Hands Off The Merchandise [Tristaan]

[Raksha]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Late Afternoon

The beauty of the Rose was something not many people appreciated. Mostly, they saw the dingy unbelly of beast with its drunks and pirates and unsavoury activities. But when one stopped, at just the right time, in just the right place, she was not a beast but an elegant tropical maiden swathed in blues and greens of the island. Dusk was one of those times, the sunset approaching and leaving the Rose dressed in a blush of pinks and purples laced with orange. For one to catch this moment, down on the beach or out in the harbour it was a sight to behold.

Unless you were Wesley Mallukon.

The beefy wick had grown up in the Rose, just a kid under his mother’s feet and his father’s belt. He’d been fed and such, raised well enough he supposed, but still it was a harbour life. He’d fallen in with the wrong crowds as a teenager, big enough that everyone wanted to be his friend, and no one wanted to be on his bad side. It hadn’t taken long to get the attention of a one Silas Hawke, and with hard fists paving the way, Wesley became one of the Bad Brothers. He’d started on the Vein, keeping the merchandise safe from prying eyes or sticky fingers. He thought he’d been doing alright, alright enough for a promotion. When he’d been given the job to switch to bodyguard-aka-security for the lofty red headed Madame, the burly man had been unimpressed. By promotion, he’d excepted moving to be the King’s right hand man, or something of the sort. Not the Queen’s lapdog.

Still, he’d come to find had its own personal perks. Certainly not enough to make him a nice guy, but enough to make the ‘promotion’ worth it.

“Hate the sunset.” He muttered, spitting into the dirt of the street as he walked towards the docks, shielding his eyes from the glare of the light. Beside him walked a tall thin human with dark lanky hair and a scar across one cheek, the other side a mugrobi wick almost as large and beefy as himself. The mug made a sound, rubbing a hand over her cropped red curls and grunting.

“It’s clocking magical Wes’. Ent no one told‘ you that?” From the other side of Wesley, the lanky human snorted, picking his nails with the tip of a thin dagger.

“Magical. Sure. As magical as Scarlett’s hairy—“ The burly man grabbed him by the shirt and growled.

“Shut your head Dom. Both of you. We gotta find this Tristaan fellow. Last I heard, he’s down here on the docks. Shiphand or something for the King. You’d think he’d know better, working for Hawke, not to mess with the goods. Stupid bastard.” Letting the man go with a shove, Wesley’s hazel eyes scoured the dock, looking for the short firecracker of a wick.

“Is this a talking to, or a talking to?” The mugrobi woman said with a grin, adjusting the bandages on her knuckles and flexing her field slightly. Sneering, Wesley rubbed his bald head and laughed wickedly.

“Whatever it takes to keep his nose outta the King’n’Queens business Takii. He thinks he’s top shit, and now the Dove’s got some fuckin’ bee in her bonnet.” Dom groaned, wetting his thin cracked lips with his tongue and grabbing his breeches.

“I’ll give her a bee for her bonnet.” He growled, and they all laughed, eyes scanning the dock for their man.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

Tristaan appreciated the sunset—just not today.

Growing up in the Soot District on the Arova River, sunsets were a rare sight for the passive who often worked fourteen hour shifts from first light until dark. The few and far between he did get to glimpse were never enough, but when he was finally free, the setting sun from the back of a kint sure was a clocking nice view. He could remember his first sunset from a ship at sea, too, just a few years ago, and the open ocean was both terrifying and beautiful. Old Rose was sort of the same, really—full of some very lovely things if you knew when to look (or, in his case, even when you didn't) and full of some very ugly things you didn't really want to see but didn't have a choice about.

He should have, perhaps, been a little concerned that his day had almost been too good, almost been too nice, that unlike the sunset which didn't promise rain, a storm had been building on his horizon instead. Jonathan would have told him as much, but thank the Circle that natt bastard hadn't said a word. Somewhere in his gut, he knew he'd willingly stepped over a line he shouldn't have but it had been quite some time since insults had cut him so deeply or stung so harshly.

To be fair to the lovely witch, jent was entirely new territory for the passive's list of things that hurt him—that blood was fresh. Words like scrap were far more comfortable against his scarred, tanned skin. He could wear that one like the ink on his bicep—it was his right. But golly? Galdor? Jent? No. He was none of those things. Nor would he ever be as far as he understood things. Liar, sure. Nobody, fine. Refuse, apparently.

The dark-haired passive had stuck around the warehouse for an extra hour or so even after everyone had tried their damnedest to drag him out again. Tristaan had refused, lingering because he needed the quiet, lingering because his thoughts were jumbled and no amount of drinking was going to unravel them without turning into violence and taking the entire tavern with him. The dark-haired passive was desperate not to deal with his hurt in all the wrong ways, but it was difficult.

He shouldn't have said anything.

He should have kept his mouth shut.

He should have waited for a better time to tell the truth—no, really, there was no better time but the beginning of things. What had he thought was beginning, anyway? He'd just pissed away a friendship because he had to be so clocking honest all the time, but wasn't that what real friendships were for?

Godsdamnit, his genes really were a curse and he hated it.

Restless and fiery, he forced himself to sit on the deck of someone else's galleon that he'd spent the late afternoon emptying of its contents, bare feet hanging over the water while the vessel bobbed in the Harbor waves, he watched a steam-powered boat fade over the horizon with the brilliant, dying sunlight glinting off the waves. He knew he could stop and count all of his mistakes, run out of fingers and toes, and give up. He had many, and all of them seemed to hang like a shadow over Old Rose, but the lingering warmth in his narrow, scarred chest told him that Sarinah was not one of those mistakes.

Dangerous? Yes. Hawke's property wasn't anything to mess with, that much even he knew.

Worthwhile? Tristaan had learned early in his magic-less son of a galdor life what was worth fighting for and what wasn't. He'd already made up his mind about the lovely witch, too.

Or, at least, he had. Until he went and fucked it all up being the balach again.

Movement caught his attention as he weighed his choices, and while the passive was about to call out to tell someone he knew to quit trying and clocking bugger off, but he recognized Wesley immediately—the burly wick who'd been too busy taking advantage of his job perks between the Mistress' legs to actually be doing his job protecting her property.

Grey eyes narrowed as the dark-haired passive took in his two companions—a Mug woman as burly as he was and some lanky natt. Outnumbered was not a problem he considered, but he was, perhaps, outfought. Slipping back into his boots, he stood on the deck of the galleon and brought calloused fingers to his lips for a loud, clear whistle, brazenly attracting their attentions and flashing them the most wicked of grins, a fire in his chest smoldering and crackling to life with a dangerous need. Slipping over the railing with well-practiced ease and dropping to the dock, Tristaan made sure the flintlock at his hip was visible as soon as he began to walk toward them, even if his sharp, pointy objects on his belt and in a boot were not,

"Hesta. Can't tell one ship from another, kov? Yer Queen's no' seen a pina manna o' water for far too many maw, so you'd best turn 'round an' head back th' way y' came, ye chen. Y' can't even do your job, though, so maybe y' are a lil' lost out here on th' docks." He was sober, and while the dark-haired passive could probably handle one or two of them, the three of them was going to be a problem if this was going to be a physical altercation.

Not that she wasn't worth the beating, that lovely witch. He'd already proven that she was. Not that he didn't deserve it, either, because he did. But he'd take as many of them down with him first.

He didn't really need to be told what they were here for—he'd put ideas of freedom in Sarinah's head and opened her eyes to the truth of her situation. He'd showed her kindness and given her more of his time than he should have. Time that any other sod off the street had been begging to pay for but not been given, not yet. He'd been honest and had his words shoved back at him sharper than any knife. Tristaan ached and he hid it from his expression, hid the wounds the lovely witch had carved into his heart with her words, hid his frustration behind a smirk and sarcasm, longing to spark something with these interlopers just to feel their fists,

"I'm sure y' ent come t' me for directions."

[Raksha]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Late Afternoon

“Look out Wesley, this your man flexing his neck here?” Dom asked with a curled lip, pointing out Tristaan with the tip of his knife as the man stood whistling and waving on the dock. Beside them, Takii flexed her field and cracked her neck.

“Bottom of the spice rack, that one. Maybe he’s soft in the head?” The burly bald wick sucked on his teeth, running a hand around his belt and laughing softly.

“Nah, keep your eye on him Brothers, he’s not as moony as he looks.” The approached the wick, Wesley eyeing the flintlock with a chuckle as though it was a bad joke. The grey eyed man ran his mouth, clearly not afraid of the trio, or at least wearing enough bravo to appear that way. Not quite close enough to be physical yet, Wesley clasped his hands together and stood before the scarred dockhand, Dom off his right with his knife and Takii on his left with her fists and her vodundun.

“You know, I said to Dom here, what’d I say Dom? He ain’t as moony as—”

“He ain’t as moony as he looks.”

“He ain’t as moony as he looks, thanks Dom. But then, here we are out for a nice evening stroll and here you are just insulting us. Not even provoked right Takii?”

“Not even a bit Wes—“

“Not even a bit. Not even a little.” Sucking on his teeth again, the burly man hooked his thumbs into his belt, glancing down the dock and back again, before settling on the wick again.

“You working alone, Tristaan? Seems bit dangerous to me, out here in the Rose. What with the....unsavoury sorts that get around. Tell you, the King and Queen were pretty chuffed with your good deed the other night. Taking a beating like that requires some brass, you get me?” Lifting a hand to his face, Wesley scratched his cheek and made a face.

“Probably could have walked away with that little victory, had yourself a bit of warmth for the night and been on your merry way. But then see, Scarlett got a personal visit from Mistress Dove, didn’t she Dom?”

“Oh yes, real personal Wesley.”

“Yeah real personal. Thing is, kov, Mistress Dove comes to Scarlett with these funny notions about..what was the words Takii?” The mug shook her head with a chuckle.

“Paying herself off.” Wesley snapped his fingers, in an overly acted moment of realisation.

“Paying herself off that’s it. Paying out her contract, or something. Now, who could have given the bird an idea like that Scarlett wonders. And it occurs to us, that the only person who could have done that...” He slowly pointed a finger at Tristaan with a tilt of his head and a wide grin.

“Is you.” Turning his hand, as though questioning the assumption, Wesley narrowed his eyes.

“Hawke ain’t particularly keen on his personal property being tampered with, ye chen? At least, not when it could impact the flow of coin from patrons hands to his own. You, good sir, are tampering with his property, and he ain’t impressed.” Dom giggled with a leer, licking his lips eagerly.

“Dipping from the honeypot without paying your due either, maybe? Hawke’s got a business to run spoke. Can’t be stealing from him. That’s bad.” Wesley nodded, smiling at Tristaan with a shrug.

“So we’s here, to advise you, man to man, to keep your...nose outta the King’s business.”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

No match for magic, Tristaan was made suddenly aware of how outnumbered he was by the Mug's field. Not that Wesley didn't have a faint one of his own, either, but he'd already dismissed the burly sort as too stupid to bother with that sort of thing. Grey eyes studied the two extra thugs warily, maybe a little flattered that the lascivious bouncer felt the need to bring so much help along just to confront a scrawny son of a galdor like himself.

"Well, I'm gonna be honest here, epaemo," Tristaan hissed, exhaling a disappointed sigh through his teeth, belittling them with every syllable, "I'm no' real impressed that 't took th' three 'f you t' put your heads together jus' t' get those few words out, Wesley. I'd have hoped th' Queen had better standards in their help, but I were wrong." The dark-haired passive hooked a thumb in his belt and rest his other hand on his firearm comfortably, licking his lips in thought as he considered both their version of a warning as well as the truth.

He had, indeed, helped to show Sarinah the reality of her situation and attempted to find a potential solution for her. He may even have kindled a friendship with the lithe dancer that felt very comfortably like something more. Or it had for a hot minute or two until he just had to be honest and ruined everything. Her words hung heavily in his heart, anchors drowning him in feelings he was usually so good at tucking away. He couldn't seem to hold them all back this time, dashed hopes of anything meaningful with the lovely witch like shards of glass in his chest. It seemed as though he'd struck a nerve with Scarlett in the process, for now the lovely witch was self-aware of her betrayal. He'd put her at risk, however, and he could hear the threat to more than just himself in the burly wick's words. Tristaan let the surge of anger that burned under his scarred skin trickle into his veins and flood his thoughts, ignoring his own usual warning to himself that he actually needed a clear head to take on three opponents should this come to blows.

Who cared? If they left him a mess on the docks, he was just scrap anyway.

No, he was worse—jent—that singular insult had bored through him like a bullet and he still tasted the metallic sting. His words were still in Sarinah's defense, however, for no matter what in Alioe's name she said, no matter how he'd made her feel, she still deserved something more, she still deserved the truth:

"Oes, I spoke up. I ent done nothin' I don' have th' right t' do, bein' free an' all. Her contract's chroveshit an' we both know 't. She ent makin' wages, so she ent an employee. She's a slave an' I told her such. People ent property. I ent sorry." The dark-haired passive's tone was deadpan, without threat or bravado. He hid the hurt and worry of his words behind a straight face, steely gaze holding Wesley's in the absence of fear. If they were going to beat him, it wouldn't be anything new for the man. He welcomed the thought of a bit of physical oblivion lest he have to linger on Sarinah's hurt, angry face just a handbreadth from his own. He just wouldn't go down without a fight, though the tingle of regret that gnawed at the back of his neck made him wish he wasn't alone.

"Everyone's got a price. Everyone. Whether Sarinah's makin' money for th' Queen an' linin' Hawke's coffers 'r she's worth 'nough t' pay for her freedom an' a replacement who'll make jus' as much in her absence, it ent like she doesn't have some kinda worth. She does. You're all too lazy t' come up with a number because you're all waitin' for another one o' those right offers from some other clockin' rich jent so y' can sell her body. I ent stupid. Come up with a number, an' I'll pay it." Tristaan sneered then, willingly taunting them with how well he understood the situation,

"I'm already th' King's business. He an' I have a score t' settle 'r else I'd have dusted already. I ent gotta keep m' nose outta nothin', but he doesn't own me. N' one can anymore. I ent done anythin' except be a friend—" If that was the only lie he told, it was a white one. He no longer hoped himself Sarinah's friend, though perhaps he also wrestled with the loss of offering her something more than just friendship, their parallel stories an enticing comfort now in pieces because he'd risked telling her the truth. Too aware of what he couldn't have and how horribly things had gone, the dark-haired passive was afraid of those mistakes, more afraid than he was of the three thugs threatening him in the ruddy glow of a fading sunset, "—you're th' one who can't keep his hands t' himself while on th' books, it seems. You're stealing'—did y' tell Hawke 'bout your benefits with Scarlett' r should I do y' th' favor, kov?"

Tristaan was outright antagonizing the burly wick now and he knew it, turning the threats back on Wesley because he knew he'd been busy with his employer instead of defending the property he acted so suddenly concerned about. He was already cheating Hawke, moreso than Tristaan was, and the scarred man wasn't about to let him get away with it if it gave him an edge in Sarinah's situation. He knew his words were now fighting words, and he didn't veil the shifting of his stance, calloused fingers restless over the smooth wood and metal of his pistol, "Been gettin' paid in service instead o' doin' your clockin' job—th' job I did for you that night ... an' better than you, too, from th' sounds o' things. Maybe y' should be here offerin' me that job instead o' complainin' an' posturin' like the laoso lugger y' are. So, let's jus' call it even an' you take your talkin' heads an' go home, ye chen?"

He would be shooting that Mug first, right in the gut, if he had to. He didn't need her clocking vodundun in his way, even if it meant letting Wesley get a few swings in. Maybe he wanted to feel them anyway.

[Raksha]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Late Afternoon

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC

Raksha rolled 1d6 and got a total of 3:
3

Wesley grinned into the insults, knowing a cornered stray when he saw one. Tristaan was a stray, but he had teeth. The night in the Queen was clear of this, so the man might be big but he wasn’t stupid. Besides, he had a job to do, even if the shorter man’s words were ringing a little true. Dom’s eyes flicked to the flintlock that Tristaan stroked, watching carefully for any sign the bastard was going to draw it.

“She signed the paperwork herself spoke. Anytime she could have read the words written write there in front of her. Clear as daylight, anyone could have seen the details of her…usage. Not Hawkes problem the tumble didn’t bother to give it a once over.” The burly man said with a shrug, wicked knowing grin on his face. It was a dig, a provocative stab at a truth that couldn’t truly be argued, but a truth that was used as a purposeful deception. Sarinah couldn’t read. Scarlett knew it. Match made in heaven when it came to contracts on her person.

“Look, Hawke’s in charge of all that. If there’s a price, then he’s the one to name it. And last I heard Scarlett told the witch she’s welcome to go ask him about it.” He raised his hands in nonplussed shrug.

“’course if she does, there’s no guarantee her current arrangement with the Queen will hold up. There’s some heavily ging being tossed around for that very very nice pound of flesh, if you get what I mean.” Takii laughed, and the lanky human on the other side muttered something obscene about what he could do if he had the coin, all the while Wesley kept his eyes on the wick. They played a dangerous game, taunting each other till one folded first.

Would be that the first to fold could also be the first to die.

As the mouthy wick continued to talk, Wesley’s smile turned slowly to a frown, and finally a scowl. He pointed a finger at the man with grit teeth.

“Think you’re so fucking smart do you? How ‘bout you do the job for a while. Looking after poxy tumbles day’n’night, having to drag their filthy erses from the beds when some blokes had too good a time and throwing them in the baths. Tossing lice riddled luggers out when they get too big for their britches. I could be up with Hawke and the Brothers, where it matters. Instead I’m left watching the animals.” He took a long deep breath, trying to come back to the threatening false calm he tried to maintain. Bringing his hand down across his face, Wesley chuckled.

“That bitch, she thinks she’s too good to bend over and take it like the rest of them. And Scarlett’s too scared to see her out of action again, last time cost Hawke more than the jent paid for the privilege. Might be after we’re finished here, I’ll ask Hawke if I can take her for a spin. Sure I can do a hell of a lot better than the last guy.” He laughed, before looking at his companions.

“Let’s have a little chat with this goney.” With grins of delight, both the Brothers moved to act. Takii drew her field in, spoke’s monite beginning to drip from her mouth and arms coming up towards the wick, working to root the man in place. Dom drew a second knife, holding them both at the ready to advance on Tristaan once Takii’s spellwork was complete. The spell worked, sort of. Tristaan would feel like he was standing in thick sucking mud, but he could still pull himself free with a good tug.

Wesley cracked his knuckles, eyes fixed on the wick.

Oh, this would be fun.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC

Shooting the Mug:
Muse rolled 1d6 and got a total of 6:
6

Getting Unstuck:
Muse rolled 1d6 and got a total of 4:
4

Rushing Dom:
Muse rolled 1d6 and got a total of 6:
6

(From here.)

So, uh, Tristaan may have outright killed that poor Mug. Sorry. He got himself unstuck, and I'm leaving it up to you what to do with that 6 as he rushes Dom and attempts to pistol whip the shit out of him. Enjoy.

Wesley's words were too much. He was aware that everyone was just waiting for the next better offer before handing the lovely witch's body over to someone else, and the dark-haired passive didn't really want to imagine Wesley's actual job when he bothered to get his pants on and do it. He didn't. His threat, though? That was it. Sarinah was too good for the Mad Queen, just like she was far too good for himself,

"Y' wouldn't know what t' do with a real rosh, anyway, too used t' bein' allowed sloppy second's from th' Queen's floor an' crumbs from th' King's table." Came the rumble of defiance, a brazen insult at the thought of Wesley anywhere near the lovely witch, no matter how angry her words had been, no matter how much he felt as though he was already bleeding before he'd even started fighting.

Tristaan stopped listening after that, the motion of the Mug's rather strong field catching his attention even while the glint of steel caught the edges of his vision. His heart smoldered darkly and he could almost taste the ash of regret, but this clocking wick and his twisted employer were totally on his shit list now.

He probably should have hated magic, being that the mona ignored him, abandoned him, stripped him of his place in society. But, he didn't. Not really. In his spoke life after running away from Vienda, he came to appreciate what he had been deprived of, seeing how wicks could so easily manipulate what his galdori people held in such high regard—low magic was still magic and he sort of enjoyed the snub to all of the prim and proper noble expectations galdori seemed place around the stuff. Still, just because the dark-haired passive appreciated vroo didn't mean he wanted it directed at his person, and just as he was weighing his options, he felt the spell wash over him, legs heavier as if he'd waded too far out into the sea or stood still and let the surf bury him in so much wet sand.

Godsbedamned magic—maybe he hated it a little after all.

But not as much as it hated him.

Instead of moving right away, however, instead of struggling, instead of making an idiot show of himself, he tensed, hand on his flintlock made restless by anger and the fire Sarinah's words had ignited in his narrow chest. Tristaan was quick and sure—human ingenuity had brought this blackpowder magic to the masses, after all—and he fired with only the briefest of glances at the Mugrobi vroo, the loud crack of his firearm ricocheting off the warehouses loudly in the quiet of early evening. He'd aimed for the tall, dark-skinned wick's gut, a slow, debilitating, painful death without intervention, and he was close enough that the bullet tore through flesh and clothing to clatter bloodily on the dock behind Takii without apology.

The dark-haired passive didn't wait to see the results of his one and only shot, however, gritting his teeth with the effort to unstick himself from the wick's magic as it faded with her concentration. Dom was approaching, and the mercenary was eager for it, anticipating the sting of his knives against his tanned, scarred skin the way a hearth anticipated kindling before more flame. Tristaan wanted it, welcomed for just a few moments the blessed, familiar, needful escape of pain.

He was less than, after all. Lower than an animal—fed after them, beaten harder than any lazy beast of burden—he'd grown up in Vienda nothing but a scrap, and now he lived his life as a lie.

He deserved it. Whatever was coming to him—he deserved all of it.

Wesley was too cowardly to come at him first, the burly bastard letting his crappy cronies do the shitty work first. That was fine with the dark-haired passive, for he was ready. Once unstuck, his steely gaze flicked briefly to the bouncer before he met Dom's gaze with a wicked grin that could only be described as inviting.

Free from the grip of the spell, Tristaan leapt at the knife-wielding wick without a thought of concern for his person, shifting his grip on his trusty old firearm as he shoulder-rushed him and swung with all his pent-up hurt and lithe, factory-earned muscle, aiming for his face with the metal butt of his pistol. His free hand was up and ready to block or grab at a wrist, aware that two knives in all the wrong places were not just going to hurt, but end his struggle for good if he wasn't careful.

Despite the blur of anger, the dark-haired passive did his level best to keep all of his opponents in his field of view, vaguely hoping to be aware of their motions even as he moved to beat the taller, slimmer, cut-ready wick in front of him to a bloody mess before he felt a knife between his ribs instead. He didn't want to waste this moment, he didn't want anything to be over too quickly, no, for what he really wanted were Wesley's fists. He longed for them like he'd hoped for the warm brush of Sarinah's fingers with his own. If she wanted nothing to do with him, then he wanted everything to do with more hurt until he just plain forgot to keep fighting for the nice things today.

[Raksha]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Late Afternoon

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC

Dom dodge for Tristaans pistol whack
Raksha rolled 1d6 and got a total of 3:
3

Dom kick to the guts
Raksha rolled 1d6 and got a total of 5:
5

Wesley's throw across the dock
Raksha rolled 1d6 and got a total of 3:
3

Dom grinned as he stalked towards the wick, taking his time knowing Takii’s spell was doing its work. He could see it, the dark haired fool didn’t move, rooted firmly in place. They could all see it, and Wesley chuckled, ready for the beat down the cocky gutter trash deserved. It was going to be clocking beautiful.

Then, there was a movement, a firecrack of sound and light that echoed off the dusk darkened dock. The lanky human yelled in surprise, his eyes wide as Takii made a sound of pain. His attention turned to the woman with loose jawed shock.

“Aw…yar’aka…y’oveka wika…dese..desem…” She stammered, holding her gut where red blood soaked rapidly into her clothing, seeping between her fingers and dripping onto the dock. The large woman staggered to her knees, coughing heavily and spitting up thick globs of bloody phlem. Her eyes looked up at the human for a moment, before she fell forward onto the wooden ground with a heavy thud. Dom turned back, daggers grasped in either hand, teeth grit with rage.

“You killed my Takii!” He screeched, eyes wild and flecks of spittle flying from his mouth as he advanced on the man, even as the dying mugrobi’s spell faded away along with her field. Wesley balled his fists, his face dark. The flintlock was a once off, he’d expected the shot. Clocks, he'd even expected it levelled at his own lugging head. What he hadn’t expected was a kill shot.

Hawke was gonna be pissed.

The wick leapt for Dom, catching the angry human Brother off-guard with his speed and unexpected strength. Yelling angrily, Dom moved too slow to block the blow, catching the butt of the pistol across his forearm and knocking the knive from his grasp. It fell to the wooden deck with a clunk, and Tristaan would hear a satisfying crunch come from the human’s weaker tibia. The other knife wielding wrist was caught by Tristaan, but Dom had been around the Rose long enough. He lifted a foot to kick at the hard shite’s guts, getting some space between him and the wick. The blow would knock Tristaan back, winding him slightly but not taking him down.

“He broke my arm! He broke me fuckin’ arm!” The human wailed, holding his arm against his chest and sweeping the dropped knife away with a swipe of his foot. Shifting hold on the knife in his good hand, Dom began to advance again, stopped by a meaty hand on his shoulder.

“My turn.” He snarled, moving at speed and reaching for Tristaan with both hands to pick the wick up to throw him across the wooden dock with a grunt. Luck would have it, the man rolled rather than bouncing, and would find himself recovered quickly and back on his feet with nothing more than a bit of a shake up.

Both men were coming for the dockhand, Wesley’s face a mask of hatred. He was going to end this stop-clocker.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC

Sneaky karambit
Muse rolled 1d6 and got a total of 1.

Feinting/Slicing Dom
Muse rolled 1d6 and got a total of 3.

Using Dom as a human shield
Muse rolled 1d6 and got a total of 4.

Results:
1 = Everyone saw that weapon, meaning Wesley is also aware. Obviously Dom is because Tristaan cut the bastard with it!
3 = Tristaan got a slice in across Dom's chest, but he was prepared for it. It's still gonna hurt and be bloody, but it's far from game-ending.
4 = Tristaan has a bit of protection from whatever Wesley does next thanks to Dom's body, but he's still open to both Dom and Wesley together taking him on however they'd like.

I probably won't roll next round, so do your damage. Mwuahaha.

Tristaan hadn't intended to kill the woman, and as Dom shouted at him, he didn't have time to look and confirm, didn't have time to let the wave of guilt drown him. Maybe she deserved it, maybe she didn't. Maybe they all did, but he just couldn't care right now, forced to shove any more feelings away.

He could only keep reacting, keep moving, and the taller, lanky human was a quick one. He felt the crunch of bone ripple through him from the forceful impact of his pistol's metal butt end against the other man's arm, a strange sensation when it wasn't his own, and he quickly dropped the weapon once Dom howled. He was about to grab for the arm the wounded man cradled to his chest, to curl fingers into what he'd smashed and subdue him when the other man's foot lodged itself in his stomach and he hissed, not giving his opponent the pleasure of a pained sound as always. He attempted to shift his stance according to the fiery hurt that clawed through his gut when Wesley finally got off his lazy erse and stepped in.

The dark-haired passive snickered, welcoming the hurt but not fast enough to shift his stance and resist the grab of the burly wick. He was forced to hastily prepare himself for impact instead, twisting his body so he could roll to his feet instead of allowing the full force of the man's toss to bring him down too soon. Before he leapt up again, Tristaan let a hand stray to his boot, sneakily attempting to snatch for the small, curved karambit he had hidden in there without being noticed and curling his calloused fingers around the leather-wrapped handle. Barely two inches of wickedly curved blade stuck out from the bottom of his fist, just enough for a nasty follow through for a punch or a quick, needful slice.

He chose not to ignore Dom entirely, aware that while the human now had a broken arm, that didn't mean the wounded dog had lost his bite. He just had to keep the lanky man between himself and Wesley for a few thunderous heart beats. Leaving Wesley for the last was going to be his downfall, and the passive knew it somewhere in the back of his furious mind.

The burly wick would be on top of his freshest game while Tristaan would be winded, and it would cost him. Maybe too much.

Not that it mattered.

He'd just be another stain on the docks left to fade under the sun. No one really cared.

The dark-haired passive feigned a swing for the taller human's face, making it look like he was attempting to uppercut the wounded man when instead he stepped further inward, dropping his already compact center of gravity and using the follow-through of his forceful motion to drag his blade across Dom's chest, raising his free arm in preparation for defense against the knife he knew the laoso natt still held and could still shove somewhere into his person, either by knocking the unbroken arm aside or grappling it to keep it still, whichever opportunity came first.

He knew he left himself open for Wesley, and part of him just couldn't bring himself to care. Tristaan kept his forward momentum, turning his body into the human after his swing much as Sarinah had while they were sparring, shoving his back up against the man he'd just bloodied in order to use him as a momentary shield against whatever advance the wick was making, grey eyes wildly attempting to take in the situation while anticipating pain from every angle.

text

"Y' heard that, right, Mo?" Jonathan grumbled, looking down at the diminutive woman as they walked down the pier toward the warehouse, strangely together as the last afternoon house faded into the first evening one.

"Aye, I did." She smirked, but there was worry in her tone. Blushing because she knew her limitations, she waved a gnarled hand in front of her. "Go on a head, Jon. I'll catch up."

The larger man nodded and took off jogging up the salty wood of the boardwalk, unsure of what to expect but aware that Tristaan had refused to come drinking with them. He knew the dark-haired wick had been pissed, assumed things hadn't gone the way he wanted with that tumble—whatever he'd wanted with her, anyway. But even if gunshots weren't uncommon in the Harbor, the crack of a flintlock seemed to have come from too close to their part of the docks. Too close.

Hiking her skirts, Lil' Mo reached for a small pistol she kept hidden there in a comfortable spot against her thigh before skittering quickly to join whatever was happening.

[Raksha]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Late Afternoon

The glint of the short pointy end of the blade was visible even in the dusk light, catching was little there was like a mirror. Wesley saw it and growled, looking around the dock and spotting a collection of cargo waiting for the morning’s load. He kicked it hard, splintering wood pallets. Reaching down, he tore a large piece of wood off and wielded it like a club, moving close behind the human.

“Argh! You bastard half-breed!” Dom shrieked, seeing the blade coming and trying to lean back. He wasn’t quick enough though, the sharp blade catching his chest in a bright red arc. Reactively, he swung with his own knife at the passives face. The protective arm Tristaan raised deflected the blow, and it sunk into his shoulder a few inches. As Tristaan continued to move, grabbing the lanky man’s broken arm and electing a shriek from him, Dom stumbled backwards loosing his grip on the knife now jutting from the dark haired dockhand. Coming in thick and fast, Wesley took a step and swung the makeshift club towards the passive. In an almost comedic turn of events, Wesley’s swing caught Dom in the back of the head and the human dropped like a ton of bricks. The momentum of Tristaan’s movement meant that he continued to stumble backwards, tripping on the unconscious man and landing on his back hard.

“You’re mine now pretty boy.” The bald wick snarled, stepping over to the downed man and throwing the club aside. He reached down to catch the passive by the front of his shirt and punched the man soundly across the jaw. Dropping him, Wesley pulled back a foot and booted him hard in the ribs and the torso. He pounded into the man, unaware of the large human running down the dock at him.

“Get’off him y’filthy bastard!” Jonthan roared, launching himself into Wesley and tackling the bald wick to the ground. They went down in a flurry of fists and curses, rolling across the wood. Wesley had the advange though, and he rolled Jonathan over to smack the man fair in the nose.

“You stop right there, or I’ll put this bullet through your skull lugger.” A commanding small voice said loudly, Lil’Mo standing with her pistol levelled at Wesley’s head. The wick paused mid second swing, holding his hands up and moving to stand as Jonathan writhed on the ground holding his nose.

“Fair enough chip. No need for that. Just delivering a message from the King to your man over there.” He growled, thumbing in Tristaan’s direction and licking his bleeding lip. Lil’Mo glanced at the scene on the dock. A dead mug, an unconscious human, and her two boys battered and bleeding. Her eyes narrowed on Wesley, gun still perfectly level.

“Think y’made y’message known Brother. Tell Hawke he gets it, loud n’clear. Now we’re gonna take our fellow there, and sod off.” She tilted her head at Jonathan to help collect the man, nose bleeding on his shirt as he got up. The knife still protruded from Tristaan’s shoulder, and Jonathan refused to pull it out. That was healers work, not his.

“Y’ stupid kenser. I told y’ that tumble was nothin’ but trouble.” He muttered as he worked. As the trio moved, Wesley watched with a bloodied grin, pointing a finger slowly at the injured passive.

“Keep that one away from the Queen, you understand? I see him back there again, I’ll fuckin’ end him. No questions asked.”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

The dark-haired passive grit his teeth and growled in frustration as Dom slammed his knife deep into his shoulder, but he grit his teeth and kept moving, calloused fingers curling into the human's broken arm and twisting cruelly, rolling smashed bone between his fingers until the lanky man howled and attempted to stagger away from him. Only Tristaan held him a few ticks longer, using his body as a shield. Turning and ready to reach for the knife hilt in the corner of his vision while pressing himself against Dom, he heard Wesley's voice before the burly wick smashed his own companion in the head instead of his opponent.

Thank Alioe!

Tristan was slower than he should have been, twisting in an attempt to get away only to have a meaty fist grab his shirt—a move which seemed to be Wesley's signature thus far. He would have opened his mouth to make a comment had the wick not punched him square in the face. He tasted the metallic hint of blood from his own cheek, sneering at the beast of a bouncer before Wesley dropped him roughly, refusing to gurgle in pain even as the other man's heavy boot found his ribs while he attempted to roll away, unable to find an opportunity to stop the assault.

Jonathan's voice rang out and Tristaan saw the blur of his friend's hulking form tackle Wesley. He may have smiled, but groaned instead, desperate to breathe despite the wildfire of pain each movement of his lungs made in the cavity of his chest. The dark-haired passive curled inward and rolled to one side, unable to reach to dig the knife out of his own shoulder because he was too busy wheezing. Attempting to get to his knees, he heard Lil' Mo's voice and looked,

"Jus' shoot 'im, dammit!"

He groaned, coughing and spitting blood onto the salty wood of the pier, ignoring Jonathan's angry warning even as his broad-shouldered friend helped him up. Tristaan slumped against the natt with a gurgled sound of pain, his upper body ablaze with hurt and strangling his ability to breathe, "I'd like t' see y' try an' finish what y' started. Betcha can't."

He sneered at the burly wick even as Mo resisted the urge to smack him with her pistol. She picked up Tristaan's firearm and kept her dark eyes on Wesley, letting Jonathan handle dragging the heavy, muscled passive down the pier and away from the dead Mugrobi and whimpering Dom.

Jonathan grumbled as he all but carried his friend in his arms, "Told y' to stay outta that spitch."

The dark-haired passive was cursing in deep Tek, clinging to the large human with tears of anger and hurt streaming down his bruised, bloodied face. Every time his breath hitched, a flame danced through him, threatening his vision.

Scrap. Jent. Garbage.

Maybe he should have let Wesley end him.

"Son 'f a—Mo, y' should've shot 'im."

"Shot Hawke's man? Greymoore, 'r ye conscious? I work for 'im, too. An' so d' you. Don't let that witch make y' stupid, even though by th' looks o' ya, it's too late. Ye done killed that Mug, Tristaan. Th' King's gonna be pissed, no matter what kinda clockin' debt you claim t' owe him."

"I don't care. I'm nobody anyways. He can come for me his clockin' self." The passive groaned almost despondently, allowing himself to be led away.

"C'mon, Jon, let's get him patched up at Nehu's an' tucked back in his room. Maybe if'n he sits there long 'nough, some sense'll leak through."

"I doubt it."