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

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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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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
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Race: Galdor
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Thu Nov 07, 2019 7:45 pm

Early Evening, 69 Roalis, 2719
Sea Breeze, the Waterfront
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Niccolette slammed the door to her Quarter Fords house behind herself, and held against it for a long moment. She opened it, and went back inside, and ripped up the missive from Hawke - unsigned, of course, but she knew. She set the scraps down on a plate, found a box of matches, and dropped a lit one into the heap of them. She watched it burn to ash, shaking, arms wrapped across her front, and when there was nothing but crumbled black on the plate - 

She felt, Niccolette thought bitterly, not in the least better.

The Bastian pressed her shaking hands to her eyes, then lifted them to pushed her hair back off of her face. She took a deep breath. No, she thought, no. She would not fall again. Going back to Vienda would not mean miring herself in the haze of misery which had swallowed up so many months of her life. She was not, yet, precisely sure how it would be different this time, but it would be; she would make it so.

Niccolette closed her eyes, standing with her fingers tangled in her hair, and she promised herself that. She would make it so.

The Bastian lowered her hands, slowly, and took a deep breath, and found the rhythm, steadily, in and out, that soothed the mona in the air around her; she reached deep into her field, and became one with it, and calm became a little easier to manage. Yes. She would make it so. 

Niccolette ran her tongue over dry lips, the bitter tang of lip color making her grimace. She went back to her bedroom, and checked over her reflection, carefully - touched a fingertip to the black kohl lining her eyes, which had not yet smudged. She went to the bathroom, then, and washed off the pale pink she had chosen for the night. She went back to the mirror, patting her lips dry, and chose crimson instead, the brightest her skin could stand, and painted it on in smooth even strokes, gaze fixed firmly on herself in the mirror, and she did not look away until it was done.

Niccolette smoothed her hands over the deep russet red of her dress, exhaling carefully. She went to the closet, and took out one of the men’s coats hanging there - tailored, carefully - tucked in but not cut at the waist, never cut - the shoulders, still a little too wide for her frame - the sleeves, rolled up and sewn into place as well, just bulky enough to give her away, although she had never been able to bring herself to care. It was a dark golden color, one that she had always especially admired on Uzoji.

Niccolette pulled the jacket on, buttoned it over the front of her dress, and eased her thick, long hair up and over the collar, tossing her head lightly. Then, and only then, did she leave her house again.

The Bastian made her way through the streets of the Rose, long golden strands of sunlight casting deep shadows from the west. She walked, as she always did, as if the Rose was hers and hers alone; she hardly seemed to look around her, but she never had any trouble finding a path. Her field was sharp and bright to its fullest extent, and more than one human or wick flinched out of her way. If she noticed, it was without anything resembling acknowledgement. If she noticed, either, the man down the street in Quarter Fords, or the two who traded off, carefully, following her through the Rose, she did not acknowledge them either.

Niccolette went steadily through West-and-Long, down to the wharf, and walked along the edges of the piers as the lamplight flickered on, black waves crashing against slime and barnacle-crusted wood. She made her way down to where it ended, to where the waterfront met Castle Hill once more, and she stopped there; she could not have said, consciously, how she chose, but she did.

Niccolette leaned against the bar, and waited, elbows tucked back against herself. She said nothing, but her brows raised, and the barkeep came over. She ordered a Hullwen, neat, and took it with her to a table in the corner, sat, and was halfway through her first sip when they made their approach.

Niccolette set the glass down on the table, and looked up, coolly, her eyes sweeping over the now-three men. She did not hesitate; she was already casting as the first took out his knife, her eyes glittering dark in the bar. He lunged at her, but the crack that echoed through the room came from him – and his thigh bulged, outwards, sharp white bone sticking out through the leg, blood welling up to soak his pant leg. He dropped, screaming loudly enough to cut through the room, bone-chilling screams that seemed to soak into the very walls.

His two friends froze.

“You made a very poor choice of night,” Niccolette said, and took another sip of her whiskey, glancing between them. She grinned, and flexed her field, pulsing it to the fullest extent of its range, the sharp, bright force of living energy surging through the bar.

Image
Rolls
Leg-breaking spell: SidekickBOTToday at 3:22 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6
Last edited by Niccolette Ibutatu on Sat Nov 09, 2019 12:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Lars
Posts: 447
Joined: Sun Nov 25, 2018 1:04 pm
Topics: 44
Race: Passive
: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 12:21 am

SEA BREEZE; THE WATERFRONT
ROALIS 69, 2719 - EARLY EVENING
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Lars stared at the pages of an old, worn book, eyes scanning over the lines over and over again, as if he thought that maybe, the next time he restarted the sentence, he'd be able to make sense of it. Even his hands were brought into the ordeal, like they could help somehow, his fingertips brushing across the page to follow the sentences along, but he wasn't entirely sure where one ended and another one began. Some had little dots, others had two, or three, some looked like dots but curved, some just looked like letters. He could guess at their uses, but it would help if he could tell what words the letters made up, or which written words corresponded to which sounds.

He shifted more toward the cracked, dusty window, sitting uncomfortably in a raggedy cushioned chair that one of the humans had brought in a few weeks ago. The sun was beginning to go down, casting golden rays through the windowpane, and he angled the book to catch the light as much as possible. At the other end of the long room, the human man - the father - was hard at work, preparing a meal of freshly-caught fish and day-old bread for his wife and son. The mother was sitting across from Lars, in an older chair reserved for only her, where she spent long hours repairing the family's clothes and sewing new ones when she found cheap material. She was very severe, he'd learned, and intolerant of nonsense from any one of the men in her apartment, but buried deep inside was a kindness. Lars had never asked for anything but the ability to pay and share their space - he didn't share their meals, or their utilities, or anything that he felt didn't belong to him, but more than once he had returned home to find a hand-sewn garment lying on his creaking, ancient mattress.

It was something he appreciated immensely, not having arrived here with many articles of clothing beyond a bloodied red suit and a basket of clothes he'd stolen from isolated clotheslines. Even now, the trousers he wore had belonged to someone else, made with a velvety black fabric and ending right at his ankles. His shirt, however, was one given to him by the human: a linen dyed a dark brown, with a stiffer collar that climbed halfway up his neck, and sleeves that ended mid-bicep, leaving the majority of his arms exposed. Although he didn't love the burns being put on display, he wasn't inclined to change, and doubted that most people would look twice at the scars regardless.

"We can attend Thul'Amat, the university of Mugroba. I did."

Lars suppressed a sigh, frustrated again as he reminded himself that this little activity was entirely pointless. He'd done it plenty since he'd found the stack of books by the chairs, pulling one to look through every other day or so, and it hadn't become any easier to understand. What was he supposed to do? He'd even tried writing out the letters to see if they suddenly made sense when his hands could form the shapes, but he'd been left only with poorly-scribbled imitations of words on the backs of old envelopes and no more understanding than before he'd written them. Lars shut the book, the pages smacking together and releasing a tiny puff of dust into his face. It dragged a huff of protest from the woman sitting across from him, but he was used to the sound.

Tock it, he was done with the books for now. He set it back down with the others on the floor, afterward pushing himself up and out of the chair, breathing out the quiet sigh that'd been waiting in his lungs. There was nothing good for him to do, here - he preferred to leave the three to their dinners in peace, when possible, and was of the mind to just find a place to drink and ignore all the things that had been barraging his mind for the last two days. Then, at least, when he returned home he could fall into sleep more easily.

It wasn't late after that he found himself walking through the evening streets, fresh-faced and plain, forgoing any jewelry or enhancement to his eyes with kohl and color. He had no plans of going in to work, neither did he intend on finding someone pretty at whatever bar he wound up in tonight. The passive travelled across the bridge connecting Basin Court to the funny little island, across the next one toward Castle Hill, but drifted to the right and found himself approaching the Waterfront instead. The sun was still making its descent in the rose-tinted sky, casting long shadows from the figures that passed by and from the buildings along the edge of the harbor. He gave little thought to the specific bar he went into - it didn't matter to him where he went, so long as it could provide him with some distraction, and so Lars entered the bar without high expectations.

However, he hadn't really been expecting something to be happening as soon as he opened the door.

There was a scream, dragged out and pained, coming from a figure that dropped with a sudden force, and gods, someone's field was pressing in against him -

Lars was unsurprised to discover that it was one Niccolette Ibutatu's field. His eyes fell upon her poised form, sitting at her table and grinning as if this was all just a game to her. There were two men standing, still, apparently frozen in place at the sight of their companion's injury, and he wondered for a moment if it would be wise to just let it be - Niccolette hadn't seemed the type to appreciate help of any kind, and he didn't want to end up on the other end of her magic. No, not when it had already hurt so badly just to be healed at her hands.

Still, the whole situation was invigorating, was it not? He could see the blood staining through the man's pant leg, and from the angle he could only barely see the flash of coming white, bloodied, fractured, something that wasn't meant to be seen outside the body. A shiver slipped up his spine, but it wasn't driven by fear, and if the passive had to heavily suppress the giggle that threatened his throat, well that wasn't his fault, was it? He hadn't been the one to break the man's leg.

Ah, he felt light.

Maybe that was why he moved, reaching out for a half-empty bottle from the closest table and smashing it down on the surface. It didn't break, but almost bounced off the wood, spilling a bit of liquid onto the floor. With a huff, Lars turned, opting to swing it down hard on one of the men's heads instead - the glass shattered, finally, dispersing into the man's hair and onto the floor beneath them, causing the man in question to stumble forward and away, toward Niccolette, while the other rushed toward him.

The knife he'd been unearthing before was in his hand now, held firm, swinging at Lars with a frantic ferocity - it wasn't him that either men were afraid of, he knew, but the galdor in the corner. He raised a hand to save his face, the blade catching across the back of it and leaving a little trail of blood in its wake. The passive's undamaged hand still held tightly the remains of the glass bottle, jagged and short as the pieces were, and the makeshift weapon was plunged quickly into the man's side. It wasn't a fatal wound by any means, the glass wasn't long enough now to sink deep into his abdomen, but it allowed Lars the chance to step away and out of the real knife's reach for the moment. He would be shocked if the woman these men had approached couldn't give them that fatal push, anyhow, if she felt so inclined.

"Good evening, Niccolette," called the white-haired passive, his tone betraying some measure of amusement, "you seem well."


ROLLS
Super Impressive Bottle Breaking: SidekickBOTYesterday at 11:47 PM
@fermin: 1d6 = (2) = 2

Actual Bottle-Over-Head Breaking: SidekickBOTYesterday at 11:47 PM
@fermin: 1d6 = (4) = 4

Knife Being Mean @ Lars: SidekickBOTYesterday at 11:57 PM
@fermin: 1d6 = (1) = 1

Broken Bottle Being Mean @ Man: SidekickBOTYesterday at 11:58 PM
@fermin: 1d6 = (4) = 4

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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
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Writer: moralhazard
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 1:16 am

Early Evening, 69 Roalis, 2719
Sea Breeze, the Waterfront
There were any number of spells she might have chosen to stop a charge. Breaking a leg was by no means the fastest thing Niccolette knew how to do, and perhaps not even the most effective; a particularly determined man could almost certainly drag himself through a broken leg, even an open fracture, when the distance was only a few feet.

But there was a quite pleasant directness to it. Better yet, by Her deadly terrors, but it was frightening.

Niccolette could see it in the two men left standing - they paused and held. Had they not been told what it was they faced? Niccolette did not rise; she saw little point. She had no chance of fighting these men with the strength of her fists; she would not even know how to attempt such a thing. She sat, legs crossed delicately at the ankle, and she waited, just a few moments more, to give it time to sink in.

The man on the floor was still trying to scream, but either he had gone hoarse very quickly or it was the shock trapping the sound in his throat. Niccolette could not tell; either was quite possible. This sort of shock could kill a man, although usually one not so large and healthy looking as this one.

No, Niccolette thought casually, glancing down at the floor. He was in much more danger from infection. If he knew a good surgeon, he might - might - keep the leg, even here in the Rose. He might even walk properly again, in time.

Might.

Niccolette lifted her gaze back to his fellows, and began to ready her next spell.

A smaller man, white hair glinting in the light, snatched up a bottle - smashed it hard against a table, then harder against one of the men’s heads. Niccolette held, eyes widening in slight surprise, and then she knew him, abruptly. What the fuck had Aremu said his name was? C-something - no. Lars. Lars, Niccolette thought, curiously, her head tilting slightly to the side.

The man he’d hit was shaking his head, scattering bits of glass in the low light, and Niccolette was already casting as he turned to her. He had a knife in his hands, and she could do very little but to keep casting. Hazy energy rose up in the air around her, her field sharp and etheric, and her voice never rose in the faintest bit of panic as she cast.

The spell curled - the knife hovered, inches from her - and then the man collapsed, as if he were a puppet whose strings she had cut. He fell, half on top of her, slumping, twitching weakly and feebly. The anesthesia spell was not a simple one, and it was not the best cast she had ever managed, but she had born down on it with all of her considerable strength, and she gauged that he would be unconscious at least five minutes.

Niccolette plucked the knife from her assailant’s limp fingers and set it on the table, shoving the man off her lap and onto the floor. She frowned, lightly - he was half on her feet - and then adjusted her skirt and her boots both, so her crossed feet rested lightly on his shoulder.

She glanced up at Lars, and raised an eyebrow when he spoke to her, waiting for a moment. She shrugged, then, faintly. ”Good evening,” Niccolette said, and she remembered - Cailan, that was the name he had given, the one Aremu had said to her. She pursed her lips faintly, and shrugged again, a glitter of amusement in her eyes. Not for Lars’ sake, she thought, but - as Aremu had asked it of her...

“Cailan,” Niccolette said, and grinned. ”Well enough.”

The passive’s opponent was clutching his bloody side, staggering, barely holding onto his knife, his two fellows already down. The one with the broken leg seemed to have stopped even trying to scream; that, Niccolette thought, was definitely shock. Niccolette studied the last man standing for a moment, and then she turned calmly back to Lars, and gestured, lightly.

“He is yours,” the Bastian said, casually, checking her nails. She lowered her hand back to the table, and picked her drink up again, taking another small sip, evidently unperturbed by the man groaning, half-asleep beneath her feet. She glanced back up at Lars, and grinned again. “If you can handle him?”

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Rolls
Anasthesia spell:<@195059436811845633>: `1d6` = (3) = 3
Vs. knife attack: <@195059436811845633>: `1d6` = (2) = 2
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Lars
Posts: 447
Joined: Sun Nov 25, 2018 1:04 pm
Topics: 44
Race: Passive
: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 10:50 am

SEA BREEZE; THE WATERFRONT
ROALIS 69, 2719 - EARLY EVENING
He heard Niccolette's response but was distracted, partially, by the man that swiveled around to face him again, face contorted with a mixture of pain and anger and likely still some measure of fear that the galdor's spells would focus in on him next. Lars made to step back and away again, but stumbled back into yet another figure - thankfully just someone looking for a drink and not a fight - and caught the man's blade, again, too concerned with regaining his balance to defend, this time slashed down across his face. Immediately, a shout escaped the passive's throat, one hand coming up to asses the damage (not bad, not great) while the other pushed at his attacker.

Ersehole, who the fuck did he think he was? Lars turned his head, quickly, to Niccolette, blood beginning to seep from the thin slash that ranged from his cheekbone to his chin, a building grin on his face nonetheless. His? Well, that was fine. He was perfectly happy to subdue this one himself. He didn't have the fancy magic, and wasn't quite trained to defend himself, but he supposed he made up for that in enthusiasm.

"Of course," it was spoken almost like a vow, as if the passive was simply obeying an order, as if he would've added a dutiful bow to the words if only he'd had the time. This was, of course, only because he found it entirely humorous, amused to no end with Niccolette's calm and collected demeanor despite the attackers that had thought it wise to rush her.

And then he was moving again, ducking his head when the knife was brandished again in his direction, uninjured hand forcing forward to retrieve the broken glass from the man's side. It was fast - too fast for his liking - that he had to step out of the way after swinging the jagged end of the bottle at the man's neck, Lars barely managing to escape a knife to his own side in his assailant's immediate reaction. Gods, that wouldn't have been good, he thought, now that he was half-behind the man, one hand still holding onto the glass that'd been plunged into his neck. Getting wholeheartedly stabbed twice in the same month wouldn't have been fun, and considering Niccolette's reluctance to heal him before, he wasn't looking to request any more.

It wasn't until the man dropped his knife, hands going to clutch at his neck instead, that Lars let go. Somehow he'd missed the artery there, as evidenced by the fact that the blood hadn't instantaneously began to pour out like a fountain, but it began to rise to the surface as the man let himself drop to his knees, probably wondering if it'd be better to take the glass out and see what happened or leave it in.

Lars couldn't help himself then, seeing the man there on his knees, unconcerned now with what was going on around him, and kicked at his back in some attempt to push him over. It didn't go as he'd planned at all, however, and the man was apparently not as unconcerned as he'd thought, because a hand shot from his neck to grab at whatever was behind him, taking hold of the passive's shoe with a grip he thought surely rivalled some wild animal's jaw. A curse tumbled from his lips as he jostled his leg, trying to either pull it back or push it forward enough to knock him over, he didn't care - but his balance failed him, dragging the former servant to the floor with a harsh thud.

"You -" he pushed himself up quickly into a sitting position, closer now to the bleeding man than before, close enough to reach out with a new determination and slip one hand to his chin, the other to the very top of his skull, close enough to twist with all the strength in his angry little body and close enough to hear the crack when he did.

"Fuckin' useless lugger," cursed the passive, letting go of the now unconcerned attacker's limp neck, using his shoulders to pull himself up and stand. He dusted himself off, stepping away from the body as it slumped further to the floor, grabbing a half-empty glass of amber liquid from a nearby table for good measure, and finally he approached Niccolette.

Lars lifted the glass to his lips, taking a sip of whatever liquid it was, nose scrunching in displeasure at the taste.

"Well. I admire their bravery," he began, mouth curving into a half-smile, "I can't say that I'd have been stupid enough, myself, to try attacking you."


ROLLS
Lars v. knife: SidekickBOTToday at 9:50 AM
@fermin: 1d6 = (1) = 1

Lars v. Dude's Neck: SidekickBOTToday at 9:51 AM
@fermin: 1d6 = (4) = 4

Knocking Dude Over: SidekickBOTToday at 10:20 AM
@fermin: 1d6 = (1) = 1

Dumbass Tries Again: SidekickBOTToday at 10:27 AM
@fermin: 1d6 = (1) = 1

"Fuck This I'm Out" : SidekickBOTToday at 10:28 AM
@fermin: 1d6 = (5) = 5

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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
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Writer: moralhazard
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 12:40 pm

Early Evening, 69 Roalis, 2719
Sea Breeze, the Waterfront
Niccolette had held the upkeep of the spell in her mind through her words to Lars – it helped not to have to rise, and it was not such a difficult spell to hold onto – but it was fading in her mind, faster than she might have liked. The Bastian grimaced, gritting her teeth, and felt herself lose hold of the spell entirely.

Niccolette sighed, Lars’s bloody struggles drawing the attention of the bar in front of her, and glanced down at the man beneath her feet, and began to cast again. The man with the broken leg would be easiest to subdue; she had a feeling that Lars did not mean to leave his attacker alive.

There was, really, no sense in letting more than one of them live. Conquest, Niccolette thought idly; it meant she could not let those watching think that they could attack a galdor and expect to live. She could see them, all, staring at her and Lars’s messy fight, watching, waiting – humans, mostly, and the occasional wick. Let them not wonder, Niccolette thought. Let them know.

The man was stirring beneath her feet, groaning and groggy, beginning to emerge from the anesthesia spell. Niccolette was already casting.

She had learned a good deal about lungs, three years ago; she had made a point, in those quiet months when Uzoji was rebuilding his strength and she, too, was rebuilding hers, to read more about lungs. She had had a rather specific reason for doing so; there had been a man, then, whose lungs she had meant to take, in recompense for the part he had played in Uzoji’s injury. If she had not been busy casting, Niccolette might have wondered, idly, how long he had survived Hawke’s torturers before he had succumbed. She would have doubted it had been long; she might only have hoped he had been able to give them something useful before he succumbed entirely.

But there were plenty of spells she had seen, then, in the forbidden grimoires she had acquired, which she had not had the power to access at the time.

And now?

Hazy energy streamed from Niccolette as she chanted, and rushed into the chest of the man whose eyes were opening beneath her feet. It was surprisingly easy, Niccolette thought casually, to ask the mona to open both of his lungs to his bloody chest. He jerked, and gasped, and blood splattered his lips. Niccolette watched, curiously, as his chest deflated before her eyes – as his eyes reddened – as his lips turned blue while he gargled frothy blood in a desperate attempt – it had worked, she thought, pleased, every bit as well as she had hoped, and the man died beneath her feet without ever taking another breath.

Niccolette lifted her gaze back to Lars as he approached. She shrugged, casually, and rose; with the pressure of one foot on the dying man’s chest, he gasped, blood splattering from his lips, and went still.

“Well,” Niccolette said, casually, “that is why you are alive.”

She frowned lightly at the cut on Lars’ cheek, and reached out with one hand, slowly, curiously. She settled it on his skin, and turned his head, without asking for permission or waiting to see if Lars would object. She studied the line of the cut in the light, her thumb stroking lightly along the edge of it, pulling very softly, hard enough that a little droplet of blood rolled along his cheek. No, Niccolette thought, idly; nothing stuck in it.

“You shall need to clean it,” Niccolette said, letting go of Lars’s face. It did not really need healing, not enough to demand it of the mona. Perhaps, Niccolette decided, if he asked.

The Bastian stepped past the passive, and glanced around at the gathering crowd. Her field pulsed. There was a stir, and a ripple of silence, and then a burst of noisy chatter, as other occupants of the bar turned back to whatever it was they had been doing before, perhaps with one or two uneasy last looks at the men on the ground, one half-conscious, one with his neck broken, and the third drowned in his own blood.

Niccolette knelt next to the man whose leg she’d broken. She touched her fingers to his neck, feeling the thread of his sluggish pulse, and grimaced. A shame; she really had thought him stronger. The Bastian began to cast, then – not a spell to finish him off, but to preserve him, to stabilize him for long enough to get him to Hawke. She thought, at least, that Hawke would bother having one of his men figure out why this fool and his friends had decided to attack her – he might not care, personally, but there was a reputation to protect, among the Brothers.

The Bastian curled the spell, and the man slumped further, but his breathing was easier, steady, in and out. He would last a little while, the Bastian thought, idly, lifting her skirts to step around the bloody smear of his leg, and the mess that Lars had left. Her black boots left bloody tracks behind on the ground, but she did not seem to notice.

Niccolette went to the bar, and wrote a note on a piece of paper. She gave it and a coin to the barman, and told him where to have it sent, the thrill of conquest singing joyfully in her veins, the rush of the fight still humming through her. She glanced back over her shoulder at Lars, curiously, and cocked her head slightly to the side.

“Something else to drink?” The Bastian asked, curiously. “As you do not favor that,” her eyes flickered down to the drink he’d gagged on, and back up to his face. She would need to wait here, at least, until someone arrived to deal with the last survivor.

Image
Rolls
Upkeep of anesthesia spell: SidekickBOTToday at 8:14 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (1) = 1
Lung puncturing spell: SidekickBOTToday at 8:15 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (5) = 5
Stabilization spell: SidekickBOTToday at 8:15 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (3) = 3
User avatar
Lars
Posts: 447
Joined: Sun Nov 25, 2018 1:04 pm
Topics: 44
Race: Passive
: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 2:22 pm

SEA BREEZE; THE WATERFRONT
ROALIS 69, 2719 - EARLY EVENING
In all his hatred and spite, Lars could still be moved by the magic of a galdor. He hated them, truly, it was a fire that burned in the darkest chamber of his heart and fueled him ever forward, but they were incredible. Even the weakest of them could still bend the mona to their will, could still make their presence known before even coming close to him, and all his little tactics couldn't change that. He couldn't take their magic away from them, just as they couldn't give him any of his own.

He wondered what it felt like to be human, then, incapable of any magic, controlled or otherwise. Then, he wondered what it would be like to be a real galdor, to be capable of casting whenever he wished, to have attended Brunnhold not as a slave but as a student. He wondered if he would have been a good student, like his brother had seemed to be, and if he'd have been as powerful one day as Niccolette. He wondered, too, what kind of magic he would have favored, but decided quickly he didn't even have to do that - before, when his diablerie had finally manifested, he had been suddenly alight with Living magic. He had felt the sentient particles everywhere, in everything, so sudden and so powerful, so terrifying yet so right.

No, he didn't have to wonder which conversation he would have favored.

Gray eyes fell to the man beneath Niccolette as she stood, the passive examining her work with interest - she bent the living particles like he could not, and did so with a ruthless, calm grace. He didn't notice, at first, when she reached out to him, his eyes only lifting to look at her when he felt her fingers against his cheek.

Lars made no attempts to move or push away her hand, allowing the woman her inspection, and felt the sting when the cut was pushed but made no sound of protest. She let him go just as soon, with a simple statement of fact, and Lars couldn't help it when the corner of his mouth tugged upward again, the Hessean finding himself horribly entertained with the entire situation. It was easily that he followed the galdor to the bar, stepping over the men they'd left slumped and slaughtered on the floor.

"Ah, right," he set the stolen glass down at the bar, knowing full well he could just return it to it's previous owner but not feeling the need. Did he want something else? He supposed so, he'd come here looking to drink after all, with the intention of getting tired enough to sleep later on. That wasn't a goal he was likely to reach tonight, not anymore. He settled for a glass of Gioran whiskey, and it went down easier, though it was still enough to almost make the passive's face contort - he didn't let it, though, not this time, and turned to look at Niccolette instead.

Lars took another sip, hyperaware of the blood that continued to drip down his cheek. He'd get it clean, sure, but despite the sting it wasn't a big concern to him now. "They followed you here?" he inquired, glancing at the men on the floor, "what're you going to do with him?"

He'd seen how she'd let the first attacker live, how she'd calmed his breathing but not to the point of stopping. He might've agreed to join Silas Hawke and his men, but he was still unaware of how things worked - things had become more clear to him since Aremu's explanation, of course, but the passive still didn't know much beyond what the Bad Brothers were. He'd not been called to do anything himself, yet, and admittedly was a bit nervous for when he would be.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 4:18 pm

Early Evening, 69 Roalis, 2719
Sea Breeze, the Waterfront
Niccolette had fetched her Hullwen, at some point; the glass was still only half-empty, and she played with it in her hands, tracing her fingers over the edges, beneath the little stain of sharp red lip color against the rim. She could command the mona, Niccolette told herself; she was strong, and conquest was in her blood. No liquor would control her. It was without visible effort that she set the glass down, casually, on the bar.

Niccolette bought Lars the drink without hesitation. She thought she understood better now why Aremu had thought him worth making a brother. She had never thought of him as a particular good judge of character; she had assumed it was because Lars was a passive, and that Aremu had felt poorly for him. Niccolette had been willing to go along with it, although only because of Aremu. She reconsidered, now.

She did not miss him, Niccolette told herself. He had been gone for barely a day – back to the Muluku Islands. It was not as if he was talkative, anyway, or the best of company. But – she had gone without thinking that morning to the room where he had been staying, expecting to find him – doing whatever it was he did, reading or working on some papers or tinkering with some something, and –

He had left the bed made, of course. Idiot, Niccolette thought, affectionately.

The Bastian sighed a little, picked up her glass, and took a small sip of Hullwen.

The barkeep had moved the two bodies against the wall; he and two others were dragging the man left alive over next to them, his leg smearing blood against the floor. The rest of the patrons had left a little space around all of them – and, Niccolette was pleased to notice, around herself and Lars as well. Good. She preferred it this way.

“Yes,” Niccolette set the glass down again, and raised her eyebrows at Lars. She sat on one of the stools at the bar, legs crossing again at the ankles beneath her long skirt, and tucked her hands into her lap, playing with the ring on her left hand for a moment, sliding her right index finger back and forth over the soft gold. “I believe,” Niccolette said, “they thought I did not notice.” She grinned, slightly, and shrugged.

Fools, Niccolette thought; all three of them. And the one who had been in Quarter Fords too; he had not joined his fellows here tonight. There were more of them; there must be. Was it the same ones who had taken Uzoji from her? She was glad they were dead, suddenly, the two of them – fiercely and joyously glad, and only sorry they could not have suffered longer. They should have known what would happen when they came for a galdor. They should have known what would happen when they came for her.

Her field showed none of it – had, throughout, showed no anger, no fear, no emotions or colorshift to the slightest degree. It was brighter and sharper than usual, now, around her, and she did not bother to dampen it even in the slightest; the bartender winced every time he moved through it, and the space that the humans and wicks left around the two of them stopped at the edges of her field, eight feet out from the small, slender Bastian perched on the stool.

“Him?” The Bastian glanced back at the man now slumped against the wall; her gaze lingered professionally on his chest, the slow-but-steady rise and fall of it. She turned back to Lars. “Get some answers,” Niccolette said, casually. “You would like to watch?” She met his flat gray gaze with her green-tinted hazel one, curious and direct, and did not shy away from the question or its implications, not in the least. She did not enjoy it herself, per se, but she found it both necessary and useful, and respected the skill of those men who did such bloody work well.

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Lars
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: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 5:05 pm

SEA BREEZE; THE WATERFRONT
ROALIS 69, 2719 - EARLY EVENING
He watched with dampened curiosity as the barkeep and his fellows made to move the bodies out of the way, toward the wall. How strange it was, to be in a place where death was as common as anything else, and treated like little more than in inconvenience when the dead were blocking a pathway. It would've been frighteningly morbid if it wasn't so commonplace, if he didn't actually look forward to the nights when a fight or two would break out and leave someone bleeding out on the floor. It was such a contrast to the first time that he'd seen someone's corpse - he'd been frightened, then, and surprised to a degree, but he'd never seen death before. Injuries, sure, but even then it had mostly just been due to the nature of the work they did - burns and cuts from the kitchens, bruises from working in the gardens, it was all normal. Death, however, had been something entirely different, something he'd never been able to force out of his mind since.

When Niccolette moved to sit down, Lars took another sip of his drink, letting the liquid linger on his tongue a moment before swallowing. Pulling out the bar seat beside the galdor, he sat down, facing outward to watch the other patrons while he held his drink in his unblemished hand, eyes sweeping across their faces and wondering how, for many of them, this was just the norm.

The passive glanced over when the woman spoke again, offering a nod of acknowledgement, in apparent agreement with her on that - if the men had thought she'd noticed, perhaps they wouldn't have continued on, or they would have tried to get her before she'd even reached the bar. They were fools regardless of their tactics; the first mistake had been in thinking, ever, that even three men could take on a trained galdor. Lars might've hated them with a passion, but he would be the first to admit that fact. He couldn't take on a galdor himself unless he found some great advantage - he'd killed two in Brunnhold, yes, but they had only been students, and unsuspecting ones at that. They'd been nowhere near as powerful as the woman beside him now.

Lars was not immune to the effects of her field, especially now that he sat so close, but the excitement over the sudden little mess was enough to distract him. He wasn't nearly as bothered, either, now that he wasn't as afraid of her turning her spells against him, and didn't feel the frantic need to get away and hide himself.

He looked back to the sole survivor when the Bastian did, offering an answer that only served to confuse him - for a moment. Because after that moment, his eyes darted back to Niccolette's face, widened slightly at the question. Did he want to - to watch? Lars wasn't even sure he understood what the answers she needed were for, or what getting them out of him even entailed, but gods he wanted to find out. She said it as if she'd just read his mind, and the passive lifted his glass and took a sip before he let himself reply. He was impatient, now, at the thought of seeing what this meant, but he didn't want to seem too desperate now, did he?

"I would -" another sip of whiskey, "yes. Definitely. It's better for me to see how things work now, yes?"

As if he needed an excuse.

He cleared his throat, conscious now that he felt a bit overly eager and willing himself to calm down. Calm the thoughts, calm the hands, calm it all. It almost felt unnatural that his fingers weren't itching to tap against his glass, but perhaps the sting of the cut across the back of his hand was diverting their attention. He thought to thank the woman for the drink, for the coin spent on him despite him knowing full well that he'd done little in the scheme of things to help her tonight, but remained quiet on the matter.

Lars watched her, for a moment, eyes tracing the fine lines of kohl about her eyes and the deep red to her lips, deciding then that she was, honesty, beautiful. Severe, and cold in the interactions he'd had with her before, but that hardly took away from it. There was a note of beauty to the coldness itself, to the harsh demeanor he'd seen. The ring on her finger hadn't escaped his notice - especially now that he'd connected the rumors of her name to the woman herself, the overheard conversations about Niccolette Ibutatu and her deceased husband. He didn't ask about that - he didn't want to overstep, and felt it hardly mattered unless she offered it herself.

"How long have you known Aremu?" he settled for instead, leaning to rest his elbows against the bar. "If you don't mind my asking."
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 6:22 pm

Early Evening, 69 Roalis, 2719
Sea Breeze, the Waterfront
Lars met her eyes. He paused and took a sip of his drink before he answered, and Niccolette could cut through his words easily enough to the enthusiasm beneath. She smiled, very faintly, and nodded, and glanced away then, her attention shifting to the far wall of the bar.

Rather a pity, Niccolette thought, absently.

She did not, either, look back at the drink sitting back on the bar, the inches of whiskey left to her. She would not, Niccolette thought grimly, be able to order another one. Her hands were still in her lap, and she found the ring with her fingers again, this time twisting it slowly back and forth.

In Vienda, she would have to be more careful. Godsbedamned, the whole striping circle; she could not look forward to it. Things were so much simpler here in the Rose; even the empty echoes of the house were more bearable. She had never loved it for its own sake, but she had loved it for Uzoji’s.

And now he was gone, and she was still here. Niccolette did not like to think of it, and so she did not, bearing down on her mind as if she held a steering wheel to her own course, and finding a new current to drift along.

These men? Humans, of course. Three of them. There had not been much talking. By the looks of them, Anaxi or Bastian, but then that did not mean much, as they might well have been hired here in the Rose. She wondered what it said for her reputation if they had, and grimaced, faintly.

Well, she would have answers soon enough.

Lars spoke up as her thoughts had wound themselves to a close, and Niccolette looked back at him, raising her eyebrows delicately. She wondered why he asked; she supposed it not impossible that Aremu had made as much of an impression on Lars as Lars had made on him. She wondered if she should say anything; Aremu was, in Niccolette’s estimation, rather a private person. She cared enough for him to try to respect that.

But, after a moment, the Bastian picked up her whiskey glass, and swirled it, lightly, not taking a sip. The dim yellow light of the bar glinted off of the edges of the liquid, caught on the gold of her ring. Niccolette watched it, absently, and then looked back up at Lars.

“Seven and a half years,” Niccolette said. After the day she counted as their anniversary, in early Achtus; before the one they had always celebrated as well, in Thul Ka, when rain had soaked them on the banks of the Turga, when she had still believed the Gods cared.

Naturally Uzoji had mentioned Aremu before they had met. In what she had come to understand was what Mugrobi called honesty, he had never called Aremu a galdor, but neither had he said to her that Aremu was a passive. She had not, Niccolette thought with a faint smile, been best pleased with him.

“He was,” Niccolette continued, and her voice lowered now, quiet enough not to be heard by every soul in the bar, quiet enough that perhaps no one outside of the radius of her field could hear them, over the steady, determined chatter. She was not afraid; she did not think the words could hurt either of them. She did not linger on the past tense, not by now, but moved smoothly through it and the words to follow, “my husband’s best friend.”

Niccolette took another sip of the whiskey - small, just enough to taste, and casually set the glass back down on the bar. As if if it’s own volition, her right hand crossed over her body, and rested comfortably against her side, fingers settling into place on top of the dark golden fabric of the coat.

She studied Lars, her gaze lingering for a moment on the bared burn scars on his arm, then lifting back to his face. “Does that shock you?” She asked the passive, curiously, wondering if it would surprise him as it had her - lightly, without any real depth of emotion attached to the question, but wondering all the same.

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Lars
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: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 7:33 pm

SEA BREEZE; THE WATERFRONT
ROALIS 69, 2719 - EARLY EVENING
Seven and a half years. It was a long time to spend with anyone, let alone someone so incredibly different from yourself. As his eyes once again caught on the golden ring, glinting in the light, he wondered how long she had been married, how long she had spent with her husband before he was taken from her. He couldn't say that he'd ever considered the thought of marrying someone - even if his life had went in a different direction and he'd been born as a pure galdor, his marriage wouldn't have been one of love, or with someone that he'd found later in life and grown close to. He had been promised to another family's daughter as a child, when the world still thought of him as a proper magical being, but he'd never thought about who she would've been if he'd ever met her. He knew, now, that he never could have loved her in the way that his parents loved each other, or as Niccolette must have loved her husband.

Lars raised an eyebrow ever so slightly when she mentioned this husband, albeit only in relation to Aremu, and found himself nodding in response. So they had met through him. Suddenly it seemed to make more sense; Aremu had seemed protective of Niccolette, even when he had disagreed with her, and the relationship had made little sense to the white-haired passive at the time. A passive willingly being friends with, and working alongside, a galdor was just outlandish in his mind - but here he was, sitting and speaking with one himself, comfortable beside her. If he had known her as long as Aremu, and under those same circumstances, he supposed he could understand.

He watched her take a small drink, leaving his own to rest in his hand for the moment. It wouldn't be wise to drink too much too quickly, not with how badly his body processed it. If he was alone, perhaps he would have been fine to drink until he was giggling at every little joke inside his head, but not with Niccolette. It was a combination of pride and nervousness that kept him from doing so.

"Hmm," the Hessean hummed, considering her question. Did it surprise him? To an extent, it did, but perhaps not any more so than Aremu and Niccolette's friendship had.

"Not as much as it would have, before," he confessed, "Aremu told me that it's all very different, in Mugroba. And he seems very kind; I can't imagine why someone of any race would dislike being friends with him."

He did not tell her of the growing respect he had for her companion, or the specifics of their conversations before, on the cliffs. He suspected she wouldn't care, and wasn't sure that he wanted to make his building admiration known, either.

"Your husband..." started the passive, unsure of the words and even more unsure of if he wanted to say them, "...he worked with the two of you, as well? Or have you two only been doing this more recently?"
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