hair. Her heart pounded a million miles a minute as she backpedalled with wide eyes, tilting her head back and one arm reaching to grab at his wrist in an effort to push his hand away, the other extending out against his chest. She had no technique or approach, like a scared animal she scrambled to get back, away from his reach.

“Ne, wait! What are ye doing?!” She stammered, stumbling to a stop against on of the large crates behind her. Wrapping her hand in his shirt, the brunette dragged him into her knee as she forced it up into his abdomen, terrified by the sudden movement and panic in her eyes as she tried to push him back away from her.

Mung moony chip, what are you doing?! He ent attacking you really!

“Epameo Tristaan! I didn’t mean to—“ Sarinah gasped, hands reaching out again, this time to rest against his shirt with concern as she suddenly realised what she’d done. Her olive cheeks darkened again with embarrassment, ashamed by her reaction.

“Vrunta, I…are ye okay kov? Please don’t be angry. I ent good at this.” The brunette said with a wince, still wary and breathing rapidly as the fear subsided. Given the beating he’d worn the days prior, it was doubtful that she’d even hurt him, but she couldn’t help but ask.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

"Y'ent indentured. You're a slave. Clockin' Hawke an' ownin' everythin' that catches his fancy in th' Harbor." Tristaan hissed, scratching an imaginary itch on his right bicep with a twisted expression of disapproval creeping over his face, "I've jus' showed y' th' truth, but that didn't solve nothin'. Can't thank me—yet."

The dark-haired passive saw her fear once he moved to surprise her with a mocked attack, aware that she trusted him and that his motions were probably a shock. She backed away at first, which was expected, stepping out of his reach but grabbing for his wrist, her other hand moving to keep him at arm's reach with a palm against his chest. He opened his mouth to answer, but her fingers curled into the unbuttoned upper half of his shirt once she felt the pressure of crates against her back. The lovely witch was strong, lithely muscled as a dancer, and while Tristaan's grey eyes widened for a moment in worry about exactly where her knee was headed, his free hand moving to block her should her aim be more personal in nature, he allowed the full force of her defensive kick to dig into his abdomen with an exhale,

"Benny—" He groaned with a smile, her hands that had once pushed him away reaching again for him in concern and he allowed them with an eagerness he shouldn't have. His fingers brushed over hers briefly in assurance, shaking his head, "Ne. Don't apologize. I surprised you 'n purpose. Epaemo. That was benny. Now I know what I'm working with, ye chen?"

Tristaan winked playfully, taking a step back with only a hint of reluctance and moving them away from the crates to stand in open space again, "You're strong an' your first thoughts were t' fight back, no' jus' t' stand there an' take it, rosh. Now, I can show y' a few ways t' do better an' harness that strength y' hide behind a pretty smile, oes? Some toft 's gonna think y' be soft jus' 'cause you're a chip, 'cause he thinks you're jus' another tumble."

He was just another scrap. Or, most of the time, just another wick, narrow build belying the muscles of hard labor and travel. In his opinion, being underestimated was an advantage, and one he took advantage of often.

His compliment was shy, however, gaze wandering from her face while he spoke of her attractiveness out of coyness before he looked back at her with focus. Her touch affected his pulse and he heard it—combat was not the excitement for him in her presence and he reminded himself that he wanted to help her first, flirt with her more later. Or, at the same time. Both seemed acceptable when he was this close to her blushing face. His smile faltered with his distracted thoughts and it was his turn for the hint of color to grace his aquiline cheeks for a brief heartbeat or two,

"A'ight. So, let's first work on keepin' hands where y' want 'em—away from your person. If someone's grabbin' for you—which seems t' be somethin' you'd get mant manna 'f at th' Queen, eh?—here's a few things y' can do." Nodding at her to raise her hands, "You want t' move m' hands out o' th' way, t' open th' space between you an' th' toft, ye chen? Reach for me an' I'll show you, then we'll switch. Go on."

He'd parry her grabs from the inside, raising a hand to gently shove her arms outward from his person, deflecting her reach and leaving her body suddenly open for a response of some kind. Tristaan didn't make a move to hold her, however, simply wanting to show her how to deflect unwanted touches. After giving her a few demonstrations, revealing that his point was to create opportunity as well as just keep the opponent from getting the contact they wanted, he paused,

"I'm gonna let y' give 't a try, but, here, let me show y' a couple 'f follow-ups first. So, y' see how open y' are when I move your arm over there, right? So, go for th' places that hurt—a palm in th' nose like this—" The dark-haired passive shoved the heel of his calloused palm toward her face in an upward motion, one that would have smashed her nose had he actually made contact full force,

"—or th' throat here—" Again, this time with the side of his hand, he stopped just before actually hitting her, displaying both his prowess and his self control, "That's for anyone, ye chen? Don't matter who. Those two places 're gonna stop someone long 'nough for y' t' get back. But, you've got a good kick, Sarinah, so don't waste it. Step out a lil' an y' can go for th' knee—"

Tristaan demonstrated, stepping back once he'd deflected her arm outward to one side and letting a bare foot hover near the outside of her knee, "—outside 'r inside, it's gonna hurt if y' smash it. Any direction against a knee's gonna do somethin' an' that's what y' want." He took a moment to show her a couple of options for injuring the knee of an opponent before he stepped inward, a little closer and shifted a knee upward, stopping long before his motion became at all inappropriate with a smirk,

"'Course with laoso luggers like that bastard at th' Queen, y' jus' go for th' sensitive bits an' you're dustin' in style." He grinned then, stepping away and changing his stance a little in order to invite her to practice, huffing a few stray strands of dark hair from his face,

"Ent a man that's gonna recover from that quicker 'n y' can get away, rosh, so long as you've got 'is hands off you an' kick him clockin' hard 'nough first. Here, I'm gonna come at you an' you're gonna try some o' those. Jus', y' know, not too hard, mujo ma. I, uh, like all my parts th' way they are."

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Pre-Dawn

The brush of calloused fingers across her own, however disappointingly brief, were like little electrical currents across her skin. Sarinah smiled, her concern washing away with his playful wink and reassuring words. As he stepped away, she pushed gently off the crate to follow him back into the open, heart still pounding in her chest. It hadn’t helped to slow down, his brief touch and warm grin sending a rush of giddy delight through her.

“I’ve fought, just...probably not very well. And it was some scrawny golly sod, so ent sure it was much of a fight. More of a scrabble.” The brunette said softly, vivid memories flooding her mind with a turning feeling in her stomach, reminding her of times that had been too close for comfort. Tristaan commented on her perhaps unrealised prowess, but it was his other words that caused her to chuckle again, unable to stop the smile that he’d complimented. It was almost too much, watching the grey eyed wick avert his gaze with a slight blush of his own.

Gods. It wasn’t just her then?

“Uh. Alright, oes.” Sarinah said brightly, shaking herself from the lingering color on his features to try and focus on the task at hand. Nodding, she lifted her hands as he’d demonstrated, listening carefully and trying to envision his words.

“Oes. Okay. Outwards. Sounds benny.” She did as he asked, looking at how his arms moved, from the shift of his hands to the turn of his shoulders. It left her wide open for an attack, feeling vulnerable in doing so, which was exactly what it needed to do. The raven haired dancer met his gaze with a serious face as they practiced a few more times.

“Oes. Feels like I ent got control of this. Very open.” The young witch did her level best not to flinch as Tristaan demonstrated a couple of moves, one to the nose and the other to the throat. She held her breath each time, releasing it with a sigh when he didn’t make contact. They’d moved then, and her mahogany gaze followed his leg, wincing at the thought of someone landing a hard kick at any of the places on her knee. It was enough to cause not just pain but damage.

“Ye’ve done this a lot, haven’t ye balach.” Sarinah said matter-of-factly, a statement rather than a question, her eyes meeting his again with a frown. He’s mentioned in the Queen that evening, the Soot district and the beatings. She’d briefly seen his old scars, but as the wick moved to show her his tricks, the dancer saw it. This wasn’t just a thing here he’d picked up, Tristaan has done this. A lot. Maybe for his life. The witch felt her heart sink a little, heavy with a kinship that had formed between them. Such different lives and yet, so similar. She wondered, how much had he suffered? There was more to his story, and by Alioe she wanted to hear it. To share a mutual friendship built on broken pasts. He’d listened to more than enough of hers already.

The servitude hardened wick came closer then, moving as though to bring his knee into her groin, stopping short of anything considered inappropriate. His comments made her laugh suddenly, a free and unbridled thing away from the acting and the falsities of the Queen.

“Seems like that might be the right place to start kov, knees and noses aside. Right where it hurts, oes.” Shifting her stance, she made a small motion to indicate this time, she was ready for him.

When he came at her, Sarinah moved her arms, just as the man had shown her, clumsy at first. It took more than once to make the movement more organic, less jerky, but each go brought a slowly growing grin of delight to the dark eyed dancers face. She experimented, blocking and forcing her palm up, much less forceful than Tristaan as she didn’t have the control to stop short like he did. It was serious, and she concentrated on each movement, but occasionally a giggle would escape when she lost her balance in a kick or her hand aimed for a nose but got a chin. As time passed, she felt more and more comfortable with the man, relaxed even though they were sparring.

“It ent much different to dancing this!” The witch said with a smile, deflecting his hand and holding his wrist to tug the more experienced wick into an imaginarily forceful knee to the groin. She took another step, experimenting and taking the movement further to turn into the man, raising her elbow and ‘forcing’ it into his throat, still holding his wrist from across her body and looking at her target over one shoulder.

“Wo chet! I can do this.” Sarinah said with another laugh, absolutely thrilled at the realisation that she could do this, entirely lost in the moment.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

"Scrawny golly, huh?"

Tristaan chose not to comment, no longer able to take such things as personally as he would have years ago. He wasn't a galdor. He was garbage—the unwanted scraps from a galdor's table. Nothing. No one. His more compact, lithe and almost graceful frame had been dismissed as scrawny for much of his life, and, again, the dark-haired passive had grown to appreciate the assumption. Still, her admission most likely had a story behind it, a story he guessed had to do with the blonde tumble's comment in the hall after his bath. Scarlett had attempted to sell her body before, and it hadn't gone well. Losing a galdor's coin must have been quite an annoyance.

She attempted to follow his blush, however, and he shook his lingering thoughts with a roll of his narrow shoulders, demonstrating and listening to her observations as he led her through some simple defenses.

"Oes. Been fightin’ for somethin’ ‘r fightin’ someone since I was ‘bout eight years' old." Tristaan answered just as matter-of-fact, a hint of hurt in his tone. He looked away from her frown, suddenly uncomfortable under her curious scrutiny as if somehow she could see the passive beneath the trail dust of spoke life and the salt of the Harbor he wore on the outside, "It weren’t by choice, no’ back then. Jus’ t’ live. Sometimes jus’ ‘cause I spent a mant manna maw angry. Now, it’s by choice. I’d rather not, but I ent able t’ sit by an’ let wrong things happenin’ without tryin’ t’ do somethin’. Sometimes I jus' need th' ging t' eat."

The dark-haired passive’s smile was wistful, and he felt the urge to tell the lovely witch more despite the fear that weighed him down and the doubt that sought to drown him into silence, but she laughed and it was beautifully distracting. Tristaan grinned, wanting to hear more of that sound than his own clocking voice telling his own worthless stories. She teased about the effectiveness of certain defenses and he could only smirk back at her, moving to give her a chance to practice what he'd just gone over.

While his motions were steady and controlled, hers were shy and clumsy at first. He didn't hesitate to reach and correct her with a palm to her elbow or calloused fingers lifting her hand higher toward his face. A few times, he'd adjust her stance with a brush of his bare foot or the lean of a hip, their proximity allowing him the freedom to touch her as needed, mostly thoughtless and focused in his instruction except when she giggled or when something unexpected and silly happened, as it was bound to do with such physical practice. He'd grin and laugh back at her, less awkwardness between them so much as amusement, far too content to find an excuse for an extra moment steadying her balance than to be embarrassed,

"Dancin'? Oes. Th' two ent so different—" Tristaan's grey eyes widened when the lovely witch caught his wrist, almost instinctually moving to evade when her defensive knee moved toward places no one really wanted forceful knees, only to laugh in surprise as she stepped inward and twisted her body toward him, her elbow cutting further comments short as she held him in check. Sarinah was grinning, victorious in the moment, and the dark-haired passive realized he'd missed an opportunity for an immediate follow-through with the press of her body against his.

She'd caught on quickly and he should have complimented her, but the dark-haired passive was grinning somewhat stupidly instead. Tilting his head to free himself from the aim of her elbow, he leaned to speak quietly, purposefully near to her ear, the rush of her pulse somewhere beneath the olive skin of her neck tantalizingly close to his lips,

"Benny. Now, how 'bout a few advanced moves for th' advanced pupil?" Letting her keep her hold on his wrist, wrapped as it was across her person, he shifted behind her, pressing forward to tangle a leg with hers, sweeping to unbalance her while he turned from her grip, strong enough to toss her outward from his person. He was laughing, for it was very much reminiscent of a twirling outward motion of a dance partner from some party around a campfire for a heartbeat or two, only it was clear his intention was to force her to the ground. Though, he didn't follow her despite the rush of temptation to do so, instead allowing his calloused hands to move gently with her person to make sure she didn't fall too hard. Standing over her as if ready to attack her again, he gave instructions instead,

"Tuck one foot up there, oes, keep that knee up like a wall, an' then use th' other leg for kickin' t' keep someone back. Kick th' knee, kick th' good places, an' if someone's close enough, y' can kick 'em in th' face. That should give y' some time t' get up an' get back. Ent no point grabbin' for someone, jus' get some good kicks in t' get away."

Once he'd given her a few opportunities to practice keeping someone away from such a compromising position, he'd offer his hand to help her up,

"Sometimes y' ent fightin' 'cause y' want to. Sometimes, y' jus' want t' get away. No' like y' got good help there at th' Queen, but still." Tristaan rolled his eyes at his reference to Wesley as well as his friends, none of which bothered to intervene.