Tristaan was very sure he didn't want to move. Everything ached that could possibly ache and whatever didn't ache burned or hurt with stubborn splinters or well-earned blisters. Sure, he'd hurt worse. Construction labor still paled in comparison to factory labor, since he was free to set his own limits instead of trapped in a fourteen to sixteen hour day. The food was better. The company cheerier, mostly. Oh, yes, the objection of his muscles to stirring from anything close to sleep was totally worthwhile.

It'd been a busy handful of days, and the passive was content to haul the covers over his head with a groan at the first groggy sign of morning through the rain and clouds. He'd already thought ahead, having handed out extra coin—almost half a day's work, really—and letting everyone know the tenth was a day off, that they could come back on the next first to start again, should they still want to. A break was desperately needed, especially now that the spare rooms were all in order, paint had begun to be stripped from most of the surfaces that needed retreating, and he'd marked out his plans on the floor upstairs in chalk lines on wood running from kitchen stove pipes to bath.

Maybe later he could drag himself to the blacksmith's. Later. Not now.

The bed was ridiculously comfortable, maybe uncomfortably large, and burdened the swordsman with a twinge of painful nostalgia. Nothing unbearable, but just enough that dreams of his childhood had crept their way back into his exhausted sleep more nights than not.

Tristaan yawned and grit his teeth as his body protested moving, curling to reach for Sarinah with the intention of sleeping more. Just a bit longer. Or at least not going anywhere requiring sanding or cleaning for a few more hours. He mumbled, hoarse and not entirely awake,

"Y'ent intendin' t'go anywhere early, are ya, macha?"

Sarinah groaned as she stretched, eyes still shut. It felt like someone had tried to pull her arms off, then stuck them back on wrong. Everything ached. Tucking a hand under her cheek, she yawned, still with eyes shut.

"Mmm...ne. I ent leaving this bed unless its desperate. And it ent desperate yet." Chuckling, she stifled another yawn with the back of her hand and half opened her eyes.

"Hey." The dancer said with a smile. It was always nice to wake up to him, with the drizzle of Loshis rain on the windows. Personally, the dancer liked the rain. Yes, it got a bit muggy, but it was still nice to her.

"Benny." Grunted the passive groggily, more a hum than a real word, "Ent anythin' entirely exciting t'do out there anyway. It's rainin' an' it'll be a bit of a walk t'wards th'blacksmith's anyways."

Tristaan's hands found the dancer and after a bit of shuffling, he'd snatched her closer, though he was still mostly buried under the covers. Settling a more than slightly hairy chin against Sarinah's shoulder, he added quietly, "Y'know, at th'rate we're goin', we might have this place all cleaned up by th'end of th'rainy season ..." He chuckled, mostly teasing, "Might."

Sarinah smiled, warm and cozy and happy, shuffling to the man as he pulled her closer.

"Not if Sparkles can help it." She said quietly, lacing her fingers through his own and squeezing his hand gently.

"Poor old thing, he's spend so long living the way he does, he ent able to see what it does to everyone around him." Laying against his warmth for a moment, the dancer spent a little time thinking. It really was going quite fast, even with only a few extra hands. Something else came to mind. Feeling slightly foolish, the brunette spoke quietly.

"Hama? What exactly is a 'bird'? I ent said anything in front of the others, because I don't want to look mung, but...everyone seems to refer to ging differently here." Rolling slightly, she lay on her back to look at the man.

"And when I pay for things, the shopkeeps give me strange looks, as though my ging is no good. Then the change they give me. I ent sure if its right, but...I can't read what they try to write out for me anyway, ye chen?"

"B'ah. Sparkles ent as bad as he could be, I'll admit. He jus' ent so used t'folks bein' around so much, it seems t'me." He thought, anyway. It was hard to tell.

Tristaan sighed, breath warm on the dancer's neck and shoulder, "A bird's Underground money. Th'King, or Silas Hawke. He has his own economy here in th'Harbor since most of it belongs t'him anyway. There's birds an' pennies. Most places still take legal coins, but they call 'em all squares."

The passive closed his eyes and shifted a little, one hand tracing a few light circles over her olive skin before adding, "As for readin', we really need t'be fixin' that, ye chen? I ent wantin' t'see anyone cheat you here jus' because they think y'ent gonna know th' diff'rence."

Sarinah made a small 'oh' noise as he explained the money, feeling altogether rather stupid she didn't figure that out for herself. She knew about Hawke and the Bad Brothers, in fact she had met two of them those many months ago on the way to Dorhaven. The idea that Hawke had his own currency didn't even go through her mind.



The woman nodded a little, closing her eyes and enjoying the small circles he traced with his finger. It was slightly distracting.

"Oes, I agree. You make it seem so easy, reading and writing. Seems like I should know it already, but when I look at the words on paper, its just scribble." Making a small hump noise, she pouted a little.

"Never seemed important to bother with all this stuff before. Now, I wish I'd tried to learn earlier. I think Rosalie thinks I'm mung. Or laoso. Or both."

"Ent anythin' worth worryin' about, ye chen." The passive closed his eyes and shook his head, "We'll make some time t'work on letters an' such. It'll be a nice break from all th'hard work of fixin' this place up."

Tristaan snorted chidingly, opening his eyes to groggily peer over Sarinah's shoulder at her pouting face, still distractingly pretty despite the downward turn in her expression,"Rosalie? You're worried 'bout what she thinks of you—what for?" He tried not to sound incredulous, concerned that this turn in conversation had nothing to do with coins or reading at all, "You're th'one payin' her an' whoever else t'work, not th'other way 'round."

Turning to lean more against the lovely witch, the passive propped himself up on an elbow, palm against his cheek, and looked her with a stern warmth in the eye. He didn't want to come across defensive, knowing it was hard to explain the sense of connection with those who shared his place in the world, regardless of their varying personalities, "It's no one's loss but hers if she finds you mung, an' it ent right of anyone t'consider you laoso, macha. Not everyone's been cared for in th'same way, an' while I—"

He paused, closing his eyes for a moment, "—while I wouldn't think it a bad thing t'be a golly like I thought I was born t'be, I ent. Some of my kind may not know how t'feel about that any better'n'I do ... it just shows in diff'rent ways."

At least, that's what he'd decided to tell himself. He certainly couldn't speak for the opinions of others of his kind, knowing that all of them shared a similar first decade in the comforts of galdori society. How other passives like Hal or Wendy or Viator or even Rosalie had chosen to deal with the repercussions of their magically silenced existence was not something Tristaan was really capable of justifying. He might have felt differently even about Sarinah had he not been taken in by wicks as a young man. Regardless, it was difficult for him to see the point in being discriminating when one was already stuck on the bottom rung of the social ladder in the first place.

The dancer glanced up at him as he hovered more over her, reaching up to tuck a loose brown strand of hair behind his ear as he spoke. She didn't like it when he hurt like this. It wasn't fair. The man was a good, honest, loving person and no tsuter golly sitting up on their high-chrove had the right to deem him gutter-trash simply because he had no field. It made her angry right into the depths of her stomach, knotting it tightly. Resting her hand back on the pillow, the woman sighed, glancing out the raining window.

"I chen kov, I do. But I don't know...the way she talks to you when she thinks I'm not around, its different. More relaxed and friendly."

Too friendly.

"Yet, when I walk in, she changes. Glances at me like she's done something bad and then at you. Like there is something going on. But I know there ent. Ye, I trust, but hama, your attractive. Your a passive. There is a connection. I ent jealous, more...keepin' an eye out. Ye chen? I feel like, one little slip up an' she'll be after y'faster thena bander onna hingle." The last line came out in a fast, slightly twangy accent, as though the brunette had let a little of her past life, before Cooks, slip into her judgment. Pausing, she looked back at him, smiling.

"I know, I'm moony, but ye can't deny...she's an awful lot more friendly when you two are alone."

"That ent fair."

Tristaan growled softly, but it wasn't a playful noise. He didn't pull away, but his arms about the witch tensed a little and he frowned, voice groggy and quiet, "I ent gotta sense it's like that; I don't feel she wants t'jump me or anythin'. Of course she's a bit more friendly 'round me—we've both spent our whole lives havin' t'pretend we ent who we are in front of most folks ... it's a kinda relief when we don't have t'hide. It's ... It's diff'rent, macha, but it's nothin' t'be jealous over."

He thought quietly for a moment, sighing, "It ent got anythin' t'do with my looks so much as th'burden we share. If she ent sure how t'feel 'bout you, then I'm pretty sure she only tolerates my wick flavorin' 'cause we have th'same tattoo, th'same history of bein' told we're broken. It's like ... a secret tribe, but ent any of us really know what t'do for or with each other. Jus' knowin' we ent alone sometimes is nice, but ... really, hama, you've been so understandin' of me ... is it just 'cause I took t'wick life? If I was diff'rent ... would you feel diff'rent 'bout me?"

His tone had hardened a little, and he bit his lip before sharing his own concerns, only slightly afraid of being so honest, " 'Sides, it ent like I don't worry 'bout Harlin an' th'way he looks at you ... or th'way anyone else looks at you, for that matter. You don't always seem t'mind playin' along, neither, ye chen. Y'think I don't notice?"

His stern attitude surprised her slightly. It was almost defensive. He'd done the same thing with Wendy, taking her side and defending her over the dancer. Understandably, the passives had a bond, they took care of each other...but...would it be like this everytime she questioned a passives actions?



Frowning slightly, the dancer pulled away from the man, slipping out of the warmth of the bed and walking across the room. Picking up a pair of black pants, she pulled them on, speaking to the window rather than the passive.

"I didn't care whether you took a wick life or other Tristaan. I didn't even know what a passive really was till you came along. Why would I feel differently about you? When I met you, I wasn't attracted to some good looking kov. I was intrigued by a tender, caring person with a depth of character that didn't even begin to skim the surface. If ye looked at me and spoke around me like Rosalie, like Ve-Wendy, I probably would have felt different. Ent easy to be attracted when ye feel like your offending someone just by bein' around." Reaching for the black corset Giana had borrowed at the festival, the witch shook her head. How many times would she be in the wrong for the whole passive situation?



Pausing, the dancer pursed her lips slightly, before turning around and approaching her side of the bed, taking the familiar three pronged weapons of choice from a crate by her pillow. Slipping them into the back of her pants, she avoided his face.

"Harlin? Please kov, you don't need to worry about that there. Nice enough wick, but ent my type. As for the rest of its an act. Ent going to bring in any ging if the patron's ent interested. I thought you were benny with it all. You know its an act." She found herself a little indignant. It felt like an accusation. He was in the right though, she had no ground to be jealous. Still...it made her sick to hear it from him.

Tristaan scowled, disappointed with the witch pulling away and leaving the warmth of the bed. He hadn't intended his rebuke to be that offensive and he still didn't want to get up, watching and listening while he curled calloused fingers into the sheets where Sarinah had been, "I don't talk t'you any diff'rent than I do anyone else. Macha, you still know things no one else does, an' I ent gonna go an' change that. Even if what I can't help but share with other passives is diff'rent, what I've found with you is special. Surely, you can see there ent a point in comparin' th'two?"

It was hard to explain, really, and even he didn't understand the difference entirely. Wendy, Rosalie, Hal ... not everyone had been shown the same kindness as he had after escaping, not everyone had a reason to be a little more trusting, and not everyone had come to realize that race wasn't worth making an issue about. He didn't really know how to say that, didn't really know how to express what it felt like to be trapped between two places, two competing desires of equal strengths ... to want restoration to where he felt he rightfully belonged in society and to want the freedom to have and love what he pleased.

The passive sighed again, a little chagrined, looking up at her defiant expression with a softening to his own features. It probably hadn't been necessary to throw his jealousy on the end there; it was an impulsive, defensive response. It definitely hadn't been his intention to hurt her. He could understand the difference between what one did for a living and what one did off the job, given what he'd done in his time to earn ging.

"That's not what I meant," Tristaan mumbled, cautious again under her gaze, confidence wilting a little, wishing she hadn't gotten up and gotten dressed, "I get th'diff'rence between actin' for th'stage an' all. My point was I ent sure you always make th'same distinction when y'ent workin' ..."

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the lovely witch, resisting the urge to reach for her, "I—I've made enough peace with what you'll be doin' once this place is up an' runnin'. Act or not, it ent that simple for me all th'time."

Sighing, the black and red haired woman pulled the sai out from her back, dumping herself on the edge of the bed, studying the blades.

"It's alright hama, ye don't need to explain yourself. The way you've acted about this has been amazing, and I appriciate it more than anything. I just can't help it. It's a job for me, when those men look at me like that, a charade. When I think those girls look at you the way they do, its not an act. They aren't throwing ging at you to make you smile at them. It's genuine." Glancing at him, she frowned.

"I dont...I'm not sure..." Taking a big breath, she winced.

"This act, its like...a trigger. Something about the way a man talks to me, or looks at me, flicks a switch. I don't even realise it until about half way through. It's automatic. I know there ent anything to it, no earning to be made, but I can't stop it. I've been doing it for four years balach. Four years. It disgusts me, but..." Offering up a wry smile, she tilted her head.

"You gotta play the part to earn the concords, I mean, birds." It was what Cook had told her, so long ago. Either out the door or on your back if you couldn't keep the customers. She didn't have any other income, and becoming a tumble was not on her list of things to do. Some habits were hard to break.

Tristaan moved over the still-warm sheets to curl around the lovely witch as she flopped on the bed, not too unlike a sleepy domesticated animal. One hand snaked from under the covers to wrap about her waist, knees bent to hold her with his body. He yawned and tilted his chin to look at her, only a hint of sternness still in his tone, "You can be just as genuine when you want to. Ent every kov out there's lookin' for a chance t'throw ging at your feet over th'curves of your body, jus' like ent every chip's out for a closer look at my face t'get in my pants."

The passive grinned a little, trying to return some humor to the frustration, nodding his head in the direction of the said pants he currently wasn't wearing before returning his gaze to her chocolate eyes, seriousness lingering reluctantly along the edge of his morning groggy voice, "I s'pose I'm afraid that someday there'll be somethin' I can't protect you from, either because you won't want me to ... or because I jus' won't be strong enough. It's one thing t'watch over your work, an' another t'worry 'bout all th'rest of th'time."

He looked away, back to the clean, dark wood of the floor, "It ent like I got room t'talk 'bout work, an' I know't. Not everythin' I do's quite praise-worthy neither."

The dancer smiled then, a small chiding chuckle escaping her lips. Moving her hand behind him, she looked down at the honest man with a loving expression.

"I will never want ye to not protect me. You're like...the Roek Durg in story at festival. Strong, protective and honorable. There is no one else I would want to protect me. I would have thought, with what happened with...Rovin...at the caoja would show you that. No one else." Leaning down, she kissed his forehead gently.

"Ye do what ye can to get by. Ent no reason to be ashamed of it. I'm not. Sure, the work you do is sometimes cold and dark, but...ye don't relish in it. It's not like you're out there laughing about it and bragging of the things you may have done." Moving slightly, she rested against his naked form, head on his shoulder.

"Epaemo kov. For the way I acted. It's been a hard few days, workin' on the place and all." The brunette witch reached her free hand too stroke his dark brown hair back from his forehead.

Shifting backwards without wanting too much to disturb their renewed closeness, Tristaan tried to offer Sarinah a bit more room on the edge of the bed, attempting to invite her back entirely, clothes or not. He was quiet for a while after listening with a hint of a hint of a smile, thoughtful or unsure of what to say or both.

"Oes, it's been a lot of work." The passive agreed, "An' it's fine. It ent any more right of me t'be rude neither. I don't want t'make you feel left outta things jus' because we've got diff'rences in who we are an' where we're from, but I can't really change th'way other folks want t'be treatin' you."

He sighed again, almost a quiet laugh, "See? Some things between us ent entirely diff'rent, except for some of th'circumstance."

Taking up the invite, the dancer snuggled back onto the bed, pressing her body into the passive, comforted by the closeness after their mini rift. She didn't like arguing with Tristaan. It made her feel awful inside.



Smiling, the woman elbowed him gently in the ribs.

"Ye ent making me feel left out, ye mung balach. It's me, all me. Bein' rude? Ne, ye were making a point. A good point."



Joining his sighing laughter, she nodded.

"Ahh sweet irony." Groaning a little, she wriggled against him.

"Why did I get dressed? This isn't anywhere as comfortable as it was before." Sarinah joked lightly, wanting to be past the discomfort of their argument. She could feel the end wasn't quite in sight, they had more roads to cross on this issue, but right now she didn't want to deal with it. The day was young and it was their day off. Why ruin it with an argument?

"Oh, I'm sure it's easy enough t'solve you're clothin' problem, macha, if that's what you're askin'." Tristaan mumbled, eyes closed but with a rather coy smile across his face, unruly and unshaven as it was, "However, it wasn't anyone's choice but yours t'get up, so don't look for any pity from me."

He yawned, cracking one eye open to squint at the lovely witch, knowing as well as her that there was still enough hanging above them that had yet to be dealt with. He could pretend that he was fine with the entire idea of the establishment as long as it wasn't staring him in the face, but there was still something like a twinge of regret that gnawed inside his stomach when he bothered to dwell upon the actualities of what was in store, of what exactly Sarinah planned on doing for money. He did hope he had at least the bravado to deal with things when they came to fruition,

"I ent th'one in a hurry, an' I thought you weren't neither."

Sitting up, the dancer picked up her pillow, boffing the passive gently on the shoulder with it, chuckling.

"Quiet you." She said gently, reaching for the front of the corset, pulling the eyelets open. Dropping it by the bed, she stood, wriggling out of the pants, before slipping back into the bed and snuggling under the covers.

"There, ye cheeky tsat." Leaning forward, she stole a quick kiss, before wrinkling her nose.

"Are ye planning on growin' a beard hama? Your prickling my lips."

The passive huffed at the pillow assault but didn't immediately make a move to retaliate. He might have been biding his time for a more appropriate moment, however, given the mischievous glint in his gray eyes.

"Nah." Tristaan hummed, smug in his victory as the dancer returned to bed as she'd left it, "I'm jus' bein' lazy." His grin turned coy, obviously teasing, "Must be too settled. Ent got anyone else t'impress an' all."

With a playful poke in Sarinah's ribs, laughing, "I'm kiddin'. I can clean up if it bothers you, macha. Jus' been too busy t'bother, really."

Curling away from his finger with a giggle, the ticklish dancer made a sort of contemplative sound.

"It doesn't bother me in regards to your appearance hama. It's just...itchy. I ent gonna make you go clean up though, not just for that. You've been very busy, ent no one denying that. If you want to be all...scruffy, then thats your right." Her smile was more than impish as she teased him gently. In reality, his slightly grown, roughish appearance was appealing. It made him look the part of an Old Rose tough guy. The brunette just enjoyed playing with him.

"At least ye can scare away the locals." Sarinah said with a light laugh, pulling the covers to her chin like some defensive shield.

"Not well enough," smirked the passive with a chuckle, unwilling to say out loud he implied their somewhat random landlord, "At least, not always."

He reached for the covers she clutched at, moving to hover close with a playful grunt, "So, y'either don't mind or you do. If I can get th'water hot 'fore long, I'll stop tryin' t'look like an animal an' shave. It's jus' one less thing t'worry 'bout when there's doors to re-hinge an' stairs to rebuild an' banisters to sand an' all that."

"It'd jus' be nice t'have a warm bath period. Ent much cold water does but remind you of how much you're already sore, that's for sure." Besides, who wanted to linger in a bath when you risked going numb? It was hard to enjoy when you were eager to get out as soon as possible, which was most unfortunate when you could have otherwise had the choice to take your time with a lovely witch for company.

The dancer giggled a little, shrinking into the pillow as he moved. Unsure of whether he was just getting cuddly or preparing to disarm her from her blanket of shielding, the witch gripped the covers a little tighter.

"Hot water definitly would encourage cleanliness on everyones behalves, i think. I really don't mind, I'm just teasing you hama." Poking her head out a bit, she raised an eyebrow.

"Ye know, the girls who we'd be lookin' to hire, not to mention other..swordsmen..they might be more inclined to help with renovations if they knew it would give them what they wanted. Sort of. If we hire now, we'd have more hands. Ye shouldn't have to do so much kov."

"Well," Tristaan glanced down briefly, noting the tightening of Sarinah's hold on the sheets he also held, "The spare rooms are all mostly livable. A few could really use some better furniture, but other'n'that, I'd say someone could move in if they wanted to."

The passive shrugged, sliding his hands away to set them on either side of the cocooned dancer, "I don't really mind th'work. What else would I be doin' if I wasn't fixin' things up here? If you want t'start hirin' an' gettin' things together, I don't think that's a bad idea. 'Sides—"

He looked at her, more than just a little serious, but obviously a little tentative about his admission, "Maybe if things go well 'nough in th'beginnin', you won't have t'work long. You could jus' end up managin' an' we could ... well ..." Tristaan paused and looked away, losing his resolve, a hint of what could only be a blush fighting with his facial hair to be visible, "Uh. You know ... manage things."

Sarinah released her hold on the covers slightly, moving them away from her face a little. He was so strong and smart, and open for her, sometimes the witch forgot just how shy and reserved the passive really was. Taking a cautious but friendly approach, she urged him to elaborate.

"I was sort of planning it that way anyway kov, but...what do ye mean 'manage' things?" She wondered if Tristaan thought this was her project alone. It definitely wasn't. All the while she plotted, Tristaanian Greymore was right there as her partner, co-founder and co-manager. There would be no Cook or Mulm in this place. Waiting patiently, she gave him an encouraging but curious smile.

"Er." Tristaan's expression became something not unlike a child caught stealing sweets, as if he'd somehow hoped he wouldn't have been asked to further his point. He was not talking about the business at all, nor the building, nor any of that. He was, really, rather personal about his semantics behind the word 'things.' He was talking commitment and future and all the things he knew he couldn't have but wanted anyway, things that in some ways he was painfully tired of just simply hoping for.

He bit his lip and reluctantly met her gaze again, not necessarily chagrined so much as cautious, "Well, I didn't jus' mean this place so much as us."

The passive's voice got quieter as he continued, and he seemed to sink back a little into the covers, knowing it was too late to hide, "We talked on Surwood a little, ye chen ... 'bout fami an' all. About a life for ourselves. It'd be a little rough t'manage lil' things like bochi if you're dancin'. So, that's all. If business is good, maybe it won't have t'be so long of a ... wait."