Bethas 3rd, 2718
The darker haired tumble from the street returned with more drinks that neither of the three men actually needed, Jonathan more eager for the woman's return than he was for more alcohol and Kip just so bright-eyed and flush-faced and distracted that the mug of something sweet and alcoholic was something to hold and grin about. Tristaan had changed his mind in her absence, deciding he'd probably need whatever was in the mug he smiled when he accepted in order to appreciate what he'd gotten himself into. The signs were clear that places like the Mad Queen were just another form of servitude, whether some who worked here were willing or not. He'd spent enough years a slave under the guise of freedom long enough to know the difference, and no matter how pleasing the woman's touch was who'd sandwiched herself between him and his young wick friend, it was well-practiced and far from genuine.
The dark-haired passive directed her hands off of himself and toward Kip with a wink, offering the red-headed tumble a sly smile as if it was the man's birthday just as the drummer began his beat and the curtains parted, drawing his grey eyes from his companions and back to the stage. The young woman who emerged from the curtain with the plucking of a sitar sent a ripple of almost tangible silence through the inebriated, lustful crowd, the sounds of laughter fading into murmurs of lewd appreciation and a few catcalls before the music drown out even those and the rowdy audience fell quieter, eagerly anticipating whatever was coming next. Tristaan had to admit the woman was beautiful and had this moment been around the bonfire of a caoja like a proper party, the dark-haired passive wouldn't have felt a hint of shame about being privy to so much olive skin because it would have been bared willingly. In the heady atmosphere of the Mad Queen, however, he found himself uncomfortable, wrong, uninvited, even, and unlike the rest of the audience, he willed himself to look away from the stage and into the crowd as much as possible.
Not infallible by any means, not when far from sober, Tristaan's gaze strayed back to the woman who displayed an impressive level of prowess and grace in an alluring way, distracted enough to feel a warmth wash over his face and a faster tempo to the beat of his heart in rivalry to the drummer near the stage. Not innocent, either, the passive had enjoyed the company of women, but there'd always been that moment tattoos were discussed—one, in particular—and the dark-haired man inevitably found himself in need of an escape.
And then his mug was empty—damn it all—yet what a kindness it was to his bleary senses that the spotlight faded and the audience cat-called for more. Finally glancing back over at his two companions, Jonathan had most likely missed the entire show, so thoroughly involved with the dark-haired tumble from the street that he was a scuttled ship, which was no surprise to the passive. Kip was, of all things, giggling and talking with the red-haired woman, blushing and enjoying himself without wandering hands as if the pair were old friends. It was, well, unexpected, but Tristaan knew that the wick was just that kind of random creature, even when so guttered he probably couldn't see straight. The rest of the crowd either expressed their disappointment that the lovely woman was done dancing or returned to their various vices, leaving the passive to set his mug on the table and settle in for inebriated boredom when that same woman passed by, the brush of a field revealing her a witch.
She smiled, sort of, a distant expression the passive was familiar with, and he returned something more genuine, almost sympathetic, but it was quick and shy, everything about the location oppressive and disconcerting. He thought to say something—hello or anything, really—but found the whole idea awkward and strange, even if none of that showed in his smile. The movement of someone else caught the corner of his gaze, and when the larger, very drunk man put a hand on the dark-haired witch's shoulder, the illusion of pleasant conversation was shattered and Tristaan was tempted to look away. Just like everyone else here, the woman clearly had ging to earn.
Something about the man's tone was more than just a little unpleasant, predatory, and the dark-haired passive understood what was happening far faster than most, having practically been property years ago in the Soot District of Vienda far from Angler's Alley, just long enough to hear the undertones of expectation and feel the implication of unpleasant consequences. Even here, in a whorehouse full of women willing to throw themselves at this ugly lugger for whatever birds he was willing to offer, this laoso creep clearly assumed he could take what he wanted without consequence. Tristaan had the scars to prove how well that went on occasion, and he tensed, grey eyes hardening as he swept the room for the muscle, assuming the bouncers here were on Hawke's payroll, after all. No one moved to intervene and he sighed his displeasure through grit teeth.
The witch exchanged a look with the youth at the bar and when the large human took matters into his own hands, grabbing for the dark-haired woman roughly and trapping her between some unfortunate patron and himself, the passive was on his momentarily unsteady feet. Not once did the man mention he'd paid for her time, and while he was obviously so drunk it was a wonder he could pick this particular woman out from the rest of the more naked than clothed crowd, Tristaan suspected he'd simply wanted something he couldn't have or couldn't afford and was the type of clocking bastard to try and take it anyway.
The patron slipped from between the two, cursing at them both, scrambling for the bar as the dark-haired passive stepped past his friends toward the argument. Kip watched him, eyes suddenly wide, looking up from the red-head who held his hands now,
"Ah, shit. Jon—"
"Don't care."
"Ne, but—"
"Shut yer head. Don't know 'im. Don't care." The human laughed, revealing his willingness to lie without a care in the world with a woman on his lap. He waved a meaty hand dismissively.
"He's gonna kick his ass." The fair-haired wick all but giggled, leaving who his opinion of a victor would be to hang mysteriously between himself and the tumble who seemed very divided about where to ply her attentions—back to Kip or on the drunk human assaulting that dark-haired coworker who was too good to get herself dirty like the rest of them.
Aware that he was a scrawny son of a galdor, Tristaan moved forward where others stepped back, his alcohol-flushed face suddenly serious where others were already grinning, muttering, curious and enticed by the promise of violence. The loud, angry drunk was bulkier, taller, and clearly used to speaking with his fists first, while the dark-haired passive was content to hide years of hard labor and travel under his clothes and behind an even-tempered tone of voice,
"I'm pretty sure she called y' laoso. An' a vreska. Did y' pay for that already, kov?" Tristaan all but stepped between the man and the witch, summoning up the bravado to not wince at the stench of uncleanliness and the tension of even the faintest of fields, both grating against his senses. His hands didn't move for anything sharp, not yet, aware of where his weapons were but also not wanting to spill any blood if he didn't have to. Instead, he placed a calloused hand on the lugger's arm that gripped the dancer's hair, unconcerned if the other man would take that as a threat or not, "Did y' pay extra for damaged goods? I'm sure that ent free, ye chen?"
"Who'd'y think y'are? Th'muscle 'round 'ere?" The drunk human rumbled, not releasing his grip so much as twisting the witch slightly out of the way, "Y'don' look 't. I'd know."
"Ne, I'm not, but I know how this place works, mujo ma. Y' can't have what y' don' got th' ging for." The passive spoke with a calmness that belied the rush of fear that filled his chest, his roguish grin both a taunt and a lie. He wasn't afraid of the beating—Alioe, not anymore!—but he didn't want anyone unnecessarily hurt and he preferred not to have to cott the laoso piece of kenser dung in front of a bunch of folks who'd just paid far too much for sex. Still, his fingers curled into the well-muscled wrist of the large human, now fully aware of the strength he was up against, shifting his feet in anticipation of what would follow. The crowd's attention had shifted and Tristaan felt more eyes on him than he wanted, all of them but Jonathan's, obviously.
"Fuck off. I'gots money. Y' don' work 'ere, y' can'tell me what t' do." Releasing Sarinah a thoughtless toss, his other meaty fist curled into the still-moist collar of Tristaan's shirt and crushed scarred knuckles against his chest, "'Less y'were gonna try'n'take 'er instead."
"Between th' two of us? I'm definitely th' better choice, if that's what you're askin'." The dark-haired passive's expression was suddenly without fear, baiting the human now but also attempting to stall him. He didn't really want to fight him any more than he actually wanted to pay for a night with anyone here, but he wasn't about to let the bastard get away with whatever he thought he could, especially with a woman who clearly had little say in the matter. He wasn't sure he was any more sober than the creature that all but lifted him off his feet, but he was pretty sure he could take him. His judgement may have been a little impaired at this point, however. Just a little.
The larger man growled at Tristaan's comment, shoving him forward and into a table without a second thought, though he wobbled with the effort. Surging toward the passive as he scrambled to get into a more defensive position, dizzy from the motion and scarred back stinging, the big, drunk bastard took a swing with his opposite fist. The smaller framed, dark-haired man didn't get any more options but self-defense, noting that even now, there weren't any bouncers stepping into the fray. He hated the Bad Brothers and loathed being under their thumb, but this was ridiculous. What a waste.
Unfortunately, his reactions were slowed and instead of dodging, the passive simply grinned almost stupidly and braced for impact, much to the roaring delight of the crowd. Alioe, the bastard could hit hard, though, and his vision blurred even while he held in giving the beast the satisfaction of any noise of pain, the human's fist finding his ribs, too close to his kidneys for the comfort of his stomach, which churned and threatened but managed to do him one last favor. The passive didn't double over, didn't wince, didn't make a peep, much to the large human's obvious disappointment. He did stagger a little, however, but then revealed he wasn't helpless. Despite his own lack of sobriety, Tristaan was quick, his smaller size and actual combat experience allowing him to take advantage of the momentum of being shoved by the hand of his opponent, gritting his teeth against the fiery hurt to twist and land his own knuckles actually into the larger man's soft body just behind his ribs, hitting to bruise organs and aiming to threaten,
"Y' should take your birds an' bother someone y' can afford, ye chen?"
"Nah."
The larger man groaned, made more angry and less afraid, surprised that the mouthy, smaller man could hurt him at all—by the Circle, the little shit hit harder than he did and that just fueled his rage. Surprisingly, Tristaan refused to dodge whatever the drunk sloppily tossed his way, taking every blow without a sound, tuning out the horror and delight of the entire Queen who'd now turned their attention on the man who had the nerve to stand up for a whore. The dark-haired passive let the bastard get a few swings in, blinking away stars and unconcerned if he bled a little, either biding his time to see if someone put an end to the scuffle or just studying his opponent, realizing the untrained lugger had no clue what he was doing other than pounding meat.
He waited until the beast had his collar again, ready to smash his galdor-born pretty face in before he brought himself back into focus with a hiss, a quick, hard, well-deserved knee to the groin and an elbow raised toward the man's throat as hard as possible, either to shove himself away or do some damage, whichever was possible. He didn't want the larger man to crush him and he didn't want to have to dig out a blade. Surely, eventually, they'd both get their asses tossed onto the street and that would be that. Tristaan just wanted to be conscious, honestly, if only to hang onto the handful of coins he wasn't willing to spend in this laoso place full of lecherous idiots like this ugly thing.