[Closed] If Ever You Needed Someone

[Demkaih Alkrim]

24th Roalis, 2719
Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!

Ah, Old Rose Harbor. The sweet maiden of Anaxas, welcoming the sea weary home to her with the wide open arms of her coast. The sunlight sparkled on the warm blue waters that lapped at the beach, and gulls keened overhead as they picked off the refuse from the fishing boats. Traders bustled on the dock, moving goods from ships to land and vice versa, all talking loudly in a mash of languages. Mugrobi, Riverword and Estuan, it flowed like the Turga.

“Mister Alkrim, sir.” The ships Captain addressed Demkaih with a nod, wooden pipe tucked into his palm and green eyes regarding the tall Mugrobi from a tawny face. Hessean, the older man sported a greying short cropped beard, his long grey hair tucked up into a high topknot. The Mugrobi merchant trader stood at the bow of his ship, hands behind his back, piercing blue eyes scanning the bustle of the docks. He never tired of entering the Rose, fascinated by its hustle and bustle, whilst keeping one eye on the lingering faces of Silas Hawkes gentleman. Demkaih could never—would never—get in bed with that one, but he paid the taxes due as asked and kept his nose clean. It kept the peace, and should there be extra cargo on one his ships that hadn’t been expected, as long as it didn’t hurt his business the tall dark wick-in-galdor-clothing turned a generally blind eye.

“Captain, thankyou for allowing my time on your vessel this trip. I haven’t sailed in months, and it is good to see the Rose from Hulali’s blessed waters.” The Mugrobi merchant had chosen to dress in more Anaxi acceptable attire before coming into dock, his usual bright colors traded for a longsleeved cream colored tunic shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and loose dark brown jodhpurs. Over the top he wore an long sleeveless navy silk vest, unbuttoned and adorned with intricate gold thread embroidery. Belted at the waist with a turquoise silk scarf, the Mugrobi had worn his round blades on each hip and a collection of wooden bead necklaces around his neck. As always, a small figurine of Hulali was carried in a bright red silk pouch on his belt, this one freshly carved out of an uliam thigh bone. His feet were protected by leather woven sandals and plain wooden bracelets knocked gently on either wrist.

“No problem sir, always a pleasure. It’s your vessel, not mine. I just sail her.” Puffing on the pipe, he waved at the harbour as Demkaih began to heft a beige canvas satchel over one shoulder.

“Should you want passage back, we’ll be headed out in about a ten-day.” The Mugrobi took a deep breath, bowing respectfully to the man in his employ.

“Should I require it, I will ensure I am here before then. May Hulali watch over you and your crew Captain, till we meet again!” Throwing a single hand up in a wave, Demkaih followed his feet down the gangplank and onto the docks. He wove through the sailors and stall merchants alike, dipping a hand into a vest pocket to retrieve a slip of paper.

Niccolette. Quarter Fords…

His eyes scanned the eloquent script of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Uzoji’s mother more than eager to assist the tall business man when he had approached her regarding Niccolette those days ago. When last he’d seen the brunette widow, their conversation had been brief, and her sorrow still keenly felt. Demkaih, ever ensuring he did not step on toes during this time, had joined her in a small kofi ceremony, before taking his leave. But her face haunted him, her broken heart troubled him. When he had said as much to Rayowa, looking for the woman when he found her home empty, the older woman had been more than willing to share her location, worried for her sons widow. They had prayed to Hulali for her good health, and without hesitation Demkaih had made arrangements to catch the first of his fleet leaving for Anaxas that same day.

He hadn’t visited the Rose in years, having settled into the business like the prodigal son he was, throwing himself into the expansion of their spice routes and trade talks with Gior—the ever elusive Gior. It was almost refreshing to stroll through the sand touched streets, making his way in the summer heat towards the finer buildings that constituted the Quarter that the galdor’s address was posted in. It was clearly occupied by those with wealth, though his glamour caprised various ranges of fields around him. Other glamours too. He knew the Rose was not like Vienda, that those in power didn’t necessarily have to be galdori. As he walked, he nodded respectfully to a couple of Seventen officers, though they didn’t nod back.

Counting house numbers to himself, Demkaih paused in front of a large house, set away in the quieter part of the quarter. There were trees overhanging the entrance, wilted and in dire need of Huliali’s touch, tucked behind a walkway that was clearly not a common thoroughfare. Ducking his towering frame under the branches of a sad branch, the Mugrobi checked the address once more, shifting his bag on his shoulder. He had brought enough to stay in Anaxas for at least a few days, and had coin should he need to purchase accommodation or more attire, not to mention a few gifts from home for Uzoji’s widow. Surely a good strong kofi and some Muluku sweets would be welcome to the young woman, or at least be good for her. Reaching a knuckled hand up, he rapped thrice on the door, before stepping back and calling out.

“Niccolette Ibutatu? It is Demkaih Alkrim!” He said loudly, before waiting patiently for the doorway to open. Faintly, he reached out with his modest glamour, hoping to give the woman some warning should she not be expecting company.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 24th Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette picked up a plate from the table and dropped it, letting it break against the ground. She picked up another, and all but threw it at the ground, the sharp shattering sound echoing through the room. She wobbled, unsteadily, and gripped the back of the chair with her hand, breathing hard. She was clammy with sweat, and something ran from her ear, sticky against the bare skin of her neck. She wobbled again, and clung to the back of the chair, shuddering and waiting for the surge of nausea to pass.

It did, and Niccolette fumbled for another plate. This one she did not drop; she threw it, hard; it spun over the table, clipped the edge and tumbled with a thunk to the ground.

“Godsdamn!” Niccolette cursed, hot red sparking through her field. She sniffled, breathing harder, and rubbed angrily at the tears leaking from her eyes and slowly trickling down her cheeks. She made her way around the edge of the table, gripping it, and dropped to her knees with a whimper, fumbling for the cracked plate. She picked it up, set it on the table, and used both hands to pull herself back to her feet. She picked up the plate again, and hurled it at the wall again; it hit properly this time, and shattered, and Niccolette burst into tears.

The Bastian sank into one of the dining rooms chairs, bent over double, and wept, her ear throbbing painfully, her skin hot and clammy against her own hands. She sobbed until the red drained from her field and left behind a heavy morass of deep blue; it held, weighing down the air around her, even as the tears eased and left her thirsty, miserably so. Niccolette shuddered, and rose. She stumbled a few feet and poured herself a glass of something pale brown that she could not name, that she could barely see through bleary, swollen eyes. She took a sip, gagged, and set the glass back down. She spun, one hand against the wall, and the other tight to her mouth - shuddered - the liquor was not bad, she thought, but something inside her rebelled at the taste, and she closed her eyes for a moment, swaying, and slumped against the wall.

Niccolette swallowed, hard, shuddered, and pushed away from the wall slowly. She walked, one foot in front of the other, slow and steady against the sick lurch in her stomach, and she was streaked with sweat; her shift clung to her, but she didn’t have anything like the strength to pluck it away from her skin. At some point she had stepped in the porcelain shards of the plates, and small bloody tracks marked her path down the hallway, down to the small bathroom not far from her front door.

Niccolette half knelt, half fell in front of the toilet and threw up. She coughed and choked and threw up again. Her nose burned and her eyes watered and her ear felt as if it would burst; her whole head felt as if it might burst. She sobbed into the toilet, tears mingling with the sick, and eventually she could not keep her eyes open any longer, and she slumped to the tiled floor and wept until she was too weary to be awake.

Niccolette woke to the sound of the door, a pounding that she had almost thought she had imagined over the throbbing in her head, the echo of words she could not hear. She shuddered; she pulled herself to her feet, flushed the toilet, and stumbled to the sink, water dribbling between the cupped edges of shaking hands as she splashed it against her face. She rinsed her mouth out, and spat into the sink. She wiped her nose on her hand, and flakes of dried blood smeared against her skin.

Niccolette knew she could not look at herself in the mirror; she did not try. She closed her eyes, and she thought she had better not go to the door; she had better not answer. Something she could not name compelled her onwards. Something throbbed in her foot, but it was nothing to the inferno in her ear, and she wiped her sticky forehead on her arm and shuddered.

The hallway had never felt so long, and Niccolette was not sure she would make it. Again, she thought that she should turn back; her head was spinning, and she knew this was not the place for her. She could not hold herself straight; one hand dragged along the walls, and she wobbled with every step. Her skin ached, as if her flesh had grown so thin that it might rip apart with the brush of her shift or the wall. Even the air seemed to drag over it like sandpaper.

Niccolette felt the brush of a field in the hallway, and frowned faintly as she opened the door; her dark hair was a tangled mess around her head, and the thin white fabric of her shift clung unevenly to her skin, revealing a dark blotch like a scar hidden against her side. Her eyes were red and swollen with weeping, one nostril was crusted with dried blood, and something sticky and wrong ran from one ear down the side of her jaw. The sharp red line of a half-healed cut ran sideways along her neck. Her face was too pale, and her cheeks fever bright, her skin pulled tight across her bones; dark dried blood was smeared against the side of one bare foot, and brushed lightly across her other calf. She blinked at Demkaih in the brightness of the day, and gave her head a faint shake. Immediately, Niccolette grimaced, one hand coming to cradle her bad ear, and sagged against the wall.

“Are you a hallucination?” The Bastian asked, curiously, lowering her hand. She did not think she had ever had fever like this before, but naturally she knew hallucinations could result. Even with her voice raspy and raw in her throat, she enunciated; each syllable was as carefully pronounced as if she were casting. Her field stirred in the air around her, its indectal feel starkly at odds with the rest of her appearance; the living mona in it reached out, and mingled curiously with Demkaih’s, caprising him.

“I do not think this is Thul Ka.” Niccolette’s eyes fluttered shut, and she wobbled precariously against the wall of the hallway, slumping and pitching forward slightly. She did not open her eyes again, her breathing ragged and unsteady; her right hand curled across her and clutched at her side, finding the dark patch unerringly and gripping it tightly, fingers digging against the thin shift. She shuddered, and rested her head a little more against the wall, feeling the coolness of it against her skin.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

24th Roalis, 2719
Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!

As the door opened, Demkaih had already caprised something was not quite right from the otherside, the Bastian’s field loose and wild with sensations that made him feel almost queasy himself. Had he not known her aura from Thul’Ka, the Mugrobi would have thought that he’d approached the wrong address. Even as it was, he was beginning to suspect he still had. The sunlight of the morning poured into the darkened hallway, framing the young woman in its rays, exposing the harsh visage of the normally beautiful galdor.

“Bajea, Niccolette! Who has done this to you?!” Demkaih exclaimed in shock, his brow drawing over blue eyes and reaching to catch the thin wisp of a woman by the shoulders, straightening to his full height to peer over her shoulder for any signs of danger, before ducking his head to look at her bleary bloodshot eyes.

“Yar'aka, you are burning.” He uttered quietly, any concerns about seeing his deceased friend in naught but a clingy slip far, far from his mind as the older man focused on her well being. Shifting to dump his bag inside the door, the business man made his way inside and closed it with his foot, ignoring any protests from the Bastian as he moved to scoop her carefully into his arms. Carefully making his way back down the corridor, the Mugrobi spoke in his native tongue under his breath, crystalline gaze taking in the disarray of Niccolette’s home. He took care to step over glass shards, noting the bloodied footprints that made their way into the bathroom which had clearly been her last place of attendance. Moving past the room with the table and chairs, Demkaih glanced over the shattered dishes, before turning away to find somewhere he could put the woman down that was safe and comfortable. After peering into a couple more rooms, the spice merchant found what might be the parlor, or at least it could serve as one for now. He moved gingerly towards a large armchair, letting the sweat soaked, blood smeared woman down and turning her to ensure her head and feet were both elevated on the arms of the chair.

“Be still adame, I will return.” He said quietly, drawing the two circular blades from his belt and keeping his body low in a defensive stance. Quickly, the tense wick moved through the house, checking for signs of struggle or attack.

Quickly, he realized there was none.

Coming back to Niccolette, the dark skinned man put away his blades, securing them both at his back as he knelt beside the inflicted woman.

“I am no hallucination, though epa’ma I have waited to long to check on you.” Pushing damp, dark locks from her forehead, Demkaih didn’t ask for permission. His glamour collected like water around the curl of a current, and his hand shifted to rest gently on her palid skin as monite flowed from his lips. He didn’t have the skills needed to help the woman, but he knew enough basic anatomy to understand an infection when he saw it and fever when he felt it. At least he could attempt to help relieve some of the symptoms so he could retrieve better help for her.

Dice Roll AnesthetiaShow

SidekickBOTToday at 13:43
@Raksha: `1d6` = (5) = 5

The cast was a basic one, an adaption of a classical anesthetic spell that was quite popular with the students of Brunnhold post an outrageously bad night of drinking. As if drawn to the plight, and familiar with the brush of Living in the brunette’s field, the mona responded with a kindness. A coolness would wash over the inflicted woman, relieving at least the worst of the throbbing in her head, enough at least to allow Demkaih to speak to her. It would not be perfect, he never was the best at spellwork—and he never would be—but it would be just enough he hoped. If she protested, if she refused, the older Mugrobi would beg forgiveness later.

“Hulali floats, and he drowns.” The man sighed, drawing his hand away and looking at the woman.

“Flood it all Niccolette, what has become of Uzoji’s wife? I came to check on her, but I am not sure I have found her.” He said softly, letting his gaze take all of her in finally. The dried blood and strange ooze from her ear, the cling of her shift against the strange darkness of her side, the hazy remnants of days of drinking lingering in her field. Her house smelt, as did she, of despair and loss, though Demkaih didn’t shy away. He knelt by her, waiting quietly for the broken woman to reply.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 24th Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette’s eyes jerked open at the feel of Demkaih’s hands in her shoulders. She shuddered; she was hot to the touch, the rounded bones of her shoulders stark against her skin, collarbones jutting into the air.

“No,” Niccolette protested when Demkaih made to pick her up - she jerked backwards, but she was trapped between the Mugrobi and the wall, and the weak slaps of her hands against him were ineffective. Something tilted inside her when he picked her up - pain stabbed through her ear - and Niccolette groaned, twisting and flailing. It hurt; it hurt, the pressure of his arms against her skin. “No,” Niccolette closed her eyes, and shoved at his chest with her hands, but she did not think he so much as noticed.

She could hear him grumbling in Mugrobi, soft and oddly familiar; she could not look around, the jostling made her too dizzy. Niccolette found his shirt with her hand again and gripped, tightly, anchoring herself against the bouncing.

And then he was laying her down on the long armchair in the study that had once been Uzoji’s, and Niccolette watched through bleary, half-closed eyelids as he drew his knives and went. Her breath caught in her throat then, and she began to sob, twisting sideways and curling up against the cushion. Niccolette wept until she was breathless, and it did not help, not in the least. There seemed to be an endless supply of tears in her, and it felt as if they had long since drained her dry. Her stomach ached, her foot too, and her ear most of all.

Demkaih would find an empty house; most of the rooms were closed, but unlocked. There were sitting rooms and guest rooms with white sheets over the bed and chairs; a quiet kitchen with one pot drying on a rack, nothing but the faint smell of soup lingering in the air; shattered dishes on the floor of the dining room, Niccolette’s bloody tracks through them; her study, at the far end of the hall, pages of monite spread out over the desk, a heavy feeling of mona in the air, echoing from a closed door to a back room; the bedroom she and Uzoji had once shared, the sheets a twisted mess, the reek of sweat in the air, an empty bottle on the floor, traces of wine almost evaporated along its sides.

Niccolette had stopped crying by the time Demkaih returned. She could not have said how long it had been, but the blue had drained from the air around her, left it clear once more. She giggled when he began to cast, shifting on the armchair. “You learned that at Brunnhold,” she said, her eyes fluttering. There were chills running through her now, and her teeth were chattering, hard enough to shake her whole body.

Niccolette shivered as the spell sank into hers, and groaned. Her eyes closed, then opened again, and focused slowly on Demkaih’s face. “Mm...” she rubbed her face with a tired hand, shifting against the armchair, and squinted at him.

Niccolette’s nostrils flared at his words, and she gripped the arm of the chair and heaved herself upright, shaking with the effort. She lifted her chin, and stared Demkaih down. Her field gathered around her; it tensed, and it pulsed, swamping the other galdor’s much weaker one. She pushed her hair back off her face, fingers tangling in the heavy locks, shoving it out of the way.

“How dare you,” Niccolette spat. Red crackled through her field; fury sharpened her gaze, and her hand clenched tighter on the arm of the chair. She had stopped shaking, although she was not sure when. “By Her fearful symmetry - You shall not come to my house and say such things to me, Demkaih Alkrim.”

Niccolette could not stand; she knew she could not. It did not matter; she sat, stiff upright, gripping the arm of the chair, and her field bore down on his. Her anger lanced from her like a blow, the air burning a deep, dark red around her, heating.

“I am the wife of Uzoji Ibutatu,” Niccolette said, fever burning in her cheeks and fury burning in her eyes. “Death cannot take that from me.”

[Demkaih Alkrim]

24th Roalis, 2719
Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!

The Mugrobi has been quite proud of his spellwork. Even if it was a very basic spell, it had still been successful, thank Hulali. The gentle giggle that escaped the disheveled creature shattered his momentary victory however, and he couldn’t stop the touch of color in his cheeks.

“Indeed. It was a…popular spell in my time there. I am going to guess it was for you too.” He said quietly, not at all unaware of the ramscott depth of her power against his meager offerings. It would never be comparable, not against a galdor, but still…the man did have some pride.

Giggling, at least, was better than refusing his help.

Demkaih felt the change in her, almost immediately, at the mention of Uzoji. He’d be stupid to think she wouldn’t bite, but by Hulali it was like stepping into the den of a sandlioness, her ferocity and ire suffocating in it’s press. The tall man held her gaze, though he didn’t bolster his own field in return, keeping it dotered and non-threatening as he looked at her.

At least she still had enough strength for anger. And by the Circle, she was glorious in her rage. A vessel of the mona, like Hurte in galdori form, ready to strike down that which displeased her.

Still, even the Gods needed saving sometimes.

Standing and straightening himself so he was looking back at the woman with all the seriousness he could muster from his height, Demkaih tsked.

“You are right, death cannot take that, but grief can.” His tone was firm, blunt and direct, one that he had no doubt used on his little sister or Uzoji himself at one stage or another.

“Where is the proud, self assured woman my adame married? She is not here.” His hand swept over the room, indicating the household, before gesturing at herself almost dramatically.

“Here, I see ruin and blame. Drink does not hold an answer to your pain, it only brings more. Where is the Ibutatu I watched stand under Hulali’s blessing, the world at her feet? You are better than this, and I will not let grief take Uzoji’s wife.” Looking at her sternly for a moment, carefully holding his glamor in check, Demkaih let his gaze soften as he sighed again.

“The Circle knows I do not come here to disrespect you Niccolette. I have only your best interests in mind. Rayowa too. We were worried when you left Mugroba, and I promised to check on you. I expected…well I do not know what I expected, and it does not matter for now.” He moved again, slowly, lifting his hands up as not to startle the woman.

“Hulali teaches us that the compassionate fisherman catches the most fish.” Gently, cautiously, the wick reached out for the upright creature to carefully wrap his arms around her in what he hoped was a comforting embrace. If she said no, he would draw back, though his glamour tentatively reached for her.

“You may rage at me, adame, but I will not be leaving. You are unwell, and need a healer. And a friend.” He let a soft smile grace his lips briefly.

“Rayowa would burn my saffron fields down if I left you.” Sitting back on his heels, the Mugrobi regarded her carefully.

”I cannot heal this, but I cannot leave you here alone. Here now, I am going to draw you a bath, and find you clothing, and then we will find a healer.” Demkaih made to stand, hesitating for a moment. He reached again for her, this time just a hand on hers, brow furrowed with genuine concern and empathy for the broken Bastian.

“Let me help you, Niccolette. I do not know you as closely as Uzoji, and you do not know me so well, but I cared for your husband like a little brother. I know the sickness that heartache can bring, my father lived it every day…though that is another tale for another time.” The blue eyed entrepreneur said quietly, curbing his conversation suddenly, as though to close himself from his own memories. He offered Niccolette another gentle smile.

“You are not judged by me, and I do not pity you. I only wish to save you from the grief I see tearing you apart. The accident that took Uzoji, it does not need to take you too.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 24th Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette kept her gaze on Demkaih as he rose, her chin lifting even higher, breathing hard. Tears sparked in her eyes at his words, and Niccolette cursed them to herself. Damn you, she thought – damn you. She bit them back, and she held, one hand digging into the arm of the chair, gripping it so tightly her arm shook, and her knuckles bulged, pale, beneath the skin. She held – she did not cry, she did not weep, and she stared at Demkaih as he accused her, and she did not yield.

His tone softened, and Niccolette’s lips trembled, pressing together. She felt it in her chin, and then through all of her, and her breath caught in her throat. There were tears rising in her eyes again, a sharp, stinging heat in the base of them. Kindness, Niccolette thought bitterly, was so much worse. “No,” The Bastian whispered when Demkaih reached for her. She looked away; she knew she could not stop him, but she pulled back all the same, her back pressing against the back of the chair, and shuddered, tears spilling down her cheeks again. Her field was a hard wall against his gentle probe.


“Dammit,” Niccolette cursed, hotly, and wiped her eyes again. She looked away from Demkaih now, her shoulders shaking too – her whole body trembling. Her ear hurt; it had hurt for days, and she had let it go on hurting. She had read too much poetry not to understand it; it was all around her, Uzoji’s collection, Mugrobi names along the spines. Niccolette wiped her eyes with her hands, ground the heels of her palms into them, as if she might press the tears back into herself.

Niccolette’s gaze snapped back to Demkaih when he said the accident did not need to take her too. She pressed her lips together; she had heard much the same in Hawke’s words, she thought bitterly. She felt as if it had already taken her; there was something missing in her chest, where her heart had once been, and she could not –

Niccolette’s jaw clenched, and pain flared through her head. No, she thought, bitterly; that, she could not heal. Nothing could; perhaps time would seal over the wound. It had not seemed to help, so far, and the Bastian knew that there were some wounds that did not heal, not to what they had been before. But one learned to cope, in time; one learned to make do with what was left, if they had the will.

“Fine,” Niccolette said, and there was still a sharpness to her tone. If her eyes were red, still, there were no more tears on her cheeks, and she met Demkaih’s eyes again without hesitation. “Fine,” she had not pulled her hand away from his, though she had not taken it either. “You do not know me at all,” The Bastian said, simply. “But – for Uzoji’s sake.” Her voice was, if anything, stronger on his name.

Niccolette took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I am not in need of a healer.” She said. “If you wish to help me, then take me to my study at the end of the hall.”

This time, Niccolette would not fight when Demkaih lifted her; she swallowed the pain that shot through her ear, no matter how gentle he was, and held stiff and tense in his arms. “There,” she said, pointing to the study he had seen. She did not look at the desk covered in monite; she had him set her down at the back door, and she gripped the door itself tightly, using it to keep her upright.

“I shall need some dry, clean cloths,” Niccolette said, staring at the heavy door. She clenched her jaw again, and pulled it open.

The room beyond was like a sea of candles, white, strewn over the floor in an intricate plot; the rest of the house was dusty, with a faint aura of disuse, as if Niccolette had not bothered even ask her maids to dust. This room was spotless, as if not even dust would dare; each candle was flawlessly clean, without even the faintest scrapings of wax on its side, and there was not the slightest flaw to the arrangement. Niccolette took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and stepped carefully through the candles, finding her way to the space at the center. If she wobbled, she did not disarrange them.

Niccolette knelt in the center of it all, and waited there, her back straight, resting on her knees. She took the cloths from Demkaih when they came, and set them down beside herself. She held a moment more, breathing slowly in and out, and then looked back at the Mugrobi.

“You do not need to watch,” Niccolette said, simply. “This shall hurt.”

The Bastian closed her eyes, and did not look at Demkaih again; her breathing took on a particular pattern, a repetition of counts that stirred the mona in her field. After some time, Niccolette spoke, a few simple syllables of mona, and flame washed out from her over the candles, lighting them as it went, so the plot around her glowed with flame. She did not break the rhythm of her breath even as she cast, nor afterwards.

Niccolette began with a quantitative cast, simple enough, calling on the mona to tell her more about what was wrong with her ear, how bad the infection was. They gave her nothing; nothing, hardly stirring in response. Niccolette smiled, tears glistening in her eyes, the candlelight lighting them up, but even that did not break the rhythm of her breath.

Very well, the Bastian thought. Very well. So it would be.

Niccolette held the rhythm of her breaths a few long moments more. No fear, she thought; no fear. No anticipation, even, for the pain that would come; she could not afford it. No anger. No joy, either, because she could not but think of the last time a quantitative cast had failed her so badly – Uzoji, bleeding out beneath her hands in the dark and the snow. She had saved him, then; she had saved him, just a little longer. No sorrow; not now.

Niccolette began to cast again; her field rose etheric around her, blossoming outwards in the fullness of its strength, filling the small room with energy and heat. The candle flames strained towards Niccolette as she inhaled, then folded outwards on her exhale, like waves with the galdor at the center. Hazy energy rose up in the air around her, a physical manifestation of all that heat. Niccolette tempered the spell; she could not guide it with her knowledge, and so instead she used force. One hand lowered to the ground and lifted one of the cloths Demkaih had brought; she held it to her ear, and continued to cast, banishing the infection from her body.

The energy glistened and hovered and streamed, curving around her fingers, around the towel, pooling into her ear. Niccolette’s whole body jerked and tightened and shook, but her voice was as cool and even as ever, the syllables perfectly enunciated. There was a terrible smell in the air, and her hand was tight on the cloth, keeping it pressed to her ear.

Niccolette curled the spell, and lowered the towel to the ground, folding it against her hand; she set it down, and did not look at what she had done to herself; it was more than a little trickle, now, matted against the side of her head. The Bastian held there for a moment; she was silent, then, but she never broke the rhythm of her breath, even as color returned slowly to her cheeks. Her eyelashes fluttered, and for a moment she sagged – and then Niccolette gathered herself, reached somewhere inside and held herself tight.

She rose up again, and began to cast once more, her eyes fluttering open. Niccolette’s voice was no less strong this time; blood began to trickle from her nose as she spoke, a few bright red drops tumbling down, scattering against the floor, staining the pale white shift. Still, she never hesitated, and hazy energy rose in the air around her once more. Niccolette swayed, back and forth, but her voice was strong, and she tempered the spell, again, this one to heal her injured ear. Power, again, because she had never looked inside to know just where the eardrum was damaged – and so she forced the healing onto herself, with all her strength. Energy streamed into her ear once more; her whole body was shaking with the agony, and still Niccolette cast.

Finally, she curled the spell; she doubled forward, shaking, and fumbled for a towel, pressing it to her nose, her head tilting forward, bright red blood streaming through the cloth. Niccolette held the rhythm of her breath through it all, until she could speak again – and then it was just a few words that she whispered. Air lashed out from her and flickered the candles out, and Niccolette groaned, her shoulders shaking.

The Bastian held there, streaked with sweat and breathing hard, every bit of her quivering with remembered agony. She licked her lips, and grimaced at the taste of blood, and looked up at Demkaih. Her quick, shallow breaths slowed – deepened, and Niccolette managed something very like a smile. “I shall take that bath now,” the Bastian said, calmly.

Rolls

Quantitative cast to determine extent of injury: SidekickBOTToday at 3:57 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (1) = 1
Anti-infection spell: SidekickBOTToday at 3:57 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (4) = 4
Eardrum healing spell: SidekickBOTToday at 3:57 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (5) = 5

[Demkaih Alkrim]

24th Roalis, 2719
Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!

Demkaih didn’t argue her point, it was true after all, he didn’t know her at all. But by Hulali’s Grace he knew this state of mind, this rage and grief. His father had been there, many times over, during the course of his younger life. He’d seen the proud, well educated business man sobbing in the corner of his bedroom with drink in hand and his mothers prayer in the other. He’d seen the worst of the man, and the best of him.

No, he didn’t know Nicco at all, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t help. It didn’t mean he didn’t care.

The tall man knew what Uzoji’s name would do to the wounded lioness, the flare in her field and the tone in her voice far more heartening than the bleary woefulness that had greeted him at the door. He resisted the urge to smile at her venomous acceptance of his aide, bending to slip an arm under her legs and the other around her back, lifting the woman as though she weighed nothing at all. The Mugrobi was careful however, trying to keep his movements as smooth as possible, unable to avoid caprising the pain in her field as close as they were. He moved through the hall to the study, carefully placing the woman down as his blue eyes scanned the paperwork on the desk. Monite. Was it known spellwork or was the brunette writing her own? Demkaih hated spellcrafting in written form, he’d never been good at it, his connection to the mona more casual. Like old friends making good banter. Then again, he’d never really relied on it. Brunnhold required his magic, his showmanship. Anaxas required his galdor status, his pomp. Mugroba however, She didn’t demand of him. He let his monic dependencies slide at home, for favor of hard work done by his own hand.

Still, he knew what he was reading, and curiosity etched at him. Out of politeness however, he would not ask.

“Cloths. I shall return in a moment.” The dark skinned man said plainly, bowing slightly before he left the study, not entirely unaware of the progdium that was built out of candles on the floor. Niccolette had been casting, or at least attempting to cast, something very powerful in that room. He could feel it singe the edges of his glamour and ring faintly in his teeth. As he moved through her home, Demkaih uttered quiet prayers to Hulali, begging for protection and support in this dark hour. Finding his quarry, the tall devout returned, handing them to the Bastian and standing back with his hands clasped together and back straight.

“Indeed, I suspect it will.” He said quietly, but he didn’t turn away, instead planting his feet and watching the younger woman as she called the mona to her. Her aura shifted like the breathing of some great slumbering beast on the verge of awakening, heat and power pressing against the Mugrobi’s modest glamour. It was both horrible and amazing to watch, the entrepreneur having not spent time with strong magisters since his days in Brunnhold. He found himself breathing in time with her, like the whispered hum of a song just under ones breath, and he moved his hand to the pouch on his belt to thumb at the figurine there. The first spell was complete, Niccolette’s shoulders sagging with the exertion, but Demkaih held himself in check. This was not a woman who needed a man to hold her up, this was a warrioress who stood on her own two feet.

Still, as she took to the second spell, blood dripping from her nose, the older man couldn’t help the frown that creased his brow. She might be a warrioress, and she might be strong, but he would not let her kill herself it it was coming to that. The muscle in his jaw twitched, and his fingers curled tightly around the carving of his God as he forced himself to stay where he was, knowing that an interruption to her casting could cause far more harm than good.

And then, finally, it was done.

The candles extinguished, Niccolette finally looked at him, and gave him a small indication that somewhere in there. Somewhere in that broken down woman was the one he’d met on the river of the Turga. Demkaih smiled, tilting his head in a slight nod, before moving to find her bathroom. It didn’t take long, he’d seen its location before when searching for the enemies that were not there. Running the taps, the tall wick drew it hot and high, knowing that the heat would be good for her aches. He drew Hulali’s carving from his pouch, cupping it in his hands and scooping up a large handful of water to draw it close to his lips as he whispered fervent words.

“O Gracious Navigator, Keeper of the Seas. Bless this water with Your most Holy grace, and help this woman find peace in your soothing embrace. Wash away her ills and her hurts, bring her clarity to see beyond her grief. Most Revered Hulali, cast your net over this woman and draw out the pain which clouds her mind. Bring her the light, which she has lost, and keep her heart safe. In Your Name, sana’Hulali.” Letting the hot, clear liquid escape his hands to return to the bath, the Mugrobi returned the carving to his pouch and came back to Niccolette, offering his assistance to lift her up and help her to the steamy room.

“You cast magnificently.” He said quietly, hoping to start a conversation with the woman who’s home he had all but barged into and insulted, not sure if she would want him to hang around after finding her senses. Standing awkwardly in the doorway, he turned away, keeping his back and his blades to the woman with a full sense of propriety.

“Is there anything else I can get? Clothing, or towels, or bath goods? I have a recipe for a bath oil, which I am sure I could get the ingredients for from your own kitchen. It is, in fact, a secret recipe, one that the bath houses in Anaxas have tried to steal for years. They tell me it has a certain healing touch, though I know that it does not. Anaxi like their concoctions.” The merchant chuckled to himself, bemused by the curious placebo effect that certain smells and sensations could have on the perceptible mind. He was most certain that the Bastian was not one of those people.

Pausing his conversational words for a moment, the man raised an eyebrow, turning his head to the side slightly but not at all glancing into the room.

“I could not help but notice the injury on your side, Niccolette. Is this something we too need to address? It looked serious.” Demkaih questioned with a mild stern tone, one used on younger siblings or self-destructive friends.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 24th Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette held upright and proud until she could no longer hear Demkaih’s footsteps – and then she sagged, rasping sobs shuddering in her throat, bloody hands clenching tight in the once-white fabric of her shift. She was too drained to fully weep; it felt as if there were no more tears left in her, but neither could she quite seem to stop. She wiped her bloody nose on the cloth again, gasping for breath, and resigned herself to it.

By the time the Mugrobi returned, Niccolette had found a place of calm again; if her eyes were a little redder than before, it would hardly be easy to notice. She was bent over the candles, carefully, scraping away the drippings of wax from their sides with a small knife, intent on her task, taking all the deep breaths she needed to keep her hands steady.

Niccolette glanced up at Demkaih when he entered once more, and went back to her task, finishing the last corner of the plot. She took the small knife and the handful of wax scrapings and rose, navigating carefully out of the plot. With what felt like all the strength she had left, she held herself steady and upright, deposited the wax in the basket by the door, and let the Mugrobi lift her once more. Her skin was cooler to the touch already – not returned to normal, not yet, the fever in her still breaking, but not the same dry, bonedeep heat he had felt before. She let him carry her without comment or thanks, and stumbled back to her feet when they reached the small bathroom.

“Yes,” Niccolette acknowledged the compliment to her casting. She had worked hard to make it so; she did not bother with any sort of false modesty. Demkaih stood in the doorway, turning his back to her. Niccolette stripped off the bloody, ruined shift and let it drop from her hand, pooling on the tiled floor. She went to the sink, first, tottering, and splashed a handful of water against the dried blood beneath her nose, then against the dirty mess beneath her ear, cleaning some of the worst of it away. For a moment, she glanced at the toilet, wondering if she might be sick – but it passed, the nausea faded and Niccolette made her way unsteadily back to the tub, clinging to the side.

The Bastian could see the steam rising, could feel the heat against her hands but she did not hesitate; she climbed into the hot water and groaned, softly, sitting back against the side of the tub. It was not too hot, not for her. For the first time in days, she could submerge her head fully, and she did without hesitation, dipping beneath and coming back up, her hair floating thick on the water around her.

“No,” Niccolette said, in response to Demkaih’s offer. There were towels in the room, and a bathrobe kept in the cabinet also – one of Uzoji’s, Niccolette knew. It was not supposed to be there, but she had not be able to bring herself to order the maid to take it; she could not fathom it. She understood what he was trying to do; she understood that he meant well with his offers, but she could not find it in herself to enjoy the bath fully; it was a thing she did to clean herself, to ease the ache of too much magic through her muscles and bones – not for pleasure.

“It is not an injury,” Niccolette said, eyes closing. She held there in the tub, bathed in the heat; it felt as if nothing could hurt her, not now. She felt drained from the strong emotion of the last few days, from the intensity of the cast – from the pain that, still now, she could remember all-too-well. She felt as if she herself was the steam, rising up and away from the water – up and away from it all. Steam, Niccolette thought, could not ache so. Perhaps it would be better thus.

“It was backlash,” Niccolette said, the sound of her voice odd and unexpected in her ears. She sat up, and took a small cake of scented soap and a rough washcloth; the Bastian rubbed the cake over the cloth, and began to scrub at herself, hard and merciless, leaving red marks against her skin – as hard as it took, to cleanse away all the misery of the past days.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and Niccolette only knew that she spoke aloud by the sound of her own voice, by the dry, rasping ache in her throat. “It was three and a half years ago, now. Uzoji was hurt, very badly. I held him to me, and I called on the mona to heal him. They did not – “ Niccolette shuddered, and exhaled. “They refused. I could feel that they wished me to let him go, but I held on instead – I held him to me. They marked us both, but he… he lived, then. A little longer,” She set the washcloth down against the rim of the tub, then, trembling in the hot water.

“It was not an accident,” Niccolette said. She sat there in the tub, her hands coming up to grip the sides, turning her gaze to the small gold ring on her left hand. She shuddered, then, wiped her hands against her eyes, and picked up the washcloth, starting to clean herself a second time, scrubbing at already-clean skin with shaking hands.

“Uzoji’s death,” Niccolette said, the word harsh on her tongue, filling her mouth. She dropped the washcloth into the water, and bent forward, her knees coming up out of the tub, hands wrapping around them, face pressing against the small bones, all the bumps of her spine visible down the soft curve of her back. “It was not an accident. They took him from me.” Niccolette began to cry, then, weeping softly against her legs. She wondered if her tears, too, would rise up and away like steam; she wished they would, but they only seemed to weigh her down, cool and salty against her skin.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

24th Roalis, 2719
Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!

It is not an injury.
​​
​​Demkaih frowned a little more, quite certain he had seen a dark marring on her side through the sheer sweat soaked slip. He let her explain though, a backlash, and with patience he heard the rest of the story. Uzoji hurt, Niccolette desperately trying saving him, and the mona refusing. That sentience that dictated the should and should not of its usage, refusing what it didn't consider noble use in the spirit of conquest. What had been so un-noble about saving a young man’s life?
​​
​​The Mugrobi’s jaw tightened, muscle twitching along his cheek, hand wandering to Hulali’s carving as he inhaled and exhaled steadily.
​​
​​ “The will of the mona is sometimes confusing, and we galdori are at their mercy. Forcing a spell was dangerous, but, I understand why. If it were myself, if it was my sister, I would have done much the same. I am sorry for your pain, and Uzoji’s. He did not deserve that.”
​​
​​ It was not an accident.
​​
​​Demkaih felt a rush within his chest, a swooping of adrenaline and shock coursing through his veins. His heart pounded against his sternum, shaking his head as Niccolette spoke words that made no sense to him. No accident? Forgetting himself as a deep, sickening feeling boiled from the depths, the older man turned around to look at the weeping woman curled around her knees.
​​
​​ “What did you say?” He said quietly, deep voice hard and angry, brow drawn down to twist his face into something between confusion and murderous rage. The Bastian continued to speak, but it didn’t help, made less sense. Glamour flaring with a surge of deep, dark crimson, Demkaih clenched his fists as he looked at the younger woman, any sense of propriety at her nakedness washed aside by the bitter sense of loss he felt.
​​
​​ “How was…how couldn’t…” The Mugrobi shook his head, stalking into the room and grabbing the first towel he saw, sympathy for the woman overshadowed by the disbelief. Who would dare want to kill Uzoji? He could still see him, the mischievous little boy stealing pastries and hiding in the garden, the proud young man defying his family to follow his heart, standing in the rain beside the Turga with eyes for none but Niccolette. Kind, smart, so full of life. Destined for great things, and for Demkaih as much of a sibling as Orianna.
​​
​​ “Who is they? What do you mean they took him? Niccolette Ibutatu, you will get out of that bath and you will tell me everything. I will not grieve for Uzoji any further, no. Grief is for the lost, he was not lost he was taken. We do not grieve the taken, we avenge them.” He gripped the towel tightly for a moment, as though it were a weapon ready to wield against the fury in his chest, before placing it near the woman.
​​
​​ “Save your tears girl, we will cry when his soul is finally at rest. I will make tea, and you will explain this. All of it. I will wait for you.” Drawing himself to his full height, fists tight by his side, Demkaih stormed from the room to her kitchen, kicking broken plates across the room as he uttered curses in his native tongue.
​​
​​Who would kill him, and why? Uzoji was not a bad man, he had no enemies as a child, and Demkaih knew of none as an adult. Or at least, none that Uzoji had let him be aware of. It had, admittedly, been a while since they had properly spoken but that didn't change things. If he was in danger the boy should have come to him.
​​
​​Damn it.
​​
​​Damn it all.
​​
​​Crashing his way around the creation of the tea, by the time Niccolette would find him, the tall dark skinned man would just finish pouring a cup for her and setting it firmly on the table. His sky blue gaze would flick up at her under drawn brows and his glamour would resonate with echos of her emotions, not as strong nor as heart wrenchingly heavy, but still valid. Still there.
​​
​​ “You will sit. You will talk.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 24th Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Demkaih was angry; Niccolette could feel it in the flare of his field, in the sudden hardness in his voice. It was a sharp shift, and a shock to her. She held, curled against herself in the tub, but it warmed her as the water had, that anger. She said nothing further, turning her head slightly to watch Demkaih place the towel down, and held, resting her cheek on her knees until the Mugrobi had gone from the room.

Niccolette rose, then, slowly. She stepped from the tub and wrapped the towel around herself. She closed her eyes for a long moment, weaving faintly back and forth until she found her balance once more. The spell had drained her; the bath had revived her somewhat, and Demkaih’s anger seemed to have met her own, somewhere beneath her breastbone, and it sent warmth flowing through her.

Niccolette did not hurry, all the same. She walked, barefoot and towel-clad to her bedroom on still-aching feet, leaving wet footprints behind across the floor. She tousled her long hair until it was damp, and sat on the chair before her vanity, brushing her hair until it was sleek without looking in the mirror. She dressed, as well, a front corset and the simplest underthings she could manage, and a long black dress over it all, slowly doing up the black buttons over the front, all the way up to the delicate lace of the neck. She smoothed her fingers over it, covering up the healing red line on her throat.

Once, and only once, Niccolette turned to her mirror and studied herself in it, carefully. She ran her fingers through her hair, carefully pushing it back off her forehead; she touched her fingertips to the sharp lines of her cheekbones, the curve of her cheeks beneath, then lowered her hand, slowly, and turned away from herself.

Niccolette eased on black slippers, soft and comfortable, and made her way back through the house, black skirt swishing softly against her legs as she went.

Demkaih was in the kitchen; Niccolette did not mind having tea there, at the heavy countertop that doubled as a table. She took a seat and held herself straight and upright, looking evenly at Demkaih across the table; the black only heightened her contrasts, but there was a strange strength to her all the same, somewhere beneath the high patches of color still in her cheeks, beneath the swollen eyes, beneath the bones that stood out sharply beneath too-pale skin, free still of eyeliner or lipstick.

Demkaih demanded answers. He was stone-faced still, and there was a strength to him that Niccolette found she admired; a fury, still, swirling in his field. He loomed; she had not been so aware of his size even as he had lifted her like a child and carried her, unwilling, through her own house.

“No,” Niccolette said. She picked up the cup of tea Demkaih had made and did not bother to blow on it before taking a small sip. Her field was calm once more, cool and crisp and almost indectal; her meditations, and the powerful healing spells she had cast, had purged from it much of the dregs he had sensed before. He should not, Niccolette thought dispassionately, have left her time to gather herself. In the bathroom, she would have told him anything; if he had asked her then, she would have spilled it all, sobbed it into the water without so much as a thought. She was not such an expert in interrogation herself, but she thought that Demkaih had much to learn.

Now, with her hair combed and properly dressed – able to think for what felt like the first time in days – Niccolette met the much taller galdor’s gaze without the faintest consternation and held her chin high with all the pride she had left. It was not much; some days it felt like none at all. Perhaps most days it felt like none at all. But she scraped what there was from the depths of herself, and gathered it together, and let it keep her back straight.

“It is not your affair,” Niccolette said, simply. “I understand that you cared for Uzoji,” she shrugged slender, sharp shoulders, and set the cup of tea back down. “But this is mine.” She left it there, and she waited, her gaze fixed unyieldingly on the Mugrobi.