[PM to Join, Mature] These Golden Ashes Turn to Dirt

[Lars]

BENEATH THE PALACE
ROALIS 69, 2719 - EVENING

Lars could do little but smile when the human turned his head, throwing a grin toward himself and Niccolette. The expression was somewhat covered, visible only partially through the gaps between the fingers that rested over his mouth, but it was there regardless, the passive half-embarrassed to have caught the Brother's attention but half-uncaring.

What? It was thrilling, to see all of this happening and not even needing to worry about the consequences of it. It had always been such an issue, in Brunnhold - violence, death, murder. It had been a wonder in itself that the white-haired passive hadn't been punished for Fred's death, and even more so that he had escaped after killing students and another fellow servant. But here... it didn't matter, none of it did. He had been so careful; he'd been so cautiously keeping himself from violence whenever possible and only participating when necessary, as he had done the night he'd met Niccolette and Aremu, or tonight in the bar.

If Silas Hawke and his Bad Brothers allowed him the freedom to give in to those irritating urges, then he had no issue with the fact that he'd sworn his loyalty to them. Gods, even just getting to watch other Brothers do it felt fine enough, even if it couldn't beat doing it himself. Lars pushed that from his mind now, however, unwilling to focus on anything but the present moment, and he watched as the galdor crossed to question the prisoner yet again.

And again, the human denied her.

He didn't quite understand the way things worked around the harbor just yet - he didn't know who might've hired this man and his friends, or why, or what purpose killing Niccolette could have served - but the idea of not knowing his employer's name was simply made no sense. Had he just heard the promise of coin and set off to follow what must've been one of the most powerful galdori in the Rose?

It was Bertold's turn with him then, a large hand snatching a pair of dull pliers from his assortment of tools and heading from the counter back to the suspended prisoner's form. How the man remained conscious through the Brother's threats and the plier's dirty teeth moving to grab at his own, Lars had no clue, but it wasn't long before the mustached human had broken the prisoner.

Well I suppose that's why they call him Breaker, then.

Lars kept his smile covered with his hand, even now, but moved to step closer to Bertold, Niccolette, and the bloodied, beaten prisoner. He didn't come close enough to feel the extent of Niccolette's field, but remained at the edges of it, peering around to get a good look at the injured man.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 69 Roalis, 2719
A Chamber Underground, The Palace

Niccolette watched Breaker at his work with no shortage of interest. Could he, she wondered? Tear a man’s jaw free with his bare hands? It was certainly more plausible than crushing the skull. Niccolette doubted that he could really manage it, but she felt the effect of any genuine attempt would be quite sufficient regardless.

The prisoner talked, then, and talked. Words dribbled from his lips alongside bloody spittle, tumbled free and splattered down his chin. He named one man, and then another, and a third besides, and swore over and over that it was the truth.

Once, Niccolette cast, a spell she had come across some time ago in a grimoire, said to let the practitioner discern the pulse rate of a subject with such delicacy as to tell a truth from a lie. It did not work; there was nothing of backlash in the air, but she simply learned nothing useful from it, other than that the man’s heart was beating very fast indeed.

Probably, the Bastian thought, he was afraid of her. Well; it was a pity; she had rather hoped the spell would prove itself useful. Niccolette felt sure she would have the opportunity to try again.

There were names and dates and descriptions - details of plans made and discarded, which Niccolette felt unlikely, as some of those plans seemed to her considerably better than the attempt they had actually made.

Aremu’s name came up, once, as to how they had waited for him to leave to make the attempt.

“We weren’t sure,” the man said, blood leaking from his nose and lips, “if the scrap’d -“

Niccolette stepped forward and slapped him, once, hard, her palm slamming deliberately and forcefully into the spots where Breaker had so recently attempted to forestall any toothache.

“It’s the truth,” the man sobbed, shaking.

Niccolette wiped her palm on a cleaner part of his shirt. “Passive,” she said, casually, stepping back. “If you cannot use his name.”

The man stared at her, sniffling wetly and painfully.

“Go on,” Niccolette snapped.

“If -“ the man choked, and coughed, and groaned at some ripple of pain. “We weren’t sure,” he began again, “if the passive’d - be hard to take -“

He kept on. In the end it was not getting him to talk that would prove to be difficult - Niccolette had always trusted to Breaker’s skill there. It was the difficulty of wielding the scalpel to cut the lies from the truth, to excise the falsehoods and the details offered up to forestall pain, the things the man said because he hoped she would like them.

It was, however, not Niccolette’s first such attempt, nor Breaker’s, and between the two of them they could clear away all the foulness around what it was, in the end, that he did know. If sometimes he needed a gentle reminder, Breaker was more than capable.

There were names, and pseudonyms, and it would become clear to both of them that the Drain was behind this. There were enough references made to finishing the job that Niccolette’s hands clenched to fists at her side - but there was very little the man could tell them about why Niccolette, beyond that, about what threat she, specifically, seemed to represent.

When she thought him done, Niccolette pressed again, one last time, as if to clean a final surge of foulness. Only then did she step back, and turn to Breaker with a shrug. “I have nothing else to ask,” The Bad Brother said.

Rolls

Pulse tracking spell: 1
Extent of failure/backlash: 6

[Breaker Cooper]

Evening, 69 Roalis, 2719

Once more leaning on the counter Breaker watched as the prisoner spilled out his information, Occasionally inflicting pain to sure up the truth. Burning away lies with the astute application of a red hot blade.

Breaker was an old hand at this by now, it took a lot of practice, a lot of blood and pain. It wasn’t just about inflicting pain, it was about understanding what pain did to a person. Drawing it out, measuring it out, but more than that it was harnessing the fear of pain.

Finally Niccolette turned from the limp, bloody and whimpering wreck. The wretch had come to the end of his usefulness, Breaker reached out with one big hand and choked the life from the man.

He stared into the man’s eyes as the last light went from them and his feet kick for the final time.

Turning away from the corpse he waved dismissively over his shoulder.

"Alright boys, take ‘im away."

As the two Bad Brothers unhooked the body and carried it out, Breaker untied the now bloody leather apron and hooked it on a peg. He went to the water barrel, washed his hands and arms and dried them before pulling on the brown pinstripe waistcoat over the white shirt he was wearing.

"Mrs. Ibutatu, I am glad I could be of service. Now I shall be adjournin’ to some nearby drinkin’ establishment."

.”Pausing put on a green tie and draped a brown suit coat over his arm, now looking more smart gent rather than the bloody handed terror he had been.

"Mrs. Ibutatu, Cailian you are both most welcome to join me."

His gaze lingered on Cailian, the edge of his mouth rising in a grin, a slight glint of gold as the rooms light caught on his gold teeth.

"I shall even buy the first round, I find me self in a generous mood."

Breaker chuckled and took a rough black cigar from his waistcoat pocket and lit it with the oil burner on the counter top before blowing it out, after blowing across the tip, till it glow red he stuck the cigar between his teeth. He fished the box from the pocket out and held out to Calian and Niccolette.

"Cigar?"

[Lars]

BENEATH THE PALACE
ROALIS 69, 2719 - EVENING

It wasn't until the prisoner's mention of Aremu (and the distasteful slur dropped from a bloodied mouth) that Lars seemed to come back to himself, the final remnants of his smile giving way to a mask of cool neutrality. Slurs didn't bother him, not after he'd heard them for years upon years, but it was still... irritating, to hear Aremu spoken of as such. He said nothing; it wasn't his place and it wasn't necessary regardless, seeing as Niccolette made quick work of the word as it fell from the man's mouth and continued on in her questioning. He could relate the words to himself - scrap was only one of many - but there was a disconnect between them and Aremu; a barrier between the Mugrobi and the familiar Anaxi customs in his mind. It would have felt disrespectful otherwise.

The Hessean continued to watch from a slight distance, eyes following the lines dragged into the prisoner's skin via scalpel, or knife, his enthusiasm dampened but not drowned out entirely by considerations of his - no. No, Aremu wasn't his friend, but his fellow passive. He thought, as he watched Niccolette and Bertold work in tandem to extract answers, to ask if he could perhaps join them in their attempts at bloody persuasion - but he kept these inquiries to himself, and kept himself out of their way until they had finished with him.

Lars began to walk forward, started to raise his arm as if he'd planned on reaching for the prisoner - but it dropped back to his side when Bertold snuffed the life out of him, and he swallowed his anticipation with the disappointment that followed it. Oh well - things were still well and good, and Lars quickly composed himself, crossing his arms to provide his hands distraction.

Even as Bertold walked away, toward the barrel of water to clean the crimson from his skin, Lars' eyes followed the now-lifeless body as it was taken down and finally carried from the room. Upon hearing the human's voice ring about the room again, the passive looked back to Bertold, dark eyebrows raising for a moment in surprise at his sudden change in appearance.

It wasn't as if he was suddenly a different person, of course, but he looked like... a gentleman. Like he hadn't just beat a man to a bloody pulp with his own fists. One corner of his mouth curved upward again, light eyes following Bertold as he came back from the barrel and offered himself and Niccolette a drink. Did he want more to drink tonight? Rather, did he need any more? Already things were a bit blurred at the edges, his inhibitions loosened, but the evening's events had done well to keep his head clear. Or... not, depending on who you asked.

"That sounds lovely," agreed the white-haired passive, offering a better-intentioned smile as Bertold extended the box of cigars.

"And - no, I'm quite alright, but thank you," if he was being honest, he barely understood what a cigar was. The same concept as a regular cigarette, he assumed, but even those were new enough to the former servant and he didn't dare push his luck. He looked to Niccolette then, curious, "will you be joining us?"

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 69 Roalis, 2719
A Chamber Underground, The Palace

Niccolette watched Breaker choke the life from the man with no particular expression. Her hand was long since clean, and once it was done she straightened the line of Uzoji’s jacket, gently, and flicked out the hem of her russet brown skirt beneath.

She felt - much as she had these last seasons, much as she had since that day in the Muluku Islands - as if there was something she did not understand. She had felt that way immediately, but then it had been the visceral fact of Uzoji’s death. Over time, she felt, there had only been more questions, and the why of it most of all. There was more that Hawke knew - he had all but taunted her with it, and with this latest assignment to Vienda most of all.

And now, Niccolette thought, idly, a direct attack on her life, deliberate and targeted, funded by the Drain. She was scarcely such a threat, was she? The galdor was not in the least modest, for she did not think it befit the dignity of the mona to falsely downplay one’s abilities, and she was well aware how dangerous she could be. But it did not make sense to her. She had wrung what she could from this man, but it was not enough.

Her right hand settled across her body, resting against her side, and Niccolette sighed. In time, she promised herself. She would go to Vienda, and do what needed to be done. She would keep herself together, as best as she could. What little hard won peace she had scraped together these last weeks, she would try to hold on to, one moment at a time.

And there would come a day, Niccolette promised herself, when she would understand.

She had not looked down, but her gaze had been distant and unfocused. It settled steadily back on Breaker, now dressed in a waistcoat and jacket, as he made his offer of a drink and a cigar, his gaze lingering on Lars. She declined the cigar box with a flick of her hand.

Lars accepted, and he, too, turned to her.

”No,” Niccolette said, crisply, and without even a cursory attempt at feigning deliberation. She pursed her lips, lightly, and took her hand from her side. Delicately, the galdor bowed to Breaker, polite and respectful. He was skilled at his craft, and that was worthy enough of a gesture of respect. She glanced at Lars as well, and nodded at him, once.

Then, without another word, Niccolette turned and left the room, dress swirling around her calves, lightly heeled boots clicking softly against the tunnel as she made her way back out of the depths of the palace - back home, to the Rose above, a strange sense of calm about her. These painful months to come, she thought, she would face; one way or another, as tonight, she would have her answers.

Whatever it took.