Tristaan hissed at the slight burn of Carmine's slice across his bare skin, keeping his grey eyes focused on the movement of the other man's knife hand instead of diverting his gaze at the sound of Sarinah's voice. Even from this distance, the swordsman was aware of the shift in the lovely witch's field, which, at the moment, only further served to remind the passive of his own unpredictability. As if this dirty, bleeding thing's words had not been enough.

Now was not a good time.

This was suddenly much less about protection and very much about something a bit more personal.

"Stay there, macha." Tristaan growled in warning, more because he'd come to realize Carmine was a bit unpredictable than anything else. He was well enough aware the dancer could take care of herself.

Then the angry thing was lunging forward, a bit more intent obvious with his swing. The swordsman shifted, one arm reaching to snatch at the other man's wrist, attempting to stop his blow and perhaps disarm him with the right squeeze or twist. In his dodging motion, he also brought his other arm upward, elbow aimed for the side of Carmine's head.

Tristaan's actions, though calculated, were countered by Carmine's erratic movement, and his grab was converted to mere deflection. He managed to keep Carmine from drawing blood again, at any rate.

Carmine's head snapped sideways as Tristaan's elbow connected solidly with his temple, jarring his head. He saw stars and heard a ring in his ears as the knock jolted his brain.

A rush of blood to the head. The rush of an elbow to the head. A white camera spectra going all flash-flash behind his eyelids, the feel of one foot, another foot, stumbling across the ground. The levity of his blood. The tumblers drained then flooded with endorphins and adrenaline, again and again.

The smile flickered into a grimace of pain for a cringing instant before it lit up his lips again. Quivering at corners, showing splintered teeth. His eyes slipped closed in those hazy seconds where he simply hovered in that grey space between standing and falling, and he could have looked peaceful. His knife hand reeled up to clutch at the throb in his temple, his body weaving in place.

A soft hitch in his throat, the clicking hiss of quiet laughter. Private laughter, the clandestine kind little Brunnhold girls use over some inside joke, too intricate and special for anyone else to understand.

“Lookit you go...” a whisper to the dark through spitwet-bloodwet teeth, delicate voice twinged with his smile.

He hadn’t stumbled far, they were still close. And his hazy stillness was abruptly broken – a renewed jab at the man’s ribs with the knife’s long, close and fast, coupled with a swift, steel-toed kick aimed at his kneecap.

Was it clean fighting? Not really. Did he much care? Not really.

This wasn’t about winning, or fighting, or even about pride. The man seemed too conservative, too gentle, no real impulse for violence at all. And that was no good at all. Each cut and jab was like some coy little dance, coaxing more pain from him. Carmine wanted to thicken his mask of bruises and this man would be his crudely welded paintbrush.

"I ent goin' anywhere. You're th'one who should've left when you had th'chance."

The grimy other man was smiling and laughing, disturbingly entertained by the scuffle he'd obviously started on purpose. Did he just pick up Sparkles name in conversation and decide tonight was a good night to pick a fight? Was every night a good night to pick a fight, judging by Carmine's rather beaten, haunted look? Was any of his angry sob story even true?

Tristaan struggled with justifying too much. He wasn't one to start unnecessary fights, not anymore. Sure, he'd been once, back when a burning, dejected anger drove his will to survive from one day to the next. But that was different. That was over. Yet, somehow, the expression on this other man's face and the light in his eyes was uncomfortably familiar. Almost familiar enough to be distracting, forcing the swordsman to be hard-pressed in keeping up, in staying focused on Carmine's blade and jerky, drunken motions.

Still aware of Sarinah's presence, he realized with what felt like a pang of guilt that he had little to say. Something unbidden and childish anticipated her telling the two of them to stop again, anticipated her disapproving. It was a strange, indignant feeling that rose up in response—he'd been insulted first, been attacked first, even despite his attempts at being reasonable. Some deeper part of him worried she wouldn't entirely understand.

This gravedigger wanted a beating, and apparently wanted it more than he wanted a roof over his head. Disinterested in any prolonged beating, the passive just wanted the other man down. He wasn't going to give him exactly what he seemed to want so badly. Not now. Not ever. Sure, he could've pulled his gun already, but he was still unwilling to end things in that fashion unless it proved to be absolutely necessary.

Instead of moving to dodge the kick, Tristaan stepped closer still, hoping to take the force of the blow against a different part of his leg than his knee—a bruised shin or a thigh would keep him standing, at least, while a knee may not. Closing the distance meant he was focusing on the knife, one hand moving again to attempt to catch Carmine's wrist before anything sharp lodged itself in his flesh, hoping to wrestle the weapon away and even their playing field. This time, he swung for the softer parts with his other hand, lower than the ribs, calloused fist hoping to find a rough landing in a kidney or a gut, hoping to cause more blinding pain.

Sarinah stood back, watching the two men with her heart in her throat. Tears had welled up but she blinked them away, sick to her stomach with terror as she watched Tristaan move around the giant blade the man held. The dancer had seen brawls, worse brawls, many a time. But this was different, this was Tristaan.

Gasping audiably as he missed being gutted, the brunette witch felt helpless. If she cast on the stranger, she might get Tristaan too. And what if it didn't do anything but make the man wilder. At the moment he seemed more crazy than drunk. That was always dangerous. The two fighters were so close together, it was hard to see exactly what was happening, and the shattered glass made it impossible for her to rush to his aide even if she could.

Carmine's foot connected with Tristaan's shin, the steel-toed boot sending sharp pain through his shins as his tibia gained a new hairline fracture.

Tristaan's hand managed to get a firm grasp on Carmine's wrist.

And suddenly, several things happened in a split second.

There was a loud crack. Tristaan felt a sting in his forearm as something hot and leaden streaked across it. The blade went spinning out of Carmine's hand and clattered to the floor, a broken star opened up along its top edge. A hole exploded open in the foyer floorboards. Tristaan's fist finally connected with Carmine's gut, winding him once again.

A voice from the top of the stairs mumbled, "Ah, shee-it."

Sparkles had apparently finally woken up to the noise below and had come to do something about it. It was obvious that he had come running in a hurry. It was also obvious that the pirate slept in the buff. He stood there wearing nothing but a pegleg and a grimace.

He hooked the second hammer on his pistol and cocked it, pointing it back at the two men below, "Arright, demmit, you," he nodded at Tristaan, "Stop movin' t'ward'im. An' you," he pointed the gun at Carmine-- or at least in his vicinity, as he only had one eye (as his patchless face could now attest)-- "stop movin', I gotta make'is count."

Everything was moving much too fast all of a sudden. A blur of motion, a rush of sound. The surge of impact shivering up his calf as his boot connected with bone, the sharp chink of his knife streaking from his hand, the refreshed impact of a fist in his belly. His stomach clenched and he stumbled back, overtaken with a dry heave. Well – not so dry. A hacking cough or two and he spat a string of bile between his teeth onto the ground. The other man’s grip still clutched at him like a manacle, and he didn’t have the mind to wrench himself away. He hoped it would bruise.

He was just starting to reach for his second blade when an all too familiar voice creaked down from the top stair. Carmine’s head snapped around like a dog scenting a rabbit, and looking just as intent to bite its head off. A soft growl bubbled up behind his teeth and swift as he was able with one free hand, he wrested his pistol out from his belt and aimed it square up the staircase. Carmine’s eyes were both completely existent (though there was a slight searing burn at seeing the husk of a man in the nude), young and keen besides. He’d fired on men just fine through a faint drunken mist before, and he wasn’t about to hesitate doing it again.

He was suddenly reminded of why came limping out to this slice of town in the first place. For retribution, for back rent. And for Wink. His jaw was set, his pistol steady.

“Where,” he snarled, “the fuck is my cat, ye miserable sonnuva leira?”

This was serious business.

Tristaan grunted, clamping his grip on Carmine tighter at the impact of his boot. Oh, that hurt, a sharp flash of pain burning up his entire leg from his shin. That wasn't good, and, as if that wasn't enough, he was definitely clocking shot at, the graze from Sparkles' weapon causing his face to curdle in frustration.

Then, before he could exhale, there were two guns too many in the picture. Attempting to take advantage of the surprise, the passive took the wrist he was gripping and yanked, moving to twist his entire arm behind the bleeding, drunk man, shoving him roughly to turn around. Bringing his free arm up to try to restrain Carmine's gun arm from behind, Tristaan growled over the smaller man's shoulder,

"That's enough," the swordsman hissed through clenched teeth, shin protesting the quick motion of his body to wrestle against the gravedigger's, "godsdammit."

He was practically shouting, averting his gaze from the grizzled, naked pirate who Tristaan was forced to claim as his landlord, focusing on his attempt to snatch up the angry man and his pistol and keep anything else dangerous from happening,

"Ent no one shootin' anyone, mujo clockin' ma."

Sarinah didn't know guns. Sure, she'd known of them, seen then hanging gloriously from some of the pirate's hips, but she had never seen them in action. Never heard them. The deafening fizzle-bang of Sparkles pistol saw her scream, hands over her ears, eyes wide. Twisting her body, the dancer looked up at the old pirate, then quickly away. Her heart thumped madly against her chest as her wide chocolate eyes watched the scene before her, terrified that Tristaan had been shot.

"No, no! Stop! Stop it!" She cried, finally coming to a decision, the first one that came to mind. With a quick and shouted intonement, she cast Sparks between the shooters. Men couldn't shoot what they couldn't see.

Tristaan's movements caught Carmine off-guard, and in a moment his arm was twisted behind his back-- but the loose limbs of the drunken man were hard to get a latch on, and his gun-arm was largely free.

Sarinah's panicked monite drew instant reactions as a brilliant flash of white-hot sparks erupted in mid-air, blinding most everyone in the room with streaks of color in their retinas before they settled to the ground, pocking the hardwood floor with dark burn marks.

"AARGH, ME FOVEAS!" Sparkles covered his eyes with his arm. He obviously wouldn't be aiming at anyone for a bit. Nor would anyone else, for that matter. But that didn't mean someone couldn't get shot, with two pistols in hand and one near enough to grab. Not that anyone wanted to further mar the poor floors. But it was still possible.

“Fuck me! Fuck, fuck, fuck—!” he snarled, digging the heel of his pistol hand into his eyes to rub away the burning. Any listening ears may have picked up on the bristle of panic skirting through his voice. Carmine could handle blows, curses, magic – lots of things. He could not, however, handle feeling helpless.

Blinded by light and bound by arms; he felt like a very small rabbit, or a child, felt like he had so many times in Vienda and the Stacks and the boiler rooms and all those other places where did those things he promised himself he’d do no more.

Carmine thrashed like an animal in a trap – the movement wasn’t getting him far, it was more desperate than calculated. It did nothing more than wrench the already aching muscles in his arm, grinding his shoulderblade out of place. But he didn’t care, no – pain was fine, pain was good, but being trussed like a little bird with its wings pinned – no, no, and no. He’d chew off his own arm to get out, to get away, and why couldn’t he just see? All these popping lights and blackness and the scent of something somewhere burning and it was bad, so bad--

Slick fingers slammed down on the trigger in mid-thrash.

Was it intentional? Only maybe.

Tristaan had nothing to say, just an angry exhale through clenched teeth, a sound of frustration above a bit of unexpected pain.

While most of his life was spent being reminded that being non-magical was bad or somehow wrong considering his heritage, there were moments in life where it seemed as though Alioe's often contradictory sense of humor reared her head into the fabric of reality and proved otherwise. Perhaps in any other circumstance, Sarinah's spell would've at least felt useful, but with a feral, fight-happy, armed drunk in his grip, being blinded was more of a setback was an advantage.

Especially when that wild, scrawny thing was thrashing and clocking firing his gun.

Firing a gun near people that mattered.

Near a person that mattered.

Having no idea where the bullet was going, anticipating either his own pain or someone else's, the passive kept his grip on Carmine's arm behind his back, lifting upwards to pull him even closer and to cause whatever pain he could, the pain of stretched muscles and twisted joints. Meanwhile, Tristaan dropped his other arm to his scarred lower back, snatching his own pistol from it's hastily-decided place in his unbelted, hastily buttoned pants. Shifting his grip on the thing with a growl of pain, he brought the polished steel butt of the old pistol crashing into where he was mostly sure the other man's skull would be, considering just how close they were in the struggle, how his silhouette whined and cursed just inches from the swordsman's face.

Swinging with what he hoped was the intention to knock him unconscious, he had no interest on waiting to see if the gravedigger's gun had any more bullets in it. He wanted him out. And down. And possibly in a lot of pain in the morning. Preferably.

The flailing of gunpowder-powered weaponry is generally frowned upon: case in point, the fact that Carmine's stray bullet was sailing directly towards Sarinah. No one would be happy with that. Luckily for her (or not so luckily, depending on your point of view), the bullet was a through-and-through, breaching her outer thigh.

Tristaan's pommel cracked soundly across Carmine's skull, knocking him almost instantly out in a brilliant, painful flash of white.

Sparkles was still yelling about his foveas and retinas, for some reason ignoring the fact that he only had one.

Blinded by her own spell, the black haired witch only hoped the swearing eminating from the stranger was a good thing. There was a scuffling, amid the yelling, then the sound of gunfire, before she felt a blow to her outer thigh. Gasping in pain, she collapsed to the floor, clamping a hand to her thigh as she heard the solid thunk of metal on bone come from the fighting men.

The searing pain in her leg was worse than any injury she'd experianced before, and the dancer found her release in a string of tek profanities, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut. Warm, sticky blood trickled between her fingers as she sat on the floor. What a way to start their life in the Rose!

All that shouting and his muscles wrenching and a woman hissing somewhere (why wouldn’t she stop?) and something growling in his ear and all the white was bleeding black bleeding into sight and he was so panicked enraged and all these noises needed to stop something was exploding somewhere close --

Gunshot?

He didn’t exactly have time to dwell on the recoil hissing up his arm and the heat searing his hand. Sudden as a Loshis storm and just as heavy, something something – gunmetal. He’d never forget that feeling so long as he lived. The feeling of something cracking, the sound of a gunshot sounding at the base of his skull.

Carmine saw milk. Not hot and searing whiteness like the lights, but whiteness pure and smooth. Muscle turned to water and he flowed. He couldn't feel his feet or hands or anything anymore, as if his flesh were made of clouds. He was a little red bird, soaring, so small he could fly in the spaces betwixt the air itself.

It was quiet now.

"Bastards!" Hissed Tristaan though clenched teeth, harsh and distant above the ringing in his ears from the gunshot so close to his head, leveling his pistol in Sparkles' direction, "Both of you!"

Oh, the passive was serious, something vicious and hollow and angry rumbling under his voice. Something different—old and buried but hardly forgotten, already brought from the archives of his mind by that word and the memories it contained—was suddenly set on fire as his vision slowly began to clear. The voice of pain he heard was not the one he wanted to hear suffer, and instead of dropping Carmine as he became a limp rag doll of a gravedigger in his arms, the passive kept his grip on him, snatching him up tighter. The hot surge of adrenaline that coursed through his veins seemed to ebb in different directions, dulling his pain while heightening his senses. Time seemed to slow as his entire demeanor changed under the realization that anything dangerous was far from over. If he'd been born a proper galdor, if the gods had been paying attention that day in Roalis, his field would've been some terrifying and oppressive mix of emotions by now.

Tucking his pistol back behind his pants with a groan of frustrated pain, Tristaan finally yanked his gaze across the broken glass on the floor to Sarinah.

And said nothing.

Though the words You should've clocking stayed upstairs, hung thick and stubborn in the back of his throat. He chewed the inside of his cheek instead, grey eyes noticeably softer than the rest of his expression.

With uncanny obliviousness, dragging the unconscious trouble-maker along with him, he wordlessly crossed the room, barefoot and unconcerned about the glass and broken lantern bits. He seemed completely unaware that he was limping. He paused at the foot of the stairs to dump the other man roughly with a sneer, shoving his good knee thoughtlessly into Carmine's spine as he removed his belt before letting him go completely. Sure, if the bleeding thing was still awake, he'd have a bit more for him, but there were more important things at hand.

Tristaan snatched a chair, tugging it along behind him with his bleeding, grazed arm, coming to a stop in front of the dancer on the floor,

"Epameo, hama." He sighed, voice still very distant, bordering on the vacant in his blur of shock and concern as he turned the chair to face her, "Let me see." Ignoring the dull, burning ache in his shin to sit and reach for her leg, hoping to both elevate the limb on his lap, investigate to make sure it was a clean shot, and use the belt as a temporary tourniquet above the wound to staunch what bleeding he could. He regretted not having a shirt, wired mind briefly considering using his pants. At least he was used to blood, and not just his own, but that didn't make the lovely witch's suffering any easier.

The thought caused him to glare over his shoulder at Sparkles once more, even has he held his hands out to the dancer, grumbling with terrible seriousness across the room to the naked pirate, "This is your clockin' mess, an' you sure as th'Circle's round better know a healer with vroo or I'm of a mind at this moment t'set your legs a'matchin'. Ye chen?"

Sparkles tutted under his breath, planting a fist on one bony hip and the curve of his hook on the other, "Well, iffin' some folk don't rekka'nize help when i's offer't, t'ent my fault."

He turned and started walking down the hall, increasing in volume so Tristaan could still hear him, "I w'z'gonna tell yeh 'bout'a place I know, wi'this lady what c'n fix all yer ails."

There was some thumping and what sounded like a cat growling and hissing, "Takes care'a me when I gits'all banged up. Cured'a toofache inna second."

He reappeared at the top of the stairs again, fully clothed and smiling his mossy, gap-toothed grin. There was no telling how he managed so quickly.

"But iffin' ya wanna be all angry an'whatnot, I ent takin'yehs."

Sarinah opened her eyes, cursing reduced to a stifled groan, glancing down at her leg. There was blood, a good deal of it ran between her fingers, over her hand and onto the wooden floor. She knew that pressure was a good thing in this case, as it was in knife wounds, but the burning pain made her want to take her hand away. Turning her gaze upwards at the sound of Tristaan's voice, she met his grey eyes, understood the unspoken words. Tears welled up as she turned her eyes back to the floor, upset she'd become involved in the first place. But how could he expect her to stand and watch as the drunkard slashed at him with the huge knife?

Listening to the strangely loud tinkle of glass as the passive moved, she watched him walking, limping, across the floor. The expression on his face wasn't Tristaan. It was something else. Something violent and angry. A lump swelled in her throat as he threw the limp body onto the stairs. She should never have brought him here, convinced him to come here. Not if this was the result. As he dragged the chair over, she almost cringed from him, wanting to curl up and disappear. He was hurt, hurting. Surely more than she was. Guilt ate at her from the inside.


The brunette dancer considered brushing it off, determined not to make it worse. His voice, oh Gods, his voice even sounded wrong. Taking a shuddering breath, she held it as he directed his glare to the naked landlord, listening to them bicker with a guilty conscience. She closed her eyes again, breathing through the burning in her leg, opening them again to see a now (thankfully) dressed Sparkles.


Sarinah looked at Tristaan, speaking quietly, almost sheepishly.

"I'm alright. It just hurts. Ent never been shot before." Unwilling to make him even more angry, the witch lifted her leg, removing her hand slowly from the wound, embarrassed by the tremble in her fingers and the hiss of pain she released as fresh blood ran from the hole. It looked horrible, and turning her gaze away, the wick held back a wave of nausea.

Tristaan grumbled a string of unsavory things under his breath, but whether his frustrations were directed at Sparkles, the bullet wound, the unconscious instigator on the floor, or something else entirely was hard to tell. He let their pirate of a landlord's words hang in the air that still smelled of gunpowder without responding right away, jaw clenched to prevent anything potentially lease-breaking to roll off his tongue unbidden. As far as he was concerned, this was in some respects Sparkles' fault—he apparently kicked the gravedigger out without leaving him his stuff and he came down the stairs waving a firearm into a fist fight. Not that he didn't blame the crumpled man at the foot of the stairs, either; that one had pulled a knife and practically begged for a beating. It all left the swordsman feeling stuck in the middle, only to still feel helpless.

The passive took Sarinah's leg with a gentleness that belied his current state of mind, carefully setting her foot on his lap. He bent over her, belt in one hand, careful not to touch anywhere near the actual bullet hole. Guiding the dancer to turn her leg slightly, he noted that the wound had an exit. He allowed himself a brief moment of relief; it was a much better situation than having to dig metal out of muscle or bone.

"Oes, I know it hurts." he offered quietly the comfort of a shared experience, though at the moment he was numb and barely felt the burning ache in his shin or anything anywhere else. He paused to reach across with his free hand and brush her cheek almost apologetically, "An' it's gonna, but it's fixable."

Fixable. Able to be repaired.

At least flesh and bone could be mended, but somewhere inside Tristaan wondered if he'd forever be broken.

Scrap.

He looked back over his shoulder to Sparkles before he set to doing what he could to ease the bleeding, aware that as his shock began to wear off, the lovely witch would run the risk of her own. It took him a moment to hold back the anger from his voice, finally speaking with an audibly distant tone,

"I got every right t'be angry from where I'm sittin', mujo ma. Ent neither of us's fit t'walk, an' I ent leavin' that," he nodded his head in Carmine's direction, "alone here even if he's prolly out for a while. Th'least you could do 'bout this mess is find someone useful 'fore anyone else is unconscious."

The passive turned back to Sarinah without waiting for an answer from the less-naked than before pirate, "This'll hurt, too, but then I can fetch somethin' t'clean you up an' stop th'blood." He leaned forward and turned, offering his upper arm to hold as he wrapped the belt above the bleeding holes, moving to form a knot. Before he tugged it as tight as he could, Tristaan looked up at the dancer and said quietly, expression as encouraging as he could muster, "I'm gonna tie this off. You can squeeze all you want."

The dancer's eyes flicked between Tristaan and Sparkles as the passive spoke, before focusing back on his hands. His belt? She took a deep breath.

"Okay." She said softly, taking his arm in her hand, knowing it would leave a hand print in blood. The tremble in her hand was getting worse, as the shock slowly crept up on her. Wincing, almost in preparation of the pain she realised was going to come. Turning away from the wound, she looked at the stranger on the stairs. Who was he? And what had he said to upset Tristaan so badly in the first place?

Sparkles dug a finger in his ear as his face formed a pout, "Why do I gotta do ever'thin' hereabouts?"

He plodded down the stairs in his usual *thunk* *shuff* *thunk* *shuff* and wiped whatever it was he found in his ear on his shirt. "But I suppose it's jus' proof'a how much yeh need me," he grinned and doffed his hat before heading out the door.

"Back in a bit."

Relieved that Sparkles had decided to cause less trouble and find more help, whatever in Alioe's name that help could possibly be, Tristaan wordlessly let him go. He hoped that whoever the man knew was actually useful, however. If they weren't ... well ... the passive wasn't going to consider that just yet.

Her hand on his arm was permission, though her clammy palm gave him pause. Time was precious with the bleeding and with shock, and once Sarinah looked away he wasted none of it. Without bothering with a warning, he yanked Carmine's borrowed belt tightly, tying it off as quickly as possible, fully aware of just how much more uncomfortable the pressure would make things at first, let alone the pain caused by the necessary roughness of his actions.

Sarinah expected some pain, of course. Manageable pain at least. It seemed like she'd only blinked at the unconcious stranger, when suddenly Tristaan tugged hard on the leather belt, constricting her upper thigh. The pain was definitly there, and certainly not manageable.

Squeezing his arm with a shocked gasp, the witch let out a loud hoarse scream, clenching her eyes shut in time with the clenching of her hand. Her field, weak as it was, pulsed violently against the passive as her scream peetered off into a series of groaning sobs, tears on her cheeks. She released his arm between breaths, hands shaking visibly. Her vision wavered an a crest of nausea caught her again. The woman felt cold, dizzy, weak and sick.

"Tristaan...epaemo kov...epaemo." The witch cried weakly, head muddled slightly. He was so angry at her...but she didn't mean to make him angry. And her leg hurt so badly...