Tristain’s breath caught in his throat, as the bubbling anger in his stomach roared to life, a fire stoked with rage. The man was a drunkard, even from here, halfway through the onlookers, Tristain could smell the booze, unwashed and fetid, mixing with another unpleasant odor. The second source was easy to tell as well - the poor figure that was being accosted, stick thin and dressed in tattered rags had clearly not been bathed in a long while.

The drunkard infuriated Tristain. It was far, far too easy for the mercenary to envision his own father in the man’s place. While his lout of a father had never openly abused someone, there had been times when Tristain hadn't been sure about just how willing his partners were. The confused frown gave way into an angry snarl, and Tristain bodily shoved people aside, knocking over a small knot of onlookers as he furiously strode over.

“You disgust me.” His voice, unused to speaking, was a raspy growl as Tristain’s gloved fingers dug into one of the drunkard’s shoulders. The man has time to blink, once, in confusion, before a leather clad fist smashed into the side of his face, sending him sprawling away from his would-be victim. One of Tristain’s hands shot out and grasped the figure’s upper arm, holding them upright, before he twisted, planting himself squarely in front of the rag-clad figure, hauling them behind him and largely out of sight.

With the almost-victim behind him, against his shield, Tristain let out a snarl as he saw the drunkard getting back up to his feet, shaking his head woozily. Bloodshot eyes locked onto brown ones, and Tristain smashed his right hand, curled into a fist, into his left palm. “You want to have a go, scum? Come then, I am sure I am more than enough for you.” He spat out the words, his voice harsh and grating from disuse. The drunkard seemed confused, and looked to be working up his courage, so Tristain shot a look over his shoulder at the person he had rescued.

Thin, delicate features beneath film-covered eyes. The woman - or feminine man, perhaps - would have been delicate even under the best of circumstances, and it was clear that times had not been good for her for a while. Tristain was almost, almost glad that this had happened now - it gave him a way to vent his irritation, now anger, and it looked like this person needed legitimate help, not just a few coins tossed their way. He refocused his angry gaze on the drunkard, brown eyes narrowed as he moved to get ready for a fight.