[Riot 2718] Taken

Riots, fighting...oh and a little kidnapping.

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
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Sarinah Lissden
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: Passively invested
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Thu Oct 18, 2018 7:59 pm

Yaris 25th, 2718
RIOTS | MIDDAY
Image
WSarinah stood on the platform that was fixed to one of the supportive tent poles, dressed in a warm red one piece acrobats outfit, small sequins catching the lighting as it moved. Her long legs were dressed in stockings and her feet bare as the day she was born. On one ankle a small silver chain sat quietly, the tiny bells on it waiting patiently for her to move. Her long raven locks were drawn up into a soft pile of curls, pinned strategically to ensure they didn’t come out no matter what direction she was facing. If one was aware that she carried life within her, they may be able to notice a small soft curve to her lower abdomen, nothing outstanding to a stranger but probably noticeable to a familiar face. In her hand, she held the curve of her hoop, taking a slow breath and calming her nerves. The morning sickness had subsided a couple of weeks ago, thank Alioe. Now it was just stage jitters.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to cast your eyes skyward, we call this one Beauty…

The lights shifted, giving the witch her cue, as the audience looked up she placed a foot in the hoop and pushed off, allowing the suspended aerial device to sweep around in a wide circle over their heads. She smiled, leaning to reach with an outstretched hand, elegantly moving to the music from Kellie-Mae and her band. Somewhere in the darkness behind the scenes, Tristaan was around, and whilst she couldn’t see him the brunette was aware of him.

The man that would be the da of their boch.

“...and the Beast.

On time, Clarabelle snarled as though a demon dragged from the depths of the afterlife, giving the dancer her cue to turn and sit in the hoop. Taegan would come marching out now, with Clarabelle bounding ahead, and she would let them play at being scary before she would be lowered towards them. It was all choreographed and rather dramatic, but the crowd seemed to love it.

“Get off me y’erse! Run Villie, run!” Voices could be heard from the outside of the tent, faint at first, but steadily growing. At first, a few people in the crowd noticed, turning and looking with muttered curious comments. Sarinah frowned, looking down at the people and across the tent. Perhaps there had been a misunderstanding between the vendors outside?

The ties that held the entrance shut suddenly tore open, as a bloodied wick fell back into the empty aisle, panting and wide eyed. People gasped, jumping to their feet to see better. He looked around, scrambling shakily up and pointing at the tent entrance.

“It’s a riot! A mant manna clocking ri—” His words were cut short as a whoosh of air brushed past him, stealing the oxygen from around him. As the wick gasped for air, falling to his knees and eyes bulging, audience members screamed and began to clamber for the exit. From the entrance a bleeding Seventen burst through, hands extended before him and lips uttering the monite to suck the very air from the wick’s lungs. Chaos and confusion exploded in the tent, fellow wicks leaping into the fray to save their kinsman. A woman, her violet dreadlocks flying, screamed an innotation as she rushed to the fallen man’s aid, a burst of liquid magma exploding across the space in an intense golden glow.

“Ne!” Sarinah cried out from her suspended view, watching with horror as the Seventen screamed in agony whilst the heated rock ate through flesh and bone, setting his uniform and hair on fire. The galdor stumbled back, falling into the canvas of the circus tent which caught alight like dry brush in summer.

“Hakvada!” The dancer swore, hanging from the rafters and watching the chaos go by. Her dark eyes swept the ground for the dark haired passive, realising very quickly she needed to get down.

“Tristaan?! Tristaan!” She called out, unsure if he could hear her over the shrieks of the crowd, the smell of burnt galdor flesh searing her nose.

word count: 720

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Tristaanian Greymoore
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: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 3:41 pm

25th of Yaris, 2718
OUTSIDE of VIENDA, BALDUR'S CIRCUS | MIDDAY
Tristaan made his rounds around the outside edges of the tent, behind the audience, studying the crowd before it was his turn to make his way back to the rope and help with Sarinah's act. Beneath his tailored coat, nestled against his ribs, was the comforting weight of the pistol he'd purchased, the marvelous weapon a dangerous game changer that had given him no false sense of security so much as an excuse to change his tactics. The audience erupted in their surprised responses to Clarabelle as the chrove and Taegan joined his lovely witch in the main ring, and the dark-haired passive used the moment to glance up at her, aware that she couldn't see him, but he smiled anyway. She'd found somewhere she belonged and while he was convinced he would never have that in his life, he'd found her and that was more than enough.

They'd made a life together and if he'd ever had a purpose, he did now. It was far more than he'd ever hoped for.

He was just beginning to head backstage again when he heard the voices like a distant rumble of thunder on the horizon, noises of worry and panic not from inside the tent but outside.

His whole body tensed and grey eyes darted to the tent entrance as a wick burst in, bloodied and panicked, the words on his lips stopping Tristaan's breath for too long. Godsbedamned riot. He was too close, and he felt the mona shift from around him like a tide going out, like death crawling in. He didn't know the words, but he knew the uniform—as a child, he'd made a promise to wear the recognizable greens of the Seventen. Oh, Gods, how far from that he was now! Heat washed over him, everything happening too fast as a witch cast and people began to panic, the passive drawing his karambit from his belt and simply slicing open the tent where he stood. He chose not to think about what was happening, to focus on doing what he could, wrestling with the panic that rose in the scarred cavity of his chest and burned in his lungs with the scent of charred flesh. Combat erupted where the Seventen stood, and while some people were flooding out of the tent, rioters were pouring in.

"This way! Everyone out!" He shouted, snatching shirts and collars and arms and beginning to funnel members of the audience outside before he pushed his way through them, quickly shouldering his way toward the ring instead of back stage, aware that the panic would spread to the chrove and things would quickly get out of hand. That beast only pretended at being tame, charmed by the young wick but still possessing a mouthful of teeth and an instinct to kill. The animal was already wide-eyed, nostrils flared at the scent of death and fire, growling low as her soft belly brushed the packed dirt floor of the ring.

"Taegan! Get 'er outta here. Go. Get Clarabelle out! You're th' only one who can do 't, kov. Out th' back an' as far as y' can." The dark-haired passive attempted to be heard above the voices of panic, stepping into the ring in hopes that Sarinah would see him. Making eye contact with the young wick, Tristaan gripped the boy's shoulders, he shoved the youth into action, Taegan attempting to gain control over his chrove and convince her to back away.

"Sarinah! Hang on, ye chen? I gotcha next, hama. Jus' be careful. He shouted, wildly looking for Winslow or anyone to get the lovely witch down, attempting to make his way across the open space when he didn't see anyone to get her down himself as people fled in any direction they could, unsure that he even wanted to see what was happening outside. A few brave, panicking audience members tore across the open ring, startling Clarabelle and wresting her from Taegan's grip, the chrove snarling and snapping at them until they nearly trampled Tristaan in their haste to get away, knocking the passive to one side while he doggedly staggered toward the controls for the rope to lower Sarinah to the ground.

He didn't bother looking behind him, too focused, mind running through all of his carefully calculated escape plans, calloused hands reaching for wenches to rush through getting his lovely witch down and the clock out to safety.
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 800
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Sarinah Lissden
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Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Location: Vienda
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: Passively invested
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Tue Oct 30, 2018 7:53 am

Yaris 25th, 2718
RIOTS | MIDDAY
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Taegan stared at Tristaan as he wrestled the beast, all his bravado and cheek replaced by the wide eyed fear of a boy barely old enough to call himself a man stuck in the throng of a violent and explosive situation. From the rafters, Sarinah watched her lover move to give freedom to those now trapped in the quickly burning tent, nodding as he called back to her with smoke filling the rooftop. It was chaos from her view, people scattering like ants across the floor far below, and with horror she watched as Clarabelle broke free from her trainer huge tail swishing and massive paws swiping at terrified people as they ran past.

“Watch yeself!” She yelled, gripping the hoop tightly as panic gripped her chest, relived as the grey eyed man dodged past the wild chrove and reached the controls for her guideline. The hoop began its descent, Sarinah swinging down to hang by her hands dropping to the ground as soon as was remotely safe to do so. Landing with a minor stumble, she moved to meet Tristaan, head swivelling to look all around at the disaster that surrounded them.

“We gotta dust, gotta get outta the tent kov!” The pregnant witch said over the din of screaming and fighting, curling her hand tightly in his and making for the makeshift door way. Taegan was calling for Dorian in a panicked voice, his control over Clarabelle completely lost, blue eyes full of fear as he watched the large blackback snatch a human woman by the arm with a crushing tearing sound and a horrific scream.

Moving with the passive, Sarinah ran to the slit in the tent wall, coughing as smoke and dust filled the air. Pushing to get through, being pushed around by the rapidly exiting people, she gripped Tristaans hand tightly, feeling it slip as people shoved their way around them.

“Tristaan! Come on, get out of it ye mung erseholes!” Staggering back from the flood of people, Sarinah stood still beside the gold and blue tent trying to see the passive, her mahogany gaze darting across the scene outside. It was insanity. People fought hand to hand, wicks and galdori and humans alike. Magic crackled in the air, fires burned with thick black billowing smoke, and gunshots rang out in the oppressively hot Yaris air. Her teeth rang sharply, as somewhere close by the runoff of a brail brushed her field.

“Sarinah!” A familiar voice called out from behind her. The Eye turned on her heel in shock, staring for a moment before moving to reach for the man that stood there.

“Da? What the—never mind. Here, help me! I can’t see Tristaan, he’s still in there I think! I need to get back—.” She saw him then, a body in the crush of people, and moved to shove people aside and reaching for his jacket.

“Here! Hama, over here!” Wrestling him free, the brunette moved towards her father, panting with adrenaline and fear. Augren looked at them both, nodding to Tristaan before beckoning.

“This way y’two, quick s’y’can oes? I ent sure wha’s goin’on but it ent s’bad this way.” He moved, and Sarinah followed, unquestioning in the confusing moment. They moved from the crowd, behind the tent where the crates and kints were settled, Augren slowing and looking back at them both with a nervous sort of frown.

“Epaemo Sari.” He said, his dark eyes shifting to focus on someone behind them both, or someone’s.

“An’ here I thought we’d have t’wait till the curtain call Greymoore. I’m impressed t’be honest. Vienda were never m’cup o’rum, but if this is how she welcomes guests, well this is just perfect.” A woman’s smooth, amused voice spoke with all the wry smugness of the cat who had just found the jug of cream, a voice from the passive’s past.

From the Rose.

From Hawkes personal entourage.

“Just perfect.” Sarinah turned to look at the woman, picking out at least six other people clearly with her, frowning and looking at Tristaan and her father.

“Da, what did you do?” She hissed angrily, to which Augren could only shake his head, rubbing his neck and swearing.

“Wha’ I had t’, t’get y’back Sarinah. Y’an Eye. An’ I lost y’f too long. Ent loosin’ y’again.” The woman laughed, adjusting her belt with a grin and a shake of her head, her field blazing like the fire that burned down the tent beside them. A witch, so it seemed.

“Y’mung bastard.” Without ceremony, a lanky human woman in an oversized long coat and wide brimmed hat drew her pistol and loosened one single shot, dropping the older Lissden like a lame horse. Sarinah let out a short scream, moving closer to the passive with wide mahogany eyes, to frightened to cry.

They’d found them. By the Gods Hawke had found them.

“She’s the property of Silas Hawke, not yers. But mujo ma f’ye help.” Licking her lips, the speaker turned gold rimmed eyes on Tristaan and grinned warmly.

“Y’in a world of trouble Greymoore. A world of trouble.”

word count: 906
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Tristaanian Greymoore
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: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Thu Nov 08, 2018 12:00 am

2nd of Roalis, 2718
Dice RollsShow
SidekickBOT | Last Sunday at 12:16 PM
6d6 = 1, 3, 4, 1, 2, 6
These are Tristaan's six shots with the Defender: miss, hit, hit, miss, hit, dead.
The dark-haired passive was forced to make too many choices at once: he needed to get Sarinah down, he wanted to help Taegan with Clarabelle, and he knew he'd like to help more people. But Tristaan was only one man, and his most important focus would always be his lovely witch, the brunette dancer carrying his child.

Inside the tent had quickly dissolved into panic and chaos, and he focused on lowering the hoop while gritting his teeth to ignore all that was loud and insane around him. Once she was on the ground and his calloused hands held her tightly, the dark-haired passive was, at least outwardly, the epitome of calm, "Oes. I know 't, hama. Stay close t' me. I want t' get t' th' kint."

Tristaan held Sarinah as close and as tightly as he could, aware that he would be flowing with the crowd toward the opening in the tent he'd made, but also aware that in the panic, no one would be careful about their personal safety. The chrove behind them, normally quite sweet and tame, was terrified and lashed out, the sounds of crunching bone, snapping jaws, and screams of pain. It took everything in his being not to turn around and offer to help, grip loosening on the olive-skinned witch as people shoved and swarmed around them. The dark-haired passive cursed and attempted to keep them together, feeling the tight press of bodies and fighting to keep his own panic from setting fire to the scarred cavity of his chest.

Tucked under his jacket, the weight of his firearm, the Defender, stung against his ribs when some stranger nearly elbowed into the thing, stealing his breath for a moment and eliciting a string of curses as Sarinah slipped farther away from him in the tide of bodies. He attempted to shout above the cacophony of sounds around them, "Jus' keep goin'. To th' kint. Don't stop. Don't stop for anythin'. I'll meet you there."

He felt it, too, the jarring twisting of reality as someone brailed, the backlash dizzying and Tristaan was forced to shove some rough rioters aside, attempting to make his way closer toward the small, brightly painted wagon he shared with his lovely witch. Something more familiar brushed against him, like the whisper of a field he knew, but there was far too much chaos for him to concentrate on anything but making his way toward his destination, toward their things. Desperately, he paused to scan the crowd, aware suddenly that Sarinah was off course, turning back to him, reaching for him through the crowd,

"Ne—keep goin'—wo chet. Augen? Ne—" The dark-haired passive was too jaded of a creature to find the witch's father convenient, and his grey eyes widened in both fear and surprise, worried for a moment that all of the magic in the air had simply made him hallucinate. He'd shoved fear into the dark recesses of his mind, but the minute the older wick's apologies left his lips, all of it came crawling back out again like a wave of vicious nausea.

"Havakda! How could y'—" Calloused fingers were already reaching into his coat, body tensing with the worst kind of expectation. The voice that reached his ears through the terrible horror of the crowd made every nerve in his body ignite as if lit by a match and Tristaan turned in time to see her, to see Yulina grin at him like the predator Silas' henchwitch really was. There was no mistaking the dark-skinned witch with midnight black hair and the long, deep scar that ran from one cheekbone to the other across the bridge of her nose. She'd spared him once, just a handful of years ago, when she should have gutted him and left him to die like the rest of his tyat friends.

But she'd liked his spark, she said.

But he'd owe her a favor, she'd said. A debt for his worthless, magic-less life.

Alioe, have mercy.

His narrow frame was already taking his own initiative to place himself between Sarinah and the other witch, one sidelong glance taking in the bodies that were revealing themselves as not belonging to the panicked crowd. He counted, heart burning against the back of his throat and gut twisting in panic. His free hand was reaching for his brunette dancer, using the movement to hide the fact that his calloused fingers had already curled around the grip of his pistol, six shots loaded and ready.

Augren attempted to explain his mistake and Tristaan grit his teeth, about to shout at him to shut his head when one of Yulina's thugs, simply drew their firearm and moved to aim. The passive leapt into action then, Sarinah behind him even as the crack of a single gunshot sent the older Eye to the dirt. Tristaan didn't even wait for Yulina's retort, having taken in the positions of her entourage who now stood unmoving, surrounding them at a respectable distance in the crowd.

"Ne." The dark-haired passive breathed, his draw with the Defender as quick as always, this pistol lighter than his old flintlock had been. Thumb on the hammer just as the masked Gunner had taught him, he had but a heartbeat or two to make his move: six loud, quick shots in succession so shocking and unheard of:

The first whistled past the ear of Yulina herself, causing her to duck and draw a pair of long daggers. There was a moment of expectant tension, everyone assuming that was the only shot of Tristaan's pistol, but his thumb found the hammer again and he fired again. The second smashed a bullet square into the chest of the gunwoman with the wide-brimmed hat, dropping her as fast as she'd dropped his lover's father. This was where Yulina hissed, and her ragtag team of Brothers began to press closer, to move inward under the assumption that the passive's weapon was now spent. It was not, and Tristaan smirked, the fiery burn on the pad of his calloused thumb a reminder. He turned again, half a step, free hand protectively keeping Sarinah against him, and his ears ringing with the sound of his gunfire and his own pulse.

He fired again, and no one even knew that was possible. The third barreled into the gut of the next man, a short wick who hadn't even seen it coming as he gathered his field to cast. Not even missing a beat, his arm swiveled and he was ready to pull the trigger three more times in rapid succession, no longer a creature of thought so much as a magic-less beast of action. The fourth shot missed again, skimming the bicep of some hulking, shirtless human he would regret not dropping. The fifth shot shattered the knee of another witch as she leapt forward, the Mugrobi woman with a shaved head gurgling in pain and buckling to her uninjured knee, barely keeping herself from falling on her face with a quickly outstretched palm.

The loud cracks of the pistol rang out defiantly against the rioting din and the sharp scent of spent gunpowder filled his senses like so much smoke. This was no ordinary weapon the masked human had made for him, this equalizing hunk of metal shaped to fit his hand. It was his own kind of magic and for the first time in his mona-abandoned life, Tristaan had no qualms about wielding it in stalwart defense of all he’d dared to call his. His aim had always been enviable, but with this lighter, meticulously crafted thing, he was a dangerous beast. There’d once been a time that he’d had harbored regrets about taking the lives of strangers, but Old Rose has stolen that from him years ago and today was not the day for him to steal it back. No, his singular focus was as clear as it was doomed to failure, but the dark-haired passive would at least make his point before a few well-places blows brought him down:

He was free, and so was the witch his heart belonged to.

The last shot was leveled by Tristaan at another wick, a wild-eyed thing with a black hand tattooed over his long face, was point blank enough to mangle that ink when the bullet splattered into his skull, covering Yulina and the passive both in his blood.

There was a shocked moment of silence, for no one in the Harbor, let alone the Kingdom of Anaxas, had seen a firearm that could drop six people at once. Even members of the crowd slowed or turned and scrambled the opposite direction. Panic filled the chaotic spaces and Tristaan shifted his grip on the weapon in preparation to use it to slam across the face of whoever was closest, leveling his steely gaze at the scarred witch who'd come to collect her what she considered hers,

"Fuck you. Fuck Silas. We ent goin' anywhere. Y' don't own me. N' one does. An' I bought Sarinah fair an' square accordin' t' Harbor rules, blood an' all."

Although, this time, he couldn't pay that price again. He had two lives to protect, and as much as he was the kind of man to defend them to the death, they needed each other too much for him to lose his mind and sacrifice himself. It would be meaningless, and he wasn't about to give anyone of Hawke's Brothers the satisfaction of his cold body at the King's feet.

A helpless anger filled him, rage roaring through his thoughts and singeing every nerve ending. He wasn't enough. He wouldn't be enough. Outnumbered, awash in whatever riot was unfolding in the capital, there was only so much he could do to protect his fami, and Augren was both their undoing and already proof of his imminent failure.

But he wasn't about to go back to the Harbor without a fight. The scarred witch before him wasn't through with him, it seemed.

"Oh, please, Tristaan. Yer mine until I say ye ent. Whatever kinda' vroo a scrap like yerself 's gone an' found here won't be enough, I'm afraid." Yulina sniggered, though her voice wavered with uninhibited fear, already gathering her field just as the burly human he hadn't managed to hit with a bullet leapt at the pair and the passive twisted to swing the butt of his pistol right into his face to keep him away from his lovely witch.
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 1872
User avatar
Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 99
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:

Fri Nov 09, 2018 7:27 am

​​
Yaris 25th, 2718
Dice RollShow
SidekickBOT | Today at 13:51 PM
1d6 = 6

For Tristaan to go down like a sack of potatoes.
​​RIOTS | MIDDAY ​​
Image
It happened so fast, the witch barely had time to think. She cowered beside the passive, her hands pressed tightly over her ears as the gun went off again and again, loud and unexpected in both its appearance and its numerous shots. Six shots. Her mahogany gaze trailed across the mess that had been made of the habour folk, stomach turning at the sight of the black hands mangled skull strewn across the suddenly too bright green grass.
​​
​​ “Gods!” She gasped, ears ringing and half deaf from the echoing cracks that had split the air, slowly lowering her hands with wide eyes. There was a moment where everyone paused, everyone trying to process what was had just happened whilst the riot raged around them. Her dark eyes swept from their to-be captors to the fallen lifeless body of her father with a tearful sound. He was an idiot, and an ersehole, but Alioe he was still her father. Grief threatened to flare up, to consume her, but the immediate danger standing before them both pushed it down. Drawing her field tightly, the dancer glared at the witch that sniggered and taunted the passive. She knew him, it was clear she knew the man, and a twisting of fear burned in the dancers stomach. Tristaan has told her he had debts to Hawke as well, and it seemed the dark haired woman laid claim to those debts. After so many months free, it had begun to feel like they’d escaped. They were free, with a bochi on the way and a fami of their own. Of course, it had all been a beautiful lie.
​​
​​An' I bought Sarinah fair an' square accordin' t' Harbor rules, blood an' all.
​​
​​The brunette swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at Tristaans words, knowing full well his words were a desperate effort to settle this score. One last ditch effort to save their skins from Hawkes grasp. It didn’t work, wouldn’t work, and they both knew it. Sarinah could feel the woman’s own field gathering, sensing already that there was no match with her own magic and this witches. A sudden movement caught her eye, the human that Tristaan had managed to miss leaping at them. The passive twisted, swinging the butt of his pistol into the luggers face.
​​
​​Now!
​​
​​Taking the moment to act, Sarinah intoned the monite to push Yulina aside, only the more experienced witch countered with a sneer and a flick of her hand as though brushing aside a gnat. The dancer felt it like a slap in the face, stumbling against the rebutted blow. As Tristaans pistol came at the human, the large man grunted, swinging a meaty fist to make contact with the passive’s jaw. They connected almost simultaneously, blood spurting from the humans face. Tristaan would feel his head ringing again, though not from the gunshots this time, stars swimming before his eyes. Before either of them could recover, Yulina threw her monic weight into the fray, uttering the simple monite for push with a healthy dose of gravity at Tristaan to drag him to the ground and approaching with her with daggers at the ready.
​​
​​ “Ne ye vreska!” Sarinah growled, moving to rush the woman, only to be faced with the bleeding human that the scarred grey eyed man had clocked. She didn’t pause, throwing her arm up to counter the burly fist grabbing for her hair, and following through with a knee to the groin. The man choked out a sound of agony, sinking down even as she shoved him aside. Yulina grinned at Tristaan as she held him at her feet, barely looking at Sarinah as she lifted a hand and twisted a single syllable into her spell to include the brunette in the overbearing press of gravity. The dancer felt the weight of it push her down to her knees with a yelp of surprise, leaning on her hands and struggling to keep her eyes on the powerful witch.
​​
​​ “Some balls, both o’ye. No wonder Hawkes so pissed, y’stole Greymoore, no matter how y’see it. Payment f’goods is the King’s choice, and somethin’ tells me he ain’t happy with the Harbor rules in this case kov. Fuck, I ent happy either. I mean, y’only alive because o’me. Y’life is mine, not yer own.” Yulina knelt down, slipping her daggers down the buttons of his jacket, toying with the notion of plunging them into his flesh by the look on her face. Suddenly she laughed, gesturing at the olive skinned woman beside him with a blade.
​​
​​ “I could do wicked things t’her…wicked…painful things. And y’couldn’t stop me.” Her gold rimmed eyes burned with something dark, something sadistic, and her field flared as the monite changed.
​​
​​ “Or t’ye, oes?” Tristaan would feel an unnatural pain wrack his body, the sensation of being flayed alive across his scarred and inked skin. Sarinah felt tears prick her eyes gritting her teeth as her head bent under the pressure. They were loosing this fight, and afraid for the child inside, for the man she loved, the witch cried out to the woman.
​​
​​ “Stop, stop epaemo. I’ll come, just stop. Stop!” Yulina looked over at the pathetic tumble and laughed again, lifting the spell with a simple word.
​​
​​ “Well, since y’asked nicely.” Tristaan would barely have time to recover, before the human he had pistol whipped closed behind him and pelted the passive hard across the back of the head. This time, the man would go down, stars replaced by the darkness of unconsciousness. Sarinah moved to reach for the dark haired man, yelling with frustration as the human lifted her bodily and wrenched her arms behind her. Letting tears wash over her, the dancer stopped struggling, sobbing quietly whilst Yulina looked over Tristaans prone body.
​​
​​ “Ye, bind them both and get them on the wagon. I’ll fix this lot. Shame about th’ Hand. I liked him.” With a sniff, she stood and sheathed her daggers, taking stock of the damage around her with a whistle.
​​
​​ “Don’t anyone touch that pistol, ye chen? The King’s gonna want t’see that.” Grasping Sarinah by the chin, she lifted the witch’s face to her own, examining the dancer for signs of damage like a buyer would examine a kenser at the market.
​​
​​ “Macha one, ent ye? Though not sure what the fuss is about. I seen better. Then, who can know Hawkes mind except Hawke.” Shrugging, she left her man to his task, and whilst the Riots of Vienda roiled around them the Brothers hauled their captives back to the Rose.
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word count: 1175
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