Must Have Been The Hingle…

Definitely the hingle, Tristaan. xxx

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
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Sarinah Lissden
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Thu Sep 13, 2018 5:48 pm

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Roalis 50th, 2718
​​CIRCUS | DAWN
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There was something truly enchanted about waking with the rising sun in the still dark confines of a borrowed kint, blankets cocooning warmth against two pairs of bare legs tangled so causally together. Sarinah opened her eyes slowly, letting her mahogany gaze drift to the motes of dust hanging in the thin beams of sunlight filtering through the shuttered window. Outside, little birds sang, welcoming the sun with their sweet trills. She untangled herself gently from the grey eyed man beside her, stretching and stifling a yawn so as not to wake the dark haired passive still sleeping by her side. Laying on her back, the performer watched Tristaan’s face for a moment, captured by the peace that graced his features in that moment. So often, the scarred man seemed tortured and troubled, it was a beautiful thing to see him calm.
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​​ I should make breakfast.
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​​The thought popped into her head suddenly, a slow smile gracing her lips as she carefully sat up and looked around for her clothes, a gentle flush on her cheeks as she recalled exactly how they ended up off her person. Her mind danced between thoughts of ferverant hands and lips in the dark, and crispy fried bacon with a side of eggs and wild mushrooms, contemplating what she’d start with as a stray hand absently stroked the tattoo so elegantly inked on her hip. It was then she felt it, as she moved to sit on the end of the bed, a creeping wave of cold sweat sweeping across her skin, stomach rolling wildly.

Well, that’s not good.
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Swallowing the sensation, the witch held a hand to her stomach, a frown creasing her brow as she tried to determine if it was just a passing sensation or—

​​ “Oh clocks.” She groaned quietly, shooting from the bed and dragging the sheet with her like a makeshift wrap, tugging it off the passive as she ran for the door and burst through it. Intending to run for the tree line, the brunette made it as far as the fire where they ate, before falling to her knees over a thankfully empty small barrel they used for general refuse, wrenching violently as her previous nights meal tried to come back like an unwanted house guest.
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​​ Alioe, she didn’t need this.
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​​Gasping, eyes closed and face clammy, Sarinah shakily rested an arm on the edge of the barrel, afraid to lift her head lest she actually expel everything in her stomach. What the tocks has brought that on? She skimmed her meals the day before, thinking back on everything she’d consumed. Garmen roast, hingle onna-stick....the brunette let out a miserable groan, her other hand keeping the sheet tightly wrapped around her person.
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​​ “I think that hingle was bad.” She mumbled into the barrel, aware she was either talking to herself, or possibly Tristaan if he’d followed her at all. Lifting her head, the witch took a few deep slow breaths, placing her cooler palm against her forehead. She didn’t feel hot like a fever, and aside from the need to hurl, she otherwise felt fine.
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​​ Fine-ish.
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​​ “Vrunta...I think I’m sick.” Sarinah whined, before leaning back over the barrel, her stomach churning.
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​​ Do not throw up.
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​​Her body fought her, regardless of how much the brunette didn’t want to loose her stomach. Taking a few more deep breaths, the wick thought she’d conquered it, until quite suddenly the nausea overwhelmed her.
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​​ Damn it!
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​​ “Gods, if that ent the worst wake up.” She stammered shakily once the episode subsided, feeling strangely better after practically expelling her insides. Sitting back in the dirt, the witch searched for something to rinse her mouth with, thick black and red tresses a wild wavey halo around her still unusually pale face, sheet curled around naked curves with little care about who saw her in the dawn light.
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Thu Sep 27, 2018 3:13 pm

50th of Roalis, 2718
CIRCUS | EARLY MORNING
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The running dreams weren't new. Tristaan could say he'd had them in some form or another for most of his life, though they'd been particularly nightmarish while a child in the Soot District, especially when he slept away beatings or illness. This one was different, for instead of running he was sailing and instead of fleeing angry wardens or rabid bander wolves, he was fleeing a storm. It was huge and dark and the thunder rolled through his subconscious so loudly, he was certain his body must of reverberated with the sound. The waves felt hungry and the black of the deepest parts of the sea wanted to swallow him whole, but not without breaking his scarred body against the salty wood of the ship's hull. This much he knew without being told, and it was all he could do to attempt to race against the weather.

Even if he knew he couldn't sail forever, even if he knew he couldn't sail fast enough. The storm would come and he would be helpless to stop it. He knew that much in his bones—

The warm body next to his shifted and he murmured unintelligible warnings, not quite awake. Caught in-between. It wasn't until Sarinah moved more urgently, all but leaping from the bed and dragging the covers with her that he stirred, practically falling out of bed in sudden panic. Was someone here? Had they been found? Did the Seventen tire of the Circus?

"Macha, wait—" He was confused, heart hot against the back of his throat as he tried to make sense of what was happening, barely thinking to reach for his pants and tugging them on as he staggered to follow her out of the kint. Catching himself before he tripped down the stairs toward the ground while he fastened the buttons of his trousers, blearily letting his grey eyes scan between the rest of the kinds as if for danger—

Oh.

Sarinah was attempting desperately not to wretch into a bucket. No one was staging an attack on their existence. No one was raiding their humble camp to send them packing in the first house of the morning. The dark-haired passive relaxed reluctantly, running a calloused hand over his face to wipe away the relieved expression while his accelerated pulse and tingling nerves took their clocking sweet time slowing down,

"I ate some. I'm fine." He teased in his gravely, morning after voice, aware that his constitution was a tough one by comparison. Stepping to hover behind the lovely witch, he replaced her hand with his own as if to assess her for illness, only to pull it away as she turned to throw up. Tristaan took the moment she gripped the bucket to walk back to the fire and fill a cup with water from one of the barrels set up near their make-shift outdoor kitchen that all of the Circus shared under an awning, smiling gently as he walked back to her with it,

"All those bodies packed inna tent for th' show, y' think y' caught somethin'?" His fingers were taming her hair, tucking it behind her ears and then a palm brushed her face, the dark-haired passive's tone implying he simply assumed he was immune. He grew up here, packed in a tiny dorm full of dirty bodies. He'd probably caught everything there was to catch and then some, surviving it all, "I can wake up one 'f th' boys an' we can go find y' a healer in town. A tekaa who knows what they're talkin' 'bout, anyways. Y'don't feel hot, Sarinah. An' I ent heard y' complain 'bout feelin' unwell—"

He couldn't help the mischievous smirk, but his concern was genuine,
"—Last night y' seemed jus' fine, hama."
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
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Sarinah Lissden
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Fri Oct 05, 2018 1:58 am

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Roalis 50th, 2718
​​CIRCUS | DAWN
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”Ye could probably lick the unwashed underside of a fen born kenser and still be fine Tristaan.” The olive skinned witch said shakily, taking the cup of water gratefully and swilling a mouthful around before spitting it out, quite aware the passive seemed to have a cast iron stomach. Taking another sip to drink, she closed her eyes and sighed, leaning into the gentle touch of his hand as he moved her hair and stroked her face.

“Maybe. There’s not much airflow in that tent, and practically all of Vienda and beyond have been in and out of it.” Opening her eyes, the brunette nodded and took another sip of water, looking up at the dark haired Crow as she sat in their sheet on the dusty ground.

“Oes, I think that’s a good idea. Ent sure what this all is, but a tekka healer’s going to.” The thought of seeing anyone else but a wick didn’t even cross her mind, knowing that the best healers were always tekka. Shifting to take what support would be provided, Sarinah stood slowly, her dark eyes narrowing coolly at his cheeky comments.

“Maybe ye made me sick, and ye just ent showing it yet.” She said flatly, before allowing a small smile to grace her lips. Once inside the kint, the olive skinned woman would make her way gingerly around the small space to find a simple day dress in red and violet tones that flowed freely around her figure. Standing in the dark room, Sarinah wrinkled her nose, able to smell more strongly that usual things that she didn’t usually smell. Like the faint waft of Kellie-Mae’s hair dye, or the musty scent of Clarabelle’s cage.

Almost in protest, her stomach churned again.

Leaving the kint, she sat on the steps to wait for Tristaan, running a comb through her thick dark tresses and twisting them into a messy bun. She trawled her memory for any reason to be feeling this way, swearing to herself that she wouldn’t eat an onna-stick from a random street vendor ever again. Of course, that was a lie to herself, but for the present it mattered.

Another wave of nausea gripped the brunette, and she moved to the small bucket, rattling a string of deep tek curses as she hoped for the feeling to subside. How the tock would she perform if she felt like this tonight? At least the healer might have a concoction that would help settle her stomach, they always had something horrible to take. Her mother had said, years ago, that if medicine didn’t taste bad, it wasn’t doing its job. Sarinah would take the worst, most revolting mixture, if it meant—

And here it comes again.

Emptying what remained in her stomach into the bucket, Sarinah took the rest of her water and gargled it to clear away the horrific aftertaste. She grimaced at the mess, quickly taking the bucket on shaky legs to dispose of it at the treeline, making her way back again feeling a little better for the upheaval. Taking another cup of water from the barrel, she poured it into her hand and wiped it over her face and neck, eyes closed as she found some relief from the queasiness.

“Vrunta.” The witch said softly, her hand feeling tenderly around her chest, conscious suddenly that she ached. That wasn’t normal, at least not at this time of the season. The young woman tossed the rest of the water and looked looked for Tristaan somewhat impatiently. Maybe it was the start of the sneezing snuffling that had gone through the circus a few weeks prior, Winslow had complained of aches.

But he didn’t throw up.
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Tristaanian Greymoore
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Fri Oct 12, 2018 2:50 pm

50th of Roalis, 2718
CIRCUS | EARLY MORNING
"Maybe." He grinned back at her accusation that he was the asymptomatic carrier of something vicious. He watched her for a few moments before he wandered back inside to fetch his shirt, calloused fingers on the buttons as he spoke, "Boemo, Sarinah. I'll go roll Winslow outta bed an' we'll see if we can't find a healer 'n town."

He was fastening his belt and tugging on his boots while he said those things, missing the weight of his pistol at his side even though he didn't for a moment miss Old Rose Harbor and Silas' shadow. Traveling felt so freeing that the illusion of actual freedom was almost comforting, even if he knew somewhere inside that their safety was imagined, that the Bad Brothers were surely still after them somehow.

The dark-haired passive paused to kiss her forehead again, lips lingering as if to make sure she didn't have a fever. She didn't. He leaned away and didn't miss how her fingers traced over her chest as if she ached, which was enough to cause concern. Who knew what illnesses were common this time of year in Vienda? He didn't remember. The Circus wouldn't be quite as exciting if his lovely witch was ill for any of it, "I'll bring back some yats, too. There's some bread left 'n th' kint 'f y'think y' can stomach a bit. May help settle things."

With a smile, Tristaan was off to almost literally tug the old clown from his bed and shove him into town, hoping the human knew a tekaa or two who knew a bit of holistic medicine. Surely, he did. Winslow seemed to know far too much about everything, after all.



The pair were only gone for a little over an hour, returning with a witch perhaps a little older than the human was. Her wild salt and pepper hair was pulled upward into a topknot and she carried a satchel with her that probably held all of her supplies. The way her and Winslow had talked during their walk back through the Dives and outside of town made the dark-haired passive wonder how long the pair had known each other. Familiar banter was entertaining, at least, but he fell quiet during the trip simply because he was concerned.

True to his word, Tristaan had of course paused for baked goods—little breakfast pastries with eggs and cheese and meat baked inside—and some fresh fruit. Mostly for himself, that much was obvious, but he'd picked out fruit and some lighter pastries for Sarinah should she feel well enough to eat later. He led the way toward the kint he shared with the olive-skinned dancer once Winslow announced that he was going to hang around nearby and cook for himself and whoever else decided to wake up, letting the passive know there'd be coffee in a bit should he need some.

"An' ye say y'ent ate anythin' strange lately?" The witch, Lorali, asked quietly as Tristaan made their way to the kint,

"Ne, no' that I know 'f. Nothin' that's made me feel odd, too." The healer's dark eyes wandered over him for a moment in idle curiosity as if she already had ideas of her own to which the dark-haired passive was utterly clueless to, but then he knocked and opened the door,

"Sarinah? We're back. This be Lorali."
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
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Sarinah Lissden
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Fri Oct 12, 2018 5:55 pm

Roalis 50th, 2718
​​CIRCUS | DAWN
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When Tristaan returned with the elder witch, Sarinah was laying sideways on the kint bed, a piece of barely nibbled dry bread in her hand and dark eyes closed. She curled herself up slightly, free hand resting on her abdomen, focusing on her steady calm breathing. She’d managed to keep her stomach down, by laying very still in this exact position, the open windows of the kint catching a light breeze that shifted through the circus grounds. It was her nose that alerted her to the passive’s return, smelling the heavily fatty scents of the cheese and meats in Tristan’s pastries, her stomach rumbling suddenly.

Maybe she was just hungry?

“Ne, that makes no sense.” She muttered quietly to her body, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. There were footsteps, and soft conversation, causing the brunette performer to open her eyes even before the scarred man knocked and opened the door. She looked at him with a grateful smile, eyes shifting to the healer before settling on the food in his hands. Gingerly, she moved to sit up and slide to the end of the bed.

“Hesta Lorali. Sorry to get ye up so early rosh. Mujo ma hama. That fruit looks good. I think maybe I might be feeling a bit—” Sarinah stopped short, breathing slowly and deeply, whilst moving to lay back down carefully.

“Ne never mind.” The olive skinned wick whined, looking up at the healer with a silent plea for help. The salt and pepper haired witch came to the end of the bed, sitting herself down and stroking a sunspotted wrinkled hand over the younger woman’s hair and forehead, lingering for a moment.

“Hesta chip. Y’kov here says y’ent feelin’ right. Jus’ th’vomitin’ an’ queasiness then oes?” She worked her hand over Sarinah’s face, looking in her eyes and prompting her to open her mouth and poke out her tongue. The witch groaned and shook her head a little.

“Ne, I have some pain, here.” Her hand moved from her stomach to brush against the curve of her breast, cheeks darkening a little. Lorali hummed curiously, turning the hand over and feeling for the woman’s pulse, dark eyes looking at Tristaan critically.

“An’ y’two r’together, oes? Bonded?” Sarinah blushed even more, glancing at Tristaan with an almost nervous chuckle.

“Not bonded, ne, too soon. Probably. I mean, we ent...I uh...together. Oes. We are.” She skimmed quickly over the bonding question, knowing full well that Tristaan hadn’t yet stepped into those discussions. Passive’s weren’t allowed to marry, so he had said, but then the scarred and tattooed man was more wick then galdor anyway. Still, there was no rush. They had time, dze, they didn’t even have to bond. Love didn’t need ceremony. Her commitment to the grey eyed spoke was inked into her skin as permanently as his own to her.

“I need y’t’ lay on y’back rosh, jus’ f’a moment.” The older, wiser woman said with a soft smile, waiting patiently as Sarinah moved to her back with another slowly exhaled breath. Shifting on the bed, Lorali prodded firmly but gently around the brunettes abdomen, her brow drawing slightly in concentration. Patting the performer on the hip, she signalled that the woman could roll on her side again. Moving to her satchel, the older healer drew out a couple of small containers made from tightly woven fibres of cattail reeds.

“Anytime y’feelin’ a bit queasy, make a cup’o this tea. It’s got ginger, chamomile, an’ lemon balm. Y’could have peppermint tea too, but I’ve found this blend much more effective n’my day. Dandelion tea, with a little nettle an’ red bush, have only one cup o’ that one a day. After about, say, four months y’may want t’start adding raspberry leaf in with th’ dandelion.” The younger witch was nodding along, knowing ginger and peppermint for their nausea stemming properties, though her brows drew in confusion at the statement about four months.

“Four months? Ye think it’s serious rosh? I thought that it was just a bug maybe?” Her mahogany gaze shifted to Tristaan again, worry etched on her features. The older woman laughed kindly, shaking her head and standing, pressing the containers of tea into the passive’s hands as she did so.

“Ne, ne. Nothin’ sinister rosh. Y’jus pregnant.”

A heavy silent paused filled the kint, Sarinah’s heart racing in her chest and a feeling of dropping in the pit of her stomach. Mouth dry, the brunette swallowed and tried to speak, her eyes widening slightly.

“Epaemo...I ent sure I heard that right. Did ye say—“ Lorali smiled, nodding and resettling her bag.

“Oes, pregnant rosh. Y’first then? Surely y’have been around kin who’ve had bochi before? Ne? Ok, so th‘ mornin’ sickness will pass n’about a month? F’m right, n’ I usually am, y’about seven maybe eight weeks along. Sickness should only hit y’for about the first twelve weeks. Th’aching in y’chest will ease to, but it’ll get worse again as y’get into th’ last few months as y’body gets ready t’bring this bochi int’ th’world. Y’should find y’self a doula, a healer skilled with babies and pregnancies, someone t’check on y’both t’make sure everythin’ is okay an’ t’help ye deliver when th‘ time comes.“ Sarinah had sat up as the woman spoke, her sickness forgotten for a moment, dark eyes on the passive.

“Ne, I can’t be pregnant rosh. I take Stopsage every morning, ent never missed it.” Her words seemed more for Tristaan than the healer, the older woman glancing between the young couple with a slow realisation.

“Stopsage ent always perfect chip. Sometimes, if the Gods want y’t have a bochi, ent ne medication that’ll work. I might leave y’two t’talk. Gotta catch up with Winsy, s’been a few maw.” Awkwardly, Lorali escorted herself out of the kint, making a face of ‘whoops’ as she walked away.

Sarinah blinked. She swallowed. She wet her lips.

“Tristaan?” She finally said softly, heartbeat pounding in her ears.
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Mon Oct 15, 2018 11:17 am

50th of Roalis, 2718
CIRCUS | EARLY MORNING
There was something in the way that the older witch looked at him before she settled at the brunette's side that made a warmth tingle at the base of his skull and his pulse quicken for just a breath or two. He set his bountiful breakfast onto the trunk for their clothes that doubled as a table, covered as it was by a woven cloth, organizing the fruits to one side and making decisions about what he was going to eat but not reaching for anything in particular. Hovering, his attention shifted to Sarinah's face at Lorali's words.

Bonded.

The dark-haired passive didn't blush or blanch or even stutter, though his smile faltered more as the olive-skinned dancer stumbled verbally for a definition of their relationship, "Ne, we ent put our thoughts t' such officialness—no' yet."

Something heavy sank into the scarred cavity of Tristaan's chest and thoughts swam in his mind as he watched the motion of the healer's hands in response to their answer. He swallowed something hot and hard that persisted against the back of his throat and the older woman was shoving something into his hands, her eyes meeting his instead of Sarinah's when she said what something sharp in the back of his mind already knew.

Pregnant.

He knew.

Calloused fingers almost dropped the woven containers of herbs and tea, grey eyes widening as the passive inhaled sharply. It wasn't a sound of surprise. No expression of helpless anger passed over his well-traveled features. He blinked and heard over the sudden ringing in his ears as Sarinah asked to be told the words again. Tristaan didn't need to hear them a second time, but his lungs refused to exhale and the edges of his vision began to sting with the fiery heat of too many emotions at once.

His lovely dancer was panicking—he could hear it in her tone and feel the edges of her familiar field. She spoke as if he would be angry, as if he would blame her, as if she anticipated a negative response from the man.

He wasn't. He didn't. He couldn't.

Loreli spoke of the gods and the taste of bile burned against his tongue, for those same gods who'd cursed him, who'd twisted him into the magic-less garbage he was had brought this lovely witch into his life and made room for her in the shattered remnants of his heart. And now?

Now.

This.

They'd expressed their love for each other, Tristaan taking the risk of allowing himself those feelings for a woman who saw past his heritage, who lived through his diablerie, who may not have understood what it meant to be what he really was but who loved him in spite of it all. They enjoyed each other's company, needed each other's comforts, complimented each other's brokenness.

In the expressive passion of their very real hama, they'd made life.

His gaze glazed over for a moment, looking past the two witches in the room toward the light of morning that filtered through the kint's only window's thin curtains, watching dust motes dance as his facial expression couldn't decide if it wanted to reveal the rush of excitement or the weight of fear, his eyes brimming with tears but his mouth wrestling with a smile. His pulse raced swiftly, washing through his veins and setting every nerve on fire, burning through all the doubt and hesitation that often threatened to char his very soul on a daily basis, and finally he blinked.

Tristaan finally exhaled a slow breath through his teeth and set everything down next to the now-forgotten food as Lorali saw herself out with a look of bemused surprise on her well-aged face. It was with weak knees and his heart against his throat that the dark-haired passive moved without hesitation to sit on the edge of the bed he and Sarinah shared, reaching for her hands even as he kicked off his boots,

"A'right—"

He offered the quipped syllables roughly as if making words was difficult, warm grey eyes searching her face and revealing he had too many words to express properly, desperate to tangle their fingers together even as his next inhale was a proper sob. Tristaan smiled in open defiance of the panic that threatened to drown him, beamed in thorough rebellion against everything he'd been told he couldn't do and shouldn't have, spoke with a determination against the rules that held him captive in any other moment but this one, both because he needed to and because obviously she needed him to more,

"–it's a'right, Sarinah. Ent nothin' 'bout us t'gether's been anythin' either 'f us could've planned if we tried, ye chen. Hamaye. M'haps I was hopin' for another year an' another Surwood Festival b'fore this sorta thing, but—" Those few sentences concluded his capacity for coherent thought for several very long, very expressive minutes, fading and faltering as he'd been to even get those out of his lips. The dark-haired passive sniffled with bravado, but his last sounds were cut off by more broken crying. Fear threatened to crush his narrow, well-muscled chest. Panic threatened to steal every last breath.

Everything hurt.

He was grinning, though, damn him.

Grinning stupidly and full of the kind of loving excitement he wasn't allowed to feel for a life he was forbidden to have.

"—but here I am. Here we are. An' it's a'right."
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
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Sarinah Lissden
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Tue Oct 16, 2018 7:33 am

Roalis 50th, 2718
​​CIRCUS | DAWN
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WSarinah looked at Tristaan, eyes wide and field jittering as her heart tried to burst from her chest with its rapidfire beating. His eyes glazed, tearing up, and by Alioe she wanted to throw up again, her own eyes stinging hotly. She didn’t move, she barely breathed, sitting in the suddenly stifling space of their shared kint waiting for him to say something.

She was pregnant. Gods, she was pregnant.

The witch wasn’t ready for this, not yet. She’d wanted bochi, sure, but not yet! Thoughts rushed through her mind, hormones feeding the panic that swelled in her chest. She didn’t know the first thing about caring for an infant, they were tiny little people that needed to be kept alive, in a place full of love and care. The babes from the Queen were passed around the women, a community for raising the children before they were old enough to be put to work. This was wrong. Hawke was still out there, Scarlett was still out there. Vrunta, how could the Gods be so stupid?!

Still, her hand crept to rest on her stomach protectively, swallowing the terrified thought of just how bochi came into the world. The brunette dragged herself away from that particular image, eyes on the passive.

He wasn’t ready for this. He was barely ready for a relationship just a season or two ago. He’s going to leave, this is too much to expect of him.

As the old healer left, the grey eyed man moved to sit beside her, taking the dancers hands. She shifted slightly to face him with her emotions seared across her features, both wanting and not wanting to hear him speak.

A’right.

A strangled word, followed by a sob instead of a breath. The olive skinned wick couldn’t stop her own breath hitching slightly, tears finally brimming from dark eyes, more frightened then she thought was possible. More than any fear the King and Queen could instil in her. Frightened of being a daoa, of having a bochi, of being alone.

Only then, Tristaan smiled. Beamed in fact, and a small hopeful hum danced in her field. She barked a laugh, smiling in relieved surprise.

“Hayame too balach.” The brunette whispered, laughing again and holding his hands tightly as the emotional passive struggled to find the rest of his words. She nodded, even though they sat in silence as the man faltered, unable to trust herself to speak again in that moment.

"—but here I am. Here we are. An' it's a'right."

Sarinah threw her arms around Tristaans neck, pulling him into a tight embrace with a tearful sob, the weight of everything lifted slightly. He’d stayed, even if it was unexpected and frightening and by far more of a commitment than any bonding, the passive weathered the storm of his past and stayed. For their future.

“Mujo, mujo ma hama.” The witch cried with happiness, against his shoulder, lingering for as long as she could before drawing back slightly to kiss his grinning lips, wiping his tear stained cheeks with her thumbs.

“I wasn’t ready, ne not yet, but...here we are. Together.” Looking down, the dark haired wick found his hand, taking it to her still unremarkable belly and pressed it there gently. Meeting the steel grey of his eyes, she smiled, face full of love and a sense of wonder.

“The three of us.” Searching his face, the woman finally grinned, her field pulsing with delight and excitement.

“We’re going to have a bochi.” She whispered, unable to really let the truth sink in until it was said out loud. Her eyes became distant, thoughts swarming to the forefront.

“Ent gonna lie Tristaan, I’m scared, ye chen? Clocking terrified. I’ve seen bochi born in the Queen, and my hama is racing so hard I want to faint. What about the circus? What about Hawke? And Scarlett? I don’t know the first thing about caring for a boch. Tocks, I don’t know what I’m doing!” Sarinah felt panic rising again in her chest and her breathing came a little faster, this time not about the fear of Tristaans reaction, but instead at the very tangible reality of the situation.

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Location: Old Rose Harbor Bound (Again)
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Tue Oct 16, 2018 2:58 pm

50th of Roalis, 2718
CIRCUS | EARLY MORNING
Sarinah wrapped her arms around him tightly and all he could do in that moment was embrace her back. His lithely muscled arms pulled her almost greedily against him and his eyes fluttered heavily shut while he pressed his face into her dark hair and sighed a ragged sound. She kissed him and wiped his face and he blinked at her, whispering,

"Ent anythin' t' thank me over." If anything, he'd made their lives harder, not easier. He understood he was at least just as culpable for bringing a child into the world as she was. Tristaan couldn't help the humble response, the weight of things settling against the lightness in his scarred chest. When his lovely witch moved his hand to where the life they'd made grew hidden from view, still not at all noticeable, his grey eyes drifted to his fingers and he bit his lip.

Part of him had perhaps simply assumed himself incapable of reproducing, hoping beyond hope that the same recessive genes that made him galdor garbage kept his own body from making viable seed, if only to save him the trouble of carrying on what had been declared so undesirable about his existence. Part of him had hoped the curse he'd been born with ran deeper than his ability to channel magic, but no. Like his indomitable spirit, his body had not been made weak by what he was told to be lacking.

Not only had he created new life, but he'd spurned every last bit of his galdor heritage. Sarinah was a witch. This child, magical or not, was tekaa.

There were layers of emotions he couldn't even deal with right now, things that hurt and ached with the realization of what he was doing and what he'd so willingly, shamelessly done. His excitement was just as real as the sudden chill of self-loathing, calloused fingers brushing over olive skin.

The three of us.

Tristaan had thus far barely managed to keep himself alive when trouble came knocking, let alone barely managed to keep the brunette safe in the face of the same danger. Here, between them, would be someone even more helpless. Especially now, but also once the babe was in their arms and dependent on them for everything. She was grinning and he smiled back at her, but it was much more fleeting, tears falling anew as his own doubts and fears swam to the surface like hungry sharks eager for his blood.

How could anyone want to call him da? Ever?

"Oes. I don' think anyone's really ever ready, macha. I've never thought this would be somethin' I wanted—" The dark-haired passive held the rich, mahogany depths of her gaze when he said the next words, raw and honest and broken, "—but I do."

A more genuine smile creased its way into his well-traveled features but then her fears spilled from her lips and Tristaan felt them all. He reached both hands up to hold her face gently and guide her focus back to him, "Sarinah, don't."

He sighed because he didn't feel any different, only he wasn't the one carrying the child. He was just the one shouldered with protecting all three of them to the best of his ability, which in this moment felt so painfully lacking he couldn't entirely hold back one more broken sob before he pulled himself slowly together and spoke with quiet conviction, speaking from a place of wounded experience. The dark-haired passive had often dwelt on the past, had often lived in fear of what could have been and what was, and had often told himself he wasn't ready for the life he'd been taken for himself in freedom,

"Ent no use worryin' 'bout th' things y' can't see an' can't do nothin' 'bout. Ent goin' t' do any 'f us any good t' dwell on what's behind us or what could be comin' for us—I'll handle it as it comes. We'll deal with it as it comes, hama. Together. I've seen bochi born with th' Crow an' it ent scary when th' right folks 're around. Th' Circus? They're good people."

He paused and inhaled slowly,

"If 'r when th' Brothers come for us, we'll deal with that, too. Ye chen? That's not for now. That's for if. Y' ent gonna risk your life fightin' back, though. You've got someone else t' keep safe. I gotta think th' same, an' I know 't. Ent no sense tellin' ourselves th' Kingdom's safe when we both know it isn't. But we're still here, right? Bochi 're born all th' time. We'll make 't work."

But would he do anything to protect them? Anything at all?

Of course he would.

Down to the very last drop of his magic-less blood.

"S'long as we keep movin', m'haps we'll be fine. We've already been in Vienda longer than I wanted to. But that's neither here no' there, Sarinah. We'll ask questions, learn what we can, an' figure this all out together. I ent goin' anywhere."
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 918
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 99
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
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Wed Oct 17, 2018 7:30 am

Roalis 50th, 2718
​​CIRCUS | DAWN
​​
Image
WAlmost gasping for air, Sarinah turned her gaze back on the man as he held her face, tears prickling hotly again. She needed him, for all her attempts at being strong and embracing the spokes life, for all the things she’d endured in the five years at the Mad Queen, for standing up to her fathers anger...she needed Tristaan to be the grown up for the moment.

The brunette nodded, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes as he inhaled slowly, agreeing with all he had to say. He was right, and it was true. They would handle it. Whatever it was. Together.

Her mahogany gaze caught his again, frown creasing her brow at the mention of the Kings men. Her arms curled protectively around her torso, a surge of anger capturing her suddenly.

“Ent letting ne Brothers hurt this babe. Not now, not ever.” She said softly, mouth a hard scowl at the mere thought, nodding again at the passive’s logic. They had been there too long, circus or not. Keep moving, he was right. He was right when he said not to come to Vienda, not to join the circus. Her scowl lifted, eyes warming at Tristaans last words, moving to kiss the dark haired man with a meaningful linger before she sighed and glanced at the fruit he had brought.

“I can clocking well smell that from here and it’s manna benny hama.” As if on cue, the dancers stomach growled angrily, and she couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Ye know, I really thought it was that hingle. Explains why ye ent sick either.” Her eyes narrowed for a moment, lips moving as though whispering to herself, before an altogether wicked smile graced her lips.

“If Lorali’s right on those timings Tristaan, this happened...this happened that night. In the city. Your birthday.” Sarinah blushed deeply, with an almost embarrassed laugh, as though the mention of the night was scandalous enough.

“Perhaps we celebrated a bit too enthusiastically? Or maybe Alioe thought it would be a surprise gift. Either way—“ She moved a hand to rest on his with a much calmer smile.

“—I ent sorry about it. Not when I feel so...” She floundered for a word, looking around as though she would find it in the shelves of the kint, before looking back at him with a giggle.

“...so happy. Ye chen?” Pausing a moment, The olive skinned woman finally waved a hand and stood, as though dismissing all the ups and downs of the morning, moving to the fruit and pastries to grab a sweet juicy peach. Biting into the fuzz covered stone fruit, she rested her free hand on a cocked him, eyebrow arching slightly.

“Right. He..She...it...this bump ent going to grow with us both sitting here like a couple of lolligaggers. Food, sunshine, and a baby growing healer. That’s what we need.” Shifting the peach, she took another bite.

“Ye think we should tell the others? I mean, before it’s obvious?” The witch asked, curious to see what Tristaan would say.

​​

​​
word count: 548
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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 114
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Location: Old Rose Harbor Bound (Again)
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Writer: Muse
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Thu Oct 18, 2018 10:33 am

50th of Roalis, 2718
CIRCUS | EARLY MORNING
"Let me handle th' Brothers, hama. I ent letting' 'em hurt either o' y' both, ye chen." Tristaan didn't want to talk about them. He didn't want to admit that he'd lay his own life on the line a second or a third time to keep the lovely witch and the child they'd made together out of the Queen and out of Hawke's hands. He wasn't enough and he knew it—he was one man and the Gods only knew how many underlings the King of the Underworld was willing to send after them, given the perceived debts they'd run from. He swallowed and sought to shift the subject away from what even he considered the inevitable. He'd deal with that mess when it came knocking.

Until then, this was a moment meant to be savored like Sarinah's delicious kisses.

"Y' don't really want me t' tell stories 'bout th' questionable yats I've ingested over th' years. Y' jus' don't. I weren't a sickly boch in th' Soot District, but I weren't always a well one neither." He laughed quietly, chagrined, but fell quiet while the olive-skinned dancer attempted to make calculations about conception. He looked down at his calloused hands at her words, biting his lip as if to hide a smile that came anyway.

It was a cruel gift, but Tristaan couldn't say that out loud. It was a beautiful gift, but not one he deserved.

"M' birthday. Th' Gods have their own sense o' humor I ent gonna pretend t' understand, hama."

What they had together was far more than he'd ever imagined for himself, and yet the commitment didn't scare him. Love like this was new, but it assuaged old wounds and gave him a purpose he'd not been able to find on his own. Love like this was terrifying because he couldn't contain it, he couldn't keep it safe, he couldn't cover it all with his scrawny, magicless self. Love like this was only a foot in the door, because he wasn't sure his shattered heart was strong enough to love one more in the same way.

He hid the thought behind a chuckle, calloused fingers entwining with hers with a smirk, "Too enthusiastically? So we should tone 't all down then, eh? Is that what you're sayin'?" Mischief was in his tone and sparkled for a moment in his grey gaze, a wordless admission that he would do no such thing. He watched her search for the right things to say, searching her face in return once she found it,

"Happy—oes. I ent sorry, neither. Jus' thought I'd get a chance t' yach a lil' first. Do things proper-like with you, Sarinah, with all th' to-do y' deserve on Surwood an' all b'fore gettin' to th' bochi business. I guess we'll skip th' yach'n, oes? We're jus' us. Fami. Together." He was blushing with the admission, thin-lipped and shy to blurt out such honesty. The truth would have been he'd never dreamt in all his hard life that he'd ever want any of those things, but with the lovely witch, he greedily wanted it all. Did it matter? Did he need proper when he had in his hands all that was right? Perhaps all that ceremony was just the dark-haired passive clinging to his galdor-born past, perhaps living a life unbound by the trappings of society was far better for him than he really could comprehend,

"You'll have t' keep th' food in, though, t' grow anythin', 'specially a boch." Tristaan teased, smiling at her, "I think we'll need a healer t' give us a bit o' schoolin' 'cause we'll be travelin'. I need t' know what I can do jus' in case we're on th' road, ye chen. An', oes, Baldur's th' type o' man who deserves honesty. Y'ent gonna be up in th' air an' dancin' once that babe gets too big. No' 'f I've got any say in 't, that is."
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 742
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