Getting More than You Wanted (Tristaan)

Old Rose Harbor is Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld.
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Gaelin
Posts: 22
Joined: Fri Mar 22, 2019 1:15 pm
Topics: 6
Race: Galdor
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Writer: Thaumaturgy
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Sat Mar 30, 2019 12:32 am

Berret Park • Old Rose Harbor
on the 9th of Intas, 2719 • 15th Hour
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Winter was really starting to get on his nerves. If the low temperatures weren’t enough, the cutting winds certainly would push a person’s tolerance over the edge. Gaelin couldn’t remember a winter being this bad before. Then again, he’d never lived somewhere with such a high humidity during the cold seasons either. It was as though the air were biting at his skin with frigid teeth and the wind sought to turn his blood to ice. Holding his black winter cloak tightly around him helped a little, except his face was still exposed. Ice crystals were forming on his well-trimmed mustache as he traversed down the street of the trader’s market.

For some time, there had been reports from Vienda about a drug epidemic. The choice of vocabulary was perhaps a little extreme, or merely foreshadowing what was to come if serious action wasn’t taken. Now that he was stationed in a nexus of trade among the Six Kingdoms, it seemed like tracking opiate movements would be an excellent idea. For a couple of days, Gaelin had been roaming around without his Seventen uniform and asking around about something referred to as King’s Crop. It was a popular drug of choice in Old Rose it seemed. But there were a few whispers of something else, Drake’s Tongue. The new opiate was more expensive, but supposedly stronger too.

After asking some carefully worded questions, he had been given a name of someone he should talk to. A witch by the name of Suhna Famir. Word of mouth said that she could be found in the trader’s market, which was what had brought him out on such a dismal day. Today, he had his black and green uniform on underneath his winter cloak and a heavy jacket. For the moment, he looked like just another cloaked figure trying to stay warm. Just like Suhna. She was wearing multiple multiple layers of multi-colored fabrics to fend off the cold. Her long brown hair was combed down over her ears and braided together under the chin to insulate her head without a hood. Tattoos resembling constellations decorated her high forehead, but not other body paints were visible in her current attire.

The wick was moving from street to street, talking to several people for various lengths of time. Gaelin followed at a distance, observing for definitive proof or an inclination that she was circulating drugs. For hours he watched and saw nothing to confirm what he had heard. But there was a gut sensation that she was involved. The wick moved from stall to stall, and kint to kint in the market. All the while, not appearing to purchase anything. Gaelin was almost ready to end his observation when he finally saw it. A group of teenagers approached the wick rather suddenly. Her brown eyes measured them suspiciously and soft whispers were exchanged.

Gaelin moved to a closer spot to watch, and saw money passed to the wick from each of the teenagers. Suhna gave them all something in return. Small packets that each of the quickly tucked away into their coats and pockets. Then they all scattered. Gaelin raised an eyebrow before turning his head to avoid making eye contact with the wick. Was she selling, or where the teenagers selling on her behalf? Slowly, Gaelin turned his head back to see what she was doing. She wasn’t there. Gaelin moved closer to the place Suhna had been last as he looked around for her in the crowds. He caught a glimpse of her before she rounded a corner.

Following suit with a fast pace helped warm him up a little. Standing around to be berated by the winds had caused his fingers to grow stiff. Squeezing his hands helped to improve the circulation to his fingers even if the motions were a little uncomfortable. Suhna was heading south towards Berret Park. Gaelin didn’t know much about the place, but had been warned that he should be careful when he was in that area. As they drew closer to it, Gaelin hastened his pace to brisk walk, hoping to close the distance.

“Suhna?” he decided to call out when they were both in a side alley. The witch stopped and turned to find the source of her name. Watching him approach, she took a guarded posture. Half turned away as though she were ready to run in an instant. Gaelin raised his hands in a non-threatening posture. “Don’t run. I was told to see you.” Gaelin slowed his approach but kept his hands up. Moving slow was excruciating when a clear arrest was so close. The way she was eyeing him did not improve his confidence, which was suspicious.

“Exactly who told you to come see me?” she demanded, taking a step away from him. Gaelin stopped and began reaching into his pocket as he began speaking.

“Ruyorm said that you had some stock that I could get.” It was a partial truth, for he had spoken to a wick by the name of Ruyorm. But the man hadn’t called Suhna out by name, only with allusion. The witch appeared to relax a little at the lie.

“That so? What sort of stock did he imply that I have?” When he pulled out his hand, he had a bird between his fingers. The wick’s eyes widened greedily. “I see,” she muttered.

“I’m looking for something new. King’s Crop is beginning to seem a bit bland. I was told that you got something I’d be interested in.” The wick drew closer to him.

“Indeed, I do.” She pulled out several packets from beneath the layers she wore. “A bird won’t get you as much as that King’s Crap. But the Drake’s Tongue is stronger stuff,” she said with a mischievous smile. Gaelin stepped closer to make a trade, holding out the bird as he reached towards the packets she offered. At the last instant, he grabbed the wrist of Suhna’s free hand instead of the packets.

“I’d like to hear a lot more about this Drake’s Tongue,” he said with an authoritative tone. The bird was pocketed quickly. While its uses were limited, it had been quite an ordeal to procure the piece of underworld currency. “Suhna, you’re under…”

The wick kicked her foot at the apex of his thighs defiantely. Gaelin twisted his body so that his leg took the hit rather than his more sensitive area. Suhna began flailing, trying to get free of his grip, and shrieking loudly. Gaelin wrenched a wrist to twist her arm behind her back, and drove her against the wall of one of the structures they stood between. “If you’re quite done, I’d like you to tell me about your supplier.” What little of the side of Suhna’s head that he could see had turned into a smile. Confused by the expression, he followed the direction of her eyes to see three men running down the alley towards them.

She called out in tek to the men. Gaelin understood enough of what she said. Something along the lines of, “get this brigk off me!” What little bit of his blood that hadn’t turned to ice suddenly froze. The three men were rushing in. Gaelin reached towards the hilt of his broadsword when he noticed that each of them had daggers or clubs. He decided against drawing his blade. If he did, then so would they, which would not end well for him. Before the men got to him, he turned the witch around to face him, then shoved his hand into her face to drive the back of her head hard against the wood behind her.

As she slid to the ground, the first of the three men approached with a big punch all wound up behind his shoulder. As it came swinging, Gaelin ducked underneath and let the man go right by him. The next man waited for him to stand up before hitting him with a pair of quick jabs. Gaelin’s guard failed to come up in time to protect himself and he was staggered. The third man struck him in the gut during his recovery, and drove the breath out of him in a long column of mist in the cold air. If he didn’t do something now, he was going to be pummeled.

Gaelin took a quick swing at one of his attackers, connecting with their jaw. The hit surprised the man, but also sent a bolt of pain through Gaelin’s knuckles. Once the man’s head had turned back around, a calloused fist followed suit, striking the recruit square in the face. Gaeling nearly fell to the ground but was kept up by the man that had gotten behind him. The man pushed him towards the other two, as laughter began to fill the air.
Code Credit to Graf!
word count: 1561

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 147
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 14
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
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Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
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Mon Apr 01, 2019 2:10 pm

berret park, th' rose
the 9th of intas, 2719
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While Tristaan had dutifully listened to the words of wisdom pressed upon himself and his lovely witch about parenthood and those first precious weeks with a newborn, he must have glazed over the warning that a new infant had no concept of daylight or darkness, no need for any schedule except for their own. Linora was hungry when she was hungry and wet when she was wet and tired when she was tired in utter unconcern whether her parents were awake or asleep. It wasn't truly horrific—she was a graciously calm little thing—and to be fair, the dark-haired passive was beyond smitten with her (with both of them) in ways that no words could ever describe.

But.

He was tired.

The weather had hit Old Rose Harbor hard, freezing temperatures and rough winds icing up the docks and making sailing conditions dangerous. It kept folks indoors, stole business from some parts of the city and exploded business in others. Tristaan had fought so very hard for two weeks of unpaid rest with Sarinah and their child, having squirreled away coins with a tenacious sense of self-sacrifice in order to make sure they were kept warm and fed during the brief respite together, huddled in their drafty flat as a new family.

Regardless of sleeplessness or finances, however, eventually someone had to go out and do the shopping. That someone was, of course, himself.

Bundled up against the biting, lung-burning cold, the dark-haired passive had slipped away from his sleeping lover and their sleeping babe, gentle kisses for them both before he stoked the fire and layered up, knives in their places and pistol needfully slung at his hip because this was the godsbedamned Rose and the frigid weather wasn't enough to keep every clocking ersehole at bay. While Tristaan could handle himself just fine unarmed, he had a family now. He had a life to live and an employer that expected him back in one piece at the end of next week for yet another headline fight in the Arena.

The markets were struggling, trade slowed by the weather, bodies unwilling to sell their wares in the cold. There was barely enough to pay coin for, the dark-haired man able to scrape together sad, frost-bitten produce and ice-preserved meats, decent cheese and fresh bread for a weeks' worth of meals with his typical charm and a few tired, haggard smiles. He hadn't shaved in a week, but he'd washed plenty. It was one way to keep warm in their rather poorly kept tenement building, and everyone had to do their part to make sure the pipes didn't freeze, after all. It had happened elsewhere, even in some of the wealthier neighborhoods, and so far, thank Alioe, they'd been blessed despite the wrenching cold to keep running water, especially with a baby to care for.

Satchel full of goodies, hidden beneath his hood and scarf against the sharp winds that still managed to slice through his layers and cut at scarred flesh, Tristaan chose to a route home that didn't bring him close to the icy docks where the wind was even more harsh. Instead, he began to weave his way through familiar side streets and buildings, having long-since memorized much of the Harbor in his time here.

The sounds of combat weren't unfamiliar to the dark-haired passive, and, here in the Rose, some kind of street fighting was practically an every day occurrence. Grey eyes caught a glimpse of the struggle at the edges of his vision while he passed by a particular alley, and he would have kept walking had he not caught a glimpse of green. There was something unmistakable about the shades of a Seventen uniform, and something even stranger about the way the color picked at some scab buried deep within his mind. He'd made a promise once, but the gods had betrayed him.

Everyone knew that the majority of brikgt here in the port city weren't at all worth wasting a thought on—so many of them on Silas' payroll that they were practically honorary Bad Brothers anyway—but it was perhaps that knowledge that gave the passive pause. Pressing himself against one of the building's icy walls and slipping his heavy backpack full of groceries silently to the cobblestones, he earned himself a brief moment to study the faces of the ginger officer's attackers, recognizing the crumpled woman and at least one of her thugs as interlopers who did not serve the Harbor's King in her dealings.

Shit.

Tristaan had swift choices to make and was painfully aware that stepping into whatever was happening could, of course, backfire in his face, freshly minted fatherhood be damned. Still, the idea of rounding up a handful of rivals for Hawke did have a nice flavor to it, the possibility of buying even the hint of good graces for a breath or two favorable indeed. Besides, it was only one galdor and if the officer proved himself in need of making an arrest of someone who came to his aid to save face, well, the passive had bested a jent before. He certainly wasn't afraid to do it again.

Tucking all of his hard-earned food out of view lest someone come upon his purchased treasures, the passive made his decision, though he left his firearm at his hip for fear of attracting any more attention than necessary. The men were armed, better muscled than the tall galdor considering they were a mix of human and wick, and as much as the passive enjoyed the kinds of assumptions made about his narrow-framed self, he was well aware of the power hidden in his compact form and the weapons he wore concealed on his person.

Rolls, Part 1Show
SidekickBOTToday at 12:39 PM
Muse: 3d6 = 1, 5, 1

1= No one notices Tristaan's approach.
5= Tristaan draws his weapon.
1= No one notices Tristaan's attack.

Taking advantage of being unexpected, of lacking a field and otherwise unassuming, Tristaan moved quickly toward the two men whose backs were to him while they laughed at the officer they'd already battered, attempting to decide who was going to hold him while the rest of them gave him what for. The thugs were busy enough not to notice the swift stranger, and distracted enough not to notice the small, curved knife slid with cold fingers from his belt, and even thicker still not to notice the magicless son of a galdor step behind one of the larger men.

Reaching up with well-practiced force, Tristaan's gloved hand snaked around the taller man's shoulder, fingers roughly cupping his chin and yanking him backwards with moderate success, stepping with his full, deceptive weight into the back of the wick's left knee in order to stay persistent. He paused for a breath, allowing the surprised man his moment to raise both his arms in an attempt at defense, growling a string of curses through clenched teeth in surprise and inadvertently giving the passive his perfect chance to shove his blade hard into the thug's armpit, easily slicing through thin, time-worn and low quality layers of fabric to dig the curved knife through soft flesh, yanking the thing back toward himself, digging mercilessly for his axillary artery.

Rolls, Part 2Show
SidekickBOTToday at 12:39 PM
Muse: 2d6 = 2, 3

SidekickBOTToday at 1:06 PM
Muse: d6 = (4) = 4

2= Tristaan gets his grip, but it's not an awesome one.
3= Successful armpit stabbing and artery slicing, though it's not as forceful as it could have been. He may not be entirely disabled yet, he will be soon.
4= Successful shove out of the way.

The man howled in surprise and pain, unaware that something so vital was in such a place, unaware of how quickly severing that would prove fatal. The dark-haired passive followed through with his forward motion to shove the heavier, larger-framed man over to one side, partially freeing the red-headed Seventen from the pair's grip. Bloodied knife ready again, he left the officer to his other captor and leapt instead toward the human in front of him, ready to engage the next opponent without a second thought,

"Looks like y'could use a hand here, kov."

Even as he hissed his greeting, he didn't yet let his steely gaze make eye contact with the galdor whose field was so heavy compared to the witch he loved. He couldn't do it, the uniform he knew was beneath the dark coat already making him uncomfortable and nervous, already threatening to ruin his concentration in combat.

A wounded chrove fights harder.
PASSIVE PROVERB
word count: 1577
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Gaelin
Posts: 22
Joined: Fri Mar 22, 2019 1:15 pm
Topics: 6
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Gaelin's Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Thaumaturgy
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Mon Apr 08, 2019 12:11 am

Berret Park • Old Rose Harbor
on the 9th of month, 2719
Image
Laughter was coming from all around him, which was one form of disorientation all to itself. Something was running over his left eye, warm and thick. Blood. His own blood from getting hit in the face. As they shoved him from one to the next, striking him with their fists as they received before passing him on with a laugh, his fury was rising. These filthy wicks and humans dare to strike me? Gaelin’s face was nearly as red as his hair, without considering the streaks of blood running over his face. With a quick couple of blinks, he reoriented himself as the big man pushed him towards the other two.
Gaelin RollsShow
SidekickBOT 4/7/2019 at 9:11 PM
Rolled (5+5)

A) Punching two attackers: Success
B) Defending against more attacks: Success



This time, Gaelin went with the motion rather than against it. As all his weight was going forward, a fist shot out at the wick before him, hitting the man just below the eye and causing him to stagger. The other two hooted in surprised amusement while Gaelin twisted his hips and gave the human a left hook across the jaw. The human was not affected as much as his comrade, so Gaelin brought his fists up by his head and kept his elbows tight and in front of him. The wick took a few quick steps and kicked at the galdor.

Getting attackedShow
SidekickBOT 4/7/2019 at 9:11 PM
Rolled (6+2)

A) 2 vs. 5: Gaelin blocked
B) 6 vs. 5: Critical hit


Bringing his arms down in a cross pattern to block, his forearms took most of the impact. But while his arms were down, the human stepped in and landed a perfect uppercut that whipped Gaelin’s head up and back. Backwards he went into the other man’s arms as the world spun before his eyes. It felt like he was drifting out of control, unsure of which way was up as the wind was driven out forcibly by a fist again. Then a pair of arms latched onto him and spun him around. Though his eyes were now on the ground, Gaelin had very little understanding of what was happening between the earth and the sky.

Gaelin RollsShow
SidekickBOT 4/7/2019 at 9:32 PM
Rolled (5+6)

A) 5 for dodging attack: Success
B) 6 for drawing weapon: Extreme Success

SidekickBOT 4/7/2019 at 9:36 PM
Rolled 3

SidekickBOT 4/7/2019 at 9:37 PM
Rolled 2

C) Gaelin attacks with 3: Minor Success
D) Enemy blocks with 2: Minor Success


Rolling his head around on his neck to find a good balance point, he set his eyes on the large human that was laughing at him. The other two pushed him towards the man who had his arm up and sticking out to the side, seeking to knock the galdor down by setting his arm in the way of Gaelin’s upper body. As he was sent forward, Gaelin dropped down tumble below the human’s straightened arm, rolling over his shoulder and back in a tight ball. Once his feet were back under him at the end of the roll, his hand grasped the hilt of his broadsword. Pivoting around, he drew his blade in a side-slashing cut at the only man in reach.

The human was turning around to face him as the broadsword sliced through the coat to cut the flesh of his upper arm. A yelp filled the alley before there was another set of growls and cries. Gaelin’s sight was too focused on the man he had just cut. It wasn’t a serious wound, though it likely would be painful for the man to move that arm with the muscles below the shoulder cut the way they were. Rather than wait, or make any authoritative demand, Gaelin brought the blade up to hack down at the man. The fellow didn’t have his club out and didn’t have time to get it. Desperately, he reached up to try and grasp Gaelin’s wrist to stop the attack. But he missed in his panic and found the base of the blade cutting into the palm of his hand.

Steel sliced through the man’s hand, sheering through the thin muscles and cutting into the bone until the entire length of the blade had swept by. The man fell to his knees by instinct and pulled his wounded hand back reflexively. A movement behind the man caught Gaelin’s eye, as one of the others was shoved aside. A stranger spoke towards him, though Gaelin didn’t quite comprehend what was being said at the moment. But the blood on the newcomer’s blade indicated he wasn’t an ally to these people either. While his attention was set on the newcomer, the man before him lunged forward, setting his shoulder against Gaelin’s waist and using his brute strength to lift the recruit off his feet before dropping him on the ground.

RollsShow
SidekickBOT 4/7/2019 at 10:33 PM
Rolled 1

SidekickBOT 4/7/2019 at 10:39 PM
Rolled 3

SidekickBOT 4/7/2019 at 11:13 PM
Rolled 1

A) Gaelin blocks with 1: Failure
B) Gaelin uses Static Magic 3: Minor success
C) Gaelin recoveres his sword 1: Failure


The impact was jarring, and sent pain throughout Gaelin’s back. For a moment, he lay there groaning in pain. When he finally lifted his head, he noted that his attacker was getting to his feet again, and pulling out the long metal baton from his belt. Gaelin’s blood-framed eyes widened as the man snarled at him and raised the baton up to beat him. He attempted to raise his broadsword up to defend himself, but the human’s attack was far too fast for that. Metal struck him once across the head, sending a ripple that he felt through his mind and his neck as he collapsed to the side.

With a thoughtless action, Gaelin raised his arm up to protect his head as he rolled onto his side. Merciless attacks hailed on his side and his protective arm, covering his entire left side in pain as though it were a blanket too heavy to remove. Each hit against him was like a shock of electricity from a failed experiment at Brunnhold. Eyes closed and body tightly balled, Gaelin half spoke, half pleaded in Monite. Calling to the Static Mona to bend his attacker’s baton into a useless shape. The mona seemed sympathetic to at least do something. They gathered around the baton and twisted its insides, bending it ninety degrees at the middle.

As the human looked at his weapon in confusion, Gaelin grabbed the hilt of his broadsword and sought to cut at the man’s ankles. But when he tried to swing it, it refused to move. When he had rolled over, he had settled on the side of the blade, which was now pinned down by his backside. Damn it!
Code Credit to Graf!
word count: 1297
User avatar
Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 147
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 14
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Mon Apr 15, 2019 10:30 am

berret park, th' rose
the 9th of intas, 2719

While Tristaan had both rubbed shoulders with and spilled blood alongside all races at this point in his life and while he'd been magically healed by both wicks and galdori alike in his illustrious and varied career, that motion of mona around him, always just outside of his own reach, still felt strange.

Every time.

Something about those galdori fields clawed at scars not written in his flesh but in his so-called cursed, magic-less soul.

He charged the other human anyway, the smaller-framed passive's grey eyes catching a brief glimpse of the witch—Suhna—scrambling away down the alley before his shoulder rammed the larger man in the chest, feeling the satisfactory hiss of breath from his lungs but not toppling the bastard over. Tristaan was muscle and bone, light on his feet and lithe, but the human was tall and solid and took a mere half-step backward, his hands coming up to swing wildly at his magic-less attacker's sides, knuckles finding their places in the softer flesh below his ribs.

Known for his uncanny silence when in physical pain, the dark-haired passive didn't grunt or whine, using the momentum of his charge to bring one knee up into the taller human's groin. The other man groaned, finally staggering back while attempting to snatch at Tristaan's coat in desperation to get a good grip for grappling with him, obviously hoping to swing for the target of a much prettier face. The human growled a string of curses in pain, twisting away to protect his lower half from any further blows and catching the passive hard in the chin with his elbow.

Seeing stars and tasting that familiar metallic tang as the bony whack caused him to dig teeth into his own cheek, Tristaan ducked and stepped forward again, finally swinging the bloodied knife still in his hand, the hard arc of his slash lodging the blade deep in the human's lower abdomen. The man howled a steamy cloud of suffering as the passive ripped the curved weapon upward through clothing and flesh, spilling liquid warmth into the frigid air without a second thought. Leaving the knife stuck in his opponent's lowermost rib once he caught it against bone, the passive threw his whole weight into a hard shove to finally topple the sputtering, gurgling thug. He'd sliced some good bits so he left the human to bleed out on the cold cobblestones.

It was as he was turning on the last man standing that he heard the desperate Monite, reaching for the other knife in his belt while the lugger with the baton raised the thing to strike again only to have it twist and whine with a metallic sound of protest in his hands. Grey eyes widened for only a moment, Tristaan far too used to magic used around him instead of through his own command, swallowing the nausea that crawled through his insides at the rush of sentient particles through such a narrow space—

"Havakda." Hissed the passive at the bile burning the back of his throat, runoff always such an odd experience, but he didn't waste a moment of the last attacker's surprise, aware that the Seventen on the ground was struggling with his own rather unusual choice of weapon—he'd seen plenty of blades among the tekaa, especially the tyat. Guaril, his Red Crow adoptive father, had taught him all manner of weapons. But a galdor with a broadsword like that was ... strange. Archaic. Quaint. Quirky.

He'd have appreciated the sentiment if he had a moment to spare.

He didn't. Not now.

Tristaan had the advantage of being behind his opponent yet again, but this one was now aware of him, bleeding and pissed off at the magic that had ruined his baton. Snarling in frustration, he turned the bent object on the passive, smashing the dark-haired man in the chest and raising it up to swing for his face once. Twice. Tristaan took each hit, finally shifting away before the third blow to his face could land, gritting bloodied teeth through the pain, lungs burning with the terrible cold and the sharp sting of bruising to his ribs from the magic-twisted baton. Reaching up to stop the thug's next downward strike, he surprised the poor thing with his rival strength, curling fingers into the man's wrist and twisting his arm to one side, freeing his entire torso for an under-handed thrust of the passive's last knife.

Turning his hand so the curved blade was flat, it was easy enough to shove the thing between the lugger's ribs, Tristaan landing a hard enough blow that his opponent didn't even have an opportunity to gurgle in pain. Easily puncturing a soft lung, the experienced passive blinked blood from his vision and ripped his knife from flesh while the ersehole in his grip let his baton clatter to the cobblestones at Gaelin's feet, wheezing.

Releasing the man to let him fall to his knees, slowly suffocating, the dark-haired stranger turned to the beaten galdor in uniform, ignoring the dizziness that gnawed at his senses from one blow too many to the head. It wasn't his first concussion, after all, and it wasn't his last, either.

"Y'ent gonna catch that witch—"

He stuck a foot sideways into the now-panicking human's shoulder to kick him over onto the cobblestones, very aware that he was currently operating in a mindset he'd tried to escape from, his grossly efficient, calloused mercenary self someone he longed to bury once and for all beneath the warmth and comfort of hama and fami.

An impossible dream, apparently. The shadows of who he'd come to believe he really was always crept back to haunt him.

The bloodied bodies in the alley were testimony to the truth.

Tristaan offered a gloved hand, huffing loose strands of dark hair from his face, aristocratic, delicate features hidden behind a few weeks of not shaving and slowly swelling bruises, "—but we'd best get your erse outta here b'fore th' rest o' th' Rose gets a sniff 'f your blood. Unless you're thinkin' 'f arrestin' me, too. Up y' go, brikgt."

Off Topic
I made a handful of rolls in Discord. I used them to more or less give me direction here. Thugs lost. Tristaan didn't go unscathed. Sarinah's gonna be pissed.

A wounded chrove fights harder.
PASSIVE PROVERB
word count: 1182
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