The shores of Surwood sparkled merrily in the sunlight, seemingly dancing with the voices of the nearby revelries and song. Oh the Wick Festival! Such a jaunty occasion for all—booze and kin and bitter nostalgia with every breath. For some, the entire year revolved around this very month. The planning, the journey, the wares, the wait! And a kov’d never seen so many wicks. New arrivals poured off the ferryboats in haphazard clusters while others sifted back through the oncoming tide, hopeful to secure a spot for the journey back to the mainland.

And Harlin had not budged for a good five minutes.

He sort of stood there, stupidly, alone, more or less empty handed, his upper lip retracted up towards his nose, eyes wide. This had seemed like an utterly fabulous idea all of two hours ago. Oh sure, I’ll jes’ saunter m’way o’er tae Surwood and have m’self a gran ole time! he thought. Nothin’ like a benny caoja tae getcher spirits up!

Benny his ass.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t like the Festival. In fact, as memory served him, he rather enjoyed it. Immensely. It was one of those things, being a wick, you couldn’t not enjoy. The problem, as it were, lied mostly in the fact that he hadn’t stepped foot on Surwood for well over a decade, and, quite frankly, a lot of things had changed since then.

Harlin’s drifting had always been a decidedly flippant matter whenever he was blasted enough to be honest about it. After all, he warn’t any vreska or nothin’, but the fact remained that his bull-headed infatuation with flying solo had given his previous nomadic life and all things affiliated a bad taste. If he ever missed it, it wasn’t often.

“Yeh ent here tae make amends,” he said very much to himself. “…And I doan give two clocks if yeh run head first into yer own daoa ‘erself, ‘cause yeh ent leaving!” The wick grinned finally and gave a triumphant nod.

A pause.

“Well warn’t that benny! Golly me I jus’ may have to come back again sometime next yea—two--thr—ahhh, something.” The eager tone in his voice faded with his turning figure, which was very much determined to get back on that last ferry.

Which had just left.

Harlin’s feet stopped before the rest of him did, allowing his torso to jut out and jaw to drop as he watched the boat chug its happy way back to the other beach.

“Oh clock you, yeh damn rottin’ piece o’ driftwood!” he yelled at it, as if it cared. “Bahh,” a dark scowl passed over his freckled features as he waved an angry hand at the ferry’s back. “I hope yeh sink.”

A soft giggle came from behind Harlin. Sarinah had been practicing her routine, not to mention a little dance with the sai's. When the ferry had begun to arrive, she'd moved to the side till the arrivals had eased off, then slowly walked back in time to hear the wick's curse aimed at the departing boat. Bending down to pick up the sai, she slipped them back into her skirt, smiling at the man.

"Miss your boat kov?" She said gently, walking over to him. Crossing her arms, she looked out at the receding ferry.

"Ye can always wait for it to return tomorrow afternoon." Turning back to Harlin, she grinned.

((zomg. A chance to meet Harlin? Oes, I think I will take it, mujo ma.))

"Or you could take a swim. It ent that far. Y'might be able t'catch it." Tristaan chuckled from behind the dancer, obviously joking. He'd been looking for Sarinah anyway, having worn himself and Guaril out with a bit of sparring. The long sleeves of his mostly unbuttoned shirt hung loose from his bracers, conveniently concealing any fresh bruises from the swordplay, however.

The passive leaned a shoulder against the brunette's since her arms were crossed, flashing her a grin that said 'Found you,' without actual words.


"Oes, or that. Surely another night on th'Isle won't hurt any." Tristaan agreed with a shrug, hooking his thumbs in his belt and offering the wick in front of him a friendly grin.

Even at the sudden sound of the consoling female, Harlin could only drop his head dramatically and sigh. He had not yet moved from the end of the dock, hands still sagging limply at his sides and gaze now dropped.

“Dze…” The wick pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “Sure…t’morrow…” How uplifting, mujo ma galore, rosh… did not need to be added.

Harlin, finally bringing his sullen self to turn and face his commentator, could feel his brow soften slightly once he caught sight of who or what, rather, she was. Macha, that’s what. Perhaps a day in Surwood wouldn’t be as miserable as he had originally anticipated. He opened his mouth, which brimmed with the good intentions of spilling out something perfectly dashing and debonair.



And shut it. Nothing like a good kov to crush a fellow’s hopes. A vaguely insincere smirk snuck across Harlin’s lips, preparing to dust the newcomer off. That is until Tristaan sidled up next to the pretty chip and brushed his shoulder up against hers.

Oh.

…Ne. Surwood still sucked, and Harlin’s disposition skulked seamlessly back to the way it had been before.

“How ye know I ent gonna?” the wick snarked, lifting his dark eyebrows. A jest, albeit a defeated one. “Jes’ about tae dive in, I was, till that rosh o’ yers came o’er and stopped me.” Just as Harlin gestured aimlessly at the expanse of sea to his back, a small swell slapped up against the dock and spat a few flecks of water his way, provoking a larger-than-necessary flinch.

Harlin frowned at the wave before casting his wary glance back to the others.

“Well, yeh both seem like a jolly pair. S’pose yeh’ll do for company, eh?”

The brunette turned to look at Tristaan with a welcoming smile. His grin was so self-satisfied that she wanted to kiss him. She hadn't been hiding from him, she'd just needed to start practicing again, and when he set off to find Guaril, she'd decided it was as good a time as any. Giving him a wink, she turned back to Harlin. She saw the look on his face, the almost jilted appearance and her smile faltered a bit. What had they done?



Raising an eyebrow, the woman rested her hands on her hips.

"Well, thats a relief. Coz ye know, if you want to be alone we ent here to stop you." Her voice was lightly sarcastic and somewhat amused at his rather rude greeting.

"It depends on what kinda company y'are, I'd say." Tristaan laughed, shrugging off the understanding that while Sarinah seemed capable of brightening any room, his attachment to her often seemed to surprise those with the happiest of faces. Sometimes, it was amusing. Other times, it made the passive feel bemusedly bad.

"Name's Tristaan." He changed the subject—perhaps a fresh start was in order, though it was still quite early into the introductions ... so early there hadn't been any. Deciding to remedy the situation, he offered his calloused hand in Harlin's direction warmly, grin broadening on his weathered, unshaven, aristocratic features, "Junta."

“Ne worries, rosh, I think yeh’ll do perfectly fine.” Harlin flashed a brief and toothy smile at the witch, more or less closing the subject. Perhaps it was not worth mentioning that it was them or twiddling his thumbs at the edge of the docks for the next thirty hours. Alone.

He hesitated before taking this Tristaan’s hand, eyeing it with something not too short of suspicion, but grabbed hold all the same. “Harlin,” he grunted by way of introduction. “Junta tae ye too.” His brownish eyes found those of his new acquaintance, and he jilted his head to the side with a smirk. “Doan’ think ah’ve seen you lot denkin’ ‘round here before.” Which was true, considering he himself had just arrived, but what the lovies didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. “Been ‘ere long then?”

With the start of a meager conversation underway, Harlin began to figuratively pull the pair away from the pier with his inane questions. The elusive ferry was still very much in view, and the mere sight of it was making him want to get a running start before diving in to swim after it.

Tristaan smirked at the wick's hesitance, but shook his hand warmly, trying to catch on to everything the man said. He wasn't sure of all of it, unfortunately, despite having been around his adoptive wick family for over a week, "Ent been here so long, myself. Only a week."

The passive noticed Harlin's desire to move away from his unrequited object of departure, quietly complying, slipping a hand in Sarinah's as he grinned curiously at the green-haired wick, "You? By th'looks o'things, you've 'parently decided you've been here long enough, eh?"

Sarinah almost turned a smoldering smirk on Harlin as he addressed her, finding his comment tuning into her work-mode. Catching herself, she turned it into a half frown. It was frustrating and embarrassing as she blushed and looked away, leaning closer to the passive.



The dancer felt better as they walked, hand in hand. Looking over at Harlin, she smiled.

"Surely Surwood ent that bad kov? I ent been here in four years, but its been really benny this time round."

An interrogative hum pushed past Harlin’s shoulder, quickly replaced by a more definitive one now that he understood what the questions had been about. His mind was currently strung across two different trains of thought: the one absently wondering just what he was going to do with this kov-chip duo now that he had them while the other seemed to dwell on the fact that every step he took away from the ferry dock took him one step further into Surwood. Out of the frying pan and into the fire—isn’t that what they liked to say? If so, then he was in mid-jump.

“Yeh. Well,” he responded, taking a half backwards step or two to keep the conversation relatively face to face, “’nuff’s enough when yeh’ve had it, ye chen? Docked in week er so back, scuffled about wif m’jint some—“ he made a random flourish with his hands “—‘n wotnot. Benny time, sure, but ent much else for a kov tae do. ‘Sides ah’ve got some business tha’ needs a tendin’ tae back in Muffey.” He didn’t, actually. He really, really didn’t.

Tristaan smirked at Harlin's mention of Muffey. He was from there, once, a long time ago, but not anymore. He might have looked briefly uncomfortable, but the years had really worn away the hard edges of most of those memories. He arched a slim eyebrow instead, studying the wick who now walked backwards to face them without bothering to hide his curiosity.

He chuckled, perhaps catching on to the thought that not everything that came out of Harlin's mouth was certifiable, regardless of how amusing it may seem at first glance, "Whatever business that is, it must be better'n'partyin'. Ent much for a wick t'do in Muffey, 'less you've got family there," The passive grinned roguishly, "Or a seamstress for a rosh."

If Tristaan had looked uncomfortable by the mention of Muffey, Harlin did not notice. His lies never contained much foresight, or hindsight for that matter, and so whatever effects they had on others did not give him much cause for concern. (Unless, of course, those effects involved fists and angry daggers and inflicted bodily harm to his person. Then he tended to care very much.) Besides, should anyone be discomfited by the topic of that posh little town, it should have been the wiry wick himself. After all, he had never so much as stirred the village’s soil with his scruffy boots—or looked upon it from a distance for that matter... which was rather odd considering his travel record. Given the entire Brunnhold area a skip, actually. Seen a brochure once maybe, though.

But the beauty in lacking the aforementioned premeditation of other tofts was that none of this had the time to enter Harlin’s head before he simply smiled cheekily and said, “Well, ye never know, do ye?” The flash of teeth glinted under his lip as he spoke. “‘Sides, if I told ye, I’d have tae cott ye.”

The scents of the Festival were quickly beginning to overcome the salty rot by the docks, wafting unwelcomingly into Harlin’s face and, despite his best intentions, making his stomach growl. He scowled inwardly at the boisterous complaint, somehow distantly believing that eating anything found on the Isle would bind him to this place forever. Absurd—maybe, but the thought was a stubborn one and would not be easily dismissed.

Biting back the thought of a meal, Harlin instead focused on the voluptuous rosh at Tristaan’s side—an acceptable substitute, he supposed, though her decided attachment to the kov kept her rank below something spicy and more edible. He stopped anyway. “Now I’m not thinking yeh’ve properly introduced me tae this macha rosh o ‘yers,” he said to Tristaan without removing his gaze.

The dancer turned, looking up through her thick lashes with a vixen-like grin. Her whole stance had changed, it was more open and inviting, one hand on a cocked hip, the other in Tristaan's grasp.

"Indeed, we've traded sarcasm, I suppose its time to take our meeting to the next level." Her voice was a rich timbre, full of suggestive tones. Turning to look at Tristaan with an expectant face, she realized what she'd just done. It was like some hidden switch inside her, hit the right tone of voice and she turned into a tumble. Furrowing her eyebrows slightly, she was torn. How could she do this on a nightly basis...dancing as well? The thought made her stomach turn and she shook it off, hoping Tristaan could understand what had just happened.

Tristaan laughed at Harlin's strange response, a slow, taunting grin coming over his weathered, aristocratic features, "Would you now? I ent one t'start trouble with strangers, so I'll jus'let that one be." The swordsman shrugged nonchalantly, not particularly interested in testing the wick to see just how much of his conversation was a creative running bluff, "For now."

His smile was roguish.


The passive smirked, chagrined at his distracted lack of an introduction. He caught onto the wick's expression, directed as it was to the dancer and not himself, and if he faltered at all in his words, it was only because he was interrupted before he even began to speak.


You either get used to it or you don't.

Tristaan blinked, somehow managing to offer a friendly smile, gray eyes still on Harlin, refusing to look to the dancer with obvious reluctance, "Epameo, kov." He cleared his throat, biting back a sudden wave of self-doubt, internally reminding himself he was patient, he cared, and he knew all things took time, "This is Sarinah. We're—"

The passive hesitated, looking briefly at the dancer, hoping she didn't see the insecurity blossoming behind the grin. Did he really feel the need to stake his claim for every stranger? Was he going to say the same thing every time? Did it really matter? Was he afraid? His hold on her hand might have slipped briefly before he laced their fingers together, leaning further against her to look back at Harlin,

"She's th'prettier one, it's true. An' th'better dancer. But she keeps me 'round, so I ent complainin'." He chuckled, self-depreciating in his ploy at humorous compliments.

Harlin’s brow arched along with his vaguely baffled smirk at Sarinah’s response. She made “the next level” sound like something they should find a tent for. His eyes darted cautiously towards Tristaan, half expecting to be on the receiving end of a particularly nasty glare, but felt his smirk falter and fall when the man simply gave him an awkward smile.



We’re? We’re what? Harlin stared at the kov expectantly, very prepared to have him end the sentence with “together” or something simplistic, since at a glance their relationship didn’t need much of an explanation. But when Tristaan merely let his voice trail off, Harlin couldn’t help but be curious. His formerly knitted eyebrows rose quickly towards his hairline. What, kov, are ye yachin’ her or payin’ for her? He opened his mouth to ask, but luckily Tristaan cut the wick off.



“Uh…huh.” Harlin blinked. This appeared to be something that he didn’t need or want to get involved in. “Well! Yer a lucky kov.” Turning to Sarinah, he tossed a flirtatious but rather bland-intentioned wink and said, “Gimme a find if ‘e goes tsuter on ye. Looks like I’ll be ‘round fer the next day er so anyway…”

((If Tristaan's going to be cutting wicks off, we'd better not let him near any candles. *ba dum ch* Sorry that was terrible...))

A little horrified twist caught her heart. We're yatchin'....say it! Say it! Why didn't he say it! She wanted to rip her laoso soul out, why did it have to happen?! Swallowing, she waited.



The woman relaxed a little, turning a warm smile onto the passive. He had sort of implied they were together. But it was less....resolute. They would have to discuss this later.



The instincts began to kick in, but she recognised them this time and simply offered a chuckle, squeezing Tristaan's hand.

"Thanks for the offer kov, but I think he's safe." Clearing her throat, she looked towards the festival.

"So, uh...food oes? There's some benny wraps in the first stall on the left. And there is an open camp area for drifters, unless ye have a tribe to visit kov?"

If Tristaan caught the expressions of dire expectation of either wick while he was speaking, he kept it to himself. He was already too self-conscious, too caught off-guard, too worried he'd find himself saying the same thing more often than he thought he'd have to. Not that he didn't want to announce to the whole island that he was more than likely yachin' the prettiest witch there, hands down, but ... yeah.


The passive may have relaxed a little and his smile might have grown more genuine, but it was short-lived, "Oes, I—"



His mouth closed and his gray eyes widened, just for a moment, before they narrowed and focused on the cheeky wick. His smile faded a little. He struggled to think of a comment, a retort, a claim, but he was allayed by the lovely witch instead. It was a good thing. Really good.


The swordsman smirked, unable to bring his expression back into a full smile. He arched a slim eyebrow in Harlin's direction, voice only slightly challenging, tempered by a bit of humor. A bit, "I ent sure I'm the tsuter one, ye chen? An' I ent safe ... in all regards." He grinned roguishly, perhaps dangerously. It was hard to tell at this point.


Tristaan, for one, was grateful for the graceful change of subject Sarinah suddenly brought between them. He wasn't interested in posturing and he was uncomfortable with his assumption that he needed to in the first place. The passive realized he'd really have to figure some things out before the Harbor. Everything was going to be different there.

His grin became a tamer smile and he managed an amiable nod, caution slowly draining from his tone at the thought of food, "Oes, I'd say that'd be'ppreciated." He glanced at Harlin, curious to see if the cheeky wick was hungry for food or just trouble, "What 'bout yourself, kov?"

Harlin simply shrugged good naturedly and turned back into a forwards walk, leaving the couple a step or two behind. “My offer still stands,” he said half over his shoulder, though the jest had finally died. His flirtatious mood, too, had quickly been snuffed out by the looming sense of hunger that pervaded the larger part of his thoughts. He was a rather flighty fellow after all—and in more ways than one.


Unsure of how to react to this one, the wick merely cast a wide and dismissive grin back at the man. “S’a joke, kov,” he said, a curious note of placation, humor, and all seriousness rolled under his smile. Something distant and small prickled at the far reaches of his mind, warning that too personal a quip might not be the most apropos course of action with this crew. But Harlin rarely ever listened to anything distant and small.


The mention of food simultaneously made Harlin’s face drain and his stomach scream. The previous banter, albeit slightly petty, had at least given him something to help keep his full attention off his irrational fear of the Isle. And now it was gone. He stared vacantly at the tents, which seemed to have gotten far closer far too quickly and now practically blinded him with their bright, garish colors. His feet grew so cold that they finally just froze right to the turf, and the wick stopped without warning.

Ye really are the tsuter one, a not-so-tiny voice chided, scared out o’ yer wits o’er a pina manna yats. Ne’er shoulda take one step on tha’ mung ubo in the first place… The thought didn’t help in the slightest, and he groaned inwardly, wishing he was back in Old Rose on a crate.

Harlin had half the mind to tell the rosh that, no, mujo ma, but he had some extra business to be doin’ since he missed the boat, sneak around through the kints, and make his way back to the docks where he would promptly drown himself. His stomach gurgled happily in response instead. Rotten, helpful organ, that’un.

It looked like he had no choices.

He whipped around to face the pair and gave them one of the most fearsomely forced smiles he could muster. “Why that would be perfectly benny, rosh!” His voice had turned noticeably aggressive, the reason for which would undoubtedly be lost on his two companions. “Ah could go fer some yats!” and he marched suddenly off towards the tent on the left, leaving Sarinah and Tristaan to gawk. Vita be damned, if Surwood was going to force him to stay, then he was going to make the Isle regret it—after he ate.

The dancer stopped in her tracks and stared after the retreating figure, before turning her gaze to Tristaan, an eyebrow raised in confusion. What on Vita??

Tristaan was rather unsure how to feel about the other wick's tendency to direct the entirety of his conversation toward Sarinah. Sure, the lovely witch deserved to be the center of attention in the passive's mind, but that didn't mean he couldn't make contribution to the conversation himself. Apparently, Harlin wasn't interested in said contribution ... or potential contribution ... so much as he was interested in food at the moment.

He smirked at Sarinah's expression, answering with a shrug, "Don't ask me, I ent sure I understand everythin' that comes outta that kov's mouth, let alone what he's up to."

The swordsman laughed and rolled his eyes, "Let's just hope he's got his own ging."