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.
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