[Mature] Look What You Made Me Do

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The Winged Fish, the Wharf

Niccolette had run herself a bath, the hottest water she could stand. She had climbed in, adding a dab of scent to the water so it curled up through the steam-filled room. She had lain back, with her back against the curve of the heavy tub, and settled her head onto a thick wad of towel against the rim, her hair tumbling down over her shoulders.

She had stayed there for a long time; she had let the heat soak into her, reddening her skin. It had hurt, at least - not so badly that she would be scalded, but enough that she had needed to force herself to relax, to consciously loosen all the muscles in her body which tried to clench against the pain. And she had relaxed, and either she had grown accustomed or else the water had cooled. Really, Niccolette thought, and bitterly, there was no difference.

Eventually, Niccolette felt ready. She took the cake of soap and the roughest of her wash clothes, and scrubbed herself clean, every inch of her, from her face to the spaces between her toes. Last she washed her hair, held her head beneath the water and scrubbed her fingers against her scalp. She massaged in the soaps used to clean it, rinsed them out. By the time she emerged, she was glowing with cleanliness, and she was no happier than she had been, but even more resolute.

Niccolette wrapped her hair up in a towel. She reached for her bathrobe, and then she stopped. She took a hand towel to the mirror instead, and she wiped the steam from it in smooth, steady circles. She studied herself in the mirror, intently, as she might never have looked as a girl. She traced her fingers over the scar on her side, her husband’s handprint seared forever into her skin. No, she thought; even now, she did not mind it.

And then Niccolette shrugged her bathrobe on, tying it at her waist, and made her way back to the bedroom she had shared with her husband for more than three years, not so different from any of those she had shared him now five and a half years. She rubbed her hair dry, and sat at her vanity, brushing it until the long strands shone. She put on slippers and went to the kitchen, and poured herself a half-glass of wine, the Bastian vintage they had been drinking two nights ago. It was as excellent as it had been then, and Niccolette refused to let it by soured by the throbbing pulse of fury and misery those thoughts rose in her chest.

Niccolette wandered back to the bedroom, and took another sip of the wine, and set it down on the vanity. She combed her hair back off through her face, and slipped the robe back onto its hook. Carefully, slow and deliberate, she massaged a palmful of lotion into her skin, not skimping, but with a precise amount of what was required for her own familiar contours.

Then, Niccolette began her work. She took another sip of wine, and painted kohl around her eyes, careful and slow, and blackened her long lashes. She took her powder and a brush, and studied herself, carefully, and then left it bare. She finished the wine with a last swallow, and painted dark red lip color on her lips, filling in all that skin. She pressed them together, once, smoothly, then pressed blotting paper to them, wiping away the excesses.

Niccolette went to her closet then. She brushed past the navy and the brown and the gray she favored in the Rose, and found a gown of simple design, but rich in fabric and color, a rich maroon silk. She rang for the maid, and had her put on one of the fuller corsets, pulling it tight.

The laces groaned, and ached, and Niccolette held taut. How dare he, she thought, and she met her own gaze without the faintest hesitation. How dare he.

She knew Uzoji too well by now to think him a liar when he told her he was sorry. She knew he would not lie, not willingly, but she knew too that he was not sorry - that no man who was sorry behaved as he did. Well, Niccolette thought grimly, she would teach him the meaning of the word.

Niccolette stepped into the dress, and let the maid do the buttons up the back, the long line of them, small and neat and fabric-covered. It was not daring in cut, but it was silk, and not many layers, and it draped, and Niccolette felt powerful, wearing it - as if it hovered in the air around her with all the strength of her field, as if it were another way in which her will was made tangible.

Niccolette did up her boots herself, and she swept a dark waterproof cloak around her shoulders. She took a small clutch with her, a match to the color of her cloak, and she strode forth from Quarter Fords. It had rained earlier that day, but the sky was clear now with the last of the sunset, and the world glowed unusually bright, the greens almost golden, the browns almost red, as if the sunset was setting the entire Rose on fire.

Niccolette smiled then, slow and deliberate and vicious, and breathed deep the rain-soaked air, and never doubted. She made her way down to the Waterfront, and if the sharp maroon silk glittering beneath the cloak drew eyes, the sharp brightness of her field turned them back away. Niccolette walked, as ever, without any indication she saw any of it, her path never faltering.

The Bastian did not hesitate at the door of the Winged Fish, but perhaps - perhaps - she let loose a deep breath, standing in the now dark on the Waterfront, yellow light pooling around her, glistening off her boots. And then she pushed the door in, and strode in after it; she swept her gaze around the room, and made her way to the bar, her chin raised, and her gaze forward.

Yes, the Bastian thought, casually. He was not yet sorry, but he would be.

[Corwynn]

14th of Roalis, 2717
THE WINGED FISH | EARLY EVENING

There on the pock-marked tabletop sat both their firearms, a handful of knives, and a few other miscellaneous weapons whose names either didn't have a direct Estuan translation or were simply not yet invented. Both pistols were, obviously, loaded. Ready. Prepared should this conversation not have gone as planned. So far, it hadn't, and yet the bright-eyed slip of a Black Hand wick, tattooed and unamused across from him had called for a bit of insurance before agreeing to even begin this godsbedamned meeting.

That had been, honestly, well over an hour ago.

Corwynn finally hissed a breath between his teeth and leaned back in his chair, propping his Turga crocodile boots up on the tabletop right next to his lovingly crafted reliable flintlock and crossing his arms across his broad-for-a-galdor chest, quite certain he should have shot this ersehole the minute he drew his weapon to set it on the table. Only he hadn't. So much regret and irritation seemed to buzz in the usually smooth weight of his field like flies in the summer sun, but it was drawn tightly, gathered close to the blond galdor's tanned, freckled skin like another layer of sweat,

"Listen, you're an excellent fence, Grin, but we're just not willing to budge on this territorial dispute. We've offered you plenty of opportunities to work with us—"

"Ye mean to pay yer taxes. My answer's still ne." Erland the Grin quipped his interruption swift like he was shoving a blade somewhere soft, shifting in his seat as if he was about to reach for one of the many instruments of combat spread out on display between them. He reached for his drink instead, draining the last of the lukewarm sludge from the bottom and then spitting on the floor whatever clung to the roof of his mouth. Slamming his empty mug on the table, his hand lingered on the handle but his eyes slid from the Bad Brother's face for a heartbeat—just the briefest of ticks—to his small, shitty pistol.

"We be done here, Cor. I ent budging."

The blond gunman's lips curled into a sneer and he shifted his weight, feet dropping back to the floor as he leaned forward and boldly let his whole hand come to rest on his firearm comfortably in obvious threat, the calloused palm of his scarred right hand on his knee,

"Well, then, yes. We're fucking done here, indeed. I'm sorry we couldn't work something out. Really quite sorry."

He wasn't sorry at all.

Not one bit.

The Grin sniggered, hardly apologetic, but his expression faltered when he felt the galdor's field grow taut and focused. Was it a ruse or had the Black Hand gotten the better of Hawke's stupid jent of a friend? The wirey wick's right eye twitched and he immediately reached for his weapon, tattooed fingers curling around toward the trigger until both of them were staring at each other, waiting for the next move.

No one noticed. No one gasped. Business went on in the Winged Fish much as it had for the past hour already, though the door opened and a waft of salty air swept in, bringing with it a flicker of movement at the edge of Corwynn's gaze, a sparkle of lantern light flickering off footwear and dancing over Erland's face.

The wick was fast! A long, slim finger put almost immediate pressure on the trigger even as he moved to raise the gun and take his shot—

The galdor? He didn't even lift his weapon, instead pressing his pistol against the table with what could only be called practiced ease and, naturally, firing first.

Just half a second apart, really, were the first two gunshots that rang out from the corner furthest from the bar. And then, surprisingly to perhaps everyone but the Bad Brother himself, followed a third. Those in the Harbor who tasted Corwynn's handcrafted lead didn't usually survive to warn others that his flintlock was, in fact, double-barreled, after all.

Erland the Grin had been bent, just so, body in motion raising his pistol instead of just discharging the fucking thing, and the blond galdor's quicker reflexes and ridiculous proximity sent one bullet barreling through the Black Hand's chest, clawing through a lung and smashing into the back of his chair. Of course, being still in motion as he was, the wick didn't miss, either, but he fired a moment sooner than he would have liked in reflex to pain and impact, his own shot burning swiftly through the lower left side of Corwynn's abdomen instead of square in the gut where he'd wanted it. It exited cleanly, burying itself into one of the support beams that held the upper balcony of the Winged Fish above the main floor.

The wick met the other man's hard, crystalline gaze with wide eyes and a wet gurgle, the fence's namesake of a wicked grin plastered on his weathered face as he dropped his spent pistol and kept moving, gasping for breath and clearly intent on spending it stabbing his opponent with whatever else he could grab from the tabletop.

The older galdor's second shot, point blank as it was, was leveled at the unfortunate bastard's head. There was no way for it to miss, honestly, and the mess was just as glorious and disgusting as expected, dropping the unfortunate Black Hand there onto the sticky wooden surface with a thud. The table tipped, everything clattering and sliding and crashing to the floor at Corwynn's feet, though he was already staggering back, face twisted into a sneer of pain as heat spread hungrily from the hole in his side.

Not that there was even a moment to fully assess the severity of his damage, which he knew by instinct and experience wasn't at all a simple flesh wound—no, of course not—for by the second gunshot, the rest of Erland the Grin's entourage was already in motion from their places in the bar.

Perhaps he'd imagined this particular negotiation going differently, and while he'd been careful about all of his information gathering and making this evening's arrangements, Corwynn realized that he'd underestimated a Black Hand before in his life and did not like the further realization that he'd repeated the mistake.

Wavorly was somewhere in the now-agitated, rising tide of a crowd, and the blond gunman fought to clear his vision of the stars that flickered through it for a rapid heartbeat or two, shifting his grip on his firearm to use it as a blunt object of force, unconcerned about the heat of it against his palm. He needed a swift exit, and so long as the rest of the godsbedamned tavern didn't get in his fucking way, surely he could make one before the Grin's compatriots got the upper hand or he bled out.

It'd be fine.

He'd totally been prepared for this conclusion to their rather tenuous business deal, right? Always.

The butt of his pistol swung upward at the movement he'd felt approach from another table, and using the searing pain the motion lit in his body as focus, Corwynn gathered his field, preparing to cast but not finding the opportunity to even let the single syllable of Monite for push leave his lips, the Grin's wick companion—a green-haired witch with a pearl-decorated eyepatch—in his personal space too soon, blocking his swing with a raised wrist and connecting purposefully into his injured side with the knuckles of her other hand.

Well, shit. He never did have the best of luck with those clocking Black Hands. Save one.

RollsShow

AvraeBOTToday at 3:24 PM
Muse
Rolling 3 iterations...
1d6 (6) = 6 - Cor's gunshot
1d6 (6) = 6 - Erland's gunshot
1d6 (4) = 4 - Tie breaker, second shot

AvraeBOTToday at 3:36 PM
Muse
Result: 1d6 (1)
Total: 1 - Cor's shitty swing

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The Winged Fish, the Wharf

The room was a bubble of conversation, lively and loud. Niccolette ignored it all, her gaze focused on the galdor sitting on a stool opposite her.

“I have to admit,” Etienne said, “I didn’t expect to hear from you, after – uh – everything.”

Niccolette’s gaze flickered delicately over Etienne, from the valet-styled curly red hair and high, delicate cheekbones, down to the elegantly tied cravat, and the slender legs crossed on his stool. She shrugged, lightly. “A woman can always change her mind,” Niccolette’s hand settled delicately on her glass of whiskey, and she swirled the amber brown liquid lightly, letting it gleam in the pale, yellow-washed light of the bar. Her skirt was flared out over her legs, and her feet were crossed delicately at the ankle, tucked against the little rim on the bottom of the stool.

“Of course,” Etienne grinned. “Of course,” his eyes flickered up to the door, and one hand rose to his cheekbone – fluttered, and then lowered back to his lap. His field fluttered too, faintly anxious, a weak stirring of perceptive mona that scarcely registered at the edges of Niccolette’s attention. He shifted on his stool. “I’m just,” he cleared his throat. “Your husband…?”

“He is no concern of yours, tonight,” Niccolette lifted the glass to her mouth, and took a long sip, leaving a little smear of lip color against the rim.

“No, uh,” Etienne cleared his throat again. Niccolette wondered, idly, if Uzoji’s punch had actually broken his cheekbone; there had been a rather satisfying crunch, and she knew, of course, that Uzoji’s knuckles not broken. She could not see any obvious damage now, but of course a mild fracture might have healed without, particularly if he had seen a doctor.

Niccolette smiled at Etienne, and set her glass back down.

Etienne took a deep breath, and leaned forward. His hand hovered again her knee for a moment.

Niccolette waited, feeling impatience curl through her stomach, her lips pressed together faintly.

Etienne’s eyes darted to the door again. He pulled his hand away, settling it instead of the bar, uncomfortable, fiddling with some bit of paper. He frowned. “I just… wasn't… wasn't expecting you to send a note.”

“And yet I have,” Niccolette said, a little sharply. She smiled, and it was faintly strained this time. “Must we continue to discuss it?” She reached out, and set her hand gently on his.

Etienne glanced down, and then back up at her. He grinned, again, slowly. “No, uh, of… of course not. Can I get you another drink?”

Niccolette glanced down at her half-full glass of whiskey. She managed not to sigh, and did her best to smile again. “Perhaps later,” she murmured.

The conversation had not improved much when the shots burst out on the far end of the bar.

Etienne jerked, visibly, his eyes widening. He glanced back over his shoulder, then up at Niccolette. “Good Lady!” He rose, abruptly, taking Niccolette’s hand in his. “Come, I’ll get you out of here.”

Niccolette looked down at her hand, and then up at the corner of the room, where – at this very moment – an impressive amount of blood was welling up beneath Corwynn’s waistcoat. She knew the Bad Brother immediately, of course; they had met more than once, and in more than just passing. Niccolette glanced back at Etienne again.

She smiled this time, much more genuinely, and firmly tugged her hand back. “You are quite dull,” Niccolette said, casually. “I am sorry Uzoji did not hit you harder. Please go.”

Etienne made a sound somewhere between a choke and a gasp. “Niccolette!” He said, sharply.

“Go,” Niccolette said, smiling, much more genuinely this time. “Now.”

Etienne glanced over his shoulder at the fight once more, and then he was gone, hurrying from the bar, the tails of his coat barely trailing behind him.

Niccolette sighed in relief, tilting her head back to drain the last of her whiskey. She set the glass down, steadily, and looked back up at the fight once more, not moving from her perch on the stool. Corwynn seemed to have the wick well in hand, Niccolette thought idly, watching as the woman slammed her fist into his side. The King’s Taxman would not have held his post so long if he was not more than capable of dealing with such minor inconveniences.

The crowd was rising, humming all through with bright, vibrant energy. Niccolette inhaled, deeply, and exhaled as well, and fixed her eyes on a tall, lanky human moving towards Corwynn’s back, a knife held tightly in his hand. Niccolette smiled, lightly, and began to cast.

She felt as much as saw those at the bar shifting away from her as her field flexed etheric in the close, hot air. There were many spells she could have chosen, many ways that Niccolette knew of dealing with an adversary that one wanted stopped, even from a distance. Hazy energy streamed in the air around her, rising up from her field, and seeped through the crowded bar, the mona ignoring those that the Living Conversationalist had not targeted.

There were many spells, Niccolette thought, pleasantly. But for making an impact, she had never found anything quite like breaking a leg.

The human’s right leg bowed out abruptly – sharply – mid-thigh. He dropped, sagging sideways, his knife skidding from his hand, and let out a loud, piercing scream, terrified and almost animalistic. Niccolette curled her spell, settled her hands on her lap, and glanced around, curious and bright-eyed, looking unperturbed for a next target.

Rolls

Leg breaking spell: SidekickBOTToday at 2:28 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (4) = 4

[Corwynn]

14th of Roalis, 2717
THE WINGED FISH | EARLY EVENING

Thankfully, the witch's fist landed too high, just a little, knuckles digging into ribs instead of into the oozing hole in his side, giving Corwynn a decent jab, giving him a brief glimpse of the brass handle of a flintlock tucked into the green-haired woman's coat. He hissed, windswept features creasing into a grin as his body twisted carefully with the momentum, less-whole right hand reaching for her firearm, pressing closer until his calloused fingers curled around the worn wood warm from the witch's bodyheat and the Roalis humidity.

She wasn't paying attention, too focused on making full use of the movement of her whole body in order to bring her elbow to bear across the side of the galdor's face, hard and fast and jarring, shoving him downward. A few bright flashes of light twinkled in his vision, and the blond gunman was unsure if he'd bit his cheek or his tongue, familiar tang of his own blood flooding his mouth as he pulled the green-haired creature's own pistol from beneath her jacket and raised it, hard and fast and jarring, into her gut.

It used to be his dominant hand.

It used to pull a trigger, sure.

Now? The familiarity of a weapon against his right palm brought a rush of phantom sensation, so real he was sure he could feel an index finger on the trigger where there was nothing but emptiness and scar tissue. His thumb found the hammer in defiance of it all, muscle memory still sharp and sure. She could feel what he was doing and the witch's eyes widened, then narrowed—she knew, apparently—her glamour grating against the sigiled fierceness of Corwynn's stronger, gathered field. He felt the wash of something etheric, a signature he knew, and a pale eyebrow quirked in reflex to the loud, beastly sound of pain behind him.

He took it as encouragement instead of a threat, too tunnel-visioned by the moment to dare risk a glance around.

Silas called this move his favorite parlor trick. The blond Bad Brother called it a bad memory, growling the single syllable for Pull with crystalline mischief in his blue eyes, the mona acquiescing to squeezing the trigger at his command when his body could not, Monite leaving a red stain on his lips before he spat the rest in his assailant's face almost in purposeful harmony with the loud bang of the forth gunshot to ring out in the Winged Fish this evening. Smoke rose between the pair and the witch immediately crumpled in a heap while his ears buzzed as if full of angry hornets and his whole right hand ached, runoff from his unorthodox casting dancing through his nerves.

He dropped the spent flintlock on her corpse, finally briefly looking downward at his abdomen, scowling at ruined clothes and too much red. A flick of his left wrist, fingers deft and true, and he'd holstered his gun back at his hip, stepping back and turning to see the groaning body of a human on the floor, leg bent at some horrible angle.

"Good evening, Mrs. Ibutatu." Corwynn didn't look up, making sure his boots found the human's face a sufficient number of times first, reaching out with his field as if to caprise for the presence of her usual company but he didn't ask, either. He kicked the unconscious ersehole's knife far under a table with stained crocodile-skinned toe and then turned to assess the situation for a heartbeat or two.

Wavorly was near the door, the tall, lanky red-headed old pirate slitting someone's throat with all his usual excitement, clearing a path for exit as any proper butler should be able to do. The Bad Brother had marked everyone Erland had brought with him, or so he thought. They hadn't appeared that good at keeping their own secrets this evening, scattered through the tavern, mingling with the crowd.

"Told ye 't go sideways!" Shouted the gold-grilled wick.

"What? Not listening!" The salty galdor riposted, his words more an expression of pain than a real response.

"Oes. Ridin' home by m'self then." Wavorly was laughing—loud and coy—as he shouldered his way toward the door, aware that his duties included securing said transportation.

The patrons, typical Old Rose stock, had either stuck around to work out some grudges with each other under the excuse of a decent bar brawl or fled. A handful had moved upstairs to pass some coins around and make bets on the Bad Brothers and the Black Hands, appropriate as ever. It was all a bit of chaos now, here in the sweaty main room, but to say that Corwynn wasn't used to wading through it would have been like saying he didn't feel the tide in his bones or know airship controls with his eyes closed.

The one-eyed witch. The human. Grin himself. That scrawny wick dead by the door.

One more?

Two more.

Wicks—dark hair, nose ring, was playing cards and brunette, bandolier, somewhere near the bar.

Corwynn, not actually emptied of weapons on his person but unwilling to reach all the way downward to his ankle for a knife at this moment, reached instead for a beer bottle from the closest table, leaning briefly, feeling the wobble in his knees and the heavy wetness now traveling downward far enough to cause his nice trousers to cling to his thigh on his right side. Godsdamnit. He had liked this pair quite a bit. As much as he liked anything, he supposed.

Flashing a sidelong grin at the Bastian galdor who'd probably gleefully broken some bones to save his erse, he caught a glimpse of one of his targets over her shoulder, "A lovely young woman such as yourself, dressed far too nicely for a place like this, and all alone? Shame—"

Stepping past her, free hand brushing her waist with a wink, he kept purring his words as he moved to meet the approaching wick armed with a pair of knives against his, uh, beer bottle, already gathering his field for another quick cast,

"—Good thing I brought the party to you. Saved you one, too. Not this one—over there."

Swinging the half-full brown glass toward the dark-haired man who (for once) really wasn't much taller than himself, while the wick prepared to meet him with a swing of his knife, Corwynn connected with his target and exhaled the quick Monite for ignite like he was simply lighting a cigar, forming an easy leybridge into a very focused Push spell like shifting the winds in familiar sails, forcing the flames and glass away from his person in protection.

The alcohol in the bottle burst into flames as the glass shattered against the other man's arm, splashing over the unfortunate bastard's chest and face, magical flames ignoring natural laws as the blond gunman curled his spell. The heat stung his senses, a monic warning that he was surely tracing the razor's edge of his manners, and he winced while the wick screamed and flailed, the Bad Brother staggering back and finally pressing a palm against his side.

RollsShow

AvraeBOTToday at 11:32 AM
Witch:
1d6 (1) = 1 Poor witch's crappy first swing.
1d6 (6) = 6 Better follow-up with that elbow.
Corwynn:
1d6 (5) = 5 Got that gun.
1d6 (6) = 6 Killed 'er.
1d6 (6) = 6 Boom.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The Winged Fish, the Wharf

Niccolette watched Corwynn’s struggle from her barstool, nonchalant. When the sharp crack of a pistol’s retort rang through the air, the Bastian uncrossed her ankles and rose from her stool, the unfortunate Etienne long since forgotten. She took a few steps forward, casually, one hand wrapped in the flowing fabric of her skirt to hold it just off the ground, revealing nothing but the shiny black leather of boots beneath.

Niccolette’s gaze swept over Corwynn and around the room, spotting his man Waverly close to the door. She felt Corwynn’s caprise, and she felt, too, the way it reached subtly past her, and the easy emphasis on the Mrs. before her last name.

Niccolette smiled. She met his caprise with a more forceful one of her own, living mona unhesitatingly tangling with his field. “Good evening, Mr. Wynngate,” Niccolette said, with a sharp emphasis of her own, once his little exchange had concluded.

Corwynn stepped closer, his hand skimming over her waist in an entirely inappropriate way. Niccolette grinned, feeling the etheric pull of his field inside hers, her gaze tracking his suggested target.

“Such a gentleman,” Niccolette did not waste anymore breath on foreplay, already beginning her cast. There was a trick to it, casting inside someone else’s etheric field; the more intense either spell, the harder it was. Naturally, there were ways to overcome such challenges, clever clauses that one could tuck amidst the monite. These were tricks Niccolette knew well, and her spell wove effortlessly around Corwynn, the mona rising to her bidding.

Niccolette focused her gaze on the brunette wick with the bandolier; his eyes fixed on her, and widened. There was a gun in his hand, then, quick. Niccolette did not break her gaze, did not so much as duck or pause. He was too far for an easy shot - but not too far for her spell.

There was the crack of his shot, and a distant yelp of pain that suggested it had gone rather embarrassingly wide, and all the while Niccolette continued to cast, her spell building. He came closer, reloading - but by then it was too late, and hazy energy streamed from the living conversationalist, sinking into his chest and pooling in his mouth.

Not long ago, Niccolette had learned a good deal in the subject of lungs. Her early efforts had been focused, naturally, on the subject of healing. Later work had been more dedicated to the question of damage. There were quite a few spells, it turned out, written to devastate an opponent’s lungs; Niccolette had made rather a study of it. She had had the time, and Hawke, as always, had been generous in providing the resources.

This, Niccolette thought pleasantly, was one of the nastier ones. She had been quite looking forward for the chance to try it out, although pairing it with a control spell was an innovation all her own. The first spell filled the lungs with liquid; the second held the target’s mouth shut, freezing the jaw and lips cold.

Niccolette watched, and curled her spells. The wick staggered; he barely held onto the pistol. He jerked sharply sideways, scattering glass to the floor, and dropped to his knees. Bloody froth bubbled from his shut lips; he managed something like a cough, and foamy liquid seeped from between them, before his lips closed together again.

Niccolette sighed, faintly disappointed; she could already tell the upkeep would not last long enough. She stepped forward; wide eyes made red by burst veins rolled up to meet her. Niccolette clamped her hand firmly over the wick’s mouth, and held, counting in her head. He struggled, but the lack of oxygen had left him feeble; he slumped to the ground, and Niccolette knelt with him, holding her hand in place.

His struggles stopped; his pistol clattered to the floor.

Niccolette wiped her hand clean on his shirt, picked up the pistol and fired downward, once, point blank, just to be safe.

The Bastian readied another round, and stepped back once to Corwynn, glancing back over her shoulder. She grinned, every bit as sharp and bright as her field. “Shall we?” She asked, glancing around the bar. “Or do you have other business yet to conclude?”

Rolls

Lung filling spell: 4
Mouth control spell: 2
Pistol shot at Niccolette by assailant: 1

[Corwynn]

14th of Roalis, 2717
THE WINGED FISH | EARLY EVENING

It was not the tone of her voice nor the way she spoke his name that briefly dragged the wisp of a chuckle from the injured galdor as he brushed past so much as it was the purposeful weight of Niccolette's field. She did not miss his unspoken curiosity and her magical response—Living mona weaving so willingly through the rushing tide of Physical and Static as Corwynn was drawing all of it in was actually more of a comfort than it was a returned jab in his direction. At least, in his bloodied opinion the subtle callout in aura form was appreciated instead of salt in his wounds.

Gentleman?

Cute.

The sound of shattering glass and the crackle-woosh of flames bursting to life were very satisfying sounds, the blond gunman sticking to simple, easy spellwork instead of the complicated glory he knew the Bastian woman preferred because what could be dubbed a key component in his magical endurance was currently staining his clothing, dribbling now to tickle his ankle while the unfortunate wick in front of him howled in pain, gurgling as fire devoured his clothing and flesh. Corwynn shifted on his feet and knocked the suffering beast over with a sweep of a leg and the shove of what was left of the broken beer bottle into his opponent's chest with far more force than was actually necessary.

Staggering back while the unfortunate creature flailed and gurgled on the floor, he turned at the sound of the last gunshot in the room, Niccolette standing above the other of Erland the Grin's Black Hand cohorts, maroon silk dress wearing itself with no small amount of pride on her pleasing, petite form even when sprinkled with spittle and someone else's blood.

It wasn't the first time he'd admired the dark-haired galdor, unashamed as always and as uncaring of marital boundaries as he was all of those other arbitrary legal ones. The main room was still a moving, living organism all its own, and while the older blond was mostly confident in his skills, he wasn't interested in standing around to check his own work. If he'd missed a target, rare as that was, he had no interest in giving them a moment to make his mistakes known.

With all the galdor grace he'd been raised with, the Bad Brother sidled his way up to the bar, reaching into his soaked waistcoat, five-fingered hand producing his wallet while he leaned heavily against the bar with his other elbow, that hand occupied. Counting coins onto the table with a smile to the bartender who watched him with no small amount of interest, the blond gunman left more than was at all necessary and tucked his wallet away again as he turned and made his way toward the door.

Blue eyes flicked down at what was leaking behind his palm with a twitch of a scowl, and Corwynn returned to applying pressure, looking back up to meet the bright gaze of Niccolette. His expression warmed with well-aged, natural ease into a returned grin instead of a grimace of pain when the young woman not only beamed at him in her rather signature sorcerous afterglow—surely, he wasn't the only one to notice—but she went on to imply with the smooth motion of her glance from his face to the rest of the room that she was, apparently, inviting herself along as escort.

"I believe my business here is quite finished, Niccolette, yes,"

The blond gunman consented curtly, pausing for a slow breath as if refocusing himself in the present instead of in the middle of melee. Never one to pass up an opportunity to be flirtatious, regardless of circumstance, he added with all the sweaty, sultry charm he could possibly muster in the moment,

"though that does seem to leave the rest of my evening rather free. Your schedule appears suddenly just as clear. Most fortunate, as I'm afraid I'm going to have to impose on whatever your clocking plans may have been—which, honestly seemed a little lacking from what I saw of them—given my current situation. I don't think you mind, do you?"

Corwynn would hold the door for her as he spoke so demurely about his injured status (she'd called him a gentleman after all despite how she totally knew better by now), letting the balmy, Roalis breeze wash over them both despite how it simply seemed to cling to him heavily. Just outside, Wavorly sat atop a "commandeered" carriage drawn by a pair of ruffled, impatient moa with all the smug contentment of the proper pirate he was,

"Evenin', Missus Nicco." Gold teeth caught the sputtering lantern light outside the Winged Fish, the wick grinning, "Boemo o' yer macha self t' join us." The old wick looked down, welcoming expression wrinkling into something serious like the shifting of sails, "Where to, Cor? Home's far—"

"It is." The blond galdor cut him off, tilting his head toward the west, as familiar with the Harbor as he was with his own tanned, freckled skin, "King's Courthouse." He grunted, naming one of the many holdings of the Bad Brothers tucked away in various neighborhoods (this one literally in King's Court, just a block or two away) that served as safe houses, lodgings for guests, mockeries of government buildings for gang business, and other equally nefarious and no less secretive purposes.

"Oes. Benny choice. C'mon. Ent gonna take Grin's lookout long to figure out what happened. Couldn't find th' bastard."

"Least of my concerns at the moment, really."

Again, with all mockery of propriety, he moved to indicate the lovely Bastian was to get herself settled before himself. There was a low door to open and a step up, all of which Corwynn had absolutely no shame in assisting with, unconcerned with the blood on his hands and even less concerned with where he put them on Niccolette's petite person, lingering places in ways no man should have lingered when daring to touch another man's wife, though it was all much more coy and gentle—a teasing distraction while he winced through half a smile—than it was at all rough and demanding. He didn't apologize, murmuring a far more mischievous-toned excuse me instead before climbing in behind her and pouring himself into a seat.

That felt awful and he grumbled about it, attempting to brace himself against the sudden jolt of motion once Wavorly whipped the moas into a trot, attempting to stay seated despite the painful angle it put him at without making too much of a show of it, taking in the smears he'd left on fine silk instead,

"How clumsy of me. You'll have to let me replace that."

It would be a short, bumpy ride up a handful of blocks and down an alley narrow enough that one side of the carriage scraped some dark brick wall for several feet. The stop was quick and the older galdor cursed his way through it all, insisting to slide from his seat first for all the same reasons he'd climbed in last.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The Winged Fish, the Wharf

The room smelled of alcohol and blood and sweat and the sharp tang of gunpowder. Niccolette breathed in the heady fragrance of it, never one to shy away from the aftermath, never one to back down or turn away from her own actions. There was a warm glow fizzing through her veins, although she couldn’t have said whether it was the alcohol, the fight, the magic, or the pleased grin on Corwynn’s face.

He had grinned at her before, naturally. Niccolette had noticed; one did, of course, always. She wondered, now, why it hadn’t occurred to her to go to Corwynn before. Anything worth doing, Niccolette thought, was worth doing right. There was no reason not to enjoy herself.

“I suppose I could take some time from my evening to be of assistance,” Niccolette said, smiling, her gaze drifting over the bloody mess Corwynn had made of his side, and then back up to the grin on his tanned face. She went out the door before him, the hem of her skirt swishing softly against the ground. The once-lovely silk was dappled lightly with blood, spit, and other, likely worse fluids; Niccolette wore it with the same pride and grace she had at the beginning of the evening, with absolutely no indication that it was in any way sullied. “Since my other plans are, at the least, delayed,” Niccolette glanced back over her shoulder briefly at Corwynn, just the barest flicker of a gaze.

“Good evening,” Niccolette grinned up at Corwynn’s Wavorly, nodding her head lightly. She let Corwynn help her into the carriage, and if her breath caught, lightly, at the brush of bloodied hands against her, the grin on her face left little doubt as to why. She settled into a seat in the carriage, mastering herself, as straight-backed as ever, looking as calm and comfortable as she had in the bar in the stolen vehicle.

Despite his pretense of apology, Corwynn was no more careful in the placement of his hands as he helped Niccolette from the carriage – or, perhaps, Niccolette thought, amused, he was equally as deliberate. The Roalis wind pricked over them once more, and the Bastian shivered, ever so slightly, surely due to the cool ocean breeze cutting through the fading humidity.

The King’s Courthouse was a quiet place, conveniently dark. Niccolette waited, patiently, as they got settled into one of the small, private rooms, conveniently well-supplied with something pale and fragrant, and several tumblers, tucked away in a back corner. There was a chaise lounge, and a series of chairs.

Niccolette made her requests of the unassuming host who’d seated them; he bowed, unperturbed, and hastened off. She closed the door, and turned back to Corwynn with a smile, carefully setting down the pistol she’d liberated from the dead wick on one of the side tables. “Lie down,” Niccolette said, smiling. She poured a drink, and set it on the table next to Corwynn; she did not pour one for herself, not yet.

Niccolette dragged a stool close to the lounge, and sat down on it. The slim, close sleeves of the dress were already bloodied, and she paid little attention to them, her head bent delicately over Corwynn. Her hair threatened to tumble of her shoulder; with a sigh, Niccolette sat up and pushed it back over her forehead. She took a curtain cord, settled it delicately between her teeth, and wound her hair up into a heavy mass, securing it at the back of her head with the little strand of velvety rope.

“I am sure it is hard for you to hold still,” Niccolette said as she leaned over Corwynn once more. Her fingers went to work on the button of his shirt, undoing them steadily one by one, brushing the fabric aside with all the easy comfort of the doctor she had trained to be at Brunnhold. “But do try,” she glanced up at him, grinned, and looked back down at the wound.

Niccolette’s fingers traced a careful path over his skin – not flirtatious, so much as deliberately competent. The bullet had passed through his side; other than the blood loss, and some tearing of the muscle, it was not so bad. She doubted that any major organs had been hit; even Corwynn should not have held up nearly so well had he been so unlucky.

There was a discrete knock on the door behind them.

“Come in,” Niccolette said, without looking up. She accepted the cloths and the bag from the host, and he left with a few bloodied coins to thank him for his troubles.

Niccolette took one of the cloth pads, folded it up, and set it beside the gin she’d poured for the other galdor. The other she wet, delicately, and used to gently clean the area around the wound, letting her see it in more detail. More blood was welling out of the holes the bullet had left the King’s Taxman.

All the same, Niccolette thought, it would be best to know more of the bullet’s path. She began with a quantitative cast, asking the mona to tell her what damage the shot had done inside the other galdor’s body. She was left with a feeling almost like a monic shrug, and the evidence of her eyes. The Bastian snorted, softly, more amused than anything.

“The spell shall hurt,” Niccolette said, looking up at Corwynn with a delicate smile. She used her fingers instead, gently palpitating around the wound once more, checking for fragments of the bullet, for anything sharp or out of place, for some spot of sharp pain that would tell her there was more to know. “I should recommend you to bite down,” she gestured with her chin at the cloth she’d set out for him, “and try to think pleasant thoughts.”

Niccolette inhaled, then, deeply, and began to cast. Without the knowledge from the quantitative spell, she could do little but a brute force heal; stop the bleeding, burn out any would-be infections, close up the wound, and restore whatever she could of what might have been damaged inside. Niccolette bore down on the spell, firm and demanding, and the mona listened, and bent to her will, gladly. It would feel rather like being shot again, for a somewhat extended period of time, and all the while Niccolette chanted on, steady and inexorable. There was no enjoyment of Corwynn’s pain on her face, but neither was there any regret or hesitation, any remorse; she was a clear and focused castor, steady and constant, never rushing or slurring, each syllable flawlessly precise, whether in the midst of a shootout or bent over a man straining against his gag.

Niccolette curled the spell. She picked up the next of her damp rags, and wiped the blood away from Corywnn’s side. The hole had closed; there was bruising, to be sure, and tenderness, but he might have been shot weeks ago, and the stitches already removed. The Bastian wiped her hands on the rag as well, and set it aside, rose and poured herself a glass of gin as well.

Niccolette stood at the table for a long moment, lingering, the glass held in one still-bloody hand. Bits of hair had spilled from her makeshift bun, strands dangling against her cheek, over her shoulders, loose down her back. She felt – she could not have said what. She was grateful for a moment of distance from Corwynn, a moment to stand and think; she glanced back at him, lying on the chaise lounge, and then away, and took a long swallow of gin. If he was too tired, too worn down by the fight? Niccolette could not have said what she felt; the clarity she had needed to cast was gone, and she was awash in emotions once more. She glanced back again at Corwynn, her gaze lingering, and let him be the one to break the silence.

Rolls

Quantitative spell to determine damage: SidekickBOTToday at 10:52 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (1) = 1
Healing spell: SidekickBOTToday at 10:52 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6

[Corwynn]

14th of Roalis, 2717
KING'S COURTHOUSE | EVENING

If he'd expected some sort of objection to his impolite form of helpfulness used to assist Niccolette into the carriage with, selfishly distracting himself, Corwynn was certain that the normally outspoken Bastian would have surely had some chastising to say when he intentionally and deviously didn't shy away from testing the same waters a second time upon exit. Instead, curiously enough, she smiled and said nothing. The older galdor didn't have the time to waste on interpretation—perhaps she was simply humoring him, but even that seemed out of character—so, honestly, he didn't bother.

He took a fair breeze whenever it blew, after all.

Dizzy now that he was back on his feet, the blond gunman found his equilibrium slowly and glanced to Wavorly, aware that he had an entire carriage to dispose of. He smirked up at the other man, the two men coworkers, shipmates, and friends for for long enough that words weren't necessary. The wick pirate would be back, probably with fresh clothes and full report to Silas in his stead, but the Circle only knew how long that would be.

Turning to lead the way in, Corwynn wasn't a stranger with the proprietors of the Courthouse (with anyone in the Harbor, really, after nearly two decades of his life spent serving his choice of Crown in the Rose), and the sight of the bleeding Bad Brother was more than enough to set the staff into a flurry of motion. No, he didn't require much. Yes, he had help with him. No, just somewhere private and out of the way would do. Yes, all the drinks. No, just stop fussing. He was mostly even-tempered, navigating conversation with a steady enough hand even though he'd now spent too much time out of the action, adrenaline draining into shock and clouding over both his patience and his focus.

He shrugged off his coat in the hall, wobbling a little when the sleeves seemed stubborn and his motion stiff. The burning sensation from the hole in his side was tolerable enough, nothing new, hot and angry and present, but it was the chill in his fingertips and flutter in his heart that kept him from thinking too lightly of his wound. Not the first time, and certainly not the last.

The door closed behind himself and Niccolette and he tossed the ruined finery over a chair, hovering long enough to loosen buckles and slip off his own firearm, dropping it all with no small amount of gentleness onto the same chair. Corwynn would certainly have continued undressing, hands moving toward bloodstained hems of his pants to set a thumb against fastenings, fingers slipping to untuck his shirt instead, but there out of the corner of his eye was Mrs. Ibutatu, the pulse of Living mona so strongly attuned to her person thrumming through the entire room.

He paused, coyly so, grinning at the doctor's orders, "Oh, if you insist." Blue eyes followed her hands, followed the sparkle of liquid into a glass, and followed her fluid movement to set the drink on the side table as he settled into the chaise lounge with a frown of discomfort, utterly unconcerned for the ruining of upholstery, "It's quite a pleasure to be treated to such lovely bedside manner. A rare treat."

The blond gunman couldn't help himself, his words a mischievous but quiet form of flattery while he reached for the glass and watched the way silk flowed behind the Bastian galdor while she went to fetch herself a stool. He swished the first sip through his mouth, feeling the sting of his bit cheek from the one-eyed witch's elbow to his face, swallowing hard before he drained the rest. A second, longer swig, and he set an empty glass back down with a hiss, Niccolette settling herself in necessary proximity, dark hair daring him to touch it, tempting him to reach up and move it out of the way—ah—but, she was just a step ahead, perhaps aware of his crystalline gaze not focused on her face.

So, he watched her tie it back instead, suddenly made aware of just how unhelpful of a patient he was being once there were fingers on the buttons of his shirt,

"Well, only because you're asking so nicely, Niccolette." His words implied he wasn't new to pain, implied he not only understood but perhaps enjoyed the edge between various levels of discomfort and pleasure, "Although, I see you have no desire to make it easy."

The young woman grinned and Corwynn's tone of voice fell in volume, watching with more than just casual interest as her hands moved downward over the freckled, tanned landscape of his torso. Fresh bruises and old scars, some clearly poorly healed from years ago, were on display and the older galdor was hardly shy. He was still, though, breath catching and lips forming a taut line on his windswept, well-aged face while the young woman seemed to skirt the edge of medical necessity and unintentional flirtation—it was, surely, all completely unintentional.

While the blond gunman was known for his lack of concern for the marital status of those he'd bedded, especially among his own kind, he wasn't incapable of respecting boundaries—he knew when it wasn't worth his time. For all of his blatant and unapologetic promiscuity, his pursuits were far more in line with a curious connoisseur than an insatiable beast.

He tensed at the knock, the reaction instinctual and well-honed, only to relax again slowly as their host quietly made his exchange, settling back into the chaise while pretending he didn't regret the sudden movement. It was simple enough, grinning instead of grimacing while someone pretty cleaned him up proper-like, and it was distracting enough, watching someone else cast. Watching a galdor cast, specifically.

Quantitative mona surely had the sense of humor in the collective consciousness they were theorized to have, and the dark-haired Bastian clearly didn't get the answer she wanted, not with a snort like that. Corwynn quirked a fair eyebrow, only to shrug at her warning,

"Please, there's no need to be gentle with me." He hummed without a hint of innocence, shifting slightly in order to better brace himself, fully aware of what to expect. She prodded, investigating what magic had refused to make clear, and he hissed but didn't otherwise complain, the blond gunman hardly inexperienced. He gave his opinions while she investigated by touch, closing his eyes for most of it and actually attempting to pay attention, "It feels like a clean shot. Just close quarters and a shitty firearm. I'm rather disappointed in how that conversation went for many reasons, but the consequences seem to be messier than they are damaging."

The older galdor did as he was told, however, making a show of himself folding the cloth as if it was an innuendo all on its own, "I don't think pleasant thoughts will be a problem from this angle, Niccolette."

He winked, making sure he kept himself from saying anything else (at this particular moment, anyway) with a chuckle.

There was something both disquieting and fascinating about watching another galdor cast, something both personal and terrifying listening to the intent in the Bastian's tone and following the Monite. He was aware of her talents, already having been impressed by her skill as a sorcerer on more than one occasion. Corwynn felt the shift in Living mona like a held breath finally taken, knowing that Niccolette's methods of stitching broken bodies back together was just as brutal and effective as when she took them apart. Perhaps there was a bit of thrill in that understanding, a momentary excitement in his bright blue eyes for the experience, a selfishly destructive interest in the sensations that would surely not fall into his usual range of pleasures.

Hurt was a generous understatement, a euphemism when used in the context of healing torn flesh without any anesthetic spells at all. That familiar burn of hot metal, that sharp objection of every nerve, only in slow motion, only in agonizing detail. He kept still and, surprisingly, his well-aged, sea-hewn features kept a rather even expression, curling one hand into the already bloodied upholstery of the lounge, it was with no small amount of boldness that he set the other, less whole hand on her knee, though he didn't squeeze or cling for any sense of comfort, no, four fingers tangling in red silk in case guidance became necessary.

He didn't whine or cry out, not for this sort of exquisite suffering, no, but he huffed and cursed against folded cloth, eyes narrowed, sweat trickling down his face, etched as it was in a mask of pained concentration. The older galdor didn't look away, didn't close his eyes and attempt to travel elsewhere in his mind, however, choosing instead to watch closely, intently: Niccolette's face, her determined poise, the blood on her hands, the motion of her lips, and his own tissue slowly brought back together. Ever so slowly.

"Godsdamn."

He panted hoarsely, echoing the phrase once even quieter, rag tumbling from his lips—lips which curled into the faintest hint of a smile before calloused knuckles dragged the expression away, "You weren't fucking kidding."

Corwynn sighed, still watching, not complaining, attention drifting from the Bastian's face to her hands as she wiped blood from a tender set of bruises instead of an open pair of holes. A fair trade, really, and the fingers that released both furniture and fabric reached up to crawl over his face and rake through blond curls with a ragged breath. Face hidden for a moment, he felt Niccolette slip away with the whisper of silk and the warm, languid trails of awakened Living mona in her field, tangled like strong tendrils everywhere, still pressing against his senses, writhing in the buoyant but dampened weight of his own.

The petite brunette served herself gin and he considered sitting up, glancing at the dark-haired woman's back, following the flow of her hair in the dimly lit room, only to be caught in his curiosity. He was not apologetic, not by the second glance in his direction, no, the other galdor's expression warming into—into something that wasn't just a grateful smile, not when Niccolette wasn't rushing to dismiss herself, matter-of-fact and efficient as he knew her to be.

"You're welcome, by the way—" The blond gunman sat up slowly, dull aches an acceptable trade, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt with a casual ease before shrugging the bloody thing off, holding her hazel-eyed gaze as he did so, letting his words hang in the air for longer than was necessary. Reaching for his empty glass with a sharp inhale, he stood, letting the dizziness fade before he crossed the room with purpose. Still quiet, grin mischievous but subtle, he brushed his way into the petite brunette's personal space to pour himself more gin, ignoring unsteady hands,

"—for a more exciting evening than whatever you had planned. Though I'm glad for your, hmm, arrangements, considering."

Corwynn was anything but naive. He knew when not to ask questions, and his way of offering gratitude in this moment was not at all masked in subtlety. Instead, his quiet baritone explored opportunities with the same knowing experience as her hands had explored his flesh for further injury. He paused for a sip of gin, the gravitational confidence of his field steady and reliable like the tide, mingling with hers in their proximity with all the force of some unseen undertow,

"So, also, thank you, Niccolette."

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 14 Roalis, 2717
The King’s Courthouse, the Wharf

Corwynn had been watching her. Niccolette knew how she looked; she could feel the loose locks of hair tumbling free, and see as well as anyone the bloody smears across her dress, the crumpled handprint where the Taxman’s four fingers had taken hold over her leg.

She had felt beautiful at the beginning of the evening, powerful, the red silk like an extension of her will, made manifest. It was crumpled and stained, now, but it did nothing to sour her mood. If anything, Niccolette felt it all the more keenly, that same pride, that same confidence. She had earned these smears and stains; she had taken the lives of men, and healed another, and the smears of blood on the fabric seemed more than a fair trade. She wore them with pride, and not shame, and she knew - even without the curious appreciation in Corwynn’s eyes - how well she looked.

Niccolette understood perfectly well that Corwynn was at most testing the waters, and quite possibly just amusing himself. All his looks, the ways his hands had swept over her entering and exiting the carriage, the curious teasing, and none of it had to be taken seriously. She knew; she was Bastian, after all, no matter that she had spent a decade at Brunnhold, and the following six years in Mugroba and the Rose. She knew what flirtation was; she knew when it demanded nothing more than what was offered.

Corwynn had born the pain of the healing well. Niccolette should have been disappointed with anything less - and, perhaps, with too much more. He had not whined or whimpered or cringed away, but he had cursed and held tight, decently. Niccolette knew perfectly well that he had watched her, throughout.

Perhaps an actual doctor would have told him not to rise, not yet, or encouraged him to avoid any strenuous activity. Niccolette was, rather deliberately, not a doctor. She made no such instruction, and her gaze followed Corwynn as he shrugged his shirt off, as he spoke, as he followed her unhesitatingly across the room. Close, but not too close, teaching past her for gin, his field making curious, cautious forays against her own, as subtle as the curiosity in his voice.

Niccolette saw no need to answer his thanks directly, not with words. She had stepped in to the midst of a bar fight; she had brought the mona to bear in a powerful spell to wipe away the holes torn in his flesh, to knit them back together. Words seemed useless, compared to the strength of all that; Niccolette would not sully her actions with such meaningless additions.

She could have moved away from Corwynn. It could have been done easily, naturally; there were ways of stepping away that Niccolette could have found without rudeness. She held, instead; she had forced him to reach around her for the gin, and she found she was very aware of those two callused hands, those nine fingers. She turned half towards him; it was not only his field she could feel, but a faint tingling of warmth at the edge of her senses, as if she could feel the heat coming off his bare torso, like a promise. She turned a little more towards him, and met his thank you with a pleased little smile, the barest hint of a nod.

Niccolette took a sip of her gin. It was clear and fragrant; it settled through her. She did not need any liquid courage, not in truth. Niccolette knew what she wanted. There was a pleasant simplicity to the gin, after the heady overtones of wine the night before and even this evening. She could still taste it on her tongue, just a little, like a memory. It clung to her; it whispered, reminding her of the questions she had asked, and the answers Uzoji had given in return.

No, Niccolette thought; no. Not given. She had dragged them from him; she had refused to let him linger in silence, or twist around the words, carefully, to find a place where his precious honor could be satisfied. She had wanted to know; she had reached out and grabbed hold of the flames, and she felt thoroughly burnt.

Five years of marriage, Niccolette thought, and a few months beside. She had tried everything. She had tried suffering in silence; she had tried flinging his ring back at him and running away; she had tried shouting, furious anger; she had tried sobbing. He was sorry; he was always sorry. Not for what he had done, but for hurting her. She understood the difference, now, and she could not be satisfied by it.

No, Niccolette thought. He had set her course himself, as cleanly as if he had turned the wheel of the Eqe Aqawe and pointed her in this direction. He was not sorry, but he would be. Niccolette would make sure of it.

“I am quite angry with my husband tonight,” Nicolette said, almost casually. She did not take another sip of gin, though the soft pad of her forefinger tapped delicately against the glass. She turned a little more, meeting Corwynn head on, confident and frank and utterly unafraid.

”I have thought it over,” Nicolette continued. “I should quite like to do something to hurt him.” She set the half-full glass down, now, and did not look away from the older galdor. “I do not see why I should not enjoy myself in the process,” Nicolette said, and now she grinned, slowly. The bright, lively living mona in the air around her wove themselves a little deeper into Corwynn’s field, tangling with the physical and static particles.

Corwynn had been in the Rose a long time. It was not only the staff of such establishments who knew him. Niccolette had heard his name giggled at the sort of quiet, pleasant patio parties favored by the galdori of the Rose; she had heard it mentioned with self-satisfied warmth by other female Brothers (and male ones too). A rich reputation, and well-deserved, so far as Niccolette could tell.

“Unless you are too tired?” There was a little challenge in Niccolette’s voice, then. One hand rose, and bare, bloodied fingers traced a curious path around the edges of the bruise her healing had left behind on Corwynn’s bare torso. Her touch was careful and light, just the edges of tingling sensation, without even the faintest pretense of medical necessity. Her fingers trailed a little further away, exploring old scars, her touch still featherlight. She looked up at him, no hesitation or reluctance in her eyes, no uncertainty, nothing but a little smile playing over her lips. Once her course was set, Niccolette did not turn back. She never had.

[Corwynn]

14th of Roalis, 2717
KING'S COURTHOUSE | EVENING

There were times when someone's body language didn't always match up with their spoken words. There were times when someone held back the truth for various reasons and times when someone spoke the truth so very directly, whether or not their body agreed to express itself in the same way in the moment. Corwynn had, over the years, learned how to read the differences quite well—his work for the King of the Underworld required much discernment, significant instinct, and quite a bit of listening to what was left unsaid. His personal life was, had anyone asked for the truth, really no different, although the blond galdor was not known to ask questions when he didn't need or care to know the answers. The kind of confidence he possessed had been honed by the test of time and did not persist rooted in some shallow need to prove anything to anyone.

Angry, she said.

Corwynn chuckled, filling the too warm, too close space between them with the sound of his genuine amusement. He was not at all ashamed to be in the company of such honesty, "I see."

There was little Niccolette could do to hurt a man's heart when such a man had no interest in fidelity, when he could not be persuaded to loyalty to someone already so beautiful and willingly so devoted, but the other Bad Brother wasn't known for handing out marital advice—first, because he wasn't married, because he'd never been married, because he didn't want to marry; and second, because he was far too comfortable in his well-established and well-praised position as extramarital temptation.

"Of course you should."

Corwynn did not say she deserved as such, did not make empty promises he would have to keep, and did not begin an inquiry for further details. Contrary to many assumptions made based on his reputation, he was not, in fact, the sort of person who took for granted his varied experiences, at least not when such opportunities were limited, obviously singular moments that were most likely not able to be revisited. This was, he was quite sure, a one-time only invitation, and the blond galdor did not resist the already present living mona pressing closer, growth and life like fresh breath over cool, solid stone.

Expression softening in the wake of unexpected permissions, magical senses confirmed what his well-honed intuition had already begun to piece together. He smirked at Niccolette's rather pointed question, at the challenged laced so expectantly in coy words, the rumble in his chest this time louder, deeper—a full laugh, defiant and unruffled by the implications, "Too tired? No. You're the medical professional here, not me."

Corwynn glanced downward at the brush of fingers that were not wandering in search of further injury but instead investigating an unfamiliar landscape, charting landmarks over strange waters when her light touch drifted over stories left etched over the years in his tanned skin. There were any number of witty comments and anecdotal conversations he could have slipped so comfortably into while his laughter faded and his pulse picked up its tempo.

The Bastian's smile was bold—she'd made up her mind while she'd broken the bones of strangers, this much was abundantly clear—and the blond gunman already knew the petite creature not to be the kind of woman to second-guess herself or to hesitate in indecision. She knew what she wanted and she'd chosen her weapon and he was more than happy to comply to being wielded in such a way. On a scale of hurt, they were shattering kneecaps this evening.

This was meant, judging by her tone, to be a very full experience. If she wanted to do the wrong things as right as possible, of course, then he'd certainly make sure she enjoyed herself.

He grinned, leaning closer to reach around her shoulder and set his glass down, deliberate motion forcing a decision—one, either bloodied palms against bruises and muscles which gathered themselves in a comfortable tightness in anticipation or, two, a withdrawal of her hands altogether toward some other destination he had no interest in predicting. Tilting his head, just so, he finished his thoughts in a much more subdued tone, just as boldly brushing his lips close to her ear, breath tickling disheveled hair, teeth teasing the skin of her neck while he spoke, the depths of his quiet voice felt wave-like in the warm, welcoming gravity of his field,

"Under the excuse of patient care, however, I'm going to assume you've got nowhere to hurry off to—"

Slowly, Corwynn leaned away, stepping back again just an extra half-step, and slowly, his own fingers traced downward from slight shoulders, over long sleeves, and over the backs of hands still stained with a few stubborn leftover smears of mostly his blood, inviting them both toward the chairs and probably ruined chaise lounge—not that it mattered, not that anything was truly too dirty, given the moment. The blond gunman's expression was wicked but not lascivious, curious but not overbearingly so, glancing again, lingering this time with obvious enjoyment over all that had been offered to him with a much less cautious, much less inhibited admiration, the dress and the form it clung to no longer a boundary that was not his to cross.

"—which means I don't have to rush, either. Too much."

There was still plenty of water in the ewer of sorts that had been so hastily provided, along with a few more towels. It was with deliberate intention that Corwynn set about to first clean up the mess he'd made: wiping blood from his hands and her hands was only pretense, really, an excuse to hover in close proximity: he'd not deny her curiosities should she have any of her own. She'd called him a gentleman and he couldn't help the mockery of pressing lips against clean knuckles, grin creasing its way into his sea-swept features and warming the bright blue of his eyes before he reached to offer to undo the buttons at her back in order to slowly, ever so slowly, set her free from her soiled dress.