Blood Doesn’t Mean Fami

Sarinah and her father do not see Eye to Eye

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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.

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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
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Fri Jun 29, 2018 6:14 pm

10th Loshis, 2718
WICK FESTIVAL | DUSK
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Leave it be.

Sarinah ignored the small voice nagging in the back of her mind as she strode through the festival grounds. It was evening, just past the cusp of sunset, the sky a curious shade of lilac and blue over the last of the wicks recovering from the caoja. She avoided a group of dancing and drinking youths still caught in the caoja spirit, skirting the laughing and smiling people with a polite shake of her head. Briefly, her mahogany gaze fell on the kints settled just beyond.

Leave it.

The brunette could almost hear her mother’s words in her ears, the older woman knowing too well her ex-husband and his refusal to accept anything to do with the Red Crow. Perhaps, perhaps she should have listened. Perhaps she should turn her feet back to the Crow and just ignore the hurt that lingered like an ugly vreska in her heart. Tristaan had stayed with the Crow, both agreeing with Roekish and her advice, but letting the witch make her own choices and keeping away lest his presence make things worse.

Leave.

Sarinah held herself, the flowing crimson dress tickling her bare ankles and tasseled black shawl brushing her olive skin as she slowed. The place her father had retreated to was far from the main activity, quiet and secluded, dominated by Black Hand kints with a smattering of other tribes. The young woman wove between the unfamiliar homes, looking for the familiar yellow eye painted on a simplistic wooden kint. Her gaze touched on strangers, wicks known for being less than honest and more than unsavory, flitting away for fear of stirring any ill intent.

Perhaps she should have stayed away.

Finally, as the kints thinned out, she saw it. Her father’s simple home. It wasn’t elegantly decorated like other kints, left with a plain wood finish save for the Eye symbol on each side. He’d parked himself back, further away from the others, as though making a very clear point about his stance on mingling with the other tribes. Her eyes picked up a couple of other yellow eyes, but not many. Not the collective that Augren has so fiercely tried to keep her a part of.

Moving to the firmly closed door of the once inviting home, Sarinah reached up and knocked, before stepping back and taking a breath. She could hear movement, shuffling, and with a tek curse her da opened the door. Immediately she smelt the Black Comfort on his person, wafting from the small dark interior like an omen of things to come. Augren looked down at her, wavering slightly as he slugged a mouthful of the dark rich wine directly from the mostly empty bottle, his sable eyes bleary and not at all welcoming.

“What do you want?” He growled in deep tek, so thick and slurred that Sarinah almost couldn’t understand it. The witch looked up at the man in pitiful horror.

“I wanted to see my da. I wanted to talk to him, and have him talk to me. I wanted to share my pain and my joy with him. But,” Speaking in the deep tek he so stubbornly preferred, the dancer gestured at all he’d become, shaking her head and making a soft sound of disgust.

“It seems my da has left.” Augren slammed the bottle down on the small kitchenette bench beside his door, the force enough to chip glass from the bottle and splash the almost black wine from the open top. Sarinah jumped, moving back as he stepped down with an unsteady wobble and a firmly directed finger.

“You ain’t got room to talk missy. I told you not to leave. Warned you in fact. Got what you deserved you did.” The dancer glared at the older man with a sudden burning rage, something old and buried clawing its way to the surface.

“What I deserved? You mean I deserved to be bound to Hawke by slavery? You mean I deserved to be groomed and prepared for Scarlett’s tumblehut? I deserved to choose between dancing or tumbling, or that I deserved to be abused physically, magically and emotionally?” Sarinah emphasised her words with her hands, pointing to her chest and narrowing her eyes as the angry words hissed from her lips. Augren waved at her dismissively, moving past her to stumble towards the fire and pull his meal from the coals, burnt to a crisp. Swearing he threw the meal back into the fire and turned slightly to address her over his shoulder.

“What did you think was out there for you Sari? Some fairytale fami and a house on the hill where you could watch cabbages grow? That’s why you stick with the tribe, the spokes. Move with the seasons and look after your own.” The older man rubbed his face with a hand, moving back to the kint to retrieve his bottle and take a deep draft. His daughter shook her head, scoffing at his words of blame. Deep down, the witch knew he was hurt. He was angry. But he was also drunk and stubborn.

“Look after your own? That’s ironic coming from you da. You stand here now and refuse to see past your own ego, to see me. And to insult the man that I—“ Augren growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, pointing at her again like addressing a child.

“You mean the fucking Crow? I forbid you to go near that vreska again Sarinah. You’re home now, you belong with the Eye.” His words were thick, heavy with genuine hatred and unwarranted disgust. The brunette laughed, pushing his finger out of her face and meeting his dangerously dark gaze.

“You forbid me? You don’t get to forbid anything da. You’re drunk and closed minded. Tristaan risked his life to protect me, to rescue me and get us both away from the Rose. He’s the only reason I even came to find you, and Vrunta I regret only that one thing. Regret that I listened to him about you and daoa. As far as fami goes, the Red Crow have been more fami than you’ve ever been.” There was probably more to say, probably more she could pile onto the bitter drunk in her angry words, but she didn’t get the chance. Without warning and far faster than she’d expected, Augren grabbed for her upper arms, his bottle abandoned in the grass with a dull sploosh. He shook her, yelling into her face as the brunette stared in wide eyed surprise.

“Don’t you dare blacken our fami with that foul speak!” The back of his hand caught her cheek with a hard smack, knocking the woman down with a shocked cry. Sarinah looked up from the grassy ground, scuttling back as he stared at her for a moment with horror, as though seeing for the first time.

“Sari I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I ent...I didn’t mean...” Augren slurred in a panic, reaching for the dancer who moved further away, her stinging cheek turning warm from the impact. For the moment, heart pounding in her chest and mahogany eyes wide, the young witch was too stunned to cry.

“We’re Eye’s, you are an Eye. This Crow kenser’s not your concern anymore. Filthy bastard. You’ll stay here, in the kint. We’ll leave in the morning and get you back where you need to be, with the Eyes.” The man reached again, and with a scurry the brunette climbed to her feet. From the Black Hand kints, a few people began to approach, murmuring and frowning. The dancer held her cheek, her shawl left in the dusty grass.

“No. No da, I ent leaving, but I ent staying here either.” She said in a low wavering voice, fists clenched in anger.

“Tristaan is where I need to be. Not here.” Moving to snatch the shawl from the ground, Sarinah curled it around her shoulders, ignoring the throbbing heat on her face.

“Ye alright chip?” A woman’s gritty voice asked from the bystanders that had come to see what the fuss was about, her golden eyes on Augren and field washing over them both. The brunette stared at her father for a moment, his mahogany gaze begging forgiveness.

“Oes, mujo ma rosh. Thought I found fami, but it ent. Just some stranger.” Augren rubbed his face, hiding his drunken shame in both hands as the silver haired Black Hand pursed her lips with a gruff nod.

“We don’t tolerate violence at the festival kov. Ye can pack y’kint and dust when ye sober up.” The intoxicated wick dragged his hands through his hair and looked at Sarinah with a waivering breath.

“Sari, I’m sorry love.” The dancer swallowed the tears that threatened to come forth, looking over her father with a sad shake of her head.

“I don’t know ye, and I don’t want to see ye again.” She said in a flat tone, before turning away from the kint, walking away from the man she called da. The tears came, only when she was away from curious eyes, bitter angry tears that she wiped as fast as they came. Her cheek was red and hot, a stark reminder that blood didn’t always mean fami.

Straightening her shoulders and taking a deep breath, the witch lost herself in the dark of the evening to walk for a while, unwilling to let the passive see her face until the redness faded some. He didn’t need to know the shame of her father’s pigheaded temper or drunken racism.

No one needed to know.


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