On Caoja an' Fami

Sarinah and Tristaan arrive at Surwood Isle

Open for Play
A large island and a few smaller isles in the Arova River, this hub of nomadic wick life is home to the annual Wick Festival.

User avatar
Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Writer: Raksha
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Fri May 18, 2018 7:31 pm

Bethas 27th, 2718
SURWOOD ISLE | MORNING
Image
The sun had risen over Surwood Isle in beautiful tones of pinks, oranges and purples, like some fantastical kaleidoscope of color welcoming the kintboats of the deepwater into the festival. The heavily forested island was deceptively quiet, the dock itself nothing more than a wooden jetty crowded by a collection of boats large and small, some of the shiphands lingering and unpacking from the ones recently arrived. Wild whice sang in the early morning light and little bugs chirped amongst the long grass. To anyone berthing on the isle, it would seem like nothing more than a quiet place to make land for a few houses.

Of course, any wick that was worth their meddle would know that was entirely the opposite during Bethas.

The annual, month-long Wick Festival which took place during the month of Bethas, was a huge gathering of wicks on Surwood Isle. Each year it acted as a sort of family reunion, with wicks representing all kingdoms far and wide in attendance. It was the second-largest celebration in the country, and had been going now for at least a thousand years according to the elders. The festival itself consisted of an entire month of the things wicks love most: dancing, storytelling, crafting, trading, and inventive games. It was also the time of year when wicks from different tribes met each other and got married - mass marriages being very common during the festival. Tribes merged, treaties got drawn up, and an air of peace quelled most lingering hostility between opposing tribes.

As the Deepwater wicks departed their boats, Sarinah stepped off onto the dock and breathed deeply. Even though they couldn’t see it yet, she could smell the scents of breakfasts being started. The path from the boats to the cleared centre of the island was decorated for the festival, leading people with hanging paper lanterns and streamers. As they would reach the massive clearing, the trunks of trees around them were painted in a ritual tradition, according to the attending families. If one were to cut down a ritual tree on the island, one would see colorful rings, attesting to the festival's longevity.

Moving along the path, they would be surrounded by kints designed to float as well as move on wheels, bringing food and drink as well as other necessities. The witch smiled as people moved past them, her hand holding Tristaans lightly as they walked.

“It’s been a mant manna maw since I’ve been here. Almost forgot how big Surwood actually is, ye chen?” Her weak field jittered slightly, nerves and anxiety eating at the brunette as they got closer to the clearing. Off in the distance, she could see the brightly colored tents that housed shops and side alleys of various delights. The edge of the festival itself. Taking a deep breath, the dancer looked over at the man with a smile.

“Ye know, I’m not sure I could go in there without ye. I feel like a...a jent. An imposter. But then...I’m so happy to be here. It’s...I don’t know. It’s complicated.” Laughing, she let her eyes wander back to the path ahead of them, watching some of the Deepwater tribe bochi running ahead with loud shouts and squeals of delight.

“They’re so nanabo, oes?“ Sarinah said with a chuckle, smoothing her black tresses behind an ear. She wore borrowed garments from Teira, a vibrantly colored red dress that flowed around her bare feet and a black under-bust corset laced comfortably around her waist.

“So many people. I forgot that too. So many.”

Tags:
User avatar
Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Wed May 23, 2018 4:20 pm

27th Bethas, 2718
Image
Tristaan had more than his fair share of happy memories about Surwood Isle and the wick festival that took place every Bethas—he'd been here a handful of years in a row when he called the Red Crow his family, and there wasn't a memory he could recall that was unpleasant about the place. His time spent among wicks had taught him more about acceptance, given him opportunities to accept himself as he was, and shown him a kind of life that did not exist at all in Anaxi galdori society. No wick abandoned their parse child and no one questioned the mark inked under the skin of his right bicep, no one told him what he couldn't do or what he couldn't enjoy.

The essence of freedom, concentrated into a singular event, worn proudly by an entire race of people.

And yet the dark-haired passive had been afraid to accept what had been offered to him time and time again by the Red Crow, by wicks in general. Something inside of him still felt broken, still ached with a need nothing could fill, still wanted a validation he simply couldn't have from a race of people who did not want him, who refused to recognize him as a legitimate part of their existence. As much as he loathed such rejection, he couldn't help but pine for it. He couldn't help but feel as though he had something to prove. That fire had kept him from truly letting go, from really becoming tekaa. A thorn in his heart—he couldn't let go of what he might have been.

Sarinah spoke and pulled Tristaan from his thoughts, grey eyes coming into focus from the verdant trees and paper lanterns and streamers to gaze upon the lovely witch's face. He could feel the nervousness in her field and his calloused fingers tightened around her hand with a squeeze,

"Oes, gotta squeeze a mant manna tekaa all in t' one place, ye chen. Surwood's a big island, though even in th' Harbor, I heard th' gollies wanna find a way t' police it on account o' th' festival. Good clockin' luck, that." He chuckled, rolling his narrow shoulders in a shrug and raised his free hand to tuck strands of hair behind his ear that had strayed from the loose bun of sorts he'd managed to gather it all in. His shirt was also borrowed, unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up despite the cool shadows and Bethas chill that still clung to morning on the isle. He felt strange to be unarmed, a little tense, but this place wasn't the Harbor. Of all places besides their unexpected hiding place on a kintboat on the Arova, Surwood was perhaps the safest they'd been in years. Also barefoot, he enjoyed the cool earth under his feet.

Blinking at her admission, the dark-haired passive's expression softened but his grey eyes didn't meet Sarinah's gaze, "Y' ent an imposter—you're th' real thing. A witch. I'm th' only one pretendin' t' be somethin' I'm no', macha. If all these tekaa can ignore what I am, can accept how dangerous I am without fear, then welcomin' you back should be easy. You're already fami. I'm jus' adopted." He leaned to kiss her cheek, humming at the brush of a child past his leg, the laughter of the running, enthusiastic bochi bringing a wistful smile to his aristocratic features, hidden though they were beneath his unshaveness.

Music and voices filled the lofty spaces beneath ancient trees, and throngs of strangers wandered everywhere, wild and free to be what and who they wanted. Watching the children and a few of the Deep Water wicks they'd come to call friends pass them, he chuckled at her question, ignoring the pang of jealousy he felt when it came to a youth he wasn't allowed to enjoy and a family he wasn't legally welcome to have, no matter how he would enjoy one,

"Oes. Those bochi have a benny life, s' true. Were that mine had been as simple, had I been born tekaa" Tristaan sighed, smiling anyway, watching her hand and her face, feeling a warmth flutter in the hull of his chest at the sight of her, unwilling to admit he enjoyed her level of comfort with children with a selfish and indulgent longing.

"We lookin' for your fami first 'r mine?" He shifted the subject only slightly, his shoulder bumping hers playfully even as his eyes wandered the faces of the crowds, somewhat hoping to see someone familiar so that he didn't have to go through the trouble of actively seeking out the Red Crow himself. When no one caught his eye, he waited, leading them under streamers and paper lanterns and tree branches heavily laden with leaves.
Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open.
Passive Proverb
User avatar
Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Writer: Raksha
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Fri May 25, 2018 6:57 am

Bethas 27th, 2718
SURWOOD ISLE | MORNING
Image
Sarinah snorted, shaking her head with a scowl.

“Havakda! Those mung jent‘s can clocking well try, ent sure they’d even make dock though. Gollies.” She hissed the word with anger, pushing away the clench of fear the very word turned in her stomach to smile back at the passive again.

In her mind, he wasn’t even remotely galdori. A wick, a parse as far as she cared.

The dancer leaned into the kiss on her cheek with a soft laugh, glancing at the expression on his face as the children ran past them. She couldn’t help the soft thrill and warmth that spread from within her chest at his smile, the dark haired man’s expression echoing her own. His comfortable ease with the bochi stirred things within her, unspoken things that were too strangely hard to say out loud, things that were just an extra drink or a passionate kiss away from slipping out.

“Blood doesn’t mean fami, balach.” The brunette said softly, hand entwined a little tighter with his as she turned her mahogany gaze back to the path before them, smiling at the children.

“Ent always so simple Tristaan. Ne, what ye have, what ye’ve gone through is...it’s incomprehensible. It’s clocking criminal. But being a wick, being born a wick, it comes with it’s lows too. These bochi, they ent had to endure being chased out of town. Or outlawed to live somewhere, or simply been told they’re only worth what someone will pay for them. Ye had it worse, I know, but I ent sure being born tekka is anyone’s first choice.” Sarinah shrugged, taking a deep breath as they entered the clearing that was the festival itself, her dark eyes scanning the faces of the crowds, somewhat uncertain if she wanted to recognise anyone. Following the man to the quiet calm under the tree line, she shook her head, playfully bumping him back with a small smile.

“We should find yours first. I mean, surely ye want to see your da. Tell him ye’re alive?” She chewed her lip thoughtfully, looking up again as someone approached them with a beaming smile.

“Y’mean we bring y’all this way, an’neither o’ye have run off t’join th’ fun?” Farhid laughed, pushing his green hair out of his face and shaking his head.

“What’s it now. Red Crow? Wanna head o’er tha’way, ye chen? Past th’ gkacha netche, turn left when y’see th’ blue’n’gold tent. Crow’s set their kints up there, a proper caoja o’their own! An’ye...Yellow Eye oes? Durg Lordes set ye’lot up o’er near th’ dancin’ I think. Couple o’kints way down th’ other end though, away from th’ other tribes as they could get. Might be Eyes, might be Hands. Ent sure yet.” He looked up at the sound of his name being called by Teira, backing away from the couple with a grin and arms wide.

“Go fami! Go enjoy th‘ last day’s of the festival! Or Teira’ll make me come back n’drag ye out there.” Laughing, he waved at them, before turning to jog towards the woman and his not so small brood. Sarinah watched him go with a laugh, taking another deep breath and pulling on the passive’s hand gently towards the direction the throng of people with a smile.

“Crows or Eyes?” She asked, before sniffing deeply. Her eyes lit up and her lips curled into a broader grin.

“Orrr....onna-stick? I bet they’re doing those one’s with the bacon and mushrooms!” She laughed, pulling him closer to her and kissing him suddenly with a hum, brushing his nose with hers gently.

“Or we could just disappear amongst the crowds, ye chen. Two nobodies just enjoying the festival and each other’s company.“ Even as she said it, the brunette knew it wasn’t what would happen. She did want to see her fami, even if the thought made her feel nervous to the point she felt ill.

Still. It had been five maw. She needed to see them. To tell them she was at least alive, even if her da didn’t want to know, she owed it to her daoa.

Sarinah sighed, resting her forehead against his and swallowing her teenage memories.

“Eyes. Let’s find mine first.” She said softly, lifting her head and twining her hand in his again, leading the passive through the early morning sights and smells of the festival towards the place that Farhid had indicated the Eyes had set up. They passed the remains of a bonfire, wicks working to refresh it for the coming evenings dancing and drinking. People see everywhere, talking and laughing in a mix of tek and estuan. Eventually they began to see bright yellow pennants and streamers, with the Yellow Eye symbol painted on the side of kints and flags fluttering in the morning breeze. Sarinah glanced at them, looking over the colorful mobile homes, before chuckling and shaking her head.

“I knew it. My da, ever the old world spoke wouldn’t set up here, too close to the other tribes. Too close to Lordes.” She pointed out the Durg’s kint to her lover as they walked, pulling him further away from the Eyes, towards the far end of the caoja. They hadn’t even made it more than a few steps from the Eyes, when an woman’s voice called out.

“Sarinah?!” The dancer looked at Tristaan, stopping in her tracks, before turning back to the Yellow Eye encampment. She dropped his hand suddenly to run back, throwing herself into the arms of an older woman with greying auburn curls and bright blue eyes. Her skin was more tan than Sarinah’s, and her features seemed more Mugrobi than Anaxi. Sarinah squeezed the woman tightly, sobbing pathetically into her hair.

“Daoa. Junta! I missed ye so much!” Drawing back, the older woman looked her over with just as tearful a gaze.

“Where’ve y’been boch? We looked f’ye. Y’da an’ I. Even went t’Vienda, asked after ye. Clocks chip!” She held the dancer at arms length, both scolding and laughing and crying all at once. Sarinah shook her head, taking her mother’s hands and laughing.

“That ent important right now daoa. Not here. Not yet. Uh—“ Pulling on the woman’s hand, she moved quickly towards the passive, wiping her cheeks with a free palm before gesturing between them.

“Daoa, this is Tristaan. He’s a...a friend.” The young witch said with a blush and a shy smile, before looking back at the man.

“Tristaan, this is Rokeish, my daoa.” The older woman nodded at the man, laughing a little, even though she eyed him a little suspiciously.

“Hesta Tristaan. Friend then, oes? Ent th’reason m’daughter’s been away from home f’so long are ye?” Sarinah scolded the woman with a dark mauve blush creeping across her face. Turning around, the brunette looked over the people, before looking back at her mother.

“Where’s da?” She asked, grinning with delight, her reasons to be afraid of seeing her fami again buried under excitement and overflowing delight. Rokeish‘ s smile faltered, and she glanced back at the Eye encampment.

“He’s uh...he’s with the other camp, hama.” Sarinah looked at her with a frown, shaking her head.

“What other camp?” She asked, pushing dark strands out of her face as the morning breeze caught them and chewing her lip again. The older Lissden frowned back, sighing heavily and glancing at Tristaan as though to avoid her daughters gaze.

“Y’da and I, we unbonded about three maw or so ago now Sarinah. He’s still as stubborn an’ as set in his ways as ever. After y’left, we didn’t really see eye’t’eye anymore.” Looking back at her daughter, the older witch smiled.

“Y’chen? Da’s camped down th’ end, near th’ Hands. But I ent sure y’wanna go down there. Not after how y’left it.” The dancer stepped back, a disbelieving look on her face, the offhand comment almost a punch in the chest.

“How I left it? Y’mean how he left it. He’s the one that told me if I left I ent welcome back t’the kint. I wasn’t gonna stay away forever, ye chen? I wanted a fami, a home.” Rokeish sighed, crossing her arms with a shrug and shake of her head.

“Y’were gone f’five maw rosh. How’s that not stayin’ away? Where’d y’go Sarinah? Where’d y’go that we couldn’t find ye?” She asked again, almost angry in her tone, emotions stirring from years of questioning where and why. Rokeish has never stopped her daughter leaving, but she had at least expected her to visit. The brunette sighed heavily with frustration, looking at Tristaan with a frown.

“We should go. Shouldn’t have come in the first place.” She said softly, her field simmering with anger and a sinking sensation of sadness. The dancer moved closer to the scarred man, taking his hand and pulling gently on his arm to leave.

“Sarinah.” A man’s deeper, more thickly accented voice came from behind them, causing the brunette to sigh heavily, closing her eyes with a frown.

“Da.”

User avatar
Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Fri Jun 01, 2018 11:37 am

27th Bethas, 2718
Image
Sarinah wouldn't have understood how some part of Tristaan still longed to identify with the people who'd abandoned him to the streets, how some part of him still clung to an identity that had been ripped away from childhood fingers and buried under soot and scars. She smiled at him despite her comment and his grin faltered, though the tightening of her fingers with his kept him from disappearing into familiar patterns of self-deprecating thoughts—

Oes, he knew. Fami ran deeper than blood. Roots. An entwining stronger than friendship. Fami didn't need heritage, and he was a better man for that truth, though there had been a time in his life such a realization had stung.

"Oes, I chen. Wicks sweat an' died in 'th Soot District like everyone else. I s'pose it's jus' th' gollies who don't feel th' weight o' bein' under their thumbs." He sighed, looking away from her and following her gaze as she scanned the crowds and felt the brush of strange fields. He mistook her fear for eagerness for a heartbeat or two, for he felt a sudden need to see a face he knew, to hear his voice on the lips of fami he'd left behind just a handful of years ago. Her words reminded him of the nature of Sarinah's drifting, however, and as he opened his mouth to answer seeking out Guaril was fine by him, Farhid was teasing them.

The lovely witch's immediate indecision brought him back into focus and he paused to take both her hands and stop them from walking too much further, enjoying the distraction of her lips against his and feeling the nervousness in her field. Patient, the dark-haired passive let her work out her own mind, grey eyes fluttering shut at their closeness as if he could hear her thoughts, far too familiar with the internal struggle she obviously wrestled with,

"Boemo—Eyes 't is, then." His smile was warm, encouraging, and he let her lead him in the direction the Deep Water healer had so generously shared with them. He'd never bothered to become too embroiled in wick tribal politics, pulled away by the enticing violence of the tyat he'd dusted with before he could really understand the conflict. He didn't understand why the wicks would seek to divide themselves when the galdori were so desperate to keep them oppressed, even if it was under the guise of sovereignty. A unified force of tekaa would be far more intimidating than a bunch of squabbling half-breeds, which is all they were seen as these days anyway.

For a moment he thought Sarinah was changing her mind, watching the Eye kints and smiling at strangers while he waited for her to see her fami, but he perked up at someone else calling the lovely witch's name, feeling her hand slip away from his with an eagerness he understood and watching her embrace an older woman who was familiar enough in appearance to give her relation away.

Tristaan grinned, waiting his introduction and ignoring the suspicion to chuckle awkwardly at Rokeish's accusation, "Junta, Rokeish. Th' pleasure's mine. Ne, it ent all m' fault, I assure y', rosh, but m'haps I'm more th' reason she's here instead." He winked, about to tease further, but instead grew quiet as the conversation took a turn the olive-skinned dancer clearly hadn't expected. Awkwardly present for it all, the dark-haired passive curled toes into damp earth and didn't shy away from Rokeish's gaze.

"Sarinah—" He let her take his hand but didn't move when she tugged on him, feeling the frustration between the women, aware that time and distance had strained their relationship more because of her mother's worry than because of the lovely witch's decisions. She hadn't known what she was getting herself into in the Harbor—did anyone under Hawke's gaze, did anyone really? No. Even he knew that, "—wait, rosh. Y' should—"

Perhaps too aware of his surroundings for his own good, Tristaan fell quiet before the older man even spoke, tensing for a moment as if in any other situation, he'd be reaching for something sharp or pointy at the approach of a stranger out of his field of view. But the voice that spoke said Sarinah's name and while he didn't completely relax, he didn't miss the brunette's change of expression and knew one awkward situation was about to blend into another. Turning toward her father with a smile, ever the enduring optimist, the dark-haired passive waited to be introduced to speak.

Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open.
Passive Proverb
User avatar
Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Writer: Raksha
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Mon Jun 04, 2018 9:14 am

Bethas 27th, 2718
SURWOOD ISLE | MORNING
Image
As Tristaan turned to face the older wick, he would find himself staring into the same mahogany gaze as the dancer, only instead of a welcoming affectionate smile he would find a deep scowl. The man was taller than the passive, slightly taller than Sarinah, with lighter skin and greyed black hair twisted away from his face in a topknot. He wore traditional garb, leather tunic and pants decorated heavily with Yellow Eye symbols and colours, and on his face the tattooes that identified him as an Eye. The wick looked Tristaan over, before turning his gaze to the witch.

“What are you doing here? Who is this man?” He spoke in deep Tek, voice gruff and simmering with old anger. If he had a field, it was barely registered, weaker than Sarinah’s. The brunette opened her eyes with a sigh, looking up to meet his unsmiling face with a frown.

“Happy greetings to ye too then. Da, this is Tristaan. He’s been helping me t—“

“What are you doing here?” The man interrupted, refusing to change to estuan, causing Rokeish to roll her eyes and mutter under her breath. Sarinah took another deep breath, holding Tristaan’s hand like a lifeline in a quickly approaching storm.

“Speak so we can all understand da. It’s been too long and I am too tired to fight with ye. I’m...I’m back, ye chen? And I wanted to come and see ye both, to say I’m sorry I was gone for so long. I...” Her gaze drifted to the scarred man beside her, field nervously jittering between them. She needed to tell them the truth, but gods, did it have to be like this?

If not like this, when?

“I wasn’t able to come home. Got myself...I was...I accidentally signed a contract that bound me to Hawke. To work for him.” The taller man scowled deeper, his dark eyes hard and angry.

“F’five maw? Ye coul’t ge’a week r’so t’spare? T’come n’see us? T’le’us know y’were ev’n alive Sarinah? Disrespectful. See Rokeish, thi’s wha’I tol’ye. Driftin’ an’ forgettin’ fami. Forgettin’ wha’makes y’an Eye.” The auburn haired woman made a disapproving sound with her tongue and crossed her arms.

“Don’t y’put this on me Augren. I ent th’one that kept her away. I ent th’one that told her not t’come back. This is y’fault, not mine.” Augren waved at the woman, turning back to Tristaan with what now seemed like a permanent scowl.

“Wha’r y’then? On’f Hawke’s lasao lugs too? Y’don’look familiar.” The witch sighed, her patience with both of them worn threadbare, mahogany eyes seeking bastion in the face of the passive with a small smile.

“Ne da. Tristaan is the spoke that helped me, ye chen? Got me out of the Rose. And the Queen.” Augren’s eyes widened as they turned back to his daughter with disgust.

“Th’Mad Queen? Y’lef’us t’sell y’body f’ging? F’five maw?!” The older wick switched back into Deep Tek, letting fly a stream of angry and derogatory comments, clearly a man built with no internal brain-to-mouth filter. Sarinah bit the inside of her cheek, letting her father vent with a flat expression, cheeks red and eyes downcast. She could jump in and interrupt, but it wouldn’t help until he ran out of steam.

“Ent like that da. I was tricked, ye chen? Signed something I couldn’t read...but I ent never sold myself. Not once. I weren’t a tumble, just an...attraction.” She said softly once the man took a breath, meeting his fierce brown eyes with her own softer ones. Augren’s chest heaved with the heavy breaths of someone too worked up to think. He looked between the passive and his daughter, the silence between them growing thick with tension.

“Missed y’bochi.” He said finally, reaching out a hand and resting it on her shoulder, squeezing gently. The brunette smiled a little, following the shift of her father’s eyes to Tristaan as he looked the shorter grey eyed wick over again.

“Hesta Tristaan, mujo ma kov. Epaemo f’jus’now. ‘S’been mant manna maw y’chen? I’m Augren Lissden, o’th’Yellow Eye tribe. Spoke oes? Ent sure v’met y’before?” The taller dark haired man said with a short nod in acknowledgement.

“Spoke’s life’s’how us wick’s’r meant’t’live, oes? No’tied down t’th’one place.”

User avatar
Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Tue Jun 12, 2018 2:04 pm

27th Bethas, 2718
Image
Tristaan did not have the familial foundations nor the familiarity with her parents to be able to navigate the mess of conversation her da's arrival brought to the moment. He stood with his fingers laced with Sarinah's and kept out of things, mostly, not wanting to step on anyone's toes and quite unsure of the entire circumstance leading up to the lovely witch leaving her fami.

Most likely, he guessed, much like himself, she was swept away by what she felt was a restless need. He turned to the tyat, unable to settle down with the Red Crow as a spoke because he'd been trapped as a factory slave for so long. Staying still felt stagnant, terrifying. Sarinah, he gathered, had felt the opposite. She was tired of spoke life and wondered in her youth what kind of curiosities the city could offer her.

It was just unfortunate she'd been young and naive, and even more unfortunate she hadn't been taught how to read.

The dark-haired passive took in the man before him just as the older wick scrutinized his narrow-framed self. He made no move to shift his stance or create a different perception of himself, content to be seen as he was. Tristaan's grasp on Deep Tek was very limited, hardly spoken around him when with the Crow and not at all spoken among the kuatano of the tyat, for their own version of Tek was even more of their own young, ever-changing dialect than it was at all related to the language of their ancestors.

He caught a few words and offered a smile, wanting to introduce himself, but closing his mouth in a tight-lipped expression when the man interrupted Sarinah to make what could only sound like demands.

She explained herself and he sighed, hand tightening around hers because he knew that it was not an easy admission nor an easy explanation. Inhaling as if he had something to say about the accusation against his person, almost releasing her hand, he relaxed again for a moment when the brown-eyed dancer spoke up for him instead,

"I ent sure y' all chen what kinda' wick Hawke 's nor what kinda' racket he runs in all th' Harbor. He ent a spoke, no' one pina manna." He spoke plainly, aware that he'd not yet explained fully the nature of his debt to the King of the Underworld to Sarinah, either, "It ent always 'bout your intention, sometimes y' get tangled up in somethin' an' y' don't even know you're caught in Hawke's grasp or his contract until you're on th' other side 'f it. It ent fair t' blame your boch here for that."

Tristan had to say it, though he was unsure of what kind of trouble he'd invite with the words. Still, Augren seemed to soften, and while he understood their hurt was justified, perhaps Sarinah's return could help them all find the forgiveness they seemed to need.

"Junta, Augren. Fami can struggle, but that ent mean there's no hama underneath th' rough edges." The dark-haired passive felt the irony of his own statement, something inside of his scarred chest suddenly hurting with a sharp pain that almost stole the rest of his cheerfulness. Fami was such a hard word on his tongue,

"Ehhh, oes an' ne. I weren't raised a spoke, but I'm tekaa b' associatin' with th' right folks, ye chen? Been stuck in th' Harbor myself, under th' same thumb as your rosh, Sarinah. But I came 'bout spoke life by th' Red Crow. Fell int' some tyat an' dusted, though I'm here in hopes o' makin' amends with m' da, too."

He was aware he'd just said Red Crow out loud to an Eye, and to a very conservative Eye at that. Nonplussed by the ridiculousness of tribal politics, Tristaan hoped to overcome his admission with his focus on reuniting with his family, too, but he also was just far too uninvolved to even anticipate what kind of reaction his words could have caused in someone else more committed to the feud than he could ever be.

He wasn't sure anything but his tribal association would be heard, however, and so he ran a calloused thumb over the back of Sarinah's hand at Augren's comment about spoke life,

"Oes. I've tasted both, an' I'd rather be movin' than standin' still."
Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open.
Passive Proverb
User avatar
Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Writer: Raksha
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Wed Jun 13, 2018 6:14 pm

Bethas 27th, 2718
SURWOOD ISLE | MORNING
Image
The taller man looked over his daughter as Tristaan spoke about Hawke, his eyes softer and sadder as she looked back at him, truth of the matter there for him to see in her expression. Rokeish moved to reach for her free hand, squeezing it and brushing back a loose dark lock.

“Oes, y’right Tristaan. Ent m’self encountered Silas, bu’I heard’f him. Hatcher’n’wicks clothin’.” He chuckled then, a warm smile spanning his features that echoed Sarinah’s own.

“Clever kov y’foun’ Sari. That’r’just mung and tough enough’t’look clever.” The younger wick glanced over at Tristaan with a wider smile.

“Ent found him da, he found me.” She stroked a thumb across the back of the grey eyed passive’s hand as he mentioned fami, knowing enough in their short time together to know the word had mixed feelings for the man. As he continued to explain his background, Augren’s smile slowly faultered. Tekka by association? The man shook his head with a confused frown, unable to quite understand how that worked, it was however the mention of the Red Crow that stopped any further warmth from the man.

“Y’a Crow?” He said in a flat voice, eyes much harder and darker than before, judgement glazing them over. Augren turned then, any more conversation lost to the rage that simmered behind stern features. Rokeish moved suddenly, hands up as she stood between the taller wick and the young couple.

“Augren...” The older woman said softly, her tone laced with warning. Sarinah moved closer to Tristaan, her field drawn close and heart racing in her chest. Defiantly, she lifted her chin.

“Oes da. He’s a Crow, just like I’m an Eye. It ent any different to being a Deepwater or a Blackhand. Just a tribe, ye chen?” Augren glared at her over Rokeish’ shoulder, before spitting into the dirt at his feet.

“Ye lost your mind girl. Tribe is everything. Ent a single Crow that weren’t a filthy vreska. Taught ye better than that girl.” His dark eyes looked at the scarred passive with utter contempt and rage.

“Havakda. Y’ent nothin’ but a vreska dog come fro’a tribe o’laoso dogs. ‘Fraid o’qalqa n’tradition. Vrunta.” Pointing at Sarinah with one rigid finger, other fist clenched, Augren shook his head.

“Done wit’ye. Y’should’a jus’ stayed n’th’Rose wit’th’other tumbles.” The dancer blinked, shocked by his words even if she had half expected them.

“Da! Just st—“ The taller man raised his hand, refusing to hear another word nor to reply, instead turning his back on them and walking away with stiff back and clenched fists. Sarinah stared at his back, mahogany eyes welling with tears that she refused to let spill. Rokeish looked over at Tristaan with an embarrassed, apologetic frown.

“Maybe ye should go and enjoy the festival for a while. Dance, drink, have too much yats. Oes?” She held Sarinah’s face, forcing the younger witch to look at her with a smile and a kiss on her cheek.

“Give him time boch. He’s stubborn, and he’s a kenser, but he’ll come ‘round.” The dancer focused on her with a deep breath, hugging the woman with her free hand, before turning to look at Tristaan.

“Epaemo balach. Ye didn’t need to see or hear any of that.” Looking down at their hands entwined together, she shook her head.

“We should go. Maybe ye da will be happier to see ye, oes?” She said with a bitter chuckle, biting her cheek hard to stop the flood of hurt that wanted to burst forth. She’d known he would react poorly, just...not like that.

User avatar
Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Mon Jun 18, 2018 3:08 pm

27th Bethas, 2718
Image
Tristaan watched the shift in the older wick's entire expression at his words about the Crow. His face hardened and his body language changed, and while the passive didn't really know Augren enough to feel ashamed of his so-called tribal offense, he he'd already seen just how strained Sarinah's relationship was with her fami after five whole years of being away. They blamed her choices, and he being there perhaps wasn't helping.

The other man bristled, which for the dark-haired passive only triggered his more natural, Soot District-enforced instincts. His own body tensed, lithe muscles coiling as if he expected a challenge, grip for a heartbeat almost releasing Sarinah's hand but remembering himself and his place with a slow exhale. Grey eyes focused for a moment on Rokeish as she stepped between himself and the lovely witch's father, which, honestly, was probably a good idea for everyones' sakes.

He didn't relax, however, for Tristaan' hardly had a flight reflex. His was well-trained and decidedly fight-oriented. When Sarinah spoke up, he opened his mouth to explain himself further. He wasn't Crow. He was adopted by them. He was a passive. He was a scrap. He was nothing—

"I ent born a Crow, but they're by far th' best fami I've met so far in m' life, mujo ma." The dark-haired passive's gaze was burnished steel, hardened in fire, and he obviously meant his words as insulting to the way the older man treated both his only daughter and the woman who bore him the child. Augren's insults were almost enough to propel him past Rokeish swinging, considering how close he'd come to death to get the both of them out of the Harbor to begin with.

Tristaan grit his teeth instead, gaze tearing away from the older man to glance first at Sarinah's mother and then at the lovely dancer herself, "Oes. It's fine, rosh. Ent everyone able t' see what they've been given even when it's right in front 'f 'em. Even tekaa forget there's gollies who clockin' wanna crush all th' spokes like stones beneath their boots an' can't seem t' bring themselves t'gether jus' t' spite 'em. Tribal politics be kenser dung, but ent many spoke who've seen what waits for their bochi in th' Soot District like I have, ye chen."

The vehemence in the passive's voice was dredged up from over a decade of hurt, but he was quick to tug her away without another word, not at all ashamed to turn his back on the older wick or any of Sarinah's tribal family. He waited until they were out of earshot, walking in angry silence for several minutes, dragging them into the crowd of wicks who walked, sang, or dance their way to their various destinations on Surwood Island during this busy time of the festival,

"Epaemo. I shouldn't 've said anythin' after what y' told me. I jus' didn't think—" The dark-haired passive frowned, studying the lithe dancer's face carefully, squeezing her hand, "Y' didn't need t' hear any o' that, either. Ent any 'f it true, rosh. Y'ent better back in th' Queen an' y' know that, right?"

He'd lead them toward the direction Farhid had said the Red Crow had camped, but he paused to make sure she hadn't let her own father's words cut her too deeply. He was far too aware of the kind of suffering such rejection brought, for even now, over a decade since his abandonment by his galdori family, he still felt the burn of their disdain for his existence. The anger had drained from his aristocratic face and his narrow shoulders sagged, free hand curling calloused fingers into the back of his neck as he offered her the most encouraging of smiles he could.

"It ent true, Sarinah. I'm sorry they can't forgive themselves an' they gotta take it out on you."

He stood there and let bodies pass them both on all sides, taking her other hand with heartfelt persistence. It was while they were still in the sea of tekaa that a voice spoke up from the crowd, cutting short their conversation with a bright, excited voice,

"Tristaan!"

Grey eyes snapped from the lovely witch's face to the crowd, focusing on the source of his name.

"Junta! It is you!" A man hardly older than the passive but quite a bit taller than him was smiling and waving, squeezing his way through a gaggle of young women who were huddled and talking, setting them laughing and giggling and chiding at his back. This didn't even slow down the wick whose hair was almost as dark as the passive's that they could have been brothers, save their faces were clearly from different walks of life and the wick's eyes were a vibrant amber, "Y'ent dead an' buried after all these maw."

His sunny gaze washed over Sarinah and a knowing smile creased the wick's features before Tristaan had slipped from her hands to all-but tackle the helpless creature, nearly knocking them both to the ground. It wasn't in violence, however, but in a very fierce embrace, the two men laughing stupidly,

"Ne, I ent. Almost, though. M'haps a pina manna too many, Loyan." The dark-haired passive was grinning, speaking through grit teeth as the pair were still more wrestling than hugging until the taller wick slipped from his friend's grasp on purpose, dragging him by the bicep toward Sarinah,

"Oes, well, ye left an' we heard 'bout th' tyat near th' Harbor, balach. Even I knew who ye left with. We jus' figured—"

"Oes. But, ne, that's on me, those lives. I'll explain later, though—s'benny t' see you, Loyan. Junta. Five maw! Epaemo—this rosh be Sarinah. Sarinah, this is Loyan. He's ... almost a cousin."

"Almost? Sod off. He's fami." Loyan winked, shoving his friend before offering Sarinah a broad grin, "Ye find this lugger in th' Harbor, did ye, rosh? I ent sorry ye did, but I hope he weren't too much trouble. Ehhhh. I know he was. Ent ever gonna change. Hesta." If there was anything in the dark-haired wick's expression that belied his friendliness, it was perhaps the hint of curiosity in his tone, as if he wanted to ask about their relationship but somehow knew better or somehow was hesitant to put his friend on the spot here in public,

"Did ye jus' get here? Ye wanna eat?"

Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open.
Passive Proverb
User avatar
Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 139
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Writer: Raksha
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Thu Jun 21, 2018 9:12 am

Bethas 27th, 2718
SURWOOD ISLE | MORNING
Image
The brunette witch held the passives hand tightly, feeling the tension in his body and the grit in his voice. Augren, ever stubborn and set in his way didn’t though, or if he did he didn’t care. She nodded her head, agreeing with Tristaan’s scathing words, just not sure she trusted herself to speak. Finally the wick looked at her mother again, before glancing at the grey eyed man.

“He doesn’t care, ye chen? No matter what ye say, he don’t care. Da’s an old wick, scared of change. Stuck in the past, dze.” Sarinah said softly, allowing herself to be tugged away from the situation with her eyes on the ground, mind replaying the words over again. She blinked, lifting her sable gaze to Tristaan with a bitter shake of her dark hair.

“Ne. Ye ent got reason to apologise kov. I didn’t think...after five maw I guess I expected he’d changed. Suppose I expected to much.” The dancer looked away again, lifting a hand to angrily swipe at the tear that managed to escape, nodding at his words about the Queen. She knew he was right, she knew it with every part of her being.

It didn’t mean that Augren’s words hadn’t chipped a large chunk of self-doubt in her confidence.

As the all too experienced man paused, Sarinah saw the past in his face. He’d been in her shoes, more than even she could entirely fathom, and his anger at her father seemed to dissipate as they stood together. Ships standing still in a sea of wicks, clinging to each other for the support they both found in each other. She offered him a smile, opening her mouth to answer his reassuring comment, when a voice called out above the caoja.

Sarinah looked up at the kov that approached them, surprised at the similarities between the two men who couldn’t possibly be blood relatives. She smiled at the wick, meeting his golden gaze with her own mahogany one, before stepping back slightly as Tristaan almost transformed. He tackled the other man, half a hug and half a wrestle, the brunette unable to hold back as her smile turned into a chuckle. The passive had shown a similar side to himself with the deep water bochi, an unhidden sort of happiness that settled handsomely on his features.

tyat. Even I knew who ye left with.

As the taller wick dragged Tristaan back towards her, the witch tucked a raven wave of hair behind one ear with a curious shy smile.

“Hesta Loyan! Oes, stumbled across this tekka in the Rose, though not sure who found who.” She shot a private wink at the passive, shaking off the hurt from her father’s tirade as she smiled warmly at the wick.

“Ent trouble at all, not for me at least.” The dancer heard the slight tone in Loyan’s voice, the shift of his tawny gaze between them as he seemed to hold back more words trying to come unbidden. She lifted her brow with interest when the taller wick mentioned food, her stomach reminding Sarinah they’d yet to have breakfast. Her eyes shifted back to the grey eyed man with a chuckle, waiting for his reply to the question, afraid to impose on the man.

User avatar
Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Fri Jul 13, 2018 10:22 am

27th Bethas, 2718
Image
"Ne, don't let her fool ye, Loyan. She found me, kicked th' dirt off o' me, an' still doesn't seem t' mind th' sight o' me. No' even after gettin' in th' kind o' trouble y' know I get into." Tristaan's grin was broad and yet shy at the same time, but he seemed eager not to dwell on the tall wick's direction of questioning. He made it clear that he cared for Sarinah far more than perhaps he should have so soon, however, tangling their fingers together again, but he chose not to give his friend and Crow fami any clear definition of their relationship.

Not because he didn't want to.

More because he was afraid to.

It wasn't as though he knew entirely what to call things between himself and the lovely witch anyway. By Alioe, they had a connection, and it ran far deeper than just the heated, once-forbidden passions they'd shared with their bodies. Far too many of their life stories overlapped in ways that Tristaanian couldn't always properly express in words, and the danger and violence and near death experiences had perhaps only further solidified in the dark-haired passive's protective, hopeful heart just how much it felt as though more than mere coincidence had brought the two of them together.

It was the where to go from here part that seemed to keep getting stuck in the scarred hull of his chest: the fear of wanting more, of feeling more, of hoping for something new and beautiful that terrified him, especially with the memory of his diablerie far too fresh.

Still, Tristaan forced away his distracting doubts and fears and offered Loyan a laugh,

"Yats? Y' know I can't say ne. We ent ate yet—been travelin' up th' Arova with some Deep Water tekaa all th' way from Old Rose Harbor. Ent been but a day since we've been here. Boemo, I won't complain 'bout a meal with fami." He allowed some hope and excitement to fill him, to warm his words and burn away the dark thoughts that haunted him, tugging on Sarinah's hand as the tall wick laughed in return and waved them in the direction of the Red Crow camp that the passive would find familiar.

"Oes, good. Guaril won't know what t' do with himself, Tristaan, when he sees yer face. Yer gonna make that poor ol' Da o' yers think he's seen a clockin' ghost." Half-teasing, half-serious, the tall wick shrugged his tattooed shoulders and waggled his fingers, leading them through the crowd and toward the kints arranged in a half moon around a large, smoldering bonfire and a few smaller cook fires. The family unit that had taken the passive in just over six years ago was on the smaller side for a group of Red Crow, mostly because when Tristaan left, he left with a group of their youth, a group of tyat.

Some of the younger children had stayed, not wanting to share their elder siblings' fate when no word came and no one ever visited.

Loyan tilted his head to smile in Sarinah's direction, "Y' a Deep Water, then, rosh? Ent seen many 'f 'em m'self. But I don't swim."

The dark-haired passive only smirked, allowing the lithe dancer to answer for herself, though aware that the sting of just a fistful of minutes before would still be fresh.

"—No' like 't matters." He'd offer at the end of her words, elbowing the taller wick in a mixture of familiar playfulness as well as a warning not to push the typical tribal rhetoric, "Th' heart does what 't wants, ye chen."

The dark-haired passive couldn't help but slow his steps and feel the weight of his sole survivorship suddenly sink into his bones and turn them into lead. He sighed, the breath of ghosts whispering against the back of his neck the memories of those he'd failed to protect. His friends and peers, his fami, out-gunned and out-matched by a handful of Bad Brothers. He was replaying the scene in his mind, heart racing wildly, when Loyan shouted and shattered his thoughts to pieces like the glass face of the old broken pocket watch he wore hidden in his vest,

"Junta! Guaril! Ye have a visitor, ol' man!" The tall, amber-eyed wick was grinning almost stupidly, motioning to the young couple the direction of the old wick's kint, near the center of the small arrangement.

Tristaan couldn't help the smile despite the anticipation that filled the scarred hull of his chest, the awareness that he'd left the only man he'd ever considered worthy of being his father figure, who'd taken the time to tame and direct the angry boy he'd once been. He'd left his da to hurt people and steal things and he'd paid the price. The dark-haired passive didn't have a field to express his nervousness, didn't have an aura full of mona to reveal his internal struggles. Only a briefly tighter squeeze of Sarinah's hand and a momentary falter in his warm expression before he tugged on the lovely witch gently to lead her in the direction Loyan pointed.

"I'll get somethin' warmed up for y' both." The tall wick sent them off with that assurance, amber gaze knowing and curious before he turned toward the cook fires.

"Guaril's th' only man I've ever called da who deserves 't." Tristaan admitted heavily in a whisper, as if the admission explained everything. He'd said it before, but saying it again was somehow meant to make him feel a bit more confident and a bit less guilty. It didn't work.

"Visitor! Who be a'knockin' a' this hou—" The brightly painted door to the kint, carved with intricate scenes of mythical beasts together, and a tanned, gnarled older wick burst forth, brown eyes immediately widening within the warm field of wrinkles, "Tristaanian!"

There was no moment of hesitation or anger, the spry aged man all but hopping down the two steps from the threshold of his kint to embrace the dark-haired passive as if he was something precious thought lost. Tristaan couldn't help but release Sarinah's hand to embrace the man back even as Guaril's tattooed arms squeezed the breath from his lungs while his gravelly voice laughed in order to cover the tears that immediately filled his eyes,

"Junta, boch. Y'ent some unmarked grave b'tween Vienda an' th' Harbor after all. Th' Lady b' kind, mujo ma."

The passive didn't reply, not right away. His first words would have been an apology, anyway, had he not simply tried to disappear in the old man's hug with a broken sound. He'd betrayed the wick's trust and love, he'd ignored his hard lessons, and yet the wily old thing simply welcomed him home as if he'd gone for a walk.

Thank the gods.

"Epaemo."

He finally managed, pulling away to rub the backs of his calloused hands over his face like some overgrown man child, grinning stupidly, "Epaemo, da."

"Shut yer head, boy. Yer alive an' come t' see yer old man. Tell me all th' sad tales an' excitin' adventures later—" Guaril gave Sarinah the most obvious and mischievous wink possible, ignoring the moisture that clung to his wrinkled face, already reaching for the olive-skinned dancer to take her hand in his gnarled, calloused one, "—Whose this? Y'ent drifted jus' t' get hitched, didja?"

"Wha—n-ne." Tristaan laughed awkwardly, heart caught in the scarred cavity of his chest, cheeks moist with tears bright with a blush, "We ent—no' ye—t—" He blinked, finding his footing slowly while stumbling over his words, "This be Sarinah Lissden, da. She found me in th' Rose an', well, we got ourselves out together."

"Out, eh?" Guaril furrowed his brow as if he spoke the passive's language without the dark-haired man needing words. He knew what that meant, but he offered the lovely witch a welcoming grin anyway, "Issat how 't went, rosh? Well, good on y' both. Ent nothin' but trouble in th' Harbor. Y' a tsat, then? First time travelin'?"
Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open.
Passive Proverb
Post Reply Previous topicNext topic

Return to “Surwood Isle”

  • Information
  • Who is online

    Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 2 guests