[Closed] The Scarlett Letter

Old Rose Harbor is Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld.
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 129
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 15
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
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Mon May 20, 2019 5:42 pm

2nd Bethas, 2719
OLD ROSE | MORNING
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“Pancakes and fritters, say the Anaxi critters. Two sticks and an apple, say the Brayde County cattle!” Sarinah exclaimed in an over the top excited voice, cooing little babe in her arms, spinning gently around the small confines of the lounge-come-dining area that she and Tristaan shared.
​​
​​She, Tristaan and Linora.
​​
​​It had been a month since the birth of their daughter, and whilst it was amazing and wonderful and exciting it was also not. The brunette dancer had experience with boch, not her own obviously but she had grown up with children around the kints or part of the Festival, and now she had her own there were more things to learn. How to feed her, dress her, bathe her. Her habits and needs, her cries and her quiet times. Was she still breathing when she was so deeply asleep? Would it ever not feel like razor blades every time she nursed?
​​
​​Was there a magical solution to diapers?
​​
​​The passive of course helped with everything he possibly could, and the man’s love for his small fami was visible in his care and his actions. He adored Nora, taking to wearing her in a cleverly tied long shawl designed for carrying babies when he was home and awake or if he took her out and about to give the dancer a breather. Sarinah was adamantly certain she could not have ever done this on her own, and was grateful each and every day that Alioe had put Tristaan in her path and rescued her from the Queen before it was too late.
​​
​​ “Pokers and vice, say the Surwood whice. Kettles and pans, say the Mumbrey lambs.” She continued the nonsense rhyme, turning and bouncing in time with the words, delighting in the precious smiles and half-laughs that escaped her daughter. It was all so new, both to her and the boch, and it was heartwarming to see Nora learning how she herself worked. Her skin was a warmer tone than Tristaan’s, reflecting some of Sarinah’s olive tones, and her hair was dark rich brown to match deep dark eyes. In certain light they looked like they might be slate, but in others they just looked brown. The man had explained to the brunette that their boch’s eyes could change color as she grew, and may become lighter like his own. It didn’t particularly matter to the witch, she loved Linora with more of her heart then she could ever think was possible. It was warming, a strong sensation that could not be ignored even if she wanted to, a biological safeguard.
​​
​​ “Such a pretty song, my sweet birdy.” A sultry, rich voice spoke softly from within the house, shocking Sarinah so much she gasped and reeled her glamour close to her sharply. Turning rapidly, Linora bursting into startled cries, the dark eyed dancer backed away with disbelief and anger.
​​
​​Scarlett. What the clocking hell are ye doing in my house?” She growled, holding Nora closer and placing a hand behind her tiny little head as though to protect her from the golden eyed woman. Dressed in a crimson dress that hugged all the wrong places, the ex-pirate-come-madame continued to walk into the living area, not at all perturbed by the fact she had entered the home uninvited.
​​
​​ “Tristaan?!” Sarinah called out loudly for the man in a panicky tone, knowing he was probably still deep within the realms of sleep at this moment in time, having worked in the Arena the night before. With Linora’s birth, the dancer had to adjust her timings with Boriand, so that someone could be home with the boch. It meant Tristaan worked more often than not, much to the wick’s frustration, and there was no solution in sight.
​​
​​They both knew this day was going to come, but was it really so soon?
​​
​​Scarlett tsked, pouting at the dancer’s call for the passive, slowing hard red heels on the wooden floor. Her thick tresses were curled up on her head in a neat and tidy up-do, away from the lit end of her long thin cigarette which she proceeded to withdraw from her cleavage and light with a gentle Static spell.
​​
​​ “Oh come now Dove, I’d never hurt you my sweet girl. You should know that by now.” She said with a tone of mock offense, drawing on the cigarette and resting one elbow on her crossed arm. Sarinah’s lip curled and she hissed a curse.
​​
​​ “Don’t call me that.” The dancer growled, moving to put the kitchen table between herself and the red head. Scarlett pressed her fingertips to her lips, a false ‘oops’ at the comment, before raising them in a sign of surrender.
​​
​​ “Forgive me, Sarinah. A soft sound escaped her throat, and she smiled through the smoke, looking at the upset bundle in the witch’s arms.
​​
​​ “That’s her then? Your little forbidden bundle of joy? Got to admit, you and that scrap make adorable runts.” Slowly, she walked towards the brunette, to which Sarinah moved equal steps away. Scarlett stopped at the table, drawing a chair from the setting and sweeping into it with crossed legs and straight back. Her field was barely more than a brush of sensation, weak as it had always been, wickish in its aura. There were times where Sarinah was sure she felt a surge from the woman who had owned her for five years, but it was so brief that it could have been another magister passing by. Regardless, the brunette was more confident in her magic than she was in the red head madame.
​​
​​ “What do ye want Scarlett?“ The wick said sharply, keeping her distance from the woman who seemed content to stay seated for now. The Madame smiled slowly, dragging another breath from the cigarette and sighing theatrically.
​​
​​ “Ah, ah, ah. Patience my little Dove. I need your lover for this conversation. Both of you actually. I think you’ll want to hear me out.” Her golden gaze held the brunettes for a moment, before looking away with an air of casual nonchalance. There was no fear or sense of caution from the woman, beautiful if she wasn’t so ugly inside. Sarinah had never really understood the woman. She hated her, for everything she had forced her to do and to be, for everything she did to her and Tristaan and the other girls. Yet, the red haired mistress was never outwardly cruel. She never personally hit the witch, and there wasn’t anyone Sarinah could recall that Scarlett had hurt that didn’t instigate the problem.
​​
​​It didn’t mean however she trusted her. Not at all.
​​
word count: 1158
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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 146
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 13
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Writer: Muse
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Sun Jun 09, 2019 12:29 am

2nd of Bethas, 2719
HOME | MORNING
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Tristaan had never in his life of both undeserved suffering and undeserved blessing been so simultaneously happy and so simultaneously miserable at the same time. He'd been abandoned. He'd gone hungry. He'd been more than just merely mistreated, really. He'd been found. He'd been cared for. He'd not only been loved, but now he could say he loved in return. He'd known both the taste of slavery as well as the sweetness of freedom, and while he'd come to understand he chose to burden himself with chains of his own making far more often than he cared to admit, he also knew that once again he belonged to someone else—

No, worse.

Pinned like a mouse beneath the talons of Silas Hawke, he was not alone. Not anymore. Not only had he trapped Sarinah with him, bound by the hearts that were now so entwined with each others' that the passive no longer had the desire to determine where his ended and hers began, but he'd also trapped the one most precious thing he'd been told he could never have—his daughter.

Guilt gnawed at him, seeping in through the bruises and tangling in stitches all the way to the very marrow of his bones. No amount of Living magic, no amount of rest could heal the wounds of his own infliction. Frustration burned within him, a consuming fire that struck down opponents and left blood on the sandy floor of the Rose Arena as if he hoped that spilling more of it would somehow quench the flames.

But there was light because there was Linora.

And there was hope because there was Sarinah.

Tristaan believed these things to be true, and so he endured. And so he waited.

This morning, waiting felt a lot like sleeping. He'd lost a few nights ago—a rarity these days but certainly never an impossibility in the arena—and while his next fight was thankfully a week away to give him time to heal, he was hardly the most functional of passives quite yet, unable to take on the family responsibilities he'd come to enjoy or give his lovely witch her much-deserved rest.

This morning, he didn't hear her singing or the laughter she enticed from their adorable dark-haired daughter, but he was instead immediately awake at the sound of her crying, the strange, instinctual anticipation of fatherhood having settled with admirable competency on his narrow shoulders. Oes, there was parenting work he couldn't do: he couldn't feed Nora, he couldn't always comfort her as easily as her daoa, but he'd otherwise caught on to whatever else he could with rather lovestruck abandon, exhaustion be damned. How strange it was to have somehow gained a sixth sense, an awareness of some very small babe and her every need. Nora's cries were different and he was up quickly like some startled animal, Sarinah's voice filling in the rest of his groggy senses with even more tones of distress.

His feet hit the floor at his name, Tristaan grunting when he stood but not even pausing to tug on a shirt to hide the fading yellows and greens of a match lost that marred his tanned, scarred body and moving swiftly on bare feet into the main room of the drafty old flat by the sea they'd been so graciously bequeathed on behalf of their most Brotherly benefactor. Grey eyes came into focus at the sight of red hair, Scarlett's unwelcome self interloping upon his fami enough to elicit a scabbed-lip sneer.

She was far too early.

On all accounts.

He stalked past Sarinah, fingers brushing over his crying daughter's hair before he boldly stepped into the madame's personal space and raised his hand, snuffing out her cigarette with calloused fingertips and not even a a second thought,

"Y' got me awake, but 's long 's y' got me alive, y' ent gonna smoke in m' home. Y' got th' rest 'f th' Harbor t' do that in, ye chen?" There was no fear and no subordination in his tone while he wiped away the sting and ashes on his trousers, Tristaan not impressed with the woman Hawke had given so much power over flesh here in the Rose, the woman Hawke had once given so much power over the witch he loved. Rolling his eyes, he turned and reached for his still-fussing babe, cradling her with sore arms against his bare chest with a bit of bouncing and quiet humming, moving to put his battered body between the olive-skinned dancer and a seated Scarlett while he pressed a few kisses against soft hair while Linora slowly quieted. He leaned against Sarinah to hide his unsteadiness as much as to offer his support, no trace of his lingering aches and pains betrayed in his sternly disapproving expression.

He knew he had no power of his own, no room to insult or disrespect the woman who could most certainly put Sarinah to work beneath all the Harbor for coin should she so choose, but at the same time, the dark-haired passive was perhaps far too willing to bear the consequences of her blood on his hands than he cared at all to admit out loud.

"You're here 't least a month b'fore agreed, so y'd best have a good reason for 't."
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb
word count: 955
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 129
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 15
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
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Tue Jun 18, 2019 6:48 pm

2nd Bethas, 2719
OLD ROSE | MORNING
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Scarlett watched with a hint of a smirk as Tristaan appeared in shirtless bruised glory, as though barely holding in her amusement as he stalked over and snuffed out the cigarette. Raising her free hand in a lazy surrendering gesture, she returned the thin wooden holder back to whence it came, hardly hiding the slow roam of golden eyes over exposed skin.

“Alright pet. Your house, your rules.” She breathed, watching the passing of the crying babe with an air of vague curiosity. As Tristaan comforted the infant, her cries turning into snuffles and hitched breaths, Sarinah stayed close to the passive, feeling him lean against her and unwilling to let either of them show weakness before the Madame. The red head’s smile was subtle, but it lingered predatorily, as though at any minute she would snap and turn into a raging banderwolf. Scarlett Jezebel, an appropriate name for the vivacious woman, was slighter than the dancer—built for languishing in armchairs and having gifts thrown at her feet. She was shorter too, though the tall heels she wore seemingly at all times made her appear more equal. There was no doubt she held beauty, physically the shape of her heart shaped face and the high cheekbones were appealing—as were the curves barely contained in her notoriously scandalous dresses. But where some beauty ran through to the very soul, Scarlett’s seemed to stop just below the surface. Her vibrant gold eyes held a coldness that was unreadable, and her demeanor suggested she thought herself above most of those she spoke to.

It made her a perfect fit for being one of Hawkes business partners.

“A month is it? How time flies. I’m not here however, for my pretty Dove. I’m here on a far more personal matter.” Reaching up with a devil-may-care casualness, the woman began to remove the cleverly placed long golden pins from her thick scarlet curls, one by one at a sedate pace.

“Did you know I was once the most feared piratess of the Vitan Seas? The Bloody Witch, they called me. My flag on the horizon was enough to send sailors fleeing back to port.” The brunette dancer scowled, flexing her meager glamour as Scarlett let her hair fall with delightful abandon down her shoulders in soft ringlets.

“Oes, it ent a secret, ye chen? Ye beached th’ Queen, fell into bed with Hawke and the rest is vile slavery.” The woman smiled again, running her fingers over the length of a pin held between two fingers and sighing.

“Oh, but my birdy, that’s the official story isn’t it? Tell me, Mister Greymoore, Miss Lissden, how much love do you have for the King?” Her eyes shifted between the two, glamour warmly buzzing from across the table as she watched the passive and the wick, clearly waiting for a reply. Sarinah chanced a look at Tristaan, before letting her dark eyes flick back to the Madame at their table, unsure how to reply. There was no love for Silas, no loyalty or sense of false security. The dancer knew the wick was a hatcher, a vile creature just waiting for his chance to consume all who stood in his way. A wolf in sheeps clothing. Scarlett chuckled, reaching up to drag red lacquered fingers through her hair. As she did so, there was a sensation of pressure in the small abode, a press of something that shouldn’t be there. Something that hung heavy, ramscott with power that was so very carefully tucked away.

A field.

Scarlett’s field.

“That’s better.” The galdor purred, lacing her fingers and resting them on her bent knee, looking at the couple with a wide smile.

“You see, my dear birdies, I am no witch. And I have a great many things I would like to discuss with you. A proposition, as it were. An offer of work, in exchange for the safety of your little family and in turn, your freedom.” Linora’s cries picked up again as the thick cloying press of Static energy that clung to the red heads field, pressing her little face into her da’s neck as though to shy away from the sensation. Sarinah felt a wash of cool fear run over her, prickling her scalp and raising goosebumps on her olive skin.

“Ye’re a galdor? But…but how?” The Madame waved a hand dismissively, her golden eyes burning yellow as the mona cascaded through the leylines of her being with abandon.

“Dampening my field is just one of the many tricks up my sleeve Miss Lissden. Do you think Hawke would have honestly got into bed with someone who could snuff him out with the snap of her fingers? He’s arrogant, headstrong, and full of spells that even I wouldn’t dare try. But he’s also stupid. The harbor deserves someone much better than him. It deserves a Queen.” Standing suddenly, the woman walked through the home into the quaint living area, running her fingers over belongings without care or concern for repercussions.

“Enough of that however. As I said, I have an offer for you both, should you wish to take it. Things are turning elsewhere in Vita, more important than the ego of one pitiful wick, and it’s time to take action. So I ask you both, again…” Scarlett turned, pinning them both with a hard look.

“How loyal are you to Silas Hawke, and how far are you willing to go for your freedom?”
​​
word count: 959
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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 146
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 13
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Writer: Muse
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Sat Jul 13, 2019 11:39 pm

2nd of Bethas, 2719
HOME | MORNING
The dark-haired passive held the warmth of his daughter against his bare chest as his brows drew together in visible confusion at Scarlett's words. A personal matter? Tristaan felt no obligation outside what was required of him in order to keep himself and his family alive and unharmed by the King of the Underworld, and the idea of the Mad Queen herself coming to them for anything other than her professional interests did not at all sit well with him. He bristled as she began to take her hair down, settling into the chair at his kitchen table as if she belonged there.

By Alioe's wisdom, he couldn't care less how infamous she'd once been, but his grey eyes darted to Sarinah in surprise to hear details he'd not before. Having spent far too much time face to face with Silas himself, Scarlett struck him as not at all the wick's flavor—

"Love? Ne—I ent got any o' that for Hawke, an' I'm damn sure—"

He cut himself short, tongue against the back of his teeth and lithe, well-muscled body tensing at the magical sensation that unfurled from the woman before them both literally releasing the field she'd dampened, a revealing of something far more powerful than he'd ever have expected washing over them. That suddenness sparked a panic, Tristaan's heart burning hot and fierce against his sternum at memories of his own experiences in the Harbor just a year ago in their attempt to escape, and here he was holding Linora in his arms as if he was some bastion of safety when he knew—he knew—he was not. He took a step forward, terrified that this was just another diablerie, ready to curl himself around the infant in his arms and also attempt to protect his lovely witch.

But no.

Scarlett wasn't a passive. She wasn't even a witch. She was, in fact, a clocking galdor.

The dark-haired man's entire body language shifted from one of caution to one of pure defensiveness, passing his daughter back to Sarinah in order to obviously free his calloused, still bruised hands in case he needed them. While his lovely witch may have been familiar with how Tristaan moved and thought, he was quite sure that the galdor had only imaginings,

"It's jus' a trick, self-defense, an', when misused, tarnishes one's relationship with th' mona." He smirked, tongue against the back of his teeth as he taunted the red-head, narrow shoulders square and pulse roaring through sore ribs. When she stood, he inhaled sharply and like some territorial animal made sure he was between the self-titled Queen and his fami,

"Silas sure keeps a lotta gollies 'round th' Brothers—havakda, he's got much 'f Anaxas' entire jent population 'n his godsbedamned pockets. That ent sound like a mant manna stupid t' me, but I'll let a lady such as y'self have her own opinions, ye chen." He practically growled, gravely morning voice low and threatening, grey eyes watching Scarlett wander his small, humble but supposedly generously given flat with a predatory focus.

Her question caught the passive off-guard, but also deeply disturbed him. He held no loyalty to Hawke, but he also already had some very carefully-forming plans brewing about how to earn freedom for his fami in a way that was, admittedly, questionable at best but also, as far as he was concerned, the best possible solution he'd come up with thus far. It was a slow game, sure, but whatever offer Scarlett wanted to lay on the table for them was probably dangerous and fast and—

"Ne. We don't wanna hear 't."

He grunted, not even flinching or wilting beneath the Mad Queen's dangerous stare. If anything, he stood taller, so indomitable as he was, Tristaan's lips becoming a thin line like some blade's edge, ready to cut the tension,

"I ent gotta tell y' how far either 'f us 're willin' t' go t' be outta th' King's grasp 'cause I assure you Vienda wasn't far 'nough, but I can promise you we're no' jus' gonna end up b'tween your fingers instead." The dark-haired passive crossed his arms over his chest, aware of the curiosity that added kindling to the fire that burned beneath his scarred, tanned skin, but also fully aware of the ache of caution. He'd made the mistake of thinking he could just slip from Silas' sight once before and it'd almost killed him. Now, he had far too much to live for.

"Whatever y' think y' want from us, I doubt you've got our well-bein' 'n mind as part 'f th' deal."
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb
word count: 846
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 129
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 15
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: [url=http:/fullurl/]Plot Notes[/url]
Contact:

Mon Aug 12, 2019 9:19 am

2nd Bethas, 2719
OLD ROSE | MORNING
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S​​arinah took Nora from Tristaan quickly, unashamed to be petrified by the galdor that now stood in their home. So many memories flashed through her mind, so many times when Scarlett could have healed or helped those in her employee. She let that man—
​​
​​Gods, she hated gollies. She hated them, and the panicked fear that coiled within her as their fields pressed against all so thick and heavy, so full of self importance and entitlement.
​​
​​Scarlett smirked at Tristaan’s commentary on her trick, it’s effect on the monic relationship.
​​
​​ “It’s true, the mona are not particularly favorable to being blocked from their rightful place, but one learns to balance very carefully. Knowing your True Name helps, of course. You have a far more personal relationship, a far more connected one.” Her fingers flicked at the chair she left, and without a word the wooden seat scooted closer to the table with a too loud screech across the unpolished floor. The couple would feel the monic shift, a familiar sensation for those who had experienced a Push spell before, but there were no words to accompany it.
​​
​​ “Stupidity comes in many forms, Mister Greymoore, whether it be visible to the person in question…” Her golden gaze strayed to him for a moment.
​​
​​ “Or not.” She finished, smiling again and exploring the little home. Facing the couple with her intense stare and bold question, it seemed she had half expected the passive to dismiss her without even hearing the facts. She listened, clasping her hands behind her back and nodding sagely, shifting suddenly so she could look at the brunette witch behind him with a curious expression. One hand pointed at her, head tilting in question.
​​
​​ ”What about you, my pretty Dove? Don’t you have a voice in this coupling, or is it all a man’s world? Come on birdy, let’s hear you sing.” The dancer held her daughter closer, drawing her field tightly and glancing at Tristaan for a moment, before looking back at the galdor.
​​
​​ “Ent no love for the King, ye chen, but I ent got any good reason to trust ye Scarlett. Ye sell bodies that aren’t yours, for ging that ent theirs. Ye let people hurt us, and rape us, and ye line Silas’ golden pocket. Ye let Wesley lock me up, starve me, and ye were going to let the dogs have me. What possible offer could you ever have that I would listen to?” Her voice quavered, full of painful emotions and memories the Mad Queen dragged up, dark eyes glittering with contempt. Scarlett tapped her finger against her pursed lips, smirking behind them and resting her hands on her hips.
​​
​​ “Freedom. Real freedom. One that doesn’t involve your lovely scrap here having to murder someone, or you letting most of the harbor find out what’s under those skirts. Imagine it, you could find somewhere all quaint and homely where your little wick there could run around without a care in the world, the perfect boring life.” The brunette dancer laughed suddenly, a sharp disbelieving sound.
​​
​​ “Impossible. Hawke wouldn’t let ye get us past the end of the harbor. Everyone is on his books, ye chen?” The galdor nodded, crossing her arms and raising her brow.
​​
​​ “I can guarantee that you’ll be free, and no one would stop you from leaving.” Pausing, she sighed and looked over her garish red nails, as though something was troubling her.
​​
​​ “Of course, you don’t have to accept my offer, but thought you of all people would jump at the chance. A shame, given you now know something about me that I shared in good faith.” The red head pouted, taking a step closer to the young couple, Nora making a small sound in the back of her throat. Sarinah shifted closer to Tristaan, feeling a sense of dread settle in her stomach.
​​
​​ “I couldn’t possibly risk that information being shared with the wrong people. You understand, right?” Her field flexed, a physical wave of force that rolled over the small family with a tingling sense of heat and the smell of ozone. The shock brought fresh wails from the infant in her daoa’s arms, and the witch felt tears sting her eyes.
​​
​​ “Vrunta. This isn’t a choice, is it? We either agree, now, or ye cott us?! Havakda!” Sarinah snapped the curses through grit teeth, furious at the red head. She spoke of freedom, yet had planned to entrap them all along.
​​
​​ "What is it then? What is it ye need from us?” Scarlett beamed at them, a warm delight spreading over her features.
​​
​​ ”Oh nothing much at all. I just need your delicious gentleman there to attend Brunnhold with an associate, under the guise of a ‘home bound’ passive, to collect something of mine. I would collect it myself, but I have certain commitments to the Rose that require me here in person.” Looking the grey eyed man up and down slowly, the vixen bit her lower lip.
​​
​​ “I bet you look ravishing in a scraps uniform.” Turning yellow eyes on Sarinah, the Madame tsked.
​​
​​ “You will need to stay here in the Harbor, to maintain his cover. Plus, incentive for Mister Greymoore to keep his mouth shut and get his erse home quicker.” The woman chuckled, giving them a few moments to think about her offer.
​​
​​ “This is dangerous.” The dancer whispered, moving to look at her lover with concern etched on her forehead, the small child fussing and sniffling at her chest. Brow drawing deeper and dark eyes turning softer, she looked over her passive lover carefully. It was too great an ask, and yet, what choice did they have?

"Ye don't have to do this hama. We can...I could..." Sarinah stumbled over her words, unable to find a loophole in the offer, afraid of the galdor standing in their home whilst their daughter made small sounds of sorrow in her arms. Lowering her head, the brunette witch pressed a kiss to the soft hair on Linora's head, stifling a quiet sob that tried to escape.

When would it end? If it wasn't the King, it was the Queen. How many more times must they jump through hoops for just a breath of freedom?

What if they ran? What if they bundled Nora up and bought passage on a spice ship to Mugroba? They could just get lost in the desert and forget about Silas-fucking-Hawke and everything that came with him. Tristaan could handle a bit of dockhand work, and she could probably work as a staff hand somewhere.

It could work? Couldn't it.

The dancer looked into the stormy slate depths of her lovers eyes, wishing she could say it all out loud, hoping against hope he could hear her thoughts. Surely, that was safer than him leaving for Brunnhold. Surely that was safer than double crossing Hawke.
​​
word count: 1197
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