[Baldur's Circus] Colors of the Heart

Sarinah, please. Inking the foundations of commitment.

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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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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
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Writer: Muse
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Fri Jul 13, 2018 4:43 pm

3rd of Roalis, 2718
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Tristaan held in his calloused hands the worried page of soft cotton paper that Loyan had spent the better part of a week working on, grey eyes taking in the colors that graced the page and how they came together to create an image that held more meaning than he knew how to express in words. He'd kept the idea as secret as possible, which, for the dark-haired passive in Sarinah's company was an unexpected challenge. His amber-eyed friend was a surprising artist, and he'd thoughtfully come up with a matching drawing just in case someone else wanted to make sure their relationship was immortalized in her olive skin, too. The smile on the young wick's face had spoke the volumes Tristaan could not, and Loyan had refused coin in thanks.

It was Winslow's idea, really. The old clown had overheard the dark-haired passive's fears and knew well enough the threat that Vienda posed for the magicless son of a galdor, marked as he was,

"I don't have to cover up anything." The grey-haired human smirked, reaching for the drawing and letting his eyes wander over the female red crow artfully nestled with a poignant yellow-eyed rose, watchful but looking away from the outline of Tristaan's passive tattoo for an indication of the new ink's placement, "It's like a magician. It's like tricks. It's all distraction. Put something pretty near something you want unseen, and poof, it seems to disappear. You know?"

The passive smiled, wistfully, a rueful hardness in his grey eyes, "Oes, I chen. Look, y' sure you're up t' th' work? Loyan's drawin'... it's ..."


Image

"Clokin' lovely. Amazing, even. Aye. Just because I dress like a fool doesn't mean I am one. I've been ... around, Tristaan." Winslow replied flatly, but his grin was mischievous, knowing. It would have made the shorter man uncomfortable had there not been a weighty, warm kindness to the words, as if the old clown knew far more than he was letting on, "You haven't been inked since, huh?"

"I were eight." Tristaan grunted, and he watched the human wince with the thought of someone so innocent and young being outed as something the galdori had decreed so terrible and dangerous, "An' ne, I ent tried t' hide it. It's who I am now. It's who I'll always be."

"Badge of honor." The older man laughed, shaking his head, "You don't have to say it, but that's what you mean."

"Ne, that's no'—"

"Yes it is. For you, anyway, balach. Shush now. This is gonna take more than one day, you know, and we're leaving on the seven. Let me get the lines down and we'll go from there, eh? You didn't tell her did you?"

"Ne." Tristaan admitted with a slow exhale, calloused fingers reaching to unbutton his vest and shirt, slipping out of his clothes and allowing Winslow a far closer view of what passive life had left in terms of markings on his body, and it was much more than some clocking tattoo. The old clown attempted to ignore the smaller man, but he couldn't, not meeting his grey-eyed gaze while he spoke quietly from in the human's kint, "W' ent talked much 'bout Vienda things since Baldur's announcement. Jus' a little. I've been unkind. An' afraid."

"There's a few things you haven't said, then. Important things."

"M'haps." The passive smirked, chagrined and uncomfortable and yet comforted and suddenly self-aware of just how exposed he felt in front of the older man who wasn't always just a walking sense of humor. His layers ran about as deep as his own and he shrugged, unable to admit his cowardice on so many levels, "But that there, that says somethin', Winslow. An' I mean it."

"Yeah you do. Alright, have a seat then and let me get to working." The human cackled loudly, rolling his eyes and moving to open the window and let the sunlight spill into his small, rolling home mostly full of strange tricks and costumes. He settled Tristaan in the bright spot, leaving the door to his kint open to let as much light in as possible while he took his own seat next to the passive's right side, preparing his tools and getting ready to trace the beautiful tattoo design onto the younger man's skin as an inspiring distraction from the passive brand that so boldly had stood alone on his tanned, scarred flesh for almost sixteen years of his life.

Find comfort in friends,
every wound they can mend.
Passive Proverb

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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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Sun Jul 15, 2018 9:12 am

3rd Roalis, 2718
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN HERE AND THERE | DAY
Image
”Ye’re a benny chip, ent ye Clara? Ent ye, oes. Macha nanabo boch.” The brunette witch spoke in a soft, gentle voice as she stroked the curiously soft leathery ear of the immense black chrove that lay beside her feet. Clarabelle, ever the fearsome beast, purred loudly as her yellow eyes narrowed to almost closed. Between her sharp clawed paws lay a matted and barely recognisable teddy bear, one eye missing and the stitching coming apart on the mouth. Sarinah stroked her hand around under the scaled cat-like creatures chin, searching for the soft spot that she knew the big animal enjoyed, entirely unafraid for her safety.

“You know, this doesn’t exactly drum up the image of ferocious man-eating chrove right?” Taegan teased, seated on the other side of the dancer whilst watching her pat his chrove, admittedly biting back the searing jealously that the sight brought him. Clarabelle was his baby, not anyone else’s, and yet she all but rolled over to show her belly when the witch patiently gained her trust during their time with the circus folk. Still, it was difficult to be annoyed at the brunette when she smiled at him and smelt so very lovely. He knew that there’d been tension between Tristaan and Sarinah, and whilst he knew well enough not to step too heavily on another man’s toes, the golden tanned youth also knew that a chance was a chance no matter how it came along. Therefore, any chance he got he took the time to give the woman a friendly ear or

“She’s ne beast Taeg, she’s just a macha rosh. Of course, she ent a housepet ye chen, but once ye get to know her Clara is just a mant boch.” As if to emphasize her point, Sarinah leaned over and planted a soft kiss on the creatures massive horned head, winning herself a nuzzle back. The tamer chuckled, bumping against the olive skinned warmth of her shoulder with his own, leaning closer than probably acceptable. The witch sat up, looking at the blonde with a chuckle.

“Shuffle over Taeg, ye’re squashing me.” She said with a soft bump, clearly not reciprocating anything that the blue eyed human thought he was building on. Taegan smirked at her, his eyes wandering to full lips with a slow closing of the space between them. Without hesitation the brunette leapt up from the log they’d been settled on, frowning and moving away from the tamer. From her spot on the ground, Clarabelle jumped in surprise, hissing at them both.

“Sorry! Sorry. I thought that—“ Sarinah shook her head, raising her hands and stepping backwards with a blush.

“Ye thought wrong Taegan. I think I’ll be going now kov. Just…ne. Ne.” She said firmly, turning away from the tamer and his chrove to search out the passive. It had been weeks since Baldur’s announcement, and whilst they hadn’t spoken much about Vienda since then, the grey eyed man hadn’t really spoken much at all. He’d hurt her, and honestly the brunette didn’t know how to deal with it. After all that had happened, she’d really thought they’d been moving towards something more…tangible. Something special. She knew there was a name for the feeling that thrilled through her vein’s every time they caught each others gaze, or when they lay together in the kint talking the night hours away. It was a macha thing, a wonderful thing, and yet…

It hadn’t happened.

Sarinah rubbed her arms as she walked, frustrated by Taegan’s actions and lost with Tristaan’s lack of action. Did he want more? She thought he did, or he had, but vrunta that damn mark inked into his arm still seemed to define the man’s every thought. He had been told he was nothing, he could have nothing, he could be nothing, and no matter how carefully the dark eyed woman tried to show him he was worth the world to her the passive couldn’t move forward. Now, the city of the galdori loomed in the horizon and all their tentative steps towards love seemed to have crumbled into dust.

Love. Hama. Oes, that was the word she was so frightened to say out loud.

Maybe it was a deluded fantasy, something she’d dreamed up the minute the scarred man had stepped up to save her that night in the Rose. Her hero, a galdori by blood and a wick by heart. Gods, why did it have to be so painful to care so much. Maybe she should stop hurting herself with visions of the future with Tristaan and take the blinders off. He didn’t need a tumblehut dancer clinging to him like a boch. He needed freedom, he’d said it himself. Maybe she just needed to get her shite together.

Maybe, maybe, maybe! Just grow the clock up and let him go. Blinking away the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, Sarinah made it to their shared kint and knocked on the door softly.

“Trista—oh.” She stopped short, looking inside the empty living space with a frown. Closing the door, she looked around for the familiar rugged man.

“Mister Tristaan’s with Mister Winslow, Miss Sarinah.” A young auburn haired witch said with a wave of her hand towards the kint of the old clown, before returning to restringing her lute. The witch had been collected along with the rest of her musical trio in the last dregs of people leaving Surwood. She didn’t speak much, and kept addressing everyone as Mister or Miss, but she was a fantastic musician. The dancer’s mahogany gaze swept towards the small wagon, able to see the door was open but too far from the entrance to see inside.

“Mujo ma Kelli-Mae. And it’s just Sarinah, not Miss.” She said with a nod, bare feet picking up her steps again to wander towards the kint, black skirt of her light summer dress sweeping around her feet gently and long dark tresses brushing her shoulders. As she approached the kint, her steps slowed, swallowing the strange nervousness that swept over her.

She had to tell him. It was time to either define this, or let it go.

Reaching the door of the kint, the brunette reached up to knock on it even as she looked inside. The sight before her was not expected, throwing off her words.

“I uh…should I come back?” The lithe witch asked hesitantly, taking in the strange way that Winslow lent over the man, for a moment slightly concerned by the vision. Was Tristaan hurt?

Maybe he’s hiding away from you.

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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
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Sun Jul 15, 2018 10:26 am

3rd of Roalis, 2718
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"—Oes, I should've said somethin' weeks ago, Winslow, but it ent 's easy 's y' make it sound." Tristaan smirked wryly, surprised the old clown could get under his skin so easily with his well-traveled wisdom even as he sat carefully tracing out the intricate tattoo Loyan had designed so that he could physically ink it forever into that same scarred landscape he wore as if it was so clocking heavy.

"Why not?" The human chuckled a hacking, gravely sound, and his grin was almost wicked—not the same expression of a man who made little children giggle when gussied up in his bright-colored costume and handing out paper flowers or blowing bubbles, "Life's clocking short, kov. If you don't say what you mean, someone else will say it for you when you don't want them to. As a fucking passive, you know that already."

"Vrunta." The dark-haired man exhaled, grey eyes fluttering heavily as if the old performer's words were sharp, stealing his breath with the force of their blow, "But I can't—I'm no'—"

"Not allowed? Get off, already. That ship's sailed." Winslow hissed with thinly veiled emotional impatience and sat back to compare his outline with the drawing in his other hand, thin wax crayon not so unlike what he used for his clown makeup brought between his lips to his teeth like a cigarette. He rolled his eyes at the wounded, stubborn creature, resisting the urge to give him a good kick in the shin from his current vantage point. Satisfied with his copy, the worldly human who'd clearly lived far more lives than Tristaan could ever possibly imagine, began to unpack from a small suitcase that contained his tattooing equipment, neat and tidy and perhaps not so underused as one might assume from a clown. Times had been tight for the struggling Baldur's Circus, and Winslow clearly knew how to earn a coin or two in more than one way to keep everyone fed,

"Look at yourself, man. Your whole life hasn't been allowed and yet here you are. Living it. Aren't you? Maybe not enough. Do the right thing, balach, and stop getting hung up on what you can't have. You've been taking what's not yours for years. That witch has all but given you her heart already—why deny it?"

"I don't even know." The dark-haired passive whispered, wanting to crawl away, trapped in a conversation he hadn't expected to have while so willing to suddenly proclaim his feelings for the lovely dancer in action but not in words, "I ent sure I can get 't all right."

"No one does, dumbass." The human snorted, grinning stupidly and beginning to organize his things so that he could begin outlining in black ink the beautiful tattoo, "That's not the clocking point. Got that too pretty head of yours bashed in too many times, haven't you?"

"M'haps—"

A shadow waned in the light that had been cast by his kint's open door and both men looked at the sound of a familiar but quiet, unsure voice,

"Sarinah." Tristaan inhaled in surprise, blinking away the heat of tears that threatened to burn their way out of his grey eyes at Winslow's very pointed words. His smile was slow, caught off guard, and he didn't get up lest he accidentally mess up the older human's careful drawing that now graced his right bicep near his passive brand, "I'm—"

"Come in, lass." The clown chuckled, waving to entice her with his invitation, his next words just another twist of the metaphorical knife he'd been shoving between the dark-haired passive's very real ribs, "You're not interrupting anything you shouldn't be privy to anyway, by our Good Lady."

Winslow turned and pulled a pillow from off his bed and set it on the floor next to her shirtless, blushing lover. He cackled again with a shake of his grey-haired head and reached for the drawings without hesitance, enjoying how Tristaan's eyes widened and he bit his lip to keep from objecting,

"Stay. And look." He spoke the words that the passive could not, almost shoving into her hands the intricate and colorful artwork even as the scarred, hapless man-shaped creature next to him drew in a broken breath and blinked tears down his stubbled face, "Vienda bound and your bloke said he wanted to make sure he was hiding in plain sight by dressing up that golly mark of rejection he's got. Just as he always has. A surprise is what he wanted, methinks, but—"

"—ne. That's no' all 'f it, Winslow." The passive interrupted the older man's sincere and honest truths, giving his lovely witch a moment to take in not just one, but both of Loyan's beautiful drawings. The meanings would be obvious, unavoidable, and sincere—the red crow in both designs tangled so comfortably with gorgeous yellow flowers. Not just any yellow flowers, either, but the tribal namesake of the people who had turned their backs on the lithe dancer who'd longed to return home—the yellow eyed rose. The dark bird with striking red highlights was no less bold of a statement, and Tristaan knew the brunette was capable of reading between these lines even if she was otherwise illiterate,

"Epaemo, Sarinah Lissden."

He spoke quietly, pausing with a clench of his jaw to swallow the fear and hurt that clawed from the darkest recesses of his mind, attempting to keep him silent all over again. Shifting in the stool to lean closer, the calloused fingers of his left hand reached to rest on hers over the drawing meant to make something beautiful out of the mark that declared his life an ugly scar of an existence in the eyes of those he'd once called his people.

Someone else's undeserving trash, that's what he'd always be ... had he not allowed someone so lovely into his heart as he had with the olive-skinned witch before him in all her hurt and confusion now,

"Hamaye. Hamaye, Sarinah—" Tristaan's voice broke roughly but without hesitance and he tugged her closer, "—an' damn it all, I want everyone t' see what I'm afraid t' say."

Winslow laughed one more time, softer, more subdued, with feelings not even he was brave enough to say for all of his taunting and goading and prodding, turning back to his set up and giving the two their moment even as his hacking cackle hung in the suddenly heavy air of his humble, costume-filled kint.

"Hamaye, an' I never should've kept that from you for so clockin' long."
Find comfort in friends,
every wound they can mend.
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
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Mon Jul 16, 2018 8:24 am

3rd Roalis, 2718
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN HERE AND THERE | DAY
Image
Sarinah looked between the passive and the human, her brow creased a little in confusion and concern, noticing the strange slow smile on Tristaan’s face and the way he almost gasped her name. Her field drew closer in a protective shift, caution laced within its aura. What precisely had she interrupted, the witch didn’t know, but before she could make an excuse to leave them to their man-talk Winslow waved her inside his curious kint full of costumes and make up and a clowns secret brik-a-brak. The wiry haired, tobacco scented man was like a brunno, making the young woman comfortable with his chuckle and aged smile.

I shouldn’t be privy to?

The dancer-come-acrobat climbed up, taking a seat on the pillow that Winslow tossed on the floor, glancing at the blush on Tristaan’s face before being assaulted by a soft piece of cotton decorated with blacks and reds and yellows. It wasn’t quite clear what the image was right away, not until she could carefully flatten it over her lap.

“Alright, kov.” She said with a wary tone, looking once more at the clearly distraught passive before turning her sable gaze on the artwork before her.

A crow. A red crow. Two red crows.

And yellow flowers. Yellow eyes.

Her pulse rung loudly in her ears, even as Winslow continued to speak about Vienda and the brand that caused her lover so much grief, too enamoured by the drawing to pay more than cursory attention. Tenderly, the brunette reached out with the soft tips of two fingers, following the lines of the images with a shaky breath. Two unmistakable red crows, nestled between yellow eye flowers. Her heart felt as though it filled her throat, a lump that almost ached as she tried to stop herself from making far too bold assumptions.

“I don’t…” She began, cut off by Tristaans emotional apology. He shifted closer, resting his fingers on hers over the drawing, and the witch found herself holding her breath. Alioe, her eyes filled with tears and it was difficult to see, Sarinah staring at the bold images as though needing to anchor herself to something as the passive collected his thoughts.

Hamaye.

The olive skinned woman breathed in sharply, closing her eyes with a half sob-half laugh, tears now an unavoidable event. Placing the beautiful drawings beside her on the kint floor, Sarinah shifted with his gentle encouragement, shifting to her knees and throwing her arms around his neck tightly. Her field hummed with warmth and relief, encompassing the trio, even if Winslow may not have wanted it.

“I thought ye were making to leave me.” She whispered beside his ear, taking another ragged breath and laughing at the old clowns chuckle, before drawing back to hold the passive’s face in her hands and looking into his tearful grey eyes with her own mahogany gaze. So many weeks of feeling lost at sea, torn on what to say and what to do. Frightened by words that seemed to weigh down so heavily on the man like some sort of unseen burden. Oh, she would die now and it wouldn’t matter, because Tristaan loved her.

He loved her.

“Hamaye too, Tristaanian Greymoore.” The witch said with a sniff, moving to kiss him tenderly, laughing again against his lips as though a huge weight had lifted from her shoulders.

“So much hama, that it’s been hurting not to tell ye. I was afraid ye would dust if I said it, ye chen? I know ye have had so much pain that I didn’t want to be the cause of more. But Alioe knows, I wanted to say it for far too long. Far too long.” Another strange crying laugh she pressed a few more quick kisses on his mouth, before sitting back on the pillow, his hand held tightly in hers and eyes only for the dark haired passive. Winslow gave them a moment, before clearing his throat softly.

“Sorry, sorry Winslow. So, ye’re to ink our passive here with this oes? And this—“ She gestured to the female crow with a lovestruck grin at the scarred magicless son of a galdor.

“This is for me?” Her mahogany gaze drifted to the drawing with a dreamy smile, unable to keep the ridiculous grin from her face as she waited for the passive to clarify. Meeting Winslow’s wrinkled and wise face, the brunette nodded.

“I ent got any inks, ye chen? This would be my first, my only I think. I want to be able to see it, every single day oes? So here, right here.” Sarinah tapped her upper outer thigh up close to her hip, glancing back at Tristaan with a slow smirk.

“Ye are going to break Taegan’s heart, hama. He’s…he knows where he stands with me, oes, but seems like he might this news awfully hard.” Not that she cared, she couldn’t care about anything right now, almost floating on the feelings that ran through her person and bled into her field. The witch lifted Tristaan’s hand, kissing the back softly before wiping her cheeks with the other.

“Dze, I’m a fair mess, but I couldn’t be happier right now.” Sarinah said with another laugh, looking over the handsome features of her lover—her love—with a wistful sort of look before chuckling again with giddy relief.

“I love you. Hamaye.”

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
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Thu Jul 26, 2018 2:59 pm

3rd of Roalis, 2718
Image
He'd lived a life of pushing and pulling, of feeling torn in so many directions, but none of them being the right one. He'd been born a galdor, raised in comfort and confidence. He'd been branded as a passive, rejected and abandoned as useless and unwanted. He'd been little more than a slave, working endless hours as a child in a textile mill. He'd escaped and found family among the Red Crow spokes, a family who didn't care where he came from or what he couldn't do. He'd left them, angry and restless, to roam Vita with other disenfranchised wicks looking to take a piece of flesh from the thick golly hide. He'd failed, miserably. But if he hadn't, if he hadn't found himself bound by ill-defined obligation to the King of the Underworld, he never would have found himself in Old Rose Harbor.

Tristaan had only meant to do the right thing by the olive-skinned dancer that night. He'd only meant to keep her safe like he would have done for anyone else as deserving.

He had no clue that she'd be such a lovely creature.

He had no clue that he'd love her, almost four seasons later.

But he did.

Sweet Alioe, he really did! And he had for far too long in frightened silence.

Sarinah moved to embrace him at his honest admission, and the dark-haired passive grinned, his left arm squeezing her tightly, calloused hand curling into her hair. She whispered her doubts and he sighed, answering her quietly, "I ent got anywhere else t' go. No' without you, macha."

Still grinning when she pulled away, her hands holding his still grinning, tearful, stubbled face, his expression softened further at her returned admission that, of course, yes, she loved him, too. His breath hitched at the sound of his full name in her voice, but she kissed him and he lingered, grey eyes holding hers even as she pulled away,

"Oes, I hurt you an' I'm sorry. I should've said things sooner, ye chen. Bethas, even. Loshis. Hamis. It weren't right o' me t' keep th' truth from y' when I felt as y' did, when I knew. It jus' ent easy t' know where things are goin' in m' life an' I'm afraid o' someone else—" Tristaan bit his lip and sobbed at his honesty, uncaring that the old clown was in the kint with himself and the lovely witch, uncaring if Winslow heard his heartfelt confessions one more time, "—I ent afraid t' share 't with y' anymore, hama."

The grey haired human shuffled his way back into their conversation with a warm smile, nodding and aware he had nothing to contribute to the conversation, "Yes, that one is yours if you want it."

"It doesn't tickle, th' inkin' part." Tristaan teased, aware of his ridiculous pain tolerance in comparison to most. He watched the lithe dancer point to where she wanted the artwork and his expression turned coy, amused in a private way that led him to inhale slowly, imagination wandering until Sarinah spoke about Taegan and he couldn't help but laugh, "He's heard th' news, he's jus' chosen no' t' listen, th' mung boch. If he's ent got th' message b' now 'bout whose witch y' are, well, it ent me breakin' his heart, it's him breakin' it himself."

The dark-haired passive chuckled again, watching her kiss his rough hand with a wistful grin. He let particular words flow from his lips with the most subtle of casual tones, watching Sarinah's face carefully as he did so, "I'll wait an' tell him about this yachin' business we've got goin' when he's no' around Clara, I s'pose."

Winslow laughed loudly, finally giving Tristaan a good kick in the shin, "Enough already, godsdamnit. This is gonna take a while, you know. And we've only got a few more days." Ignoring the effect he knew the passive's words would have on the olive-skinned witch, he turned to her with a smile of his own, "Let me get the lines inked for your lover here and then I'll at least do the same for you. He's right. It's not the most comfortable thing, inking, but it's not so bad if you're distracted. I think you both have plenty of that going on."

The old clown gave them whatever time they needed before he settled Tristaan on the floor with his arm on the stool he'd been sitting on, letting the bright summer light from the window filter onto the wax pencil lines he'd drawn on his skin. Much of the red crow was black, anyway, and so he knew once he got started, he'd have quite a bit of work to do.

Tristaan, of course, didn't even flinch or squirm, choosing instead to keep his focus on his lovely witch while Winslow got to work,

"This ent hidin' nothin'. I couldn't cover it, Sarinah. I ent sure why, but it didn't feel right. I can't change what I am, but you an' I, what we've got b'tween each other's gone an' given me meanin'. Mujo ma, hama."

Granted, somewhere in the beginning, he'd almost died for what they shared, but it was worth it. He'd do it again, and part of him was aware he might have to some day should the Bad Brothers catch up to them.

Find comfort in friends,
every wound they can mend.
Passive Proverb
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