(( Continued from here: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=2666 ))

Sparkles trotted down some godforsaken alley inland of his tavern, wary of the mud lest his peg get stuck. Despite all appearances, he was keenly aware of the poor tenant bleeding on the floor of her newly renovated space. He was looking for someone he knew to help him-- as he had attested, one of the best healers in the area.

He climbed a set of rickety wooden stairs to a door on the third floor of a tenement house that didn't belong to him (anymore-- he knew the landlord in question, as he had lost the building to the current owner in a game of strip poker between the two of them and three floozies of varying levels of attractiveness). The door was painted in violet with gold lettering, reading,

Quote:

Madame Tordakov
Seer, Prophetess
Reader of
Tarot, Palms, Phrenology (head lumps)

Charms & Talismans
Spells on Commission
Healer of What Ails You

Regardless of how many people in the Harbor could actually read it, it proclaimed the location of a very versatile woman. Sparkles pulled off his hat despite the rain, holding it neatly to his chest, pulled a pipe out of his pocket and grasped it between his sparse teeth, and knocked on the door.

There were several seconds of silence, and he knocked again. A smoky voice from within called, "Please, a moment... the... the auras will not permit me to... *ooff!* allow you... *urgh!* Entrance! Just yet..."

Sparkles stood in silence on the doorstep, until finally a lovely woman opened up the door, all mystery and smoky eyes, draped in scarves and practically dripping with beads, coins, and talismans. Her curly brown hair was long and well-kept, tied back here and there with gold wire and beads; her field told her as a wick. Sweeping her arms in a welcoming gesture, she bowed low, "I bid thee welcome to Madame Tordakov's. I foresaw your arrival, but had not the time to prepa-- John! What are you doing here?"

She jerked upright and looked exasperated, she waved her hand and muttered some syllables to disperse the Wild Lights she had cast over her workspace to create an air of anticipation and mystery.

Sparkles bowed and stepped inside the heavily perfumed space, ducking to avoid one of the many low-hanging scarves that coated every imaginable surface and draped from the ceiling. He was certain something in here was in danger of breaking her lease.

"I got summat uvva problem," he began.

"Oh, Alioe, John, don't give me the details this time," she reached into a basket of jars and pulled one out, "Just use the salve and spare me the dirty details of how you got it."

"No, no," Sparkles shook his head, returning his hat to its proper place, "No boils 'is time. Thar's'a girl, see?"

"Oh, ew! Ew! Ew! Don't! Just tell me: contraception or anti-inflammatory?"

"Ehrm... neither?" Sparkles raised a brow, "She's shot."

Madame Tordakov looked at him blankly for a moment then looked, once again, exasperated, "Really, John, it's far too early for jokes. And it's not even funny. Get out of here and let me get back to bed."

Sparkles set his hook on his hip, taking his pipe in his hand and waving it about aristocratically, "Naw, hardly. Iss'a tenenenerant 'o mine. Got shot by an ex-tenenenerant what got kicked out las' night. Coul'n't pay 'is rent an' got all pissy. Now 'is poor girls bleedin' on the floor back 'ere." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder back toward the tavern.

Tordakov's eyes widened, and she immediately shot into action, "Damn it, John, why do you do this to me? Couldn't you have gotten someone without a gun mad at you?"

"Aw, but thass'no fun!" Sparkles grinned, "An' cut it out wi'th'a 'John' carp. Can't'cha call me da 'r dad 'r pap, like all th'other kids?"

She tutted under her breath, but otherwise didn't answer, continuing to pack bottles and other various items into a basket, "Where is she shot? Did the bullet come out? How much blood had she lost when you left?"

"Erm... Leg. Yes. Not a whole lot. Juss'a li'l puddle."

"Not life-threatening unless she bleeds out... Was she alone, or is someone with her?"

"She's got 'er man," Sparkles said, opening the door as Tordakov approached. She nodded in acknowledgment of the gesture, popping open an umbrella and stepping out, basket hung on her elbow. She locked the door behind them then started trotting down the stairs.

"I'll get there faster if you're not with me. Which house is it?"

"The waterfront," he answered simply.

She set off in a jog the moment she reached the bottom of the stairs, while Sparkles ambled along at his leisure.

* * * * *

When she reached the waterfront property, she didn't bother knocking, but walked straight in, dropping her umbrella just inside the door as she did.

Tristaan and Sarinah would be surprised by a slender twenty-something wick. Even if her field hadn't made it obvious, she looked the part-- broomstick skirts, a shawl, scarves at her hips and frosted with a variety of gold jewelry.

She skipped lightly through the glass, wary despite her high-heeled boots. She looked up from the floor now and again as she sent glass bits tinkling across the floor, "John sent me. I'm Elsie Tordakov."

She knelt down by Sarinah, trying not to get her copious skirts in the blood, and nodded at Tristaan, "I suppose you put on the tourniquet? Good on you. I can take over from here."

(( Whenever you're ready, luvies ))

Tristaan sat behind the dancer, legs outstretched on either side of her, one pant leg rolled up to his knee, a wet rag full of chipped ice on the ugly bruise that marred his shin. He knew something was wrong, possibly broken, just by his toes' reluctance to move and the kind of familiar dull ache that reminded him of his arm barely a month ago. An empty bottle of something stupidly strong from the bar was just within reach, though his arms were around Sarinah, providing what warmth, comfort, and conversation he could. At least half the bottle had gone to cleaning the wound, but the rest had most likely been consumed in the process. A pile of bloody rags from behind the bar and in the kitchen were rather neatly stacked to one side, a few more still wrapped tightly about the witch's thigh. It was still bleeding, oozing really, but was hardly what it had been.

Carmine was sprawled unkindly over the bar counter, hands bound behind him but otherwise unharmed. Tristaan had even taken the time to make sure the knot he'd made in his skull wasn't bleeding. He wasn't really interested in killing the man, regardless of how much harm his reckless, angry actions had caused.

The passive blinked up at the woman who descended upon their tired, bloodied forms from the door somewhat numbly, be it from the alcohol or the trauma or both. He shifted a little, noting that their grizzled pirate of a landlord was missing,

"Who's John?" He arched a slim brow, not moving, very aware that the lovely witch would need to be held if there was going to be any magical healing going on, "Y'mean Sparkles?"

Feeling more than a little protective at the moment, he added quietly, "I ent movin'."

"Yes," she replied simply as she began unwrapping the wound to get a better look, "Your landlord."



"Fine, fine, just stay out of my way..." she prodded gently at the wound, looking it all over and noting the exit wound. She noted that the witch looked pale, which wasn't a good thing. She glanced at the liquor bottle, "How much of that has she had?"

She didn't rely on getting an answer from Sarinah, because if she had had any, then it wouldn't be an accurate estimate.

She appeared to give up on getting any answer, instead deciding healing was more important at the moment.

"Oh, tick it. Hold on, dear," she muttered to Sarinah before she planted a hand on her thigh and launched into monite. The veins and vessels were knit up in a moment, stopping the bleeding. The effects would be obvious to sarinah, as she felt the cauterizing sting of healing; they wouldn't be quite so obvious to the other two, as Elsie had only healed the internal problems. She couldn't manage much more at this point. She began further cleanup, wiping away leftover blood and preparing the wound for more traditional healing.

The distant rumble of the passive's voice stirred the witch, and she opened her eyes, looking up at the colorful new patron with a glassy gaze. The alcohol had stung, badly, as had the cleaning and the wrapping. She felt incredibly weak and heavy, like she was swimming under molasses. Focusing on the woman, she shook her head.

"Ne, don't touch it..." Her almost inaudible voice pleaded as the woman came closer, unwrapping her leg and poking the wound. A sharp pain jolted through her, bringing her to her senses briefly with a gasp. Looking down at her leg, she felt the wave of nausea hit her again.



Wide eyed, the dancer shook her head as the witch put a hand on her wound. She remembered Tristaan's voice in Surwood, remembered Petra's warning. Healing hurt, almost as much as recieving the wounds, if not more. Her mouth began to form a protest, when suddenly the firey pain of the witch's spell worked its magic. The words on her lips became pained cries through clenched teeth. It was like being shot, slowly, in reverse, and unwilling to do so, the witch struggled weakly to get away from it. Eternity seemed to pass, before finally, the pain ceased. Lightheaded and exhaughsted, Sarinah breathed heavily, slumping back against Tristaan, sweat forming a light sheen on her unusually pale skin.

"Gods...I think I'm gonna be sick.." She whined suddenly.

Elsie's eyes widened at the proclamation, and she leaped up and snagged one of the spittoons nearby. Luckily, it was empty and wouldn't smell of the contents it was meant to hold. She set it near Sarinah and said simply, "If you do."

She uncovered her basket and plucked out clean gauze and a bottle of some liquid or another. "This'll sting, but it's to clean up the wound more," she began daubing lightly at the surface wounds that remained.

She glanced at Tristaan, noting his shin and the blood on his chest. She tilted her chin at his wounds, "Anything you want me to help you with?"

The passive wasn't any more interested in the healing process as the next person with the memory of his last broken limb still quite fresh in his mind. Sitting up a little as Sarinah slumped against him, he did his best to support her, one hand drifting between them to rub her back gently at the admission she felt sick. It was understandable, given the entire traumatic course of the evening. Not everyone had developed the same calloused view of personal pain and suffering, and Alioe knew that Tristaan hoped the lovely witch never had to.

"S'okay, hama. Th'worst's really over now." He offered quietly, voice still heavy with obvious guilt, "We'll go back t'bed soon enough."

Looking up to Elsie at her questioning of his own needs, he shrugged, nodding in the direction of his shin, "Somethin' ent right there. It's more'n jus' bruised, but I ent sure if it's broke or not." Tristaan indicated his toes with the motion of his eyes, noting that they were reluctant to move at his command, though the cuts on his feet from the glass probably didn't help much either, "Might be."

Almost numbly (though not entirely from the alcohol), he added about the gash across his side and the graze along his arm, "Everythin' else I can manage."

Leaning over and reaching for the spitoon, Sarinah dry wretched into it, before loosing the contents of her stomach violently. She closed her eyes, embarassed by the disgusting reaction. The sting of Elsie's cleaning and movement was no more than a tickle, dulled by the pain of earlier.



Putting the vessel of horrid liquid as far from her as she could, the witch sat back, looking down at his shin with a weary groan. Her heart felt heavy, upset he was hurt. Broken again. His voice was so distant, so different. Even in her groggy and muddled state, she knew something was wrong. Gently, she took one of his hands in hers, giving him what little comfort she could manage in her state.

Elsie finished cleaning the wound and slathered it with some substance that looked like it would be tasty on bread before wrapping it all neatly in clean gauze. She tied it off and looked to Tristaan.

"Alright, then, let's take a look at that," She strode over to Tristaan's side and started prodding his shin. She went to flex his foot but stopped short at the glass, "Actually, let's take care of this, first."

She started picking out glass, using a pair of gold tweezers mostly, but now and again using Push to get the embedded pieces out, rather than digging at them ruthlessly. It still wasn't pleasant in the least.

While she was working on that, Sparkles arrived, cheeks reddened from the exertion of rushing back-- or perhaps it was just because of the cold, wet atmosphere.

"'Ow're they lookin'?" he asked, leaning over her. One could practically see his nasty particles falling off and dusting over Elsie and her work.

"Let me to my work," she told him sharply. She raised a hand, pointing at him with the bloodied tweezers, and looked him in the eye, "Back. Off. They don't need infections on top of everything else."

Sparkles frowned and crossed his arms petulantly, "Wull, fine." He took two obvious steps back.

Elsie went back to her work, casting a spell on the soles of his feet, she watched as the wounds sealed up before going back to examine his shin. "Honestly, you and your tenants..." She didn't finish the thought, so it was unclear just what she meant by it.

Tristaan began to protest Elsie's attentions to his feet,

"Ne—"

"S'fine—"

"I can—"

He didn't flinch or whine otherwise, however, except for the frustrated expression on his face twitching at the particularly difficult pieces or at the brush of magic,

"Dammit." He growled in time for Sparkles' appearance, only to glare at the woman at the mention of tenants, "Don'tcha be blamin' us for this mess, mujo ma. That drunkard with th'gun showed up because that ol' pirate threw him out on his erse while he was out workin'. I ent defendin' him, considerin' he wanted a fight, but I ent gonna pity Sparkles for his business, neither."

The passive scowled, hands sliding away from Sarinah to lean back on his palms, looking away from Elsie to stare at his shin, knowing very well how terrible healing it was going to feel. Hurting and ruffled by what he took as yet another insult, he grumbled quietly without a hint of apology in his tone, "So, if you're gonna go assumin' 'bout who we are, get on with your vroo instead."

Elsie gave Tristaan a look of skepticism that asked Who said I was blaming you? But said nothing.



"Fine," she snapped, and whipped off the monite for another healing spell, leaving off a syllable or two that usually asked the mona to be gentle. The hairline fracture was healed in an instant, much to Tristaan's chagrin.

"I assumed nothing. But I can tell when I'm not appreciated," she snatched at her things and turned around as if to leave, but Sparkles was in her way.

"Aww, Elsiekins--"

"Don't call me that!"

"'E di'n't mean nuffin' by it."

"I don't give a tock. Get out of my way."

"Aww, now, luv, don' get all pissy. Stick around for a cuppa, hm?" He placed a gnarled hand on hers with the question in his eye.

She recoiled and shook her hand as if he'd laid a spider upon it, "Don't touch me! If you weren't my father I'd smack you a good one!"

Sparkles looked as if she had smacked him. He withered and looked nothing less than a kicked puppy. A dirty, mangy, flea-ridden puppy. But a puppy nonetheless.

The lack of gentleness managed to elicit something close to a snarl of pain from the passive, face twisted in discomfort for the short duration of her casting. He'd been broken and fixed enough times in the past decade and a half that he managed to stay still, otherwise unflinching except for his vocal expression. He didn't necessarily feel like he deserved gentle so much as he simply desired an unbroken bone, so, really, it was Elsie's choice not to do him and his angry self any favors of kindness.

Tristaan distractedly watched the woman get upset and turn to leave, feeling frustrated and numb, a little haunted by everything that had just happened.

Then, Elsie said father and the passive's eyes widened. He didn't bother to stand, but he did sit up, leaning against Sarinah again as he addressed the pair,

"Epaemo. It ent been th'most pleasant of nights, an' I've gotta feelin' none of us is in th'best of moods at whatever ungodly hour this may be. Ent no sense in gettin' worked up when everyone's hurtin' an' takin' it out on th'wrong things."

He sighed, attempting to do what he could to smooth things over despite his frustration with the whole evening, "... 'sides, I still think th'one who started this may need a look-see himself. I can't say he's worth healin', but jus' because he started it doesn't mean it was entirely his fault."

Sarinah jumped at the sound from the passive, shocked by it. Never had she heard him like this, even when the problems with Surwood had made him angry. It worried the dancer, even if she was to exhausted and weak to portray the concern. She could feel the iritation in the other witch's field, and feebly attempted to tell Trisaan to be kind, after all, it wasn't her fault these things had occurred.



Numbly relieved, the witch nodded, closing her eyes as he leaned forward against her, pleasantly wrapped in his embrace. She drifted in and out of wakefulness as his voice rumbled on, catching only snippets of what he said.



The dancer opened her eyes, mumbling angrily at that. Tristaan was not carrying the blame for the drunk idiot on their bar.

Elsie turned to face Tristaan as he spoke, her face reddening as she did-- it was obvious that she was more than frustrated and irritated; she was embarrassed at personal business coming out in public. She glanced over at the other man sprawled over the bar when Tristaan indicated.

She said nothing, but the roll of her shoulders meant to relax her a little wasn't as subtle as she would have liked. She approached the bar and began looking him over. Pulling up pants legs to check for bruises, opening up his shirt, she prodded at his ribs-- she noticed the odd and uneven healing here and there, but so far nothing new besides scrapes and bruises.

She rolled him over on his side where she could pull his shirt down to his tied wrists and check for further wounds. She paused.

She had seen tattoos before, obviously, as a byproduct of being a wick and living in the harbor. But this was one she had seen only a few times, and if it was what she remembered, it carried a great deal of meaning.

She pointed to the tattoo on his arm, "Dze, isn't this...?"

Tristaan had his back to the bar and was caught up contemplating carrying Sarinah upstairs on his newly healed leg once Elsie wordlessly agreed to check on the gravedigger currently sprawled over the bar. He wasn't looking and didn't see the woman point, but the tone in her voice was enough of a motivation for him to stand,

"I might've knocked him on th'head a bit hard, but it wasn't bleeding when I looked." He replied flatly without turning around, deciding the ache in his leg was tolerable. The passive reached for the dancer, making sure to handle her carefully as he lifted her from the floor to curl her sideways in both arms against his chest. Once he'd found his balance, he turned and walked toward the bar, his view mostly obstructed by the healer's own pointing form,

"I mean, it's not like I had a knife or nothin'—"

He didn't close the entire distance between them, eyes traveling down the other witch's arm toward the tip of her finger, focusing on the scarred marking undeniably obvious enough on Carmine's bicep. Something not unlike bile burned in Tristaan's chest at the realization that the familiar scrawl of ink was no different from his own; that the wild, drunk man who'd practically begged for a beating was no different from himself; that he'd gone and willingly fought with another of his kind.

His feet refused to allow him to approach and the kind of pain that registered across his face was hardly physical. The swordsman bit his lip and dragged his eyes away, not looking to Elsie but to the floor,

"Oes." Was all he could answer, angry, confused, and suddenly very confused, awash in a multitude of questions of his own. He fought to keep a host of emotions at bay, old ones, difficult ones.

"He's Sparkles' business now. Ent mine. Jus' make sure he leaves better'n'he came." Tristaan's words came forced and quiet. He didn't approach the bar, looking away as his grip on Sarinah might have tightened and he headed for the stairs with every intention of disappearing as quickly as possible, of fleeing that mirrored mark and all it contained.

Small things filtered into his consciousness. Delicate sensory queues, fuzzy and very far away. Carmine’s thoughts were rolling around in his head like marbles. Clinking against one another, slipping past, making no sense at all. A few little things were clear, though. Blackness, for one. It was crushing dark, so much so he didn’t even know he was awake at all. His eyes swam behind heavy lids. A massive ache enveloped his entire head, starting at the base of his skull were pain lingered like a scorching iron on bone. His head felt light on his shoulders, as if his brains had been displaced by fizzy soda water.

And then?

Liquor. The hard scent of liquor – nothing cheap or green, either. Rich, dark, and deep. Not the kind that you gunned down the hatch nose plugged and eyes watering, but the kind you sipped slow and delicate-like while talking to nice people. Flowery wines, brassy cognacs, steely vodkas. He writhed a slight bit, awakening nerves getting a feel for his surroundings. The air was cool and damp and his skin stippled with gooseflesh, trembling on pinpoints—

His skin.

There was night air on his naked chest, prodding hands roving there too. Carmine was jolted into wakefulness like he’d had freezing water dumped over him. Every nerve was blazing and every muscle was trilled tight. Aching fingers curled into a fist, went to – cords of resistance held him, bound his wristbones to together behind his back. Panic, great rolling panic flared like fireworks inside of him, sending every instinct blazing. A great thrash ripped through his body, nearly throwing him off the edge of the bar, paired with something between a guttural snarl and cat’s pained yowl ripping up from his throat.

He was belly up in an alley, he was bound to a mildewy inn bed, he was pinned by big hands to the floor of a gardening shed. A little red bird with his wings needled down for the inspection of some cruel child. Never again, he said never again, on that ferry leaving the Soot District he swore never again.

“D-don’t touch – don’t touch me, don’t – don’t ye fuckin’ touch me ye greasy tosser!” There was no hot rage in his voice at all. Just a strained note, like blind fear. He sounded very small and made of glass.

A steel capped boot flew out to strike at whatever piece of warm flesh was lingering closest to him.

Elsie gave Tristaan an odd look. There was something in his voice that she couldn't put her finger on. She hadn't paid much attention to his arms, as the only wound on his torso was superficial and the fracture was rather more important. As far as she was concerned, Tristaan was human. A short, aristocratically featured human, but still human. But his reaction to the marking was odd enough that it confirmed her suspicion. The man on the bar was a passive. One of those runaways from Brunnhold, as far as she knew.



"Well, I wouldn't have to, if you didn't beat him up in the first place," she said dryly. She turned to Sparkles, "Though, wouldn't've had to do that if you hadn't kicked him out so ruthlessly."

Sparkles shrugged half-heartedly, "S'matter'o business."

She was about to say something caustic back to him when her patient began to buck and writhe on the bar.



She jerked back, but the simple fact of the matter was that she was the closest to the flailing extremity. His shin connected with her bicep and sent her flying to the floor with a cry.

"Sunnuva bander," she yelled, clutching her elbow where she landed, "Calm the CLOCK down!"

Sarinah opened her eyes as strong arms lifted her from the hard ground. Turned towards the passive, she lifted her arms to rest around his neck, looking at at his face as he carried her. It was nice, being this close, if it wasn't for the situation, or the dead look in his eyes.



The flitter of pain across his features gave the witch a sick feeling. Reaching a hand across, she rested it on his cheek.

"Hama?" She asked quietly, wanting to know why he was so upset, so distressed. The grip on her tensed as the passive moved towards the stairs, and the brunette frowned, unsure of what to do. What to say. He looked like the very soul of him had been torn away. Nuzzling against him, she wrapped her arms closer, kissing his jaw gently. Through a haze of exhaustion, bloodloss and shock, which was beginning to wear off, she still knew he was upset.

"Tristaan, what is it?"

The passive scowled, though he didn't flinch away from Sarinah's touch. Grey eyes narrowing at Carmine thrashing about, on the mark that was supposed to give them something in common instead of drive between them a difference. He stood quietly, jaw clenched, as if deciding who to speak to first. Struggling to tear his eyes away from the other passive, he looked back to the lovely witch with very little more than a distracted expression,

"He'n'I are both—"

Scrap.

"—th"same." Tristaan paused, looking back to the gravedigger. His voice was still quiet, however, strained to reach any significant volume, though the grating tone of anger was still there, dragged across the burning coals of his own surprise, "Passives."

He shifted away from the stares, unintentionally giving the dancer he held a better view of the scene on the bar as he did so. Turning his head from her hand, he raised his voice at Carmine, face twisting into something almost bitter as he growled threateningly,

"Shut your moony head an' let th'witch work. It ent like you deserve th'kindness, but Alioe help me if y'ent gonna take't quietly."

Yelling. Lots of yelling.

To be honest, Carmine never learned the meaning of things like ‘calm down’ or ‘close your head’. Just inflamed him further, ignited heat and such sparks to flush his cheeks. The sound of his own cry still buzzed in his ears, heating and humiliating. Whatever that was, it was cracked and small and tucked away again. That stupid little shout curdled on the inside of his mouth. He tasted bile for the third time tonight in a far less literal sense.

He rocked off the bar with more grace than he thought he had, landing solidly on his feet. …for a moment. Knees buckled, legs weaved, all for a few vertigo-heavy moments before he got a grasp on his balance. A cringe scrunched up his face at the renewed pressure on his knee, cracking open the scabbing gash across his brow. Warm blood on his cheek, in his hair. It smelled like rust, and that was a comfort. He vaguely remembered that he’d left his shovel out somewhere by the Wharf Rat.

He rolled his shoulders, wrenched his wrists in the binds. They felt soft and thin, like ribbons or…old dish towels? Whatever. He didn’t care what they were, he just wanted out out OUT of them. All he cared was that his chest was bare and the tops of his arms were painfully naked. This made him tear at his binding more frantically. Who saw? Had they even noticed? Had…had he noticed?

Of course he fucking noticed ye stupid fu—

“E’rybody shut the fuck up!” He shook his head like a soaked dog. “Fuckin’ untie me!” he snarled to no one in particular.

Fuzzy vision readjusted to the dimness, frosty eyes swiveling in the dark until they came to rest on Sparkles. “An’ where—where the fuck’s my cat, gods damn it!” Whatever splinter of fear was gone quick as it came, drowned in renewed rage. There was a flinty touch of exhasperation there, paired with the breathless hesitation that politely suggests a person is not all together conscious.

Not yet, at least.

Elsie scrabbled backwards as Carmine tipped off the bar and hit the floor. She wasn't about to get mixed up in that mess. She had it in mind to give him a good kick for his troubles, but the healer in her told her not to.



Sparkles wagged a finger at Carmine, "I di'n do nothin' wiv'im. 'E's with all'a th'rest'a yer chuck."

He thrust a thumb over his shoulders, "'R a' least part o' it. Iffin' yeh'll calm'a'bit, I'll get'r."

Tristaan shifted once Carmine started moving, watching him flop his way off of the bar and somehow manage to find his footing. Despite the fact that he still held Sarinah, he wasn't about to let the feral thing get away with more trouble than he already had. With a few shuffled steps forward, the passive tensed, quiet tone heavy with obvious threat even as he struggled to keep his eyes off of the other man's marred tattoo and on his face,

"If y'ent gonna calm th'clock down, I've got half a mind t'shoot your godsbedamned cat. Y'ent got any place demandin' nothin' from where I'm standin', so shut that moony bonebox of yours. I don't see any reason t'untie you, an' if Sparkles has your stuff, that's his business."

The swordsman was disturbingly serious about shooting the cat, for more than just the obvious reasons. Sure, it was spite, it was bitterness, but it was also the only thing he could think of that might be threatening enough to calm Carmine down. Or make it worse. Either way, really. He wasn't sure if he cared anymore, gaze straying again to the mark they shared as his scowl deepened angrily.

“Wha’ the fuck ye mean half, ye slimy --!”

Whatever slimy thing he thought Sparkles was, it went unspoken. Carmine didn’t even hear all of what the other man had said, yet it sent his heart shooting up into his throat.

“Yer wha’...?” a little splinter of words, choked up. Quiet. A bit too quiet. There was that kind of wide-eyed look, lips delicately parted – the kind that you’d only see on one of those starry eyed actress types. Basil York could eat his clocking heart out. Stiff-legged little steps, shuffling toward Tristaan on shaky legs. That cat, that wonderful cat was his baby as much as anything else in this world was. The ice water chill that washed over his features was damn serious, as if Tristaan was holding a gun to his little sister’s temple. Lips curled into a snarl, withered down to a flatline again. Forced calm.

Unnaturally pale blue eyes riveted into the other man like fish hooks, metallic and digging in deep. Carmine hunched his narrow, shivering shoulders down low out of some innate pulse of nerves, trying to bury the damning mark in a sea of over-sized fabric.

“I...I’ll...uh...” sharper words teetered behind his teeth, transmuting to something hazy and unsure. Were his knees weaving, or was the room just shivering at the corners? Eyes clenched closed, eyes flickered open.

“Wha’...wha’ever. I ent l-leavin’ ‘til I know where ‘e is. ‘e was...Wink was...in the place when I left an’ I came back an’ he was...” a low growl, trailing away into nothing. “Gone. Somebody outter find him.”

He teetered on his feet, refusing to drop the other man’s gaze. Another thought occurred, a lighthouse blinking in a sea fog. Thoughts of other things he’d lost. “...an’ where the fuck ‘re Dolly’s stockin’s? Shit...” he muttered the last bit softly to himself, leaning heavily against the nearest bit of furniture.

Sparkles crossed his arms and nodded, "Tha's'more like it. Now, you res' jus' thar an' I'll be righ' back."

He went trotting up the stairs and around the corner. There could be shuffling heard and some yowling.

Elsie rose, flexing her elbow carefully and muttering something unintelligible. Presumably, she was cursing in tek, but no one could confirm it. She went to her basket and righted it again; Carmine had knocked it over in his scrabble to be upright. She began replacing the tins and bottles that had been scattered hither and yon. She cast an angry eye at Carmine and muttered something else.

Sparkles came down the stairs bearing a board with an upturned bucket on top. A brick sat firmly on the bucket. The bucket was shifting angrily, and very catlike noises were coming from beneath it.

"'E don' like me much," Sparkles grinned as he placed the setup on the table across from Carmine.

The rain started up again. It had been raining hard on and off for three days. Much of Old Rose was flooded. The streets were reduced to muck. The roof began to drip, and some of the cracks in the windows were letting in rain water as well.