The Dead Man’s Wife [Mature]

Niccolette is sent to ‘help’ Leander

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Leander
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Tue Sep 03, 2019 2:25 pm

15th Day of Loshis, 2719
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Leander had never given much thought to the notion of respect before. He knew that very few paid him any: previously people saw him as simple, and now they knew him to be a passive with certainty, they saw him as a target for aggression, a ready victim. Conversely, Leo had little respect for most of the people he came into contact with, but Silas Hawke, his right hand Corwynn, and the Bad Brothers in general had him considering the concept.

There is the respect the opposite gender gives because they find you attractive. There is the respect of someone who wants something from you without giving anything in return - flattery. Then there is the respect of a person who truly understands what you bring to the situation, that you are worthy and worthwhile. Leo could count on one hand the people afforded him the third kind.

Hawke, well he fit into none of these categories, but he was still willing to use Leo’s counterfeiting skills for his own ends. With the requested document forged, Leander was under strict instructions to deliver it personally to one of Hawke’s allies. Apparently it was too sensitive to trust to anyone else. That didn’t mean that the King of the Underworld trusted Leo - oh no, he had made explicitly clear that, in delivering the forgery, he would have an escort. Leo had been told that it was for his own protection, to make sure he wasn’t... happened upon by unsavoury men on his short but apparently perilous journey.

The passive also suspected that Hawke didn’t entirely trust Leander to complete the directive.

It was for this reason that, hidden away in a well-lit but cramped alcove in the Attic, Leo sat hunched over his work desk while an attractive yet intimidating woman stood over him. There were two more of Hawke’s minions waiting within the shop, probably annoying Resha something rotten with their presence. All three were waiting for him to complete the forgery, before they escorted him across Old Rose Harbor.

The woman showed some obvious outward signs of boredom or frustration at Leander’s painstakingly slow work. He probably could have completed the forgery halfway through the afternoon. It was well past dark now, possibly even into the early hours of tomorrow. He had hoped the woman would become uncomfortable, just to spite Hawke. She did not disappoint: shuffling and sighing every few moments. Any other time, this would have irritated Leo to no end, but today it had been blissful.

Niccolette Ibutatu. That was her name. She wasn’t a new face to Old Rose, nor to Leo. When she had first showed up at his door, Leo had to cover the smirk-turned-grimace at the memory of her husband’s powerful right hook when Leo had propositioned her. Of course, the husband was dead, now. Leo hadn’t cared for the specifics when the news was fresh, but he had been at least interested to hear of the beautiful woman’s widowhood.

For all his talk, Leander was secretly rather inexperienced in carnal matters, and privately his did find her rather intimidating, even when she wasn’t lurking over him on official business. That being said, being bested by her husband had never sat right with Leo’s pride, and there was some twisted satisfaction with knowing that he could piss on the man’s grave while telling the story of bedding his wife.

Of course, despite his lack of experience, he knew that no woman would be easy to bed if he kept up this farce of slow work. “Done.” The passive picked up the forged document and squinted, checking it over one final time before standing. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?


Last edited by Leander on Tue Sep 17, 2019 2:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Tue Sep 03, 2019 5:18 pm

Evening, 15 Loshis 2719
The Attic, Old Rose Harbor
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Niccolette shifted, and shifted again. She felt scattered; she felt ripped apart and thrown on the wind, as if the pieces of her were even now being swept away over the currents of the Tincta Basta. She could see herself, tumbling, caught in the swoops of wind that stretched from here all the way to the Muluku Islands; she could nearly visualize the familiar journey.

And then even the comfort of those imaginings was gone, and she was back in herself, in the long black silk dress with its high, tight neck, little buttons marching down the side. It took everything she had, each time Niccolette thought of them, not to reach up and undo them, not to fiddle them open in the hopes that maybe – maybe – she could breathe. Sometimes time seemed to slip past; some days, dawn seemed to bleed into dusk with a sharp, painful swiftness, leaving behind only the knowledge that she had survived one day more – that she was one day further from him.

The dress was choking her, Niccolette thought, irritably. She crossed her arms over her front, fingers digging into the black fabric that covered her arms. The dress was cut simply, for a galdor, with a corset like black top woven into the fabric, a froth of black satin ribbons that glittered over her front in the dim light, ever so slightly too loose at the waist. Thul Ka silk, of course. Dyed black, Niccolettte supposed, when she thought about it at all. She wondered what color it had been before, what color they had dashed swiftly from the fabric with all that black.

Niccolette shifted again, kohl-rimmed eyes dropping to the passive sitting before her. Her lips pressed together, and her arms squeezed a little tighter over her front. Today was not passing swiftly; today was creeping and crawling, and she could feel every inch of it, the scratch of the passive’s pen against the paper rasping against what still remained of her nerves. She focused her eyes on him for a long moment; in the tight confines of the Attic, he could not but feel her field, the sharp, bright living energy washing through the narrow space. Niccolette did not dampen it; she rarely did so, and tonight was no exception; the aura of mona extended nearly seven feet from the galdor, and was cool and indectal throughout. No matter how much she scowled, no matter how much she shifted, there was no faint color-shift in the air, no sense of irritation allowed to bleed over into her calm organized field.

The Bastian sighed, heavily, and pulled her gaze away from the back of Leander’s head once more. She did not wish to be here; she wished, in fact, to be almost anywhere else. But she was here. She did not understand it, but this was what Hawke wanted from her, the – sitting of this little infant, bent over his desk with his pens and paper. Niccolette uncrossed her arms, dropped her hands to her sides, and smoothed out the fabric of her dress. She tapped one booted foot against the floor of the attic, and shifted again, hands coming to rest on her sides, fingers digging into her sharp, protruding hipbones. She knew what it was she wanted; she wanted to find those responsible, and she wanted to rip them apart – she wanted to take them limb from limb, to sever every tendon in their body, to crack their bones and -

No; she could not think on that too much. Niccolette found her control and gripped herself tight, reigning in the thoughts. Like an airship, she thought, dizzily – hands on the wheel at all times, at least one and best to have two. Correct and correct again; find the seam in the wind and follow it –

Niccolette shivered, cleared her throat, and scowled down at Leander again, just to keep her hand in. She checked her nails again, for the dozenth time that night, running the edge of her fingers along the nails; she had buffed them smooth earlier, during one of the many hours he had forced her to wait here. She tossed her head, adjusting her hair once more, and lifted one hand, shoving the long strands back off her forehead and down over her back, curling against the smooth black silk there.

Niccolette paced, slowly. There was not even space for that; she felt caged, traversing the two steps back and forth across the tiny alcove. Her arms crossed over her chest again, and she stared at the grains in the wall, tracing her eyes over the patterns. She should meditate, Niccolette knew, but she could not find the rhythm of her breath, could not force her mind to stillness. She could only steer, could only jerk the wheel back and forth, correcting and over-correcting, heaving herself –

Leander’s exclamation shocked her, and Niccolette jerked, turning to look at him so quickly she nearly caught her foot on the edge of the dress. She scowled, squeezing her arms tight against her chest. “Finally,” the Bastian snapped, not the faintest hint of politeness in her tone.

Niccolette strode past Leander without hesitation, jerking the door open to the main area of the Attic. She glanced back over her shoulder at the passive, raised an eyebrow as if to ask why he was not already following her, and all but stomped out into the shop, making no effort to muffle the steady clicking of her boot heels against the hardwood floor.

“He has finished,” Niccolette told the men standing outside, Bastian accent curling thickly beneath her words. She pressed red-painted lips together in a thin line as she looked between the two human Bad Brothers. “Glen,” Niccolette gestured to the door, jerking her chin at the slighter of the two.

“Yes ma'am,” Glen hopped to, moving quickly, pulling his coat close against the blustery, windy night. It had not rained all day, but it had been overcast all day, and the wind had whistled in steadily from the harbor, sweeping up Mahogany and driving the damp deeper into the Rose. He hustled outside, not wasting any time, no more eager than Niccolette to drag this out any further, heading to fetch the carriage that would take them to this meeting.

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Leander
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Fri Sep 06, 2019 8:49 am

15th Day of Loshis, 2719
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Okay, so he had had a vague idea that she was pissed. Or frustrated. Or bored. Or.. whatever. It didn’t really matter what she was feeling. She was here on Hawke’s orders, here to do a job and didn’t she know that not all jobs were supposed to be pleasant? She should be grateful - at least she wasn’t dodging death with every heartbeat. If the worst Niccolette had to deal with was boredom, then she should count herself infinitely lucky.

The vitriol with which the golly spat out her response, however, gave Leander reason to start, blinking dumbly at her strange and sudden anger. He might as well have given her leave to keep her arm, rather than chop it off. “Temper, temper,” the passive muttered, though he only did so because he knew she would not be able to hear him as she left the room, presumably to inform the other two Brothers that he was done.

Leo was slower to move than Niccolette, pushing himself up languidly and taking his time to stretch out his tight limbs before picking up the newly forged document. It was not quite finished yet, still to be sealed with Hawke’s own crest. Any good forger had a host of wax seals, each designated towards various official organisations, and Resha’s supply was one to be envied. Most seals used in Anaxas were used regularly by Leo and Resha, though they were kept hidden from show, lest the wrong person see them and ask the wrong questions. Of course, nigh on all had been collected through illicit means. And, if it became common knowledge, well the business would hardly be as successful as it was.

With the room to himself, Leander quickly rifled though one of the drawers in the corner to find the seal he was looking for. The blue wax was easier to melt than the traditional red, but it was Hawke’s preferred colour, and the authenticity of that, at least, was undeniable: it had been supplied by Silas himself. Once enough wax had melted onto the folded parchment, Leo pressed the seal down upon it before it cooled and solidified. It would not be opened again until it had passed directly into the hands of the intended reader.

Leo patted the wax delicately to ensure it had cooled and the integrity of the seal was sound before tucking the forged document into his inner left hand breast pocket, where it would not slip out from the jostling weather he expected. Hiding the seal away again, Leo extinguished the candles and left the small cubby-hole of a workstation.

Waiting for the flowers to bloom?” The forger asked lightly, if accusatory, when he too stepped into the main shopfront to find the woman staring into the night. A quick survey told him one of his ‘escorts’ had disappeared, but the sound of wood on cobbles outside soon indicated where the third had gone. “Well, let’s get this show on the road, eh?” With an energy he didn’t feel - Gods, he needed a drink - Leander all but sounded forward, pulling the door open with a flourish. He held it for the remaining two Brothers, even going as far as to bow when Niccolette passed by, the ever-present smirk still featured on his expression.

Last to enter the carriage, he didn’t let the seating arrangements deter him. Niccolette and the male sat side-by-side, with the other male out front to guide the carriage. Leander would be facing backwards, which would normally bother him, but today he sat without complaint. “Seems I have the honour of the best seat,” He leered, his gaze never leaving the woman’s. “The view is... unrivalled.


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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Fri Sep 06, 2019 12:31 pm

Evening, 15 Loshis 2719
The Streets of Old Rose Harbor
Niccolette shot an annoyed look back over her shoulder at Leander when he emerged from his cubby-hole. She swept her cloak from the counter where it had sat, and folded the thick, dark gray fabric over her arms. She was trembling, Niccolette realized, and she could not; she could not. She needed to get through this night; she had thought it would be over by now. She had thought that by this hour, she would be able to succumb to the tears that seemed to always be lurking somewhere, just out of reach.

Niccolette took a long, slow breath, a deep one, filling her lungs and exhaling slowly out through her nose. She found another breath, and another, the slow, steady rhythm calming her. It was not meditation, not quite; she could not still her mind so, but she could find the steady counting of breaths in and out, could keep track of them, and it was better than nothing. The shaking stopped; she unfurled the cloak, snapped it, crisply, and settled it over her shoulders.

There was a rattling of wood outside, and the noisy clack of horseshoes on the uneven cobblestones of the streets. Niccolette turned to the door, arms settling over her chest again; Leander bounded forward with an energy that made Niccolette feel abruptly, unbearably tired. She pressed her lips together, making a thin line in her small, pale face, and followed Howie out. The wind whipped at her, ripping at her skirts and cloak, snapping them crisply into the night.

Glen was seated on the front bench of the carriage, his hands wrapped around the reins. Howie climbed into the carriage, the small metal step and heavy wood creaking beneath his weight, and eased himself onto the seat; he looked oddly cramped, Niccolette thought, with what little energy she spared on it, almost doubled up against the bench.

Niccolette swept up her black skirt in her hand, lifting it clear of her boots, and made her way up the small step. She settled onto the bench next to Howie, smoothing her skirt over her legs and tucking her hands into her lap. They were already red with cold, and she curled her fingers into one another, resisting the temptation to blow on them. Even with how large her seatmate was, the Bastian fit neatly on the edge of the bench, with no inch of her skirt brushing his heavy pants. She glanced once at Leander as he settled into place, and regretted it immediately. The passive was staring at her, outright, leering unpleasant compliments.

Niccolette inhaled, shoulders squaring, and did not look away. Her chin lifted; her eyes were as cold as ice, glittering green-brown in the dark. The three of them were cramped together in the small carriage, and Niccolette’s field filled the entirety of it, sharp, bright living energy. Niccolette flexed her field once, deliberately, sending a pulse through her field. Howie eased away from it, pressing the entirety of his larger frame against the wall for a brief moment, the movement almost without thinking.

“Mine,” Niccolette said, coolly, "is quite a disappointment." Her eyes flickered over Leander, sweeping him from head to foot, and she made a little face, half-disgusted, as if the sight of him was displeasing beyond words. The Bastian turned away, then, and reached one hand out the small window of the door, rapping her knuckles sharply against the outside of the carriage.

Glen's faint murmured voice echoed through the night, calling the horses to movement. With a burst of clattering and a few faint groans, wood and horses alike began to move.

Niccolette kept her gaze fixed firmly out the window, watching the dark as the buildings rolled past, and the small carriage rattled across the Rose through the night.

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Leander
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Sun Sep 15, 2019 10:45 am

15th Day of Loshis, 2719
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She was even prettier when she was irritated, the young passive decided, unperturbed by her cool attitude and insulting words. The boy merely continued to smirk, “Well,” he replied lightly, “At least I’m willing to lower my standards.

Leander would be the first person to vehemently argue that he didn’t have a chip on his shoulder, thank you very much. But Circle, when stuck up gollies like this bitch flaunted their own superiority in an effort to beat him back down to his ‘rightful place’… well Leo was no pushover. He was young, attractive, and could no doubt keep the woman screaming for longer than her dead husband would take to release his load. She was wound so tight that Leo couldn’t help but wonder if the sprinklers were turned on before anyone was even there to enjoy the fountain.

The three sat in silence for a little while: the man, whose name Leander still didn’t know, trying to hide his smile; the woman glaring at the world through the window as if it had done her a personal affront but continuing to spin on; and the passive watching her with an expression somwhere between lust and dislike… and Leo had learnt that the two emotions were by no means mutually exclusive.

Who is this man we’re going to, anyway?” The forger finally asked, bringing the attention of the others back into the carriage. He knew nothing of the purpose of this venture. But he supposed that was Hawke’s way: the less people knew, the safer his operations were. Chances are, Leo’s three escorts didn’t know what the forged writ actually contained, but they knew more about its onward purpose than Silas had deigned to share with Leo. It, of course, made it hard to trust the intentions of all three escorts, but he didn’t have much choice.

He’s an associate of Silas’,” the hulking man replied shortly, barely even sparing a glance over towards Leander as he spoke. The passive rolled his eyes, used to - yet sick of - the dismissive way in which everyone spoke to his kind. “All evidence to the contrary, I managed to work that one out on my own, thanks,” he retorted acidly.

The man simply continued to smile, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing at Niccolette as if it was her call to divulge more information. Leander’s gaze landed expectantly back on the woman, though he did not expect her to reveal anything further. “One would think that, if we want this to go as smoothly as we intend, it is best to share relevant information.

Whether she spoke or not, the carriage pulled to a stop not long afterwards. They were not far from the docks, Leo shivered from the cool breeze, realising that, for the first time, he was out in the evening while sober. What a poor choice. Good breeding had him unthinkingly offering his hand to the golly as she emerged from the carriage. “Where to?


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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Sun Sep 15, 2019 2:48 pm

Evening, 15 Loshis 2719
By the Docks of Old Rose Harbor
If Leander’s riposte bothered Niccolette - if it insulted her - she gave no exterior sign of it. For all her response, he might as well not have spoken. She did not so much as twitch; the black satin ribbons that crossed over the front of the dress fluttered in the breeze that wove in from the passing harbor, but with no movement of hers. She kept her gaze out the window, her hands knotted together in her lap no more tightly than they had been.

Buildings flitted past outside; the steady clopping of the horses’ hooves made a beat for their journey, overlaid with the stumble and clatter of the carriage against the ground. Distant strains of the Rose echoed in through the window, and they drifted past life and laughter and too much ale, none of it more than brushing the occupants. Niccolette kept her gaze fixed on it, but even she would have admitted she did not see; not the distant low lamp lights, not the companionship spilling drunkenly from bars, not the distant echo of ships and harbors and oats splashing valiantly against the waves. But she fixed her gaze on the next and the next and the next, and slowly the Rose crept by.

She paid no attention, at first, when Leander spoke again, nor to Howie’s response, the human sharing with the passive what little he knew of the situation.

Finally, though, the weight of Leander’s snippy little comments was heavy enough to pull her gaze away. Niccolette shifted in her seat and stared at the passive, coldly. “We go to meet one Mr. Frederick Lemandier,” Niccolette said, “and associates. They have found themselves in need of your - talents,” She pursed her lips, faintly, although it would be hard to tell if the disdain was meant for Leander and his talent, or the man with the galdori name who had need of it; perhaps it was for both.

“What is relevant?” Niccolette shrugged, and looked out the window again. She has thought Leander would already have understood this; she supposed it was his age. “They should not have needed to meet, sensitive or no. Perhaps they are nervous, these men, or perhaps it is a trap. We shall see.”

“Ne worry, lad,” Howie chuckled slightly, a low, heavy noise. “We’ll keep ye safe.”

The carriage pulled to a stop; a salty breeze whipped sharply at hems and hair alike, stinging and cold. Niccolette took Leander’s hand without hesitation and without acknowledgement, descending the steps to the ground. She let go immediately, brushing her skirts back into arrangement. The carriage heaved and groaned as Howie shouldered his way out.

Glen stayed perched on the box, the reins held loosely in one hand. He shifted, distant moonlight glinting off a pistol at his side, and nodded at them.

“There,” Niccolette gestured to what looked like an abandoned bar, with shutters nailed over the outsides of the windows, an enormous wooden door banded with iron sealing it off from the outside world.

Howie went first; Niccolette would gesture Leander before her. She reached one hand in to the inside pocket of her cloak, checking something for a moment, then continued on.

Howie opened the heavy door; the room was almost entirely dark inside, but for a yellow circle of light spilling from a flickering glass lamp, sitting on an unsteady looking table. A red haired galdor sat, legs crossed, in a worn old armchair, threadbare in spots. He smoked a heavy pipe, fragrant tobacco curling from it into the room. A large human looked behind him, arms crossed over his chest.

The room reeked of stale beer and disuse; the heavy door would not stay open easily, ready to seal them off from the world outside. For a moment, all was stillness and silence; for a moment, it was only this little group and the musty dark, scarcely illuminated. Then the door thudded shut, and they began.

“You have something for me, I think,” Frederick Lemandier said, easing the pipe from his mouth, his gaze wandering over Howie, Leander, and settling on Niccolette.

Niccolette extended a hand to Leander, waiting.

“No,” Frederick gestured with the pipe, pointing it at Leander and giving it a faint shake. “The boy. Bring it to me,” he commanded, leaning back in his seat.

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Sun Sep 15, 2019 5:51 pm

15th Day of Loshis, 2719
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The woman’s words were no less harsh than they had been previously, layered even with a threat of things going south. The passive blinked in surprise at the causal way in which she spoke of it… she was clearly used to the dark and dangerous life, but Leo certainly wasn’t. He was a books boy, enjoying no more exercise than the effort of turning a page with one hand and holding an ever-filling glass of something more alcoholic than should be legal. Brains over brawn, after all, not this cloak-and-dagger life.

How reassuring,” he muttered following the promise of being kept safe. But he didn’t let the shiver of fear roll over him the way it was threatening.

The passive’s hand flexed when Niccolette let go and he glanced back at Glen, who was seemingly remaining up top, before following the other two a little alone the cobbled road. Leo squinted in the low light towards the derelict building with boarded up windows. The glass that was visible was a grey-brown, inviting the mind to see the settled dust even at a distance. Leo had never noticed this building, but maybe that was its purpose: there not to be noticed. Really? Not much more could make the night become any more hackneyed than a building as suspicious as this.

Age before beauty,” he tried, as the large man went first, attempting to indicate gracefully for Nicolette to go next. He gave up on the ruse, though, at the hard look in her eyes. The passive sighed and turned to follow after his other escort, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

With the door opened - a door with bullet holes Leander noticed, though he wished he hadn’t - the passive was the first to enter, footsteps echoing on the wooden floor, and he blinked to adjust to the change in lighting. A quick sweep of the room showed the innards to be equally destroyed, if not worse off. It was empty but for some disused, ragged furniture. Upon one such couch was a man: if the field wasn’t enough of a giveaway to indicate that he was a golly, the easy way in which he lounged back in the chair, pipe in hand, told Leander exactly who he was dealing with. Frederick Lemandier, he assumed.

With an air of confidence that he didn’t feel at all, Leo stepped further into the room. The fear travelled in Leander’s veins but never made it to his facial muscles. The passive knew how to keep a rooks face, all those games in the bar had paid off after all. So long as he appeared nonchalant, no pinkness in his cheeks to betray him, everything would be just fine. He let out an understated release of breath and turned to Nicolette, showing he wasn't afraid to turn his back on the red-haired man. He reached into his breast pocket, prepared to hand it over to Niccolette: a far safer option for her to take it from here - he could feel the tension, and she was willing to walk into it.

Forged writ in his hand, it never made it into Niccolette’s hand. The sealed document hovered between the pair for a moment, and Leo’s pale gaze met the woman’s. If she saw the trepidation there, Leo would not have denied it. He turned slowly on his heel until he was facing Lemandier again.

Commanded to come closer, Leo did as requested, his mind ordering his body to fall in line, fighting to keep his gait casual with no hint of hesitation. Retreat would be a disaster, a show of weakness an inlet for the enemy to surge through. Nothing in his face betrayed his fear, it was a mask of defiance and surety. The fear would need an out of course, but there was a time and a place, and this sure as Circle wasn't it. “Of course.

This it?” The man accepted the document from Leander, examining over the wax seal with both eye and finger. Leo bit back the caustic reply he would normally give. “Your own work? As per Hawke’s instructions?” The tips of Lemandier’s fingers fiddled with the loose corners of the yellowed parchment, teasing away the edge without breaking the wax seal to peak at the ink hidden inside. The passive inclined his head in a positive response, “Yes.


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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Mon Sep 16, 2019 2:25 pm

Evening, 15 Loshis 2719
By the Docks of Old Rose Harbor
To his credit, Leander did not hesitate, turning to her and pulling the forged document from his pocket. Niccolette held, still and silent, her field bright and strong around them both, her hand extended.

The document was halfway to her when Frederick spoke again. Niccolette’s jaw clenched, slightly, her small face hardening, and her gaze flicked from the document up to Leander’s face, meeting his eyes for a long moment. She thought of telling him no; she thought of many things, but she could not focus well enough to sort through them. This had never been the part she - Uzoji’s part, Niccolette thought, her chest aching, painfully. This was Uzoji’s part, and she did not know what to do.

The Bastian lowered her hand, slowly. The passive turned away from her, and walked across the room with an impressive display of casualness. Niccolette watched him, her hand settling on her waist instead, crossing her body and holding tight to her side. The wrong choice - she had made the wrong choice, but she could not cry out now, could not call the passive back to her side.

Frederick examined the document. He, Leander and the muscular human behind him stood in the bulk of the pale light; the pool of it stretched out, spilling back along the room almost to the door. It glittered against the black ribbons of Niccolette’s dress, glinted off worn buttons on Howie’s coat. As Leander grew closer it shone golden against the pale skin of his face, highlighting the delicate bones beneath the skin.

Niccolette felt something itching at the back of her mind; something familiar. She tried to glance around, once, but the room outside of that strange oval of light seemed to fade into nothing; she could not hold her attention to it. She glanced back at Frederick, and shook her head, ever so slightly, trying to focus on the darkness again. She couldn’t tell if there was movement, if there was sound; it was a swirling black haze, all-consuming, and she thought perhaps it was reaching to swallow her whole.

Better to look at Frederick again; Niccolette’s gaze swung back to him. She blinked, hard, trying to see anything but that glinting golden light, the galdor and the human and the old chair and the passive. Next to her, Howie let out a strangled sort of grunt, frowning heavily, staring as fixedly as Niccolette at the chair.

Leander would be able to feel the heavy weight of Frederick’s field, woobly and aching with physical mona, throbbing in the air around him. The galdor had set his pipe down on the table to take the document; he looked as comfortable lounging in the miserable, moth-eaten chair as he had before. The light seemed to focus the whole of the room on him.

“Good,” Frederick slid his fingers out from the edges of the parchment, and fixed his sharp golden gaze on Leander. “I’ll take it, and Silas’s scrap as well.” With the slur, Frederick slapped the letter comfortably down on the table.

Niccolette remembered - she remembered, a cold night years earlier, a spell that had held her under while her husband had nearly died. Not then; not then; she had saved him once, and she could feel the remains of it on her side, beneath her hand. The fabric was thick and heavy, but Niccolette knew the contours of her own body well, and the contours of her husband’s hand even better. She clutched it, tightly, and let go.

“Spell!” The Bastian snapped, her voice echoing through the air.

Howie jerked, and turned, and the barrel of a gun emerged from the darkness next to him. The human threw himself sideways with ferocious speed; there was a shattering bang, cracking across the room, and a wisp of smoke. The two men skidded back into the darkness; suddenly it was not quite so black, not quite so utterly complete, but oddly yellow-gray, dark and hazy but not impenetrable. Leander would be able to see the two men grappling on the ground - would be able to see the gun, skidding back away towards the door, the two men struggling with one another. The air reeked of gunpowder.

Niccolette did not look at any of it; she had no time. The darkness had swallowed a voice too, but she could hear it now, chanting monite, coming from just next to her. It was a spell she did not know, one she had never heard, and she had come in halfway; her mind skipped and stuttered over unfamiliar perceptive phrases, and she could not - she could not - her field flexed in the air around her, a bright surge met by a powerful slippery pulse of perceptive mona.

No counter-spell; Niccolette turned and found the perceptive conversationalist just behind her. She kept her eyes down from his; he was Bastian, she thought, dark-haired with a strong chin, and a few scant inches taller than she. Something was starting to wrap around her, energy seeping from the other galdor; she felt the stirrings of fear in her chest, a whisper like a voice in her mind urging her under, urging her to surrender to despair.

Just give in,’ it whispered, and it sounded like her own. ‘It is so much easier not to fight. Why struggle so hard? Why not -

Niccolette spat the syllable of a push spell, her etheric field flexing powerfully into it.

The perceptive conversationalist was hurled back, off his feet, slamming hard into the wall, the wind knocked from him. He tried to speak - choked, the rhythm of his spell lost. The air around them went tense - tense - and snapped. Niccolette felt the mona shudder and flee. She gasped, blood trickling from her nose; the other galdor was worse, groaning, clasping his hands over his ears and wobbling, dizzily - lurching to the side, stumbling, fumbling against the wall, trying vainly to right himself. The mona had all fled, leaving an empty hole around the two gollies, though the seated Anaxi’s field still pulsed strong.

With the perceptive conversationalist disabled, there was much more they could all see; the rest of the room was not dark, the pale yellow light of the lamp joined by others on the wall, cast throughout. The perceptive conversationalist was on the ground, moaning, his hands over his ears; Howie and the other human were struggling, bashing at one another; and Frederick still sat, legs crossed, adjusting a signet ring on one finger with a smile. The large human that had been behind him had moved on his signal, quick around the side of the chair.

Leander would be able to see all this, but he wouldn’t have long to take it in. The human was reaching for him with both large hands, beady dark eyes fixed solidly on the passive.

Behind them, what had looked like solid darkness behind the chair was revealed to be a bar - and behind it a door, open wide to the night and the swaying water beyond, and nothing else between Frederick, the human, their would-be prize, and an escape.

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Rolls
Other human’s attack vs Howie: 3 and 6
Perceptive conversationalist’s attack vs Niccolette: 1 and 4
Intensity of backlash: 3
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Leander
Posts: 122
Joined: Sat Jul 07, 2018 1:21 pm
Topics: 16
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbour
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Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Dizzy
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Tue Sep 17, 2019 1:52 pm

15th Day of Loshis, 2719
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There are certain moments that never quite become easy: the kind of sensation that sits on the soul and applies weight with every step. Leo found himself growing more and more familiar with those weights, especially around galdori, and even other magic users. As a general rule, Leo had always avoided them, and each time he was impacted only seemed to help the passive find more and more creative excuses as to why working on his projects - in solitude - was as essential to him as the air in the atmosphere.

Lemandier’s field was like breathing but the air wouldn’t go in, there was less space forth in the air… a dizzying feeling and the need to get low to the ground. It was something he never thought he would be able to get used to.

But he stomached it, standing and waiting with more patience than he exercised for nigh everything else in his life. Lemandier took his time, something that frustrated the young and impulsive passive, but he bore it… not so much with a grin, but with an expression as close to neutral and disinterested as he could muster and maintain.

When Lemandier spoke, he did it so matter-of-factly that Leander took more time than he was proud to admit to process what had actually been said. Perhaps it was the calm way in which the galdor spoke, or the completely ludicrous content of the utterance, but it took Leo a moment all the same. The passive took a step back, “I’m not Silas’ anything,” Leo managed to keep his voice more even than his shaking body, but there was none of the vitriol he so desperately wanted to summon. Lemandier’s look intensified into a Look, eyes glinting in seeming delight at the challenge.

He heard the shout of magic, but felt none of its weight, far enough away from Niccolette to tangibly notice her field. This only seemed relevant, Leo realised as his eyes flickered wildly around, because that meant his so-called ‘protectors’ could not do their jobs at this distance.

A light that suddenly illuminated the room, gunfire, grunts of humans blindly throwing their weight against one another. Leo saw the gun hit the ground and skid - in the opposite direction - along the ground across the room to the door.

Instinct told him to flee. Perhaps grab the gun and fire blindly back into the room as he did so. He might catch his allies, but there was always collateral damage in battle, or so the books told him. But even the exit was across the room, and there was—

Leo did not directly follow the subsequent series of movements. There was an impact and a blur, and the brief compression of hands around his throat before someone takes him by the front of the shirt, twisting him around and shoving him bodily backwards into the brick wall behind him hard enough that Leo felt the breath stutter in his body. He blinked in confusion.

A scrap of a scrap, eh?” the hulking human leered, chuckling at his own joke as he hoisted the passive off the ground with barely any effort so that Leo had to stand on tiptoes. It was true: Leo’s light build left him somewhat disadvantaged in combat, but his most lethal weapon was his cunning - not that it even took a genius to know that pushing his knee upwards would have a certain effect.

The human moaned, releasing Leander instantly and the two tumbled to the floor under the force of their own weight. For his part, Leo was bruised and winded, but not in the manly agony of the human, who clutched at himself pitifully. and the problem with uninhibited arrogance was that Leo saw not a chance to escape, but an opportunity to best the man who mocked him. With a pounding head, Leo forced himself upwards, breathing heavily, his galdori breeding coming out in force, “better than a shitting plowfoot.” He brought up his foot quickly before stomping down, aiming to snap the human’s nose.

The impact never happened: Leander found his leg suspended in the air, unable to meet its target. There was no force pulling it down to the ground, no gravity holding him to the floor as he became weightless. The galdor had now stood and approached the motionless passive, circling him slowly, letting the menace in the air build. “You know, a side effect of growing up filthy rich is that I don’t like to ask for things twice.

Ironically, Leo would later muse in hindsight, the magical field around Lemandier felt all the more heavier while he felt weightless himself. But self-awareness was not one of Leo’s skills, particularly not when frightened. It's all fight or fight and it's so disappointingly primitive but, much like his first experience of his diablerie had been well into adulthood, he had never in adult memory been the subject of a casting. The scream of “Niccolette!” was forced past his lips before he even realised what he was saying.

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC
BWRR: 4d6 = (2+1+1+4) = 8 - partial win, critical fail

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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
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Writer: moralhazard
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Tue Sep 17, 2019 2:34 pm

Evening, 15 Loshis 2719
By the Docks of Old Rose Harbor
Niccolette was breathing hard, still; she stepped to the side, once, then again, but the other Bastian’s backlash hung heavy in the air, and she could not reach to summon the mona, could not find enough of them to hear her. Blood was trickling from her nose still, and she could taste it, bloody and metallic, on her lips.

Frederick laughed. “Better to be a plowfoot than a scrap. And what, exactly, do you think she can do?” He asked, glancing back over his shoulder at Niccolette. He smiled, slow and cruel. “I have heard of you, Niccolette Ibutatu. Shame only your husband went down in the crash, eh? But, then, seems like you’re fairly useless without him. I’m sure Silas will handle you for us.”

Niccolette tilted her head to the side, watching Frederick.

“Even I felt the sting of that backlash,” Frederick said, casually. He reached out and grabbed a hold of Leander’s leg, towing the weightless passive backwards with him towards the door, as easily as one might drag a balloon. “I expect you won’t be able to cast for a few minutes more, at least.”

“No,” Niccolette agreed. She slid a hand into her cloak, and pulled out the gun she had checked earlier, secured in a small, half-secret pocket. “Not to cast,” she pulled the trigger without hesitation, heedless of how close Leander was to the Anaxi.

Frederick jerked, shocked – he had not looked at Niccolette again until it was already too late, and when he moved, it was entirely the wrong way. The bullet passed cleanly through the right side of his chest, a much worse hit than the shoulder she'd aimed for.

The spell on Leo broke, instantly, dropping the passive to the ground next to Frederick.

The Anaxi shuddered, groaning, crumpling to the ground; blood spurted from his chest, and bloody froth bubbled up on his lips.

“Gods fucking damn it!” Niccolette cursed. She crossed to the human Leander had hit in the nuts; he was groaning, trying to rise, and Niccolette shot him as well, solidly through the chest. He slumped to the ground, blood pooling around him. The Bastian lifted her skirts with one hand, revealing her legs beneath, and stomped on the man’s head without hesitation, succeeding where Leander had failed.

“Leander, put pressure on the wound,” Niccolette snapped. “Bunch up his striping sweater, shove it against the hole, and press. Now!” There was a roar of command in her voice, a strength to it that indicated she expected to be obeyed.

Across the room, Howie and the other man were still struggling; they broke apart, and both lunged for the gun. The other man jerked an elbow into Howie’s face, knocking him off course, and grabbed at the gun, his hand closing over it. He turned to fire, but Howie was already there, on top of him; he shoved himself against the other human, and when the gun went off, the bullet went back through his opponent, straight up, making a mess even worse than Niccolette already had.

Howie pulled back, panting heavily, blood staining his face, matting the heavy fabric of his coat against his side, his knuckles torn and bleeding, one eye already swelling. He grinned, fiercely, revealing his yellowed, broken teeth, blood trickling down them. He spat onto the floor of the abandoned bar, wiping his mouth on his arm.

He went over to the galdor still slumped against the wall, and grabbed a handful of filthy cloth from his pocket, shoving it into the man's mouth, using it as a makeshift cloth as the galdor gagged against it.

Niccolette nodded, sharply, and turned back to Leander. She could feel the mona returning to the air around her, her field slowly coming back to life.

“Damn,” The Bastian spat, looking down at Frederick. He was making something like a laugh beneath the bloody gurgle. If Leander had bothered to listen to her, the Bastian would take over from him, shrugging her cloak off and leaving it pooled on the floor. She knelt next to Frederick, and pressed her hands firmly against the bunched up cloth against the wound.

“Talk, and I can yet save your life,” Niccolette told the Anaxi; she reached out in the air around her, her field slowly returning to its usual strength, sharp and bright against the flickering lamplight. She pressed a little harder against the wound, shaking, bright red blood smearing against her small white hands. “What the fuck do you know about Uzoji’s death?”

Frederick groaned, his whole body jerking in pain. “Get fucked, bitch,” he gasped, his eyes shutting, foamy blood spilling from his lips. He jerked, starting to go still; each breath seemed shallower and shallower.

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Rolls
Niccolette vs. Frederick, shot fired: SidekickBOTToday at 11:04 AM
@moralhazard: 2d6 = (5+1) = 6
Howie vs. the human, grapple: SidekickBOTToday at 11:14 AM
@moralhazard: 2d6 = (1+3) = 4
The human vs. Howie, shot fired: SidekickBOTToday at 11:24 AM
@moralhazard: 2d6 = (1+6) = 7
Niccolette shoots the other human: SidekickBOTToday at 11:21 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (3) = 3
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