"Bllleeargh!"

Tristaan groaned with aching grogginess, waking to the terrible realization that he was unable to determine whether the pain of broken bones was compounded by the dull throbbing in his temples or if it was, in fact, the other way around. At the moment, everything was terrible and everything hurt and it was impossible to decide what was worse. It was, however, very simple to come to the resoundingly clear conclusion, regardless of his current state of mind.

"Ugh. I need a healer."

The passive might have whined a little, which was not a usual habit so much as something he felt was unfortunately necessary given that he had at least an audience of one.

Sarinah sat up immediately, worried about the man she heard in pain, and immediatly regretted it. Her head was like a drum, a big resounding drum. Pushing aside the headache as best she could, the dancer knelt beside Tristaan, putting a hand on his good shoulder.

"Stay here, I'll find someone." She made her way to her feet and put a hand to her temple, wondering where to start.

"Naw, I'll get up." The passive grunted with a bit of reluctance, "I think I know where we're goin'. I asked around a bit before I found you ... er before I found Calli who found you for me."

He grinned a little, but any humor was tempered by discomfort. Tristaan sat up and leaned on his good arm, realizing it took several moments to remember where he was and how he got there above the din of angry nerve endings vying for attention in his brain.

Oh look, he mused dizzily, I'm home ... Oh gods, I really am.

"There's a Hand named Petra." He mumbled, mentally working out the complexities of getting dressed and moving and generally being coherent and cooperative, all one-handed and at least marginally smiling. It seemed impossible, and he moaned a little despondently while looking around and gathering his thoughts, "So, you prolly know your way 'round better'n'me by now, an' you can catch me up a bit on your time here on th'way."

Tristaan's grin broadened as he regarded Sarinah carefully through his hair, voice a mix of teasing and serious, revealing he'd caught on to being only slightly sheltered from a potential storm the night before, "Unless it's been that borin' for you since I've been away."

The dancer looked down at him with a little concerned face. She wasn't sure she wanted Tristaan walking around so soon. In fact, if she could manage it, she would keep him in bed for the next few days and wait on him hand and foot till he was well. But a healer would probably be able to sort all of that out easier than time, so reluctantly, she nodded. Reaching up, she wound her hair around itself into a quick bun, keeping the long black and red tendrils out of her face. Walking closer to her travel pack, she began to search for clothes she had recently purchased.



The dancer shot him a look that said dont-move-I'll-help. She didn't like that moan. She remembered seeing the Black Hand camp earlier that week, but she'd not had any reason to approach it.



Smiling briefly, she turned and knelt in front of her pack, back to the passive.

"Yeh. Boring. Heh. That's right, its been really quiet." Her voice was distant and distracted, as though she was avoiding saying anymore. She felt around in the pack, pulling out a pair of black leather pants and strapless corset. Standing, she quickly pulled on the pants, having to wriggle to get the grippy material up to her hips. Wrapping the corset around the back, she did up the eyelets from the bottom, turning to face Tristaan as she finished off the last three.

"Right, lets get you dressed balach." She said, looking up, hands on hips.

Tristaan watched the witch with a warm, comforted sort of distraction, eyes lingering on her lovely form he had greatly missed. As she turned her back on him, it took no time for him to notice the familiar shape of a red crow on her shoulder, glaringly and unexpectedly new. He felt something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach, almost chagrined he hadn't noticed earlier.

"Sarinah."

The passive didn't quite gasp, and while his voice was almost stern, his face had fallen completely, "You–your–you ..."

His gray eyes narrowed as he let his mouth have free reign over his thoughts, which were a little jumbled with hurt and confusion, "I broke my arm, not my skull, damnit. It hurts, oes, but no more than th'understandin' that you're hidin' from me. What's goin' on?"

The dancer flushed and reached up to loosen her long hair, covering the tattoo a little too late. She avoided his face, moving around to pick up his shirt and pants.

"I never said your head's broke Tristaan. Its not important right now. Whats important is getting you sorted." The dancer said evasively, putting on a smile.

"Come on now, kov, let me help you with your shirt." Her voice was on the verge of wavering, trying remove the focus on her. He didn't deserve to hear the drama that was her life. Again.

Tristaan was unamused, letting it show on his face. Oh. And by not moving. If he could cross his arms without excruciating pain, he was sure he would have done so already, feeling only slightly talked down to. He didn't understand. He wasn't that hurt. He wasn't soft or helpless. He just wanted to know what was going on.

The passive blinked, exhaling frustratedly through his teeth, "It's been five days since I broke my arm. It can be five more. Vroo's just gonna make it better faster; it ent gonna make it hurt any less." He tried to sound firm, but only because he didn't want to come across as angry. He wasn't. He was just confused. It hurt more to be avoided.

Had he been gone too long? Did she not trust him with the truth? How bad could it be, anyway? What was the point, then?

"Look, I've been shot at, thrown from a cart, an' otherwise threatened over someone else's mung plans only t'end up th'one place I want t'be a little later than expected, I know. An' I'm sorry, but—" He waved his good arm for emphasis, a different kind of pain creeping into his voice, "For what?"

Tristaan regarded the dancer carefully, still unmoving, but his expression softened a little, "I'm sorted enough. Just tell me what's goin' on already. I want t'know."

The words stung Sarinah and she looked down at his shirt, swallowing back the sudden tears his voice had brought on. She didn't want to fight with him, and the idea she had made everything pointless was gutwrenchingly painful.



Looking up, she stared over the passives head, she tried to keep the tears from spilling over, blinking and taking deep breaths.

"Its my family. They didn't...da..." Clearing her throat and looking down at his shirt again, she tried again.

"They are mad at me. About my job. And about you. They don't want me seeing a Red Crow. And daoa thinks I'm a tumble. And Guaril, he said...he said some people wont accept it. My da won't even speak to me." The brunette faltered, standing by herself, holding his shirt, looking down at her hands. He didn't need this.

Tristaan sighed, immediately understanding with a twinge of sadness. Obviously not everyone was as well-practiced as he was about skirting identities, their races, their employment. It was endearing. Sarinah just was.

The passive longed to be that way. Just himself. How'd she do it? Who wouldn't appreciate that? Wasn't it refreshing?

With a pained groan, he stood, good arm reaching for her, and said gently, "I'm sorry."

He brushed her cheek with his hand before offering himself for dressing, "You told your folks I was a Crow? After Vienda? Before they met me?" Tristaan looked discouraged, but his gray eyes were warm, "Oh, Sarinah, I'm sorry they didn't understand. It ent your fault, you know. An' there's plenty of time t'make things better ... together. Okay?"

She didn't want to look at him, right now, she just felt like she'd failed. Failed to protect him from all the horrible drama that had gone on in his absence.



She lifted the shirt, pulling it over his good arm and draping it over the broken one, buttoning it up over the sling and all. Taking his breeches, she knelt in front of him, resting his good hand on her shoulder for support and indicating he should put his foot in the leg of the pants. In a different mood, she might have found the position to be a fun advantage on the passive, but the seriousness of the situation kept all devious thoughts from her mind.

"Oes, but...I didn't think they were like that. I thought they would be happy for me, for us. And I expected them to welcome me home and allow me to talk about Cooks and you. But they were so cold. And da..." It hurt the most, the way he'd stormed off. She pulled the pants on to his first foot, then the other.



Looking up at him, she offered a thankful smile.

"Mujo ma, balach. But I don't know if I want to make things better. I shouldn't have to explain myself to those who are supposed to care about me. Maybe the Eyes aren't who I am anymore. Thats why I got the tattoo, ye chen?" Standing, she pulled up the breeches gently and looked down to do them up, fingers lingering on the soft skin under his navel. Turning her face up to his, she rested a hand on his cheek.

"I wanted to show what I thought of this tribe-against-tribe. I am now marked with the Yellow Eye and the Red Crow. I lo..I care about people from both tribes. If the Eye don't want me, maybe the Crows do." She avoided the word 'love'. It felt right in her heart, but the brunette didn't want to smother the man with her own soppy sentiments. Sarinah looked into his grey eyes with sincerity, hoping he could see where she had been coming from.

Tristaan did his best not to wince at the buttoning of his shirt, but it was hard not to. He'd grown a bit used to the deep ache, but it was still unpleasant. He might have grinned a little as the witch moved to help with his pants, but he knew listening was the better choice for the moment.


He sighed softly, eying her fingers before leaning into her hand on his face. The passive could follow her line of thinking well enough, and he hurt for the dancer. He knew what it was like to be left by family simply because of what you were, not because of who you could be. He had been eight at the time, of course, but Sarinah's story of rejection still reminded him of his own old hurts. Tristaan just didn't have the choice of how to express his opinions on the matter—all passive tattoos were the same.

He nodded, tilting his head to kiss the palm against his cheek, and offered quietly, "You don't want t'lose your family. You really don't." He paused, looking past the witch for a moment, "If they really care, they'll get over things. They'll want t'work things out. It'll just be hard; you must've surprised them a bit ..." His gray eyes refocused on her face, "Don't give up on 'em just because it ent easy."


Tristaan's small smile broadened a little, reading between the lines of her voice. It was disarming, the way the lovely witch tried in her own way to protect him, and the understanding of her motivations brought a dizzy warmth to his chest. He moved to embrace the brunette with his good arm, holding her as best he could without aggravating his injuries, and spoke quietly into her hair, "I know this Crow wants you, Sarinah, if that counts. I don't care who else does or doesn't, really ... I do."

The dancer knew he was right, but she still hurt. Her da was the world to her once...and now he had turned his back on her. She felt more than alone, she felt abandoned.



She smiled, allowing herself to relax against his strong side, feeling safe and protected. Patting him on the back, she pulled away gently, finding his coat and shoes. Turning to him and draping the coat over his shoulders, she stood, holding the collar and smiling at him.

"I know you do. And I think, really, thats all that matters right now." Kissing him lightly, she stood back.

"Right, I think thats it kov. Oh wait, one more thing." She went to her pack and pulled out her coin purse. Reaching inside, she pulled out the watch he'd handed to her when they'd parted. Holding it out to him, she looked curiously at it.

"Your watch, balach."

Tristaan smiled warmly, "Oes. You've kept it safe for me, eh? Mujo ma." He folded her fingers back over the time piece, hand on hers, voice only slightly distant and mysterious, "Hang onto it just a bit longer. 'Til we're somewhere I can get it fixed."

He maintained his secretive implications with a broader smile, only to wince a little with the realization that standing around was not going to make anything broken better at all. The passive sighed and moved his hand to gesture in a sweeping, exiting sort of motion, "I'm gonna trust you have a general idea of where we're goin'. I ent sure what this Petra's like, but it seems like askin' around was worth it."

He chuckled, self-depreciatingly, knowing that he brought his injuries upon himself in some ways. Not all of them, but more than a few.

"Now that you've gone an' spoiled me with all your lovely helpin', are you ready? You don't have t'come if you don't want to. I'm sure it ent gonna be pretty. I doubt I can pretend it won't hurt."

Sarinah smiled, moving to put the watch back in her purse, tucking the small bag into her cleavage, finding no folds in the pants or pockets. Looking at him, she saw the wince, quickly reminded of the pain he was in, and the slight throbbing in her head. Gah, she would never drink again!



The dancer shook her head firmly.

"I ent going anywhere, come on kov, we'll find someone." She took his hand and lead him gently out into the camp, carrying his shoes in one hand. Looking around, she found a familiar kint by a fire. Looking around as she approached, she called out.

"Calli? It's Sarinah and Tristaan. Are you here rosh?"

Calli was inside her kint, still sulking a little and wanting Dorian to come visit her. She missed him and her heart was hurting. She didn't know what to do about Hal and even if he had feelings for her she wanted to kill Taegan for being an asshole. Hitting people. Bastard. She almost didn't hear Sarinah and then wondered if she could pretend to be asleep.

Calli sighed woefully to herself, no, that would never work. Calli was always up at dawn.

"Oes, I'm here." She called in reply, rolling off her bed and walking up to her door. "Hesta..."

She sounded unbelievably moody.

Tristaan might have been a little fuzzy around the edges at the moment, but he was still a little confused as to why they were wandering in the direction of Calli's kint. He followed along, however, content with holding the lovely witch's hand and not thinking about how unlovely magical healing was going to feel.

He heard the surprising sound of reluctance in the younger witch's voice and tried not to frown in concern. He wasn't sure what, if anything, Sarinah knew, "Hesta, Calli. I'm gonna try'n'get my arm fixed today. With vroo, anyways. You wouldn't want t'come, would you? Y'know, t'get your mind off ... things."

(( oops..too many threads open at once and i read petra as Calli..ahem..le fix.))

Sarinah frowned up at the girl, concerned by the sound in her voice. She'd been like that last night too, but the dancer had been concerned about...other things. She smiled as gently as she could.

"Sorry to disturb you rosh, I just need to know if you know where to find a hand called Petra?" She didn't have a clue. The dancer hadn't actually visited the Hand camp yet, and couldn't recall seeing it. If anyone knew, it should be Calli.

"She's at the edge of the Hand camp, near the water. Lots of fruit trees nearby, down the road from the tattooists. Can't miss it." She said, sounding older and significantly less joyful than usual. "I might stick around here. I'm not in any mood to go out. I'm hoping if I stick around long enough, Hal will come back..."

She frowned, arms crossed.

Tristaan's face fell. It was painful to see her unhappy, dour even, especially since it was such a rare sight. For a moment, he weighed the deep ache of broken bones with the sting of Calli's current state of mind. He'd already lost enough rest over the past few days, and he knew what needed to be done.

The passive gave Sarinah's hand a squeeze and his expression might have read 'I'll explain on the way,' for he realized by the dancer's own concern that she might have heard even less than himself.

"Mujo ma, beata," looking back at Calli, he offered a small smile, "I ent gonna make y'come if y'don't want, but I ent gonna promise I won't stop by when it's over, ye chen?"

The swordsman's tone of voice wasn't stern so much as it was firm, revealing his heart for the girl who had been persistent enough to win it over despite his youthful reluctance. With that said, he looked to the dancer, tugging gently on her hand, turning to wander off toward the Hand's camp and hopefully find whoever he was looking for.

Once out of earshot, he explained to Sarinah as while they walked, "You remember th'Circus boys, oes? How they gave Calli trouble, bein' a little stuck on her an' all? Well ... Dorian spoke up for her, an' it seems like Taeg an' Hal both got bent outta sorts in diff'rent ways." He tried not to chuckle; it was one of those situations that would only be truly humorous in hindsight. It was still too much in the present to laugh at, "In case y'can't tell, Calli ent th'type for such conflict, so t'speak."

Sarinah nodded her thanks to Calli, shooting Tristaan a confused look. That was not Calli. That was someone impersonating for Calli.



The dancer rolled her eyes and shook her head. She had delt with drunks like that before. Two's a party, three's a crowd. And in this case, four is a disaster.

"Those mung tsuters! I've got half a mind to go and smack them over the head. Poor chippy. She doesn't derseve that."



Walking in silence for a moment, she chuckled a little.

"Ent that the truth. Nice girl though. Dorian eh? I didn't think he'd be the one to make a move on her. Taegan seemed to be the one strutting his stuff. I'll admit, I'm glad it was Dorian though. The tamer is a little...moody?" Looking around as they walked, she began to see the flapping black and white flags of the Black Hand. Turning her gaze to Tristaan, she put a her free hand on his shoulder.

"Almost there kov, how you holding up?"

"Oh har, Dorian's by far a better choice. Taegan may be all loud an' full of show, but in th'end, he just ent Calli's fit. Dorian's quiet, but th'boy's got guts. He just waited for th'right time, even though it seems th'other boys didn't see it the same way. 'Sides, beautiful, it's th'quiet ones you've gotta watch ..."

Tristaan grinned, gray eyes full of mischief, "They can be surprising, ye chen."


As long as the passive didn't think too much about his arm, he had truly grown a little used to the deep, persistent ache. He tilted his head in a shrug, trying his best to sound roguishly nonchalant, "I'll be better when it's fixed. It ent th'first bone I've gone an' broke, unfortunately."

He chuckled, looking around as they got closer to the camp, nodding in the direction of the shoreline, "I guess we're that way ... somewheres."

She grinned at him, flattered. A slight bit of color reached her cheeks.



The dancer directed them towards the shoreline, not even sure who she was supposed to be looking for. As they entered the camp, she slowed. This was silly.

"Junta! I'm looking for Petra! Anyone about?"

A woman sitting by a campfire raised her head. She looked tough, with tattoos about her face and a strong jaw. Her red braids were lank, though and her expression was slightly low looking. She raised her hand and waved.

"That'd be me..." She said, looking at the pair of them. "Look like someone got into a barney."

She stood up, groaning a little arthritically. She ambled over to the pair slowly, scratching her cheek and patting dust off her pants.

"What'chu here for?" She asked, some enthusiasm entering into her voice.

"Actually, I fell off a cart." Tristaan replied, honestly, with a broad, warm grin. He'd have stuck out his hand for shaking, but it was obviously in a sling, buttoned up with his shirt. Briefly, he realized it was his right arm, as if he had forgotten. At least he was in a safe enough place with his tattoo; an island full of wicks was about as far from Vienda as one could be, so to speak.

"Junta, Petra. I heard if I was lookin' t'get somethin' broken fixed with vroo, you're my rosh. I ent been told wrong, have I?"

"Petra!" A voice came from behind the woman's kint, "Petra look what somebody gave me!!!"

Wendy skipped over and draped herself over the woman, ignoring the two people present. "Look!" She held up a wooden necklace with an amber drop embedded into the center. "Isn't it beautiful? A boy gave it to me. He said 'A beautiful necklace for a beautiful girl', and then I told him I didn't have any money, and then he said I could have it for free, and then we started talking and then I left and came to show it to you! He was very nice for giving it to me don't you think?"

Rude.

Wendy glanced to where the other two people were standing and smiled at the woman, "Oh! I met you once! Hello...Um...S...Sarah, was it? Sari?" Her eyes traveled to the man and she recognized him immediately. Wendy turned bright red and coughed, "Oh um. You know what? You look busy. I should go. Rightnow."

Tristaanian! I didn't think I'd ever see him again...Alioe knows what I must have written him... he must think I'm crazy!