[M] How Old Exactly?

Celebrating Tristaan's birthday in all the best ways.

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 107
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
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Fri Jul 27, 2018 10:32 am

Roalis 29th, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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’Ye don’t think it’s a bit over the top, do ye?” Sarinah said to the red haired lutist, running her hands over the satiny dark burgundy embroidered fabric of the Hoxian dress that the younger woman had lent her. Kellie-Mae made a sound in the back of her throat and rolled her eyes so hard it was entirely possible it hurt, her hands moving deftly to curl and entwine the lithe dancer-come-acrobat’s thick dark locks into a simple yet elegantly Viendan up do. The musical witch had a knack for a variety of hair and makeup tricks, and had even weaved a few bold streaks of red through Sarinah’s hair, now being pinned so carefully into place.

“Mi—Sarinah. It ent over the top, it’s exactly the right amount of ‘top’, ye chen? Ye going to Vienda ma’am, for dancing and rubbing shoulders with the snobs that waive their writs like they’s proper Viendan’s. The kov‘s are looking after Tristaan just the same, and ye’ll meet him in the city, no doubt there eh? So, loosen up rosh, have some fun, enjoy the night with your hama.” She dropped the last word with a tone that implied far more devious things than the word could ever mean. The brunette laughed, blushing and smoothing her hands over the dress again. It was long, with cuff sleeves and a high button up neckline that keyholed into a diamond shape across her chest. A softly boned burgundy corset peeped from under the keyhole, before sweeping into the rest of the gold embroidered fabric and flaring out around her feet in a small train.

“Mujo ma for lending it to me Kellie, it’s macha.” The auburn haired witch grunted in agreement as she slid a silver comb into the carefully arranged chignon, it’s top adorned with simple silver filigree flowers. Her raven and red tresses were swept into a carefully smoothed and arranged updo, with a few loose locks framing her olive face. Kellie-Mae had applied kohl on her eyes in a soft smokey effect and even leant her the comb and helped pierce her ears so she could wear a matching pair of silver earrings that hung with the same filigree silver flowers. Removing her fingers from the mahogany eyed woman’s hair, Kellie looked at the scrubbed up Yelloweye in the mirror and smiled slowly.

“Ye look like a proper golly now ye do.” Sarinah frowned back at the woman in the mirror, running a hand softly over her upper thigh where the beautiful tattoo that Winslow had done sat.

“I don’t want to look like a mung jent chip. I just wanted to look...presentable. Ent no one going to mistake this witch for a galdor.” Moving away from her reflection, Sarinah looked down at the shoes that sat on the floor of the younger woman’s kint, before raising an eyebrow at Kellie who spoke a simple statement.

“Ne shoes?”

“Ne shoes.” The brunette agreed, causing the red head to huff with resignation, before diving into her chest of things and pulling out a small silver anklet. On its chain tiny silvery bells chimed ever so softly as they moved. Kneeling down, she gestured for the dark eyed woman to lift her skirt before clasping the chain around her ankle.

“There, at least ye sound macha. Just don’t go flashing y’bare feet around. Doesn’t really match the dress having no shoes, oes? Dze, it’s already late, I promised Winslow I’d have ye meet Tristaan at...vrunta what was it called?” Patting down her many pockets, Kellie-Mae looked around for her scrawled instructions, able to read suspiciously well for a wick. She made a sound of relief when her gaze landed on the offending item by her feet. Grabbing it from the floor, she squinted at the writing.

“Crosstown Court. There’s street music, and dancing I think? A proper little evening event by sounds of it.” Sarinah nodded, almost nervously pacing in the small kint.

“Crosstown Court. Okay. Oes. Do I just, do I just walk in? Or do I...” Kellie grinned, grabbing her by the shoulders and carefully marching the brunette out of the mobile dwelling and through the various tents and kints that made up the behind-the-circus area where the team lived tougher. Beyond the perimeter of the circus, there was a small moa drawn rickshaw waiting for the taller woman. She balked slightly against Kellie’s arms.

“I can’t, I mean, I don’t know...okay...in it is.” She almost spoke to herself as Kellie continued to open the door and all but shove the witch in the cab and shut the small door. Glancing at the human driver, she thumbed him a silvery coin with a nod.

“Ye get her to Crosstown Court, or so help me, kov, I’ll make yer insides outsides. Got it?” The man swallowed hard, staring at her with saucer-like eyes, before flicking the reigns to get the bird moving. Sarinah looked out the window at the younger woman with an expression that spoke volumes. Her heart was making to explode in her chest and her mouth felt dry for a moment, field as jittery as a jump bug. As they passed the city gates, the cab was stopped by two men in green crisp suits. Seventen, that was the name the circus folk had given them.

“You a resident or visitor?” He asked with a tone of little care, glancing inside the cab and around the interior before landing on the witch with a momentary look of surprise, as though expecting someone a little more wickish.

“Just visiting sir.” Sarinah said in the clearest estuan she could manage, offering the man a winsome smile. The Seventen glanced around the cab again before waiving them on with a grunt and a warning.

“Alright. Non-residents must leave before sunrise, otherwise arrested. Got it witch?” He growled, seemingly satisfied with her rapid nod and letting the human driver guide his moa past. They moved rapidly through the city, lit up with phosphorus lights and lanterns. Sarinah couldn’t help but marvel at the wonder of the glowing glass bulbs, finding their warm orange glow beautifully complimentary to the almost oppressive press of red brick and cobble stone ground. As they moved over the bridge, the performer leaned over slightly to watch the mighty Arova sweep under them, Quite suddenly, the cab came to a halt, and the human banged on the roof.

“Here ma’am.” Sarinah opened the door and stepped out, smoothing her dress again as she stood beside the carriage and close the door. Her dark gaze swept the Court with dutiful purpose. From the middle of the busy street, a band played merrily, accompanied by a few dancers of various races. Street vendors sold food and beverages, whilst others still hawked wares. It was a small caoja, but not like any one she had attended.

Walking slowly through the crowds, the young witch let her eyes roam the people, looking for the only person that mattered. Each galdori she passed sent a thrill of barely contained concern through her, as though waiting for one to fling spells in her direction.

word count: 1259

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 126
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Writer: Muse
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Sat Aug 18, 2018 12:05 am

29th of Roalis, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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"Why're we meetin' separate again, Winslow?" Tristaan was frowning already, and it was his clocking birthday. The old clown reached to adjust the dark-haired passive's cravat, only to have a firm, calloused hand smack him away, for he was perfectly capable of dressing himself. He'd spent good money on something nice, trimmed and tamed his beard, and pulled back his hair in a tidy bun. The dark colors of the suit he'd chosen complimented his tanned skin and seemed to add a depth to the sharp steel color of his eyes. He'd picked a crisp white shirt and a fluffy, cascading sort of cravat and shined his old boots with impeccable skill. Alioe, from a distance, he could probably pass as an actual—

"It's more fun?" The old clown laughed, "Nah. It's easier to get ye in separate than together. I think that was the logic. Ye sure yer okay with this?"

"Ne. I ent." Tristaan admitted quietly, his calloused fingers tracing over the knife he'd hidden at his belt, having grown used to the missing weight of his pistol at his hip after months of being far from the Harbor, "But it'll be a'right. We've been here a week already an' it's been fine. I shouldn't let all th' spitch o' m' past weigh me down an' all that, right?"

"Ye said it yerself." Winslow smiled, taking in the younger man whose confession of devotion he'd inked into his scarred skin and listened to with his own ears in the privacy of his costume-filled kint, "Ye know all the routes out. We've gone over it all. And the times of the patrols. For yer sake."

"I'd hope with a caoja, it ent gonna matter. Even guttered, I ent gonna forget m' way 'round Vienda anytime soon." The dark-haired passive smirked and pat his friend on the arm, slipping past him and out the door of the old clown's kint. Glancing to the brightly painted kint he and Sarinah shared, aware that he was leaving ahead of her, he hesitated,

"Get goin', birthday boy." Winslow laughed from behind him, watching Tristaan hover, "Don't forget to have fun."

Swallowing a retort as well as his whole heart, he attempted to tame the fear that fluttered in the cavity of his chest and writhed through his thoughts. Gods, how old was he anyway? It was his birthday and he couldn't even remember. Walking past the tents and the booths, making his way toward the road that would lead to one of the smaller gates into the city, Tristaan fished his pocket watch out of the bright, flowery brocade vest that was hidden beneath his dark jacket, calloused thumbs running over the Greymoore crest that adorned its tarnished silver exterior. Something tinkled inside when he moved it, and he slowly opened the lid to peer into its broken face. Shoved delicately into the top of the watch was a faded spectrograph. His parents, his sister, and a little boy stared back at him, vacant and distant. The watch itself no longer ticked, the face mangled and smashed with only a few pieces of glass remaining, the rest lost over years of travel and neglect.

Carefully, with the last light of the setting sun, he shifted the picture from it's snug place, curiously turning it over as if to see if the date had been penned behind it. His father's careful handwriting read:

"Ophus 39th, 26—"

But the edge had been clipped to make the picture fit into a circular spot, underneath read,

"The winter before—"

And he couldn't make out the rest, the ink having been blurred and smudged by time and tears. Just staring at the image made him want to turn around, his pulse for a moment ceasing to thrum in his ears as if his heart wanted to stop. With a sigh, he tucked it all away, back into his vest, lingering on the chain before they moved to the opposite pocket to dig out the fake writ that had been hastily drawn up for him, just in case. It stated his business with the Circus, declared him a Red Crow parse, and listed his job title as Procurement and Supplies.

Grey eyes glanced up in time to see the city walls and the small guardhouse loom into view in the ruddy glow of sunset, and Tristaan felt the tide of worry rush against the cavity of his chest. He bit his lip and reminded himself that he was no longer a helpless boy and that he was still very far from the Soot District, his passive brand hidden by beautiful ink and an expensive pair of clothes.

"Are you a resident or visitor?" The orderly brush of the uniformed galdor's field was almost an assault in itself, for the dark-haired passive hadn't been so close to a Seventen in years, if ever. He tried not to wince, the oppressive weight of the mona that refused him intimidating as it seemed to search for a response from his person only to find none,

"Visiting, sir. I'm with the Circus." Tristaan spoke in perfect Estuan, bobbing his head with a forced smile, making a show of the paperwork folded in his hand in case either of the two green-uniformed officers wanted to see it. They didn't. Not yet, anyway.

"Are you now?" Came another voice, and an older officer peeked from the guardhouse, adjusting his sash, "I took my son there the other night—you lot were, uh. Er. You weren't bad for a bunch of lower race scum."

The other officer laughed, "Fine. He says you're alright. You're allowed to stay until a house before sunrise. Otherwise, I won't hesitate to arrest your sorry erse on the way out."

Tristaan bristled, jaw clenching, diverting his grey eyes from the faces of the two Seventen and resisting the urge to reach for the knife at his belt, a heat surging through his veins even as their fields felt like they would steal his breath. No one asked him anything else. No one wanted him to take his coat off or roll up his sleeve. Neither of the galdori seemed concerned about his lack of a field. They looked over his clothes, over his piercings, and were done with him, the younger one waving him past,

"Thank you, officers." The dark-haired passive finally mumbled with no small amount of unease, unsure whether to be relieved or worried. He felt a bit of both, honestly, and with a sharp inhale, he moved quickly into the city proper, tucking his faked writ back into his vest and feeling a surge of electric adrenaline claw its way up his spine.

Vienda. Alone.

Phosphor lights flickered and yet the streets were organized and clean. Tristaan had to remind himself he wasn't in the Soot District, and instead his grey eyes followed the street signs that led him to Crosstown Court. He knew the patrols and their times for almost the entire evening, the dark-haired passive quick to commit to memory such things when necessary, and so he wound his way through alleys and dark side streets, careful not to get too dirty in the process.

Music reached his ears first, then laughter, and the din of conversation. The Court had been all lit up for the evening and vendors were set up with their wares. There was a band and an area set apart for dancing. But it was a mixed race sort of caoja. Tonight. On his birthday. However many years after his birth. Mostly wicks and humans, obviously, but a few gollies, too. Shops and businesses lined the streets outside the square Court, which must have been why so many lower races—that is, races not lower than himself—had gathered to celebrate this summer's evening. Perhaps it was a regular, weekly, summer thing to do together on this nicer end of town.

Alioe, he'd need a few drinks to enjoy himself, regardless of the day, the skittish creature pausing in the middle of Crosstown Court, calloused fingers restless over buttons and fabric far finer than he ever needed, scanning the crowd. The weight of different fields was obvious to the magic-less son of a galdor, and he felt them with idle curiosity as he meandered the crowd. Was he early? Was he late? Did he take too long on the side streets? Had something happened? There were already too many people, and he was an awkward sight. Strangers brushed past him, bumping his shoulder and he tensed, the urge to retaliate so strong in his panic that had it not for the hint of burgundy that caught his attention out of the corner of his gaze, he would have shoved the offender back.

Oh.

Tristaan didn't need a second glance to recognize the way Sarinah moved through the crowd, to be able to pick out her familiar taller, olive-skinned form under the glow of flickering paper lanterns and phosphor. As much as his mind registered who he was watching look for him, his eyes were quite convinced she was someone else entirely in her beautiful dress and fancy hair ... and no shoes. His heart lodged itself in the back of his throat and for a few seconds too many, he just stood there, dumbstruck, panic and awe feeling the exact same for a few dizzy breaths.

The dark-haired passive's smile was slow, but warm and bright. He willed his feet to move, narrow shoulders cutting through the chatting, onnastick eating, drinking, happy collection of gathered people, smile becoming a grin as if in hopes of burying the sheer terror something so lovely in his possession stirred in the darkest places of his mind,

"Sarinah." He managed her name just barely, expression utterly stupid by the time he was close enough to reach for the lovely witch, for his hands to find hers once no one else was in his way. Could he kiss her in public in Vienda? Was such a public display of affection a crime? He had no idea, so he did it anyway, planting a firmly grounding, necessary, anchoring, territory declaring, frightened, and needful kiss on the olive-skinned dancer's lips before any other greeting could be exchanged,

"Y' look amazin', hama. Olio even. I ent sure I could even imagine a vision like y' put together jus' for me."

He wasn't sober enough to fend off all of Vienda should they want to dance with the woman. He wasn't strong enough either.
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 1840
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 107
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
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Sat Aug 18, 2018 10:07 pm

Roalis 29th, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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There were so many of them, the air thick and heavy with the press of so many galdori fields, thrumming like so many hatchers waiting in the mists. Sarinah curled her fingers into her skirt, taking a deep breath and settling her field carefully, unwilling to accidentally offend someone with her nervous jitter. Standing on her toes, the witch looked over the heads of the crowd where she could, looking for the familiar man with no consideration for the fact that he would probably look different.

How different, she had no clocking idea.

Letting the skirt go again, she turned around as she moved through the people, searching earnestly for the grey eyed passive. A small seed of concern began to bloom in the depth of her stomach, what if he’d changed his mind? What if he’d never left the circus grounds? Her fingertips brushed lightly against her own tattoo again with an unconscious search for comfort, beginning to think she should return. Almost distractedly, Sarinah squeezed the coin purse that she’d brought with her tucked into the small sewn pocket in the side of the skirt, her coin purse, as though to reassure herself that there was still money in it. Her money, her share of the circus takings. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. Enough to pay her way, to—

Sarinah caught the movement of a man headed towards her, directly towards her through the crowd. Her dark eyes looked at him briefly, offering a polite smile, before preparing to move out of his way. He was a handsome gentleman, clearly well to do, with high aristocratic cheekbones and a strong jawline. Though now he was grinning, not past her, but at her. The brunette met his gaze, watching with a small frown for a moment, before a sudden wash of recognition swept over her features.

“Tristaan?” She breathed with a smile, fingers curling into his hands as he took them, her mahogany gaze roaming over him slowly with a soft laugh. Alioe, she hadn’t even recognised him. Before the dancer-come-acrobat could say anything further, she was caught up in a needful expressive kiss, the scarred man’s wrought emotions laid bare in his wordless greeting. The wick did her level best not to swoon against the very prim and proper looking passive, catching her breath when he finally drew back. She blushed, looking away from his face to roam the darks and lights of his suit, both delighted and slightly terrified of how he looked.

He looked like a galdori. But then, he didn’t. He looked like Tristaan.

He looked clocking fantastic.

“I uh…I this? Oh, oh oes, Kellie-Mae let me borrow her clothes. No idea how that chip has so many fancy things hidden away, but I’m glad she’s a benny sort.” Her eyes strayed to glance at the people around them, as though watching for trouble, before looking back at the man with a warm smile.

“Ye look, very very benny. I…I feel a little underdressed to be honest.” Sarinah laughed again awkwardly, tucking one foot behind the other as though to hide them. She should have worn those mung shoes, maybe. Taking another deep breath, she clasped both of his hands tightly and met the wonderfully bold grey of his gaze.

“I think we need to have a drink or two, oes? How about ye come with me, ye chen?” She said softly, before nodding and tugging on his hand gently.

“My buy, for the birthday man.” The witch said, leaning against the dark haired passive and entwining her arm in his, anklet tinkling quietly as they walked through the people. Sarinah had no idea where to even begin, the circus folk recommending Crosstown Court for the summer night activities and being more mixed with wicks and humans amongst the gollies than other areas of the city. Her brown eyes swept the area, following the trickle of people with drinks in hands, till she located what appeared to be a makeshift stall for serving food and beverages to the street revellers. Approaching the front, she offered a bright smile to the man running the stall, a human by the look of things with a large nose and a mop of russet hair.

“And what can I get you ma’am?” He asked warmly, green eyes taking in her attire and the man on her arm with a nod. The brunette witch withdrew her purse from her pocket and looked at Tristaan with a questioning tilt of her head.

“Two shots of Mugrobi Tequila to start us, then I’ll have a Grand Whice with a double shot of rum and hold the orange. And a…” Gesturing to the grey eyed man, she would allow him to advise of his own selection, familiar with most of the content on the drinks menu after her time in the Mad Queen. Taking out a few silvery coins as the human placed the two shots of pale golden spirits before them on the small bench top with two small slices of a dark red Mugobi lime and a small salt box, Sarinah placed them down on the counter and took one of the scarred man’s hands in hers, sprinkling a thin line of salt along the back of his hand before doing the same to herself. Taking a shot in the other hand and passing it to Tristaan as the keep moved to create the other drinks, Sarinah took hers and raised it between them.

“To good health, and good spirits. May Alioe bless your day of birth, and all other days after. Hamaye, Tristaan.” Clinking her small glass against his with a very Dove-like smirk and a wink, the performer licked the savoury crystals from her hand and downed the shot in one go, squeezing her eyes shut and shuddering as it burned all the way down. Quickly picking up the lime she bit it and sucked on the juice before hammering down the glass on the counter.

“Guh, vrunta! I forgot how much that burns!” The witch said with a laugh, taking the Grand Whice from the human keep as he presented it with a chuckle.

“Ye can keep up with me, oes hama?” She said with a raised brow, sipping casually on the mixed beverage as though it was a challenge, the soft lantern lights glowing gently above them setting a soothing atmosphere even amid the throng of fields around them. Truth be told, she was not as good at drinking as she once was, and whilst a good shot of whiskey helped in the Queen it wasn’t like she got herself drunk.

But then, birthdays were made for eating and drinking far too much. And dancing. And other things.

"Are ye okay Tristaan? If ye ent comfortable we can always find our way back to the circus. I just want ye to be happy, ye chen? Especially tonight." The dark eyed witch swirled her drink casually, looking over his face with a gentle seriousness, not wanting to leave the man feeling obliged to 'celebrate' if he chose not to. From beyond the main throng of people, the musicians picked up the tune of a waltz, the three-time music both familiar and unfamiliar to the woman at the same time. Wicks tended to play far less formally, but the gist was the same.

word count: 1278
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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 126
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
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
Contact:

Tue Aug 21, 2018 4:03 pm

29th of Roalis, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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The dark-haired passive was beaming, and for a few very precious moments, he didn't care that he stood in Crosstown Court in the middle of Vienda, he didn't care about the weight of sooty memories, he couldn't feel the brush of galdori fields taunting him. For a few very precious moments, Sarinah laughed awkwardly and smiled brightly and time stopped. Just like the broken watch hidden in his pocket.

And it was the best gift.

His jaw clenched and he blinked heavily, the weight of the world returning to his narrow, non-magical shoulders and her compliment lost underneath her self-deprecating words,

"Ne, hama. Y'are macha. Ent such a thing as underdressed." Tristaan teased her with his tone of voice, the inescapable hint of innuendo sneaking in with the brush of her fingers against his before he tangled their hands together and she tugged purposefully, inviting him for a drink,

"Only two? Epaemo, but I'm gonna need more 'n that if I'm gonna pretend this ent Vienda for th' night." He laughed, following wherever she wanted to go, welcoming the press of her familiar body against his while they walked. He couldn't help but take in the faces around them, the mix of races, the niceness of their clothes. Compared to the Harbor, it was such a disorienting experience that the dark-haired passive welcomed the thought of alcohol to soften the sharp edges, to dull the paranoia he was often plagued with both as a passive and now as a wanted man. Surely, they were safe here. On his birthday.

He could pretend.

"—Y' got some Hanged Man hidin' back there?" Tristaan knew that request was a long shot, but he was aiming for efficiency with his desire for intoxication. Something that didn't taste like a chrove's mouth would also be a bonus.

"I might." The green-eyed man smiled curiously, disappearing to gather their drinks and returning with the familiar smoky glass bottle and it's rather gruesome label, "Just for you. I got a few more if you need to come back for 'em. Hard to find, these days."

"Mujo ma." The passive smiled with a hint of nostalgia, leaning against the rough-hewn makeshift sort of bar that had been set up for the summer gathering specifically. His smile faltered handsomely with her toast, undone by her expression and humbled by her feelings, "Alioe ent blessed a thing 'til I met you, an' even that the Good Lady deemed 't necessary t' make a godsbedamned challenge. Hamaye, Sarinah."

He grinned at her, mirroring her actions with the salt, the drink, and the lime, calloused fingers lingering on the glass instead of slamming it down, squinting with a hiss. He set the glass down next to hers quietly, laughing at her challenge,

"Macha, I think y' got yer question wrong. Y' gotta keep up with me." Tristaan used the bar top to open the small, smokey glass bottle of Hanged Man with more laughter, refraining from reminding her that he dropped an angry human lugger with his bare hands while drunk the first time they met, "Jus' 'cause I ent a human-sized ersehat don' mean I can't pull m' weight with a bit o' liquor."

He paused to take a long draught of the fortified red wine, forgoing a glass because he didn't clocking need to be fancy on his birthday,

"I'll be a'ight. We ent goin' on a memory walk 'round th' Soot District tonight, ye chen? I ent gonna care 'bout where we are 'n a few more o' those—" He waggled calloused fingers at the upside down shot glasses both in illustration and in request for another round, "—an' I got you t' look at all night." Grey eyes drifted back to the crowd, to the musicians, to the dancing, and a slower smile spreading across his handsome face, "We're gonna dance, but they'd better pick it up a little 'n a bit 'r we chose th' wrong caoja."
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 722
User avatar
Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 107
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
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Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Contact:

Wed Aug 22, 2018 11:02 am

Roalis 29th, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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Sarinah blushed deeply at Tristaan’s reply to her toast, smiling with delight as she knocked back the shot with a shudder. As the passive laughed at her challenge, the olive skinned woman gave him a look of false shock, before leaning close to his ear and speaking softly.

“Mister Greymoore, I ent entirely sure ye know who ye’re up against.” She all but purred, red stained lips brushing against his skin, drawing back slowly whilst her dark eyes captured his. Reaching for his drink with her free hand after he took a deep drink, the performer turned the label to look over the imagery.

“Hanged man kov? I ent seen anyone last very long on that, so I think ye’ll be lucky to remember anything in the morning.” The brunette witch said with an arched brow, the smirk still firm on her face as she took a swig before handing it back, watching with an almost wicked chuckle as Tristaan ordered another round of the golden high roof alcohol.

“Do these Viendan’s even know the meaning of a caoja hama? They all seem so...dze...laoso. Like they’ve forgotten how music really sounds.” The human keep returned with the bottle of tequila, refilling their shot glasses with a warm grin at the scarred man. Putting her Grand Whice on the counter, Sarinah took his hand again, laying down a thin line before shifting to pick up her glass whilst still holding the salted appendage.

“If only they had a Red Crow up there, heads full of music and songs so they say.” She teased, eluding to the reputation of his adoptive tribe, before leaning slightly to lick the salt from the back of his hand and throwing back the spirit with a grimace and a sip on the lime. A whisper of Deep Tek cursing drifted from her with a cough and a laugh.

“Hakdava! That was awful.” Picking up her passionfruit infused beverage, the lithe brunette could feel the effects of the rapidly consumed alcohol already buzzing gently in her head, unable to stop a giddy giggle at Tristaan’s compliment.

“Shush balach. Ye ent so bad to look at yeself, ye chen.” The mahogany eyed wick said with a dismissive wave, before moving her free hand to rest gently against the spot on his clothed bicep where she knew the beautiful tattoo sat, her smile a little more dreamy for a moment. She opened her mouth to speak, when a sound caught her ears. Pausing, the olive skinned Yellow Eye listened for a moment. A new performer had taken the small Court stage, a lutist by the looks of him, with an air of almost arrogant confidence. He took a seat, leaning over the lute with one leg crossed, plucking a few notes.

“Ah, I know this!” The performer said with a grin, downing the rest of her Whice with a few large gulps and planting a quick carefree kiss on his warm lips.

“Ye said we’re going t’dance, oes hama? Then, come dance with me.” She coaxed him fondly, slipping her hand from his bicep to his fingertips, drawing her lower lip between her teeth with eager anticipation. Walking backwards, the wick drew the once Viendan towards the music, where some folk had chosen to dance together already in time with the familiar tune. It was a wick ballad, or at least Sarinah knew it as one. The galdori that stolled the court seemed to even find the music good, though not all, some lifting their noses in disgust whilst from the edges of the event Seventen watched carefully for any signs of trouble.

Letting go of Tristaan’s hand, the quickly tipsy performer spun in an elegantly practiced circle, before facing the grey eyed man and curtsying a little.

“Shall we?” She said with a ridiculously captivated grin, the silvery earrings catching the low lamp light with a soft sparkle, anklet ringing gently as she moved. The alcohol raced through her veins, calming her jittery field with a sense of warm relaxation.

word count: 714
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Tristaanian Greymoore
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Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
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: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Wed Aug 22, 2018 2:00 pm

29th of Roalis, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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Whatever he'd done to deserve meeting this lovely witch all those months ago in the Mad Queen, it had been the only right thing he'd obviously ever done in his entire life. He grinned at her, ignoring the burn of Mugrobi spirits and fortified red wine, chuckling at her riposte, all but purring back at her, "Ent gotta remember everythin'. Jus' th' good parts."

Gods, if he could forget all of Vienda and his childhood at the bottom of a bottle of Hanged Man, he would do it, but he bit his tongue before saying that out loud, watching instead as Sarinah took his hand and graced it with salt, a warmth pooling at the base of his spine not just at her touch but in anticipation of what he knew she was doing. His smile faltered and while she was making valid points about the music and teasing him about his adoptive people, all he heard for a moment was his pulse with the brush of her tongue and the look in her mahogany gaze before she downed her second shot.

He was doomed.

Did he return the gesture? Clocking right, he did, "Ye chen tekaa prob'ly need a writ jus' t' play music 'round here. I don't blame 'em for takin' 't outside th' city walls."

The green-eyed human chuckled at Tristaan's words but said nothing, turning away to give the couple a moment while the dark-haired passive reached for her hand, raising it with his calloused fingers to turn it so that her wrist was facing upward. He placed his thin line of salt where her pulse could be felt had he wanted to feel for it with his fingertips, and his grey eyes held her dark gaze when he leaned to brush his tongue over her olive skin with a much more obvious intention, making sure he teased her with the slowness of the motion. It was as much a taunt as it was a promise, that much was clocking clear.

Then, he winked and reached for his glass, downing the stuff with a few curses of his own before he followed with the lime and then a swig of that damned Hanged Man just for good measure.

Oes. Perhaps he would have a few regrets tomorrow, but he doubted he would have any he wasn't inviting on purpose.

"I did—" He grinned against her lips, curling his hands into the gorgeous red fabric of her dress so that she had no choice but to linger, tasting the flavors of her fancy drink just because he could, "—an' I will. Boemo. Lessgo, macha."

Tristaan let the familiar, lively music fill his senses while he warily eyed the dancers, the Seventen, the vendors just because he couldn't help himself, though the smile was still there on his face. He let Sarinah tangle their hands together, pausing only to take one more long draught of the contents of the smokey glass bottle before he left it on the bar, warmth spreading through his veins and thundering with his pulse to dull his paranoid thoughts and calm his nerves.

He grinned, returning her curtsey with a crisp, formal sort of bow, dredged up from the depths of his memories—a childhood lesson in formality. Reaching for her as they joined the dancing crowd, the dark-haired passive was thankful that this new music didn't invite anything stiff and confined from the moving bodies around them, that he was for the most part free to dance as he pleased. He'd teased the lovely witch once, lying about his talents, but he didn't need to do that a second time.

More than familiar with her body and his, especially together, he wanted nothing more than to enjoy the music so long as that meant he could sneak in unnecessary touches and admire all of her. The phosphor lights and the flickering lanterns caught her dress and her earrings, distracting and far lovelier than the passive really deserved.

Dancing began innocently enough, but as the alcohol settled into Tristaan's system, it was easier to feel the tempo and move to the melody. It was easier to add a bit of flair, to show off a little, to be distracted by Sarinah's talents. And, once he stopped worrying about an audience, once he stopped caring who saw him, he could just be free.

And that was the second best present.

The musician was amazing and apparently had no particular intention of leaving the stage, much to everyone's enjoyment. It was easy to get lost in the crowd and the music, and the dark-haired passive had no complaints about doing so.

Eventually, he tugged the lovely witch against him after a spin, laughing and breathless, coat shrugged off and forgotten for the moment, a few buttons shy of the formality he arrived with. His heart beat furiously in his chest and the music sang above his pulse. He saw very little beyond the beautiful vision of the witch he'd admitted held far more of himself than he'd ever given to anyone. The heat of the summer hadn't faded with the sun, but he felt compelled to make sure to let the olive-skinned dancer know just the kind of effect she'd had in such a short period of time in his life by whispering fervently in her ear while they swayed, "I ent once felt like a free man here 'n Vienda 'til now. 'Cause o' you. Mujo ma."
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 974
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 107
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
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Wed Aug 22, 2018 6:40 pm

Roalis 29th, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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The brunette’s smile slipped a little at the mention of a writ, glancing over at the musician with a slight crease to her brow. A stupid piece of paper to decide if you could or couldn’t live in the city of the galdori, formally branding her race lesser than, even if it was already known. The witch turned back as she felt warm hands on her own, her palm upwards to expose the paler skin of her wrist to the passive, heart thumping madly in her chest as Tristaan laid the slightly pink crystals against her pulse. Gods, it wasn’t at all appropriate for the public setting, but her mouth felt dry as he drew his warm tongue across her wrist in a way that implied far more wicked things.

As he held her close, lingering against her lips, the once-dancer hummed softly. She had a good outline of what she had wanted to do this evening, but in her present situation the lithe woman was about ready to skip to the end. Taking a deep breath and grinning at the grey eyed passive, Sarinah pushed away those distracting thoughts to drag the man willingly towards the dancing.

“Don’t worry about all of this Tristaan.” She said softly as they walked, catching the slight shift of his eyes across the people around them and the blackback riders just where they could be seen but not interfered with.

“Just worry about me, about us. Oes?” Her fingers squeezed his with a reassuring smile, before spinning into her curtsy. The bow however, threw her entirely off guard, smile faltering as she watched the dark haired man move. As far as she cared, as far as her heart cared, Tristaan was as tekka as she and yet seeing the formal crisp movement it was like seeing a page from an unfamiliar book. Her cheeks flushed, unsure of the strange feelings in her chest, before his hands were on her again and everything was normal. He was still her Tristaan, not some cruel and arrogant golly.

He was her hama.

Grinning again, the witch followed his lead for a while as the strong drink worked its way through their systems, and with a warm liquid courage simmering in her veins Sarinah slipped into trained habits as easily as riding a kenser. Her eyes held Tristaan’s as she ruched the burgandy skirt in her hands, bare feet stomping in an intricate flamenco, her legs perhaps less covered than what the locals would consider proper. She flicked the train, letting it fan slightly with the sweep of the breeze, moving slowly around the passive in a circle. It was a wick dance, beautiful and expressive in its own right, but she had been the Dove. She’d spent years making men beg for just a minute of her time, bringing them to their wits end until the inevitable invitation from one of the tumbles to throw their ging away with carnal delights.

Spinning, she smiled as eager hands brushed against her, lingering against the sharp dressed passive a little longer than proper with inviting glances and tispy chuckles. The witch was already beyond tispy, her motions more fluid and carefree then when they began, bumping the curves of her body against the man with a taunting playfulness. Her hands reached for his, gasping softly as he skilfully matched her movements. It was easy to forget the grey eyed passive was just as good a dancer when the moment allowed, and she couldn’t stop the almost childish peel of laughter as Tristaan spun her into his arms to hold her close, swaying gently as the lively tune slowed in tempo.

One hand curled against his shoulder, the other holding his in an almost formal dance stance, Sarinah sighed with a somewhat intoxicated smile as his words tickled her ear. Dark eyes sweeping the scene behind him, the witch blushed again.

“Ye give me too much credit Tristaan. I ent really done anything except invite trouble.” The barefooted wick drew back slightly, dark sable eyes searching the depths of his own slate gaze with a seriousness she was not quite sober enough to hold onto.

“Vienda can’t hold ye hama. Not anymore. Ye are free. Look around, listen…” Sarinah tilted her head slightly, allowing them both to focus on the sounds around them.

“...filthy wicks. No respect for anyone else, mauling each other like…”

“...probably those circus folk, all half breeds and wicks. You’d think they would at least act civilised..”

The brunette grinned broadly, laughing again and kissing the passive without a care in the world, before shrugging.

“Y’see? Y’ent anythin’ more than a mung laoso tekka makin’ th’ jents clutch their pearls an’ pray t’Alioe y’ent going t’upset their fragile need to be perfect.” She said with a shake of her head, slipping into a stronger accent as the alcohol took hold. Rolling her eyes and waving a hand, Sarinah suddenly skipped out of his arms with a flourish and a giggle.

“This filthy tekka needs another drink!” The performer proclaimed with a suggestive smirk, before dashing away from the man towards the same human they’d bought from before, glancing back to make sure he’d followed her.

“Back again miss. What can I get you this time?” The green eyed keep said with a chuckle, watching for the dark haired man that had been with her. Sarinah made a show of considering what to next have, before turning to Tristaan, resting a hand on one cocked hip, other elbow leaning casually on the counter.

“Gentleman’s choice this time, ye chen? What’ll we have hama?”

word count: 986
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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 126
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Thu Sep 13, 2018 3:46 pm

29th of Roalis, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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"Oes, jus' a bit o' trouble b'tween th' two 'f us, that's for sure." He smirked, but his amused expression faded with the next handful of words she spoke with a wisdom he was too intoxicated to translate properly. He pressed their bodies together so he didn't have to meet her serious gaze, hands far more proper than the rest of his body and he listened, sentiments of an ignorant populace who couldn't see beyond their own small lives.

None of them had sweat and bled for their freedom. None of them had tasted life on the road. None of them understood that privilege wasn't the same as being actually free.

No one saw the magic-less son of a galdor here. No one could see the brand on his arm beneath the too fine shirt he'd half unbuttoned underneath the expensive vest he enjoyed spending hard-earned money on. No one saw a scrap. Everyone assumed his small frame just another wick's, and it was, indeed, almost like feeling invisible. He'd felt it too in Old Rose Harbor, able to blend in and be who he wanted in the port city full of ne'er do wells and criminals, in the harbor where people of all walks of life and from so many Kingdoms blended together. Here in Vienda, his memories were only those of discrimination, work, loss, and pain. No one in the Soot District had seemed capable of letting him forget who he was or where he came from.

Had he changed so much over the years? Had he just not stopped to see it? He'd been running for years, and had Sarinah asked him how old he was on this day, he realized he wouldn't even be able to tell her exactly. How long had he been hiding from the truth? How long had he convinced himself he wasn't free?

His parents had let him go. He'd escaped from Vienda. He'd found a very lovely witch. He'd found some sense of family. Was there more that he needed? He couldn't think of anything, honestly.

Tristaan sighed, his body relaxing with the exhale of breath just before she leaned in to kiss him. He smiled against her lips, gripping her tighter, greedily enjoying their flushed, warm bodies so close. He felt the heated bravado of too much to drink, the fluidity of intoxication, and the rushed needfulness of just how the lovely witch made him feel pressed as he was in her proximity.

Sarinah pulled away from him, laughing, and he couldn't help but laugh with her, watching her make her way toward the same vendor they'd found their first drinks at, his grey eyes wandering over the enticing view her lovely dress made of her body, appreciating every line and curve, aware of the expanse of olive skin beneath the smooth red fabric and sparkles. Biting his lip, he followed, sidling up behind the brunette dancer and letting his hand rest over hers on her hip while he leaned on his calloused palm against the bar.

"Gentleman's choice, eh? Dze, what I want ent for sale here, hama. 'R anywhere. Least that's what I've been told more'n once. 'Cause it's already mine."

He purred his answer with the slyest of grins, leaning to brush his lips against Sarinah's ear as he said them, for they weren't at all for the barkeep. Leaning away with a chuckle, he drummed his fingers on the wooden barter, "If I must choose, however, it'd jus' be more o' that damn Hanged Man. I ent anythin' but nostalgic, it seems. A slow walk home ent on th' menu, either, ye chen, so, what'cha got that's vintage? Y' got a bottle o' wine that's 'bout twenty three, twenty five 'r so years 'n th' makin' back there among th' crates o' expensive good stuff?"
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 709
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 107
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
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Sat Sep 15, 2018 7:54 pm

Roalis 29th, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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TThe dark haired witch giggled, her mahogany gaze focused on the benchtop as the passive whispered lovely things into her ear, a flush on her cheeks from the alcohol and the dancing and other private thoughts. Her smirk remained as Tristaan spoke to the barkeep, his taste in beverages taking a suddenly expensive turn. Sarinah raised an eyebrow, glancing at the keep as though it was some sort of dare. The human chuckled, throwing the soft cloth he was using to clean glasses over his shoulder like a strange mantle and waggled a finger at the passive.

“From Hanged Man to an aged wine? Interesting jump there wick, but let me see what I got.” He shot Sarinah a wink, before moving away to check his stores. Truth be told, the barkeep knew exactly what he had stored away. It was Vienda after all, and the gollies loved to flaunt their concords to show their acquaintances how cultured they were or how deeply their pockets were lined.

“So, m’macha kov, f’there ent a slow walk home, what’s next? We could dance s’more, or see f’one o’these urbo netches will sell yats t’couple o’spokes.” The young woman leaned closer, biting her lower lip hard as though resisting the urge to be far more physical than would be appropriate given their current setting. He was handsome, extraordinarily so, and she was a little drunk. The dancing had pumped the spirit and the other drink through her system faster than if they’d just found a quiet place to sit, and her eyes were only for the tattooed and scarred passive. Love swelled in her chest, and she couldn’t help but let him know. Again.

“Hamaye, have I told ye that already t’night? Hamaye so much it makes m’hama ache thinkin’ of anythin’ happenin’ t’ye, ye chen?” Stealing a kiss, she learnt back again with a slow sigh and a dreamy smile.

“Ye make m’mant manna happy, more than I ever thought I could be. Dze, here now, stop lookin’ at me like that balach, ye got this mung chip rambling.” She giggled again, glancing up as the brown haired barkeep returned holding a dark green bottle carefully in his hands.

“Here now, it’s a sweeter red, from Bastia, sweetened with blistleberries and elderflowers. Bottled in twenty six ninety four. I hear it’s decent, haven’t tried it myself. This one’s still corked too so ain’t much risk of it being vinegar. You looking at the bottle or a couple of glasses? Glass is four tallies, bottle is two shills.” He placed the bottle on the counter top gently, careful not to stir up the sediment on the bottom, before leaning on the wooden benchtop and smiling at the clearly enamoured and somewhat intoxicated couple. Sarinah glanced at Tristaan with a soft hiss of air through her teeth.

“Y’choice hama. Bottle seems t’be logical t’me?” It was pricy, but then there was nothing the brunette was want for. She had a home for now, with food and fires and friends. She had clothing and laughter, so to drop so much coin on alcohol, the witch couldn’t care less. Moving a little closer, she ran a finger over the bottled date, glancing at the passive again with a softer smile.

“This’s a maw older than m’self, oes. D’ye think maybe it’s close t’y’own age kov?” Her dark eyes searched his face, knowing there were things that the scarred man had lost to the sands of time, his year of birth possibly one of them. In and out of trouble, slaved in the Soot and wandering with the Crows, it wasn’t something she imagined the man would have kept track of. Reaching out, she squeezed his bicep where the tattoo lay covered under his fine shirt.

“Ent ne matter t’me regardless Tristaan. Hamaye, no matter how old n’decrepit ye are.” The olive skinned performer nipped her tongue between her front teeth with a cheeky grin and a wink, hoping to keep the mood light. She wanted Tristaan to enjoy and remember his birthday with fondness, not sadness. Suddenly, her eyes lit up.

“We don’t have t’stay in the Court, ye chen? Is there somewhere y’want to go? Is there anywhere we ent allowed t’go?”

word count: 773
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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 126
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Writer: Muse
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Thu Sep 27, 2018 2:41 pm

29th of Roalis, 2718
VIENDA | JUST AFTER DARK
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"It's m'birthday, kov." Tristaan chuckled at the barkeep and admitted the truth without a hint of chagrin, just intoxicated enough not to care, "Only I can't remember th' clockin' maw I was born."

His calloused fingers curled tighter into the lovely fabric of Sarinah's dress as she leaned closer, humming at the comfortable warmth of her body and grinning at all the options, unsure if he wanted to choose from any of them when he could just drag the witch home through the phosphor-lit streets and celebrate the rest of his birthday with their bodies pressed so deliciously together instead, "Yats? I could eat—" The dark-haired passive could probably always eat, had he been honest, and really, in his opinion, onnastick was hardly a meal. Just a snack. His grey eyes wandered the vendors, only to be distracted by the brunette witch's quiet reminder of her wonderful feelings, of the wonderful feelings they shared,

"Oes, but y'can say 't again." He sighed against her lips, "Y' can say 't as much as y' like. Hamaye."

Did he quell her worries? No. He couldn't. Not while standing in the middle of Crosstown Court in Vienda. Not while hiding with a handful of ragtag performers in Baldur's Circus. Not while he was aware that they lived and loved each other on borrowed time. He opened his mouth to say something, but the barkeep returned with a bottle of wine. He stated the date and Tristaan was forced to pause, the number familiar but the memories lost beneath sweat and scars,

"Works for me." His eyes crinkled into a grin first before his whole face warmed with the expression, flushed already, and he fished two shills from his pocket to set on the table without question, "Oes. We can eat a bit, drink a bit more, dance a lil', an' then walk home before curfew," He couldn't help himself, the dark-haired passive leaning to kiss her, lingering in promise before he spoke quietly, practically purring, "'r we can jus' eat an' head home an' dance 'n private instead, ye chen."

Glancing at her fingers over the date again, he shrugged his narrow shoulders while the barkeep set about opening the bottle for them, he considered her question after doing the math to determine the age the lovely witch admitted to, "Maybe? M' sister—" He caught himself, aware that he'd never talked about his galdori family before, and inhaled sharply through his nose, digging into his vest to produce the broken pocket watch, leaning away from resting against the bar to press it into Sarinah's hands gently, "—m' sister's two years older than me, but I ent sure th' year she—" Grey eyes drifted to the barkeep and he set another shill on the wooden counter as if buying his trust, "—th' year she graduated from Brunnhold. Numbers, they ent somethin' I've ever been benny at. Still, I ent old ... decrepit. Mujo ma—I ent heard y' complainin' yet!"

He smirked at the lovely witch, snatching the bottle in one hand between calloused fingers and wrapping his free arm around Sarinah's waist while she fumbled with his pocket watch, dragging them both away toward the food vendors instead. The watch's exterior was only a little scratched, his family crest carved delicately into the silver surface. Inside, however, much like his own metaphorical heart, everything was smashed. It was clear it had been done on purpose, probably by his own two hands. The face was hardly readable and it no longer functioned, but tucked into the lid was a faded spectrograph, cut to fit, of a dark-haired family.

Tristaan's family.

His birth family, anyway.

There in one corner was a dark-haired, light-eyed, grinning little boy who had yet to come of age and who never would in the way expected by galdorkind. Standing next to him wearing a similar, bright smile in her new Brunnhold uniform was his sister, and behind them both was a man the passive had grown to resemble and a woman who'd softened his features with her own. The old image had writing on the back, but where the date should be was nothing but a smudge of ink. He glanced at it while the olive-skinned dancer held it, but then looked away, pointing with the wine bottle toward one of the busier-looking onnastick vendors,

"Ent allowed? Dze. I ent ever steppin' foot back 'n th' Soot District, but y' want t' see th' Arova in th' moonlight, macha? I know some good views." His expression softened, some mixture of nervousness and nostalgia filling the scarred cavity of his chest, "There's some benny places here 'n Vienda even if I don't remember 'em happy."

Tristaan would take his pocket watch back while they stood in line, forgoing any sense of propriety to hold her close and raise the bottle of wine between them, grey eyes studying the label again as if desperate to dredge up the actual date of his birth. Sucking in a breath through his teeth in resignation, the dark-haired passive was too intoxicated already to linger on the matter, so he offered a lopsided grin, "How's this—if this wine's as good as th' kov said it should be, I'll jus' say ninety four's m' year an' stick with it, hmm?"
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 954
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