[PM to Join] Fall In Line, Scrap

[Raksha]

Hamis 3rd, 2719
BRUNNHOLD| MID MORNING

It was cold. Oppressively cold.

The rains of Loshis were still trailing into Hamis, showering Brunnhold for the past three days, making the ground soggy and spongy. Today however, the sky was cloudy and damp, and the heavy fog that hung in the air saturated the world like a persistent frost. It made clothing cling to skin and hair curl against necks, chilling to the bone. In the Stacks, people went about their day with a little less spring in their step, rugging up in suits and dresses and huffing about the weather. Rickshaws and carriages seemed to move more sluggishly, moa’s standing on street corners with wings tucked close and necked pulled in, feathers ruffled to catch as much insulation as they could around the thick plumage.

Within the school campus the students fared no better. The forest green uniforms whilst looking smart, were also most definitely not designed for such weather. They were warm enough, but thanks to the stillness of the air the fabric also had a tenancy to make them hot when layered with the school jacket. Too cold to remove a layer, sweaty children roamed the university grounds with flushed faces and wilted fields, the foreign students more worse for wear than the Anaxi ones. By mid morning the rumor in the cafeteria was that some poor Hoxian third form had passed out in Arithmetic. Tempers were short, and as such it seemed that every passive was in the wrong today, rushing around campus to tend to student and faculty needs with tight lips against snarky requests and snappy complaints.

In the carriage that moved through the city towards the university gates, Tristaan Greymoore would find himself sitting across from Scarlett’s contact, a dark haired Hoxian woman with jade green eyes and smooth pale skin. Her outfit was smart, galdori smart, a long fitted skirt that gave little space to take wide steps, high waisted and raven as her hair. Tucked into the silver buttoned waist was a white silk blouse, buttoned high up to her throat and down to her wrists. Over the top of it all she wore a silky soft grey hingle fur coat that ran from her neck to her ankles. Her long straight tresses were braided back away from her angular face and a hand held small leather bag contained her belongings. Within the small confines of the moa drawn vehicle, the woman's field was unapologetically uncontained, filling it like a balloon and stretching out past the walls. It was thick, like molasses, and drenched with Static particles and a hint of Perceptive.

“The uniform fits well, Mister Greymoore, I take it?” The Hoxian said quietly, looking the man over critically for a moment, checking he fit the part. Her hands rest calmly on her lap, and her well manicured nails were lacquered a deep red that was nearly black. The woman had met him once he came off the boat, bringing the passive to a small apartment that was clearly rented and not at all hers. There, she had introduced herself plainly as Miss Shiuni, and gave him the uniform. Apart from this, she had provided little more instruction or insight into what they had to do except to escort him to a carriage waiting outside. There were a couple of travel bags tied to the top.

“You look the part regardless, which is the whole point. I’ve been told you’re good in sticky situations, scrap, and I wouldn’t lie if I said this might not be a sticky situation. It depends on if we can work together well, or not. I hope for the prior, not the latter. I don’t take kindly to the latter.” Her tone was even, almost bored, as though she was used to having the upper hand in everything. Glancing out the window, she gestured to the red brick sprawling buildings on the other-side of the wrought iron fencing.

“Brunnhold University, it’s quite the sight to behold, is it not? I’ve always liked the red bricks, though I appreciate it more now I am an adult rather than a student.” Sitting up straighter, she looked at the passive again.

“Once we are out of this carriage, you are my personal property. You are a home-gated passive, and we are here on a research trip from Vienda. There will be a short introduction, and we will both be shown our short stay accommodation. I will be taking up residence here on the campus and you will be put in with the other passives. You will bring my bags with us, to my dormitory once we know where it is. There, I will give you further instruction.” The vehicle slowed, rocking gently to a stop, and the driver knocked on the roof, indicating they had arrived. Miss Shiuni sat looking at Tristaan with a very well practiced slight smile.

“Door, scrap.”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

3rd of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | MIDMORNING

"It ent—" Tristaan caught himself, grey eyes narrowing at the question and jaw clenching as he drew his lips into a thin line, tilting his head slowly toward the toft of a Hoxian across from him since he'd been staring out the window of the carriage for what felt like a mant manna hours. He felt restless, jittery, and yet he sat so rigid and still that it was hardly obvious, mostly because the faded blues of the so-called uniform chosen for him was certainly uncomfortable for more than just the obvious reasons of half-hearted craftsmanship.

Dark curls cropped short, face shaven, and piercings removed, the dark-haired passive hardly felt himself, let alone looked it. Long sleeves covered well-muscled arms and stiff fabric stretched over a well-built chest that seemed to barely contain his nervously fluttering heart that felt more and more like the caged bird he'd allowed himself to become—

For freedom.

There was no subtle irony about donning the clothing of absolute slavery, of Gated passive servitude, and take such ridiculous risk for the the offer of true freedom not only for himself but also for his family—for Sarinah and for Linora. Ne, he knew exactly the danger he'd willingly walked into and it wasn't even one that offered a violent death. It was much worse; the thought of wasting away in the red-walled shadows of Brunnhold, forever doing the bidding of galdorkind.

His kind. Once.

His people. Once.

Now? Tristaan didn't know anymore. He wasn't sure he ever would know again, and he was quite sure this clandestine misadventure would simply sully the lines between passives and galdori for the young once-Greymoore even further.

Diaxio's field was abrasive, oppressive, and just as godsbedamned cold as the clocking weather. It filled the whole carriage, it consumed his senses that were, admittedly, far more used to the gentler glamour of his olive-skinned witch of a lover than the indectal aura of the woman he was to pretend to be the personal servant of. Meeting the gaze of the Hoxian with his steely hues, he offered her no particular expression or reaction to her words,

"—it fits well enough, Miss Shiuni." Correcting himself into formal Estuan took actual effort after years of living more as a wick than anything else, but it wasn't entirely unfamiliar. Tek felt much more natural now, and there were very few situations left in his life where he at all needed to be proper. He didn't like her any more than he liked this whole moment, and yet he'd agreed to this all—

Not once, but twice.

As soon as Tristaan had found the opportunity, he'd taken all he'd learned about Scarlett straight to Silas Hawke himself. The negotiation of truth and freedom had been a difficult one, and yet the King of the Underworld didn't take kindly to news that someone he'd trusted had kept not only so many secrets from him but had also begun to make her own decisions about how to move about the Kingdom without him knowing. It had been a dangerous gamble, his attempt at being a double-agent, at betraying both of his enemies in hopes of coming out of it all free and with his family free with him. In hopes of coming out of whatever the fuck this was alive.

Diaxio wasn't asking his opinion so much as listening to herself talk. She didn't require an answer from him, especially since she insisted on calling him scrap instead of giving him any sort of pretend name at all. She just wanted to hear herself talk, and as far as the dark-haired passive was concerned, all he needed to do was learn more about who she was and what Scarlett even was up to instead of at all form some kind of friendship with the Hoxian.

Personal property.

Gated passive.

The words made Tristaan nauseated, honestly, and he'd not been this nervous over a job in years, if not ever. He'd been high above the ground in airships. He'd crossed a stormy Ticta Bastia to the Muluku Isles. He'd even raided cargo ships on the Arova at night. But this? This was terrifying.

The carriage slowed and something hot like molten lead lurched in his stomach, burning the back of his throat at the knock on the roof, the dark-haired passive tensing as if preparing for another night in the Rose Arena spilling the blood of strangers instead of pretending to be a simple household servant. He sat waiting for the door to open once they'd come to a stop, but nothing happened.

Blinking, it took him a moment to recognize that was his responsibility, jaw clenching at that clocking word again. Saying nothing, he moved with convincing but false obedience, exiting the small vehicle first and holding the door open while stepping out of the way for Diaxio to exit, desperately keeping himself focused on the wheels of the carriage to keep himself from letting his gaze wander—

He'd been in the Stacks, sure, but he'd never been on Brunnhold's so-called sacred campus. Nor did he ever think he would be.

Did his mother still teach here?

Had his sister ever stood here?

What would he had studied, had he not been born cursed instead?

Exhaling a shaky breath, hot and clouded in the Hamis chill, he moved quickly to gather luggage, aware that it would be his responsibility to lug it all over the campus. All he had was a meager satchel, and while he knew where all of his important items were stealthily stored in hidden compartments, it hardly looked like it was worth slinging over his shoulder to everyone else.

Once burdened by the Hoxian's belongings, he finally took a moment to look around, grey eyes wandering over a well-manicured and too-perfect landscape, suddenly aware that they weren't at all alone in the cold drizzle. Students wandered in their green uniforms and a pair of faculty passed them on the cobblestones, one holding an umbrella and the other laughing. Tristaan felt dizzy, chest tightening with a longing and a fear he was certain he'd never experienced before, but then his false mistress was moving and he had no choice but to follow her.

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Raksha]

Hamis 3rd, 2719
BRUNNHOLD| MID MORNING

Diaxio exited the carriage with an air of disinterest, not bothering to even glance at Tristaan as she looked up at the red brick buildings of the University. She made no move to assist him either, straightening her jacket and smoothing her skirts, moving at a brisk walk once he’d collected her bags.

They strolled through the school grounds towards the reception hall, the jade eyed woman’s field an aura of self-importance. She had no fears, no qualms, no deep-dark self-doubts. Here was a galdor who knew who she was, who was confident in her abilities and her connections. A self-made woman, who bent her knee to no one. The students that they passed watched with interest, curious about the new comer. They whispered to each other, as children do, with their own rumors and stories. A new professor from Hox?

Unsurprisingly, they paid little heed to the well built scrap that diligently followed on her heels. A passive was a passive, was a passive.

“Miss Shiuni, so good to see you!” An older man greeted them before they reached the building itself, his dark green robes formal and greying auburn mutton chops neat. Anaxi, unsurprisingly, with a field laden by Quantitative particles, the academic offered a bow to the woman. His green eyes barely bothered to register the passive in tow. Diaxio smiled, a practiced thing, intended for particular audiences such as the man before them.

“Professor Makiores, it’s been simply years. You’ve barely aged a day, you must tell me your secret sir.” The raven haired woman practically purred, her rich voice quiet and commanding at once. The older galdor chortled, his flushed cheeks a touch redder as he waved off her compliment.

“A glass of vinegar in the morn, followed by a brisk evening walk. I swear by it. But enough of that. I’ve been assigned to escort you to your living quarters for your stay, if you’ll be so kind as to come with me?” He extended an arm, which she took without hesitation, slipping into a strolling pace with the man.

“Now, as I understand it, you’ve come to research the texts under the Church regarding the Pantheon? Everus Marxe has advised he is more than willing to help, should you need someone to discuss your needs. We can visit the Church once you are settled in, if you like?” The professor said as they walked, finally glancing at Tristaan.

“We have put aside a cot in the men’s wing for your man, though I assure you the passives here are quite capable of attending to your needs, there was really no need to br—” Diaxio tsked, cutting the man off.

“I assure you, Professor, that if my memory of passives serves well enough I am very content to have my own man tend to my needs.” She left it there, letting the older man build his own ideas on the meaning of her words. Clearing his throat, Professor Makiores simply nodded, continuing to lead the duo to Deventry, the small neighborhood of its own on campus where faculty and visitors were housed.

“Well, here we are then. Yours is the first floor, the room furtherest to the right end of the hall. Fantastic view of the campus from the sitting room window. I could walk you up, should you like?” Diaxio slowed, turning another smile on the man.

“I believe I will manage, though should I require further assistance I shall send for you. Once I have settled, Burson here shall make his way to the passive wing for instruction on the campus and rules. Is dinner still at the fifthteenth hour If so, perhaps we can attend together?” The older professor smiled warmly in return, nodding and giving her another bow.

“I look forward to it, Miss Shiuni.” With a nod, he turned on his heel and left the duo to their own devices. Diaxio’s smile immediately fell, and she glanced at Tristaan.

“Come.” She said simply, taking the stairs into the building and up to the first floor. Once they reached her room, the galdor let him in and closed the door firmly behind them. It was lavish, compared to anything Tristaan would have lived in. A large open plan room, with large windows in the sitting room that could be thrown wide to let in the breeze from the outside. The color scheme was forest green and burgendy, luscious armchairs placed strategically around the room. There was a desk for studying, and a small fireplace should it get cooler. A bedroom was tucked off to the right, hiding a soft downy bed and a lovely carved wardrobe, complete with a small bathroom and tub. To the left was a kitchenette for simple things like tea, coffee, or bread and cheese at a two person oak table top.

“Put my bags in the bedroom.” She said, removing her coat and hanging it on a hook by the door. Moving to sit in a chair by the window, the Hoxian waited for Tristaan to reappear, looking over the campus from her vantage point.

“Tell me, Mister Greymoore, what do you know about our visit? What have you been advised of your tasks?”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

3rd of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | MIDMORNING

He could've grown up here. He could've grown up on the carefully manicured and well-maintained campus of the Six Kingdom's most prestigious galdori institution of education. He could've been a student, had he not been born lacking in what galdorkind had long ago decided the most defining feature—magic. He could've been a gated servant, had his own parents not been so ashamed of what he was that they sought to be rid of him completely. To erase him from their family, from their memories by letting the streets of Vienda swallow his broken boyhood whole.

As he hefted someone else's belongings and warily let his grey-eyed gaze wander over uniformed youths and robed professors, Tristaan had no real concept of what he'd never experienced. He'd neither been in a single class nor labored behind the scenes of the red walled fortress, but it wasn't curiosity that writhed so hotly in his chest: it was fear. Surely he was obviously feral, surely even hidden in the itchy, ill-fitting soft blue uniform, surely it was clear that the dark-haired passive wasn't tamed, wasn't civilized, and wasn't cultured.

Surely, everyone could see and this whole ruse would be ruined before it started.

Couldn't they?

But, ne.

No one even looked at him.

No one glanced at his shaven face or the faint hint of a scar that traced through an eyebrow, over the crooked bridge of his nose, fading into his well-carved cheekbone. No one saw the pierced holes in his ears hidden by short-cropped curls, damp and drooping around his face in the Hamis drizzle. No one saw the gait of a man who hardly found the luggage he carried to be heavy or burdensome. No one saw the step of a creature used to a pistol at his hip and a knife in his boot. No one saw the wary gaze of a prize fighter, sizing up potential opponents. No one heard the pounding of a wild heart in a narrow chest laced with scars and bones knit back together more than once.

No one saw him at all.

The other professor—Makiores was his name and the dark-haired passive wasn't about to clocking forget—with his analytical field and his vinegar didn't even glance at Tristaan. The gaggle of students they passed on the carefully bricked path didn't stare at him so much as whisper about Diaxio Shiuni.

Everywhere else he'd been, he'd been too galdor to be a wick, lithe and short next to humanity and tekaa alike. Everywhere else, his tattoo spoke for him, his lack of a field and his cursed, shameful existence preceded him even when he worked so very hard to hide it beneath a rugged, easy smile and so much tek. Everywhere else, he'd never fit in. Here? Here, he was invisible.

Here, he wasn't even noteworthy.

Here, he was less than nothing.

He'd felt these things before, but as he strained to listen instead of lose himself in self-loathing, he quickly shoved those soot-filled, sweaty memories back down into the hard, hot places of his heart. He followed, observing carefully even if he wasn't supposed to, desperately attempting not to become distracted by the creeping horror that rose from within, struggling to resist the overwhelming desire to simply see what was all around him.

Impeccable. Beautiful. Oppressive. Ignorant.

He shouldn't be here.

This had been a mistake.

Burson—Tristaan tried not to bristle. He'd not had any say on his moniker for this terrible misadventure he'd willingly put himself at risk of eternal enslavement for just for a chance of freedom for his fami. Grey eyes came back into focus on the Hoxian and her expressionless face as she led the way into the room that was meant to be hers—not his—and he memorized every cabinet and corner while his jaw clenched and he wordlessly made his way into the bedroom to set down her belongings.

Staring at a bed far nicer than he'd seen in years—if not ever—the dark-haired passive didn't linger, shoving calloused hands into uncomfortable pockets as he walked back into the sitting room, choosing not to meet Diaxio's gaze when she asked her question. He stared out the window instead, taking in the forbidden landscape, catching glimpses of an entire forbidden population. Clearing his throat, he dragged his focus away,

"I ent—I haven't been told a thing—" Tristaan was honest, resisting the urge to lean on the Tek that had become so comfortable in his dialogue. Proper Estuan tasted strange on his tongue, "—other than what I'm supposed to pretend to be."

Because he wasn't this. He wasn't any of this, unwanted scrap or not.

"I was figured th' details weren't necessary so long as I could do as I was told." There was a curl to his lip, instinctual and quickly smoothed over with a sigh. The dark-haired passive curled fingernails deeper into his palms, "I'm guessing you'll tell me what I needed to know and not much else."

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Raksha]

Hamis 3rd, 2719
BRUNNHOLD| MID MORNING

Diaxio’s lip did curl at the wick word, her jade eyes watching him with disgust.

“By Bash, do try and keep the gutter trash words out of your mouth. A passive speaking wick nonsense in Brunnhold is about as common as snow in Mugroba.” Straight backed, arms poised on the chair as though it were a throne, the galdor nodded in approval.

“Well it’s good to know you’re clever enough to understand your place. Be sure you remember that when you’re on your own. Brunnhold doesn’t take kindly to stray scraps, and I most definitely don’t take kindly to traitors. Just do your part, and you’ll be able to go home to…what was it? A wife? A child? Some nonsense I don’t remember. Be sure you do your part, Mister Greymoore, lest that spawn of yours be made public. A passive born babe? Imagine what a field day the Seventen would have there!” Her lips curved up slowly, as though she enjoyed the imagery of her own creation, before the Hoxian waved her hand with dismissal.

“Anyway, enough of that. Indeed, I’ve got all the information you’ll need, and nothing more. Now firstly, you are going to make your way to the passive wing and get yourself settled in. Anyone asks, you’re Burson and you belong to Miss Shiuni, but you can take on laundry duty if required provided it doesn’t interfere with your duties to me. That’s really all I need for you to do today. Mingle, settle in, find your way around the school.” Standing, Diaxio drew the curtain further aside so Tristaan could see the school below, pointing as she spoke.

“That there, is the Church of the Moon. Underneath it are the crypts, where magisters of note are buried, but also where texts of great importance lay rotting away from the world. That is where Brunnhold thinks I am looking to go, and as far as they will know, that’s where I will be. However,” Pointing across the grounds, she gestured to a strange circular building that seemed to layer on itself.

“That is the Gyre, and our actual purpose here. You see, it’s not a widely known fact, but Brunnhold actually sits over a series of tunnels, catacombs if you will. Some are under the Church, but there are others. The problem is knowing how to find them, very well hidden the entrances, unless you know what to look for.” Letting the curtain go, she smiled again, a predatory thing that was cold rather than warming.

“Now, scraps aren’t allowed in the Church, and it doesn’t make sense for a alumni to go to the Gyre given its a practice ground for dueling and such. Tonight, after dinner, I am going to enter the Church and make my way to the crypts. There is some preparation I must do. You, Mister Greymoore, will go to the Gyre. If anyone asks, you are there on laundry duties. Collecting dirty uniforms from the washrooms in the basement. Take them to the laundry and call it a night. We will do this for two nights. On the third night, when you go to the Gyre, head to the washrooms and find the very last stall on the right. It’s never used because it doesn’t work, and it’s never fixed. Knock on the back wall thrice, and when you hear a knock back you must turn the left handle left one, right twice, left twice and push. We will continue our endevour from there.” The galdor clasped her hands behind her back, looking down her nose at the grey eyed man.

“Now I know that was a lot of instructions, and wicks aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer. Given you are a scrap pretending to be a wick, you’re just about excelling at stupid on professional level. So, I’ll ask. Do you need me to write that down?” She asked in a holier-than-though tone, arching an eyebrow and tilting her head, field flexing in the confined room.

“Also, I am sure it goes without saying but I will say it none the less. If you so much as imply any of this, to anyone, I will deny everything and you will find yourself in the clutches of the authorities who I assure you would be most eager to meet your little…bundle of illegality.”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

3rd of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | MIDMORNING

Most galdori didn't realize how fragile a body was, didn't think about how fragile their bodies were when hoarding their existence above the lower races like they were cushions on which to rest their soft, special souls. Most galdori never pushed their delicate frames to the physical limits possible because they neither had to break a sweat working here in Anaxas nor found themselves ever involved in much conflict other than the theatrical spectacle of a magical duel. The curl of the Hoxian woman's lip and her continued condescending tone only served to remind Tristaan of the exact opposite of what she was, in her own way, attempting to enforce—she wanted to show her power over the passive, she longed to rub it in his magicless face. The truth was, he could break her bones and leave her bleeding on the fancy carpet here in front of the fancy curtains with its fancy view of Brunnhold's fancy-ersed campus before she could even finish a spell.

He knew it and the knowledge churned inside his scarred chest with a heat so real that sweat trickled beneath the short waves of his hair and down the back of his neck while he stood under the oppressive weight of her stare.

Stray scrap.

He'd never been anything else and he wasn't sure he could really pretend to be anyone but himself anymore, but, out of sheer terror of being trapped in this place forever—or worse, being dead, hung without a letter home to the Harbor somewhere in the Stacks for all to see except for his precious family at home—he knew he'd have to pretend.

Diaxio Shiuni made pretending so clocking difficult.

She spoke of a passive wing and Tristaan couldn't help the reaction: grey eyes widened and he inhaled a sharp breath. Why would he be safe lodging with everyone else? How could he even keep a decent cover when surrounded by the very people he was the least like at all. Oh, Alioe. He'd not roomed with other passives since childhood and the very memories of the Soot District—of the hunger and the beatings, of the oppression and the labor—made his ears ring and a wave of nausea ripple through his stomach. He frowned, frustrated and helpless.

Laundry.

Gyre.

Church of the Moon.

There were Crypts here? The thought of rotting gollybodies beneath their own school was both disgusting and comforting. Should a fire ever break out, at least it could claim most of Brunnhold's history all in one go.

But this place wasn't like the Harbor.

He was sifting through it all, committing it to his careful, well-honed memory when her insult might as well have been a slap in the face. The dark-haired passive blinked, jaw clenching, and for a long moment, Tristaan was quiet, unsure of whether or not he was best to speak his mind,

"Excuse me, Miss Shiuni, but if you're doubting m'abilities now, you're going t' be clockin' sorry later, don't you think? I've lived this long under assumptions like yours, in case you haven't noticed. I don't need you t' write anythin' down unless it makes you feel better 'bout my ability to comprehend all those big scary words you might've been usin' in my dumb, incapable company."

His tone was even, controlled, and so drained of emotion even if his words were a vehement warning against her underestimating him. He knew it wouldn't matter—it never did—but her warning was hardly as threatening to the man who'd double-crossed her employer to the King of the Underworld and stood here, alive, for now. Her threat to his fami, however, to his daughter, especially, was met only with a steely gaze of indomitable defiance.

"I don't have anyone to tell here, and gettin' home's far more important to me than I expect you t' understand." The lying left a bitter taste on his tongue, but it was an easy act. He was here to do as he was told, no matter how much he loathed to do so. His family needed him, and, more truthfully, he needed them.

Just the briefest glimpse of Brunnhold reminded him how he'd not been born destined to have a place here. Invisible. Unwanted. Worthless. But after spending so much time walking among people who'd come to accept him, Tristaan also knew he didn't want a place here anyway. As much as he clung to some stubborn hope that being a passive wasn't supposed to mean he wasn't a galdor, he'd come to realize he didn't want to be like any of the galdori here.

"It's my promise to do things right by Scarlett 'cause all that illegality's got meanin' to a useless scrap like me. Don't you worry."

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb

[Raksha]

Hamis 3rd, 2719
BRUNNHOLD| MID MORNING

He was right, it didn’t matter.

Diaxio wore a faint, bemused smirk as Tristaan backhanded the thinly veiled threats, knowing she had made a mark mentioning the scraps illegally obtained family. He’d shown his hand then, glaring as though he could set fire to the galdor just with his eyes. She moved away as he spoke, turning her back on the man, as though putting it out there that if he wanted to at that moment, he could probably take whatever blade or weapon he either had hidden or could grasp and plunge it between her sharp shoulder blades.

It was as though she was daring him to do it.

“I suppose we understand each other then.” The Hoxian said as she walked towards the doorway that led to the bedroom of the room, her fingers already plucking at the collar of her blouse.

“Leave now, Burson. Go mingle with the other filth whilst I make myself presentable for the Professor. I will call on you, when I have need, as per our cover. Otherwise, the Gyre. Two nights time. Don’t be late.” With that, she turned in the doorway, looking him up and down once more.

“Feel free to have a look around Brunnhold whilst you’re here. I’m sure even a stray dog like you is curious as to what lies on the other side of the fence. But be careful. No one on the campus will tolerate a mouth like yours, and I won’t save you if your temper get’s you gated. Be grateful you’ve gotten this far already.” Moving to close the door, she paused suddenly, rapping manicured nails on the wood.

“Before I forget, Madame wanted me to introduce you to Professor Moore. So consider this your introduction. If you’re curious, you’ll find him in the Parford Wing of the Sciences building, in Laboratory Beta. Section D of the Campus. Apparently she suggested you may be ‘of interest’ to the man. Whether you choose to or not, is not my decision, just don’t let it interfere with our purpose.” Without so much as another thought, Diaxio shut the door and left the passive to his own devices.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

3rd of Hamis, 2719
BRUNNHOLD | MIDMORNING

While the dark-haired passive would've liked to say he was uncomfortable with the idea of murder, would've liked to say he'd never bloodied his hands outside of the most basic need to survive, he would've been lying. He'd never killed for his own pleasure nor ended a life that wouldn't have taken his if he'd let them—not on purpose, at least, even if accidents had happened along the rough-shod path of his unwanted existence. He preferred to leave his opponents, whether they'd been on the Rose Arena sands or targets of Silas Hawke's wrath, able to make their own choices, able to have a second chance.

He valued life more than the guilt he carried for all he'd broken or taken made visible, buried though it was beneath scars and shame. He'd had to learn life's worth on his own, after all—it hadn't been taught when he'd been born a galdor's son, because he'd been able to take it all for granted then. He hardly valued what life he'd been given, especially once all he'd ever known had been taken away—everything but the breath in his lungs.

Even staring at the Hoxian's back, even well aware of how easily he thought it must be to get a galdor down before they managed to cast—no harder than a wick, surely, and Tristaan'd faced plenty of tekaa—there were just things he couldn't do. While he felt it, heavy and uncomfortable in his gut, while he knew she was hardly an ally, hardly concerned for him more than she was concerned about the success of their reason for being here behind the sequestered red stone walls of Brunnhold, they needed each other. She was his way out, provided she didn't betray him like he'd betrayed her mistress—not that anyone knew.

He had to keep it that way, too.

The passive kept his lip from curling at Diaxio's use of the word understanding, fully aware that she didn't know him from the dirt beneath the manicured grounds outside. He'd have made a comment had she not dismissed him, standing there thinking of the life he'd made—his fami—the only lives that mattered. The life he'd made in hopes of finding a bit of redemption, of making up for all that he'd stained his hands with to hold theirs instead.

Mingle.

He couldn't imagine—Tristaan was terrified of not fitting in. This was no caoja. This was no factory. Everyone here had rules and uniforms. Everyone here'd not been free since childhood.

Had he?

"I'll be at th' Gyre when I'm s'posed to." Was all he could muster to say, grey eyes unable to meet her dark gaze while he took in the galdor's words, her instructions, her suggestions, and her disgust, filtering it through a lifetime of similar experiences, sifting it down to whatever was important.

Left alone when the door closed, the dark-haired passive stood in silence for a long time, gathering whatever he could of his wits while a nervousness crawled like nausea through his insides. Terrified to go out there. Terrified to be seen. Terrified to get caught. Terrified of doing something wrong. There wasn't any danger to his body here, nothing he couldn't deal with, at least, but to even pretend to be a Gated Passive endangered the one thing he'd held onto in calloused hands for twenty-odd years: his spirit.

He had no idea how to keep it safe here. He had no choice but to try.

"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb