[Mature] Light the Match

Sat Feb 22, 2020 8:48 pm

30th Hour, 27 Roalis, 2719
Dread Isle, Outside the Rose

The boat had pulled away from the harbor, slowly, riding on the rocking of the waves. Niccolette sat at the brow, straight-backed on the small, low wooden bench. The human behind her began to row, one oar in each large hand; they moved not quite soundlessly through the night, not with the splash of waves against the hull.

A little ways out into the water, with the lights of the Rose fading behind them, Niccolette leaned forward, opening the glass pane of the lantern she had brought with her. A tall, single white candle sat inside. She struck a match, and reached inside. The wick glowed, briefly, and caught, a small yellow flame wavering upwards. Niccolette drew back, and shook the match out as the fire crept close to her fingertips; she closed the glass pane and sat back.

There was no sign of Dread Isle, not yet, not at night; not in the distance, with the stars glowing through the clear sky overhead. Benea was half-lit, just barely beyond a crescent, hanging over the horizon; Ossa was entirely dark. Niccolette fixed her gaze on the flame, and began to breathe. There was a rhythm to it; she counted the spaces between her breaths, in and out. She put aside all the rest; there had never been fear, not really. Even the anger, she knew to set aside; even the fury. It would not help her here, not when she needed to call on the mona.

Niccolette had sat during the day with a grimoire written by Gharabarghi, a well known living sorcerer who had made his fortune, and his name, fighting for Hesse. He had written a grimoire which compiled the best of his spells, or so he had claimed. He had lived hundreds of years ago; it was a rare book, these days. Niccolette had found a copy in the black markets of the Turtle, the quiet places underground where – with money – one could go. Gharabarghi was not strictly forbidden; his spells hovered in the quiet in between, waiting to be discovered by the right authority.

In time, Niccolette’s gaze lifted from the flame. It knew her, by knew; it leaned towards her with every inhale and swelled brighter with every exhale, a glowing beacon at the edge of the boat. The island was a dark lump on the horizon now, rising up out of the waves, as if it would swell up, crest and overtake them.

“Yer sure ye don’t wan’ me t’ wait?” The human sitting behind her asked.

“No,” Niccolette said, coolly, the syllable tucked effortlessly between the rhythms of her breath. “Come back in an hour, and I shall pay you double, as promised.”

He grumbled something that sounded like moony beneath his breath. Niccolette considered the word, carefully, and then set it aside to. It was Hurte she thought of now, not Alioe. If it is beauty you care for, she demanded, thinking of the goddess, then I swear to you: this vengeance shall be it.

Niccolette breathed in deeper. She had read through Gharabarghi’s protection spells, one by one, careful, until she had found what she was looking for. He had several which were meant for a caster sitting with nothing to do but the upkeep, protecting themselves or some other fighter; they were interesting, but useless to her, tonight. Finally, she had found a spell which did what she wanted, which thickened the spell against swords and arrows, and which could be upkept, Gharabarghi had written, a long time with little cost to a superior caster; which could be upkept, Gharabarghi had written, even through a variety of other spells.

Niccolette began to cast. The monite whispered through the air through the lapping of the waves, the distant creaking of a small wooden dock. Her field flexed etheric around her; she felt the hazy energy that clouded the air against her skin sink into her, slowly. It hurt; it ached, as if her skin were suddenly too tight all against her. She did not flinch; she bore it, with her chin raised, and let the spell settle inside her. She curled it, and held; the pain held, too, and then lessened, until only the faintest lingering discomfort remained.

The bright note in her mind was like the candle flame; Niccolette fed it, just a little of her strength, and held the upkeep.

The front of the boat bumped the dock; the candle flame flickered.

Niccolette picked up the handle of the lantern and rose, her other hand steadying herself against the pier. She climbed up, and stood, pushing back the hood of her cloak; the dress she wore beneath was dark black, with gleaming ribbons crossing the front in an intricate pattern; it caught the light, and glistened. She breathed in deep, and stood on the edge of the pier as the boat began to pull back; it turned in the water behind her, and within a few moments, there wasn’t even the splash of oars to hear.

Niccolette began to walk forward then, her boots clicking steadily against the hard wood of the pier.

“I am here,” she called into the darkness, her eyes glowing green in the candlelight. She felt the weight of her gun strapped to her hip, hidden beneath the cloak; she felt the strength of the mona all around her, her etheric ramscott sharp and ready. “Show yourselves.”

Rolls

Wed Mar 04, 2020 4:53 am

27th Roalis, 2719
DREAD ISLE | 30 On The Clock

The waves of Hulali’s waters lapped softly at the hull of the small row boat, gently caressing dark salt logged wood as two oars carefully dipped into the inky brine and pulled steadily against the resistance. It was pitch black on the ocean, no lights shining off the boat or its occupant, the way forward guided by stars and the sliver of Benea’s light. The Rose’s garish night lights had long faded from view, though the oarsman hadn’t departed from the bustling docks. Instead, they had taken off from the curve of the peninsula, in the cover of darkness, off the back of the old rundown mansion that stood there like a ruin of the past.

Demkaih knew his path, the silhouette of Dread Isle looming to the right of him as he rowed in the dead of night. He'd plotted a course that took a wide berth of the smugglers refuge, coming around the back of the isle where the reef made it impossible to go any further by boat. It made a perfect place for a small row boat to make land, or at least, get close enough to it if the sailor was careful. Anchoring the small vessel, the Mugrobi stripped down and slipped into the water, his blades and clothing held above his head whilst he stroked towards the shore with long silent movements. When his feet hit the soft sand of the beach, the tall wick cautiously made his way into the thicket of the jungle like foliage just beyond the sandy shore, dressing in the clothing he'd bought that day. A long sleeved black shirt tucked into black jodhpurs, well fitting black sandles and a fabric belt for his blades and a small bag. Within the bag he carried flint and steel, his carving of Hulali and a smaller pouch that contained a mixture of dried squid ink. He poured a little into his hand, rehydrating it with water and rubbing the black liquid over his head and face, the rest of the dried powder he rubbed onto his circular daggers to mask their sheen as best he could.

When he was done, Demkaih hung them from his belt, pausing to find the small carving of Hulali and holding it in the cupped palms of his hands. Kneeling to scoop some water from the lapping tide, the blue eyed man brought the figurine to his lips, whispering a prayer as the water dribbled down through his hands.

“Oh Great Rider of the Tides, Master of the Oceans, I pray for Your blessing and Your guidance as I follow the path of justice for Your lost son, Uzoji. Lend to me, Lord of the Rivers, Your wisdom and Your strength that I might cast my line deep into these unknown waters and drag forth the Ursurpers of your Will.” Pressing the wet wooden carving to his lips, Demkaih tucked it away and stood. He took a moment, centering himself and focusing on his meagre field, carefully tucking it closer like the folds of a blanket. He concentrated on keeping it calm and dampened, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

Satisfied, he took the blades from his belt and held them comfortably, before making his way deeper into the jungle forest towards the dock that he knew Niccolette was making headway for.

Moving on careful, quiet feet, Demkaih picked his way closer to the rendezvous point, crouched low as he moved and blue eyes looking for her light in the dark. As he moved through the foliage, the older Mugrobi wasn’t disappointed, her lantern light garishly bright in the darkness. It blinded the eye to other insignificant lights that might appear around it, and as she stepped onto the dock, Demkaih found a place in the cover of the trees to crouch down in the undergrowth. He heard the clicking of her shoes on the wooden boards, and nodded to himself as her dress was exposed to the lantern like some sort of Clocks Eve ornament.

There was no doubt that she’d taken his request to heart. If they didn't see her by now, their informant (or ambusher) was blind.

Her voice wafted on the crisp night air, teaching his ears easily. I am here. Show yourselves.

The young widow had placed her trust in him, told him about the letter and asked for his help. Perhaps a better man would have convinced her not to go, would have made more effort to keep the younger galdori safe. By now however, the devout Mugrobi was beginning to realise he was not a better man. He wanted this almost as much as Nicco, and it felt right. It was justified.

Yes, Niccolette had placed her trust in him, and Demkaih was determined to ensure it did not go to waste. He looked around in the dark, and watched, and waited.

Wed Mar 04, 2020 1:20 pm

30th Hour, 27 Roalis, 2719
Dread Isle, Outside the Rose

Niccolette held the upkeep of the spell, as bright as the light of the lantern before her. She scarcely even needed to focus on it; it hummed somewhere beneath her mind, the mona in sync with her every breath. She knew it was invisible to any eye, even her own; she knew, too, that she could feel it, still, tingling over her skin, as if all her field had drawn close and lay against her, tucked between the cloth and the fabric. It was not uncomfortable, not anymore, no more than her skin was uncomfortable.

Niccolette held at the edge of the dock. One hand held the lantern still; her eyes searched the darkness, her gaze sweeping slowly through it. She could see nothing beyond the edges of the light, nothing at all, but she looked at the same. She saw it, as well, when the brushing of shadows rippled over the edge of her circle. One man, and then a second loomed out of the darkness. Niccolette watched them both, evenly, and did not mistake them for being alone.

“Mrs. Ibutatu,” one of them said; he bowed. His voice was rough, but his diction good; he cleared his throat, and kept on. “How good’ve you to join us.” He came a little further forward; light washed over thick dark hair, over a scar that ran along the line of his jaw and down along the neck below. Black eyes glinted in the lamplight, and when he smiled, it was to reveal a mouth of foul-looking teeth, yellow and cracked.

Niccolette’s gaze flicked over him, then to his companion. He was silent; he’d taken off his hat, at least, a round bowler sort of thing, and had it pressed to his chest. The shaved head beneath gleamed with sweat in the light.

“You did ask me here.” Niccolette said. She shifted; she set the lantern down on a nearby fence post, waist high. She crossed her arms over her chest, taking a half-step away; she thought perhaps something had flinched in the darkness nearby, though she could not be sure, not alone.

“Yes madam,” Jaw scar said; he bowed, lightly. “To offer our condolences, first and foremost.”

“Condolences,” the second man echoed, in a voice even raspier than the first, half-whistling from a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once.

Niccolette’s eyes swept over the two of them. “Indeed,” she said, quietly. There was a moment, a heartbeat of silence between them. “And what,” Niccolette asked, “do you know about it?”

Jaw scar grinned at her through the dark. “Enough to know you shouldn’t’ve come.”

The bark of the pistol, when it came, was to the side. Niccolette jerked, reflexively; she felt a graze of heat against her arm, and nothing more.

“I did rather hope it was something of the sort,” Niccolette inhaled deeply. She heard the movement off to the side; her field snapped with her as she called the spell for push. There was a loud crunch, then, like a body being hurled through the air. Niccolette grabbed the lantern and hurled it at Bowler Hat. It tumbled from her hand and cracked open against the ground; oil and flame spread out in a swirling mess, licking up all the dry grasses along the shore and blazing bright.

The Bastian grinned, fierce and wicked and unafraid; she held behind the fire, the light and heat dancing over her skin, glinting off the ribbons of her dress. She breathed it in, and shuddered, and knew she was ready for what was to come.

Rolls

Sat Mar 14, 2020 6:17 am

27th Roalis, 2719
DREAD ISLE | 30 On The Clock

"Mrs. Ibutatu,”

The voices in the darkness caught Demkaih’s ear, and he crouched in the undergrowth, slipping his blades from his hips and trying to make out figures. Two, that they could see. Two, that they could hear. But the Mugrobi wasn’t stupid. There would be the unseen that they needed to worry about.

He was too far away, their voices being carried from his hearing by the wind and the waves. He had to get closer.

Carefully, the tall man shifted his weight, moving at a crouch along the foliage line so he could find an inconspicuous way down towards the dock. He stayed in the darkness, cautious about his footsteps as he picked through the scrub and tussocks down closer to the sand. He thought he caught a movement to his forward right, though it was hard to tell now that he was closer, Niccolette’s lights of blindness also challenging his sight.

“And what,” Niccolette asked, “do you know about it?”

Demkaih could hear her properly now, and he moved faster, feeling a tension in his chest. Something about all of this wasn’t right. They were stalling.

“Enough to know you shouldn’t’ve come.”

The pistol flared in the darkness as the gunshot cracked loudly, and the blue eyed merchant dropped all of his stealth to rush from the darkness towards the duo as Niccolette threw the gunman with her powerful spellwork. The lantern exploded into an instantaneous brushfire, illuminating everyones faces in an orange glow.

Four, no. Five men. The two that had distracted her, the one that had shot her, and two more now ousted by the flames.

Using his momentum, Demkaih swung for the bowler hatted man, aiming to take out his hamstrings. The fellow caught him though, swearing loudly as he turned, catching the blade instead as a grazing blow across his thigh.

“You Mug bastard!” He snarled, stumbling back as the tall man swung again, catching nothing but air this time. His head turned at the clickity-snap of another pistol cocking for a shot, and kicked hard at the sand towards the sound. It was the forth man, a wick by the sense of it, relying on firepower over spellwork. The wiry, blue-green haired inked tsat cursed as the grit hit him square in the face. From the left of him, Jaw scar drew a blade of his own, bringing it upwards towards Demkaih’s torso. The spice merchant moved his arms downwards to block it a fraction to late, catching the sharp edge against his side with a grunt. It wasn’t deep enough to be life threatening, but blood did begin to ooze almost immediately from the wound.

Not waiting for the next attack, the Mugrobi spiraled his arms to twist the blades around, intending to slice through the man’s wrist holding the sword. He found skin, but again, only a glancing blow. Quick stepping back from the trio, he called out to Niccolette, unable to see her through the fire and the smoke.

“If you are going to do something, you need to do it now Bastian! But do not kill them all!” He swiveled, trying to see the other two men whilst keeping an eye on the three he already had.

Dice RollsShow

Slicing Bowlerhat Hamstrings SidekickBOTToday at 20:29
Raksha: `1d6` = (2) = 2

Swiping at Bowlerhat face SidekickBOTToday at 20:30

Raksha: `1d6` = (1) = 1

Kicking sand at Blue-Green Tsat SidekickBOTToday at 20:30

Raksha: `1d6` = (5) = 5

Avoiding Jaw scar blade SidekickBOTToday at 20:58
@Raksha: `1d6` = (2) = 2

Trying to remove Jaw scar’s blade SidekickBOTToday at 21:01
@Raksha: `1d6` = (2) = 2

Sat Mar 14, 2020 9:49 am

30th Hour, 27 Roalis, 2719
Dread Isle, Outside the Rose

Five of them, all told.

Five against one, or so they thought. Niccolette felt a sweeping tingle of pleasure - of pride too, half-felt, that they would send five men to kill her. Good, she thought - good. Five men meant resources; five men meant this was not someone casually interested in having her dead.

Three men were in a cluster half-across the flames, bowler hat among them; the one she had hit with her push spell had broken a tree off to the side, and was still struggling to rise. Jaw scar was fumbling with a pistol, firelight glinting off the barrel.

There was a distant noise and the fire swept along the edge of a curved blade. Demkaih. Niccolette had not doubted him; she had no space for doubt inside her. There was no point to it; there was no point in the fear, either. She had set it aside, all of it; she had had to.

Niccolette inhaled deeply and began to cast.

The man aimed at her and fired. There was a dull bang from the pistol and a bursting noise; he flinched away from it, dropping it into the sand. Smoke trailed from the blistered barrel.

Niccolette had not so much as flinched in her spellwork. She wove a leybridge in, a second push spell sending a powerful blast of energy at him; the flames roared with its passage. It shoved him back and down, skidding in the sand.

Niccolette wove her second leybridge and picked up where she had left off. The fire was racing through the small grasses; she could see four distant shapes through the flames and smoke, one taller than all the rest, distinctive for his curved blades.

It was the other three Niccolette reached for. Anesthetic spells were most commonly used in healing; they could make a target feel nothing, not even the slightest pain. Such spells could not be held long; most casters had a limit of only a few minutes before the spell would break down, and the target begin to wake.

Niccolette did not need them unawares; she did not try to put all three under. The hazy energy that rose from her like heat and streamed through the night, bursting through the fire to wrap in coils around all three men was much simpler: it left her targets sleepier and slower than they had been. It made them sluggish; she saw a hand come open, just a little too much, and the glinting fall of a blade.

Niccolette curled the spell. “Leave the one in the hat!” She shouted. Her Estuan was as crisp and precise as her Monite had been, for all that there was a faint rasp in her voice from the smoke filling the air. The firelight danced along the bottoms of it. The fire was in the trees now, dancing through their branches.

Jaw scar slammed into her; the Bastian screamed. She went down - they both did, sending sand flying up into the air. He knocked her back, not onto the pier but into the wet sand of the beach next to it. Niccolette lost the upkeep of her protection spell; it dissipated as if it had never been.

“Fucking golly bitch,” Jaw scar man spat in his twisted voice. A consequence of the same injury, like as not, Niccolette thought coolly. He was half on-top of her; one knee pinning her stomach. Niccolette grunted with the pain; he weighed nearly twice what she did, and the weight of him alone would have incapacitated her. He had not hit her square on - a grasping arm had just missed wrapping around her. But they were still on the ground, and he had her more than half-pinned. She knew better than to try and cast through the painful ache in her lungs.

But casting was not her only trick.

Niccolette grabbed a fistful of her own skirt and yanked it up; she pulled her pistol free from the holster on her thigh. She fired; there was a bang, and a loud wet noise, and a deep male voice grunting in pain from above her. He rolled over and off her.

Niccolette sat up and fired again. He jerked this time, and slumped to the ground next to her, blood leaking from his mouth.

Niccolette gasped for breath; her head was swimming. She coughed; she came to her hands and knees, and wobbled up to her feet, stumbling slightly. The pistol she still held tightly in one hand. She tried to speak and began to cough again, her lungs aching.

Rolls

Tue Mar 17, 2020 8:22 am

27th Roalis, 2719
DREAD ISLE | 30 On The Clock

Leave the one in the hat!

The dark skinned wick nodded, even if she couldn’t see him through the crackling flames, turning his gaze on the trio as her spellwork wove through the air. He felt it brush warm against his field, oozing by to seep into their bodies and make them dull. Just for a moment, the blade Jaw scar held falling to the sand. Demkaih took the advantage, stepping quickly towards the man in the hat and flipping his blade flat against his arm to grip the curved wooden hilt tightly in a fist, drawing it back and punching the desema firmly in the temple. The whites of the mans eyes rolled into view, and he dropped to the ground like a proverbial sack of potatoes.

He wouldn’t be getting up again in a hurry, unconscious to the world around him.

As the spell ended, Jaw scar moved faster than the tall Mugrobi could catch, leaping past the fire and plowing into the brunette galdor. The merchant growled, turning his blade back, only to be confronted by the wick.

“Come on then, ye’ big mug bastard.” He snarled, drawing his own weapon from his belt, two short swords clearly made for close combat. The wick laughed, licking his teeth and gesturing to the man. Unmoved by the taunting, Demkaih moved cautiously as the other man did, trying to get his back to the fire so he could stay between his opponent and the Bastian. A crack of a gunshot startled the blue eyed bladesman, and the wick saw his chance, taking it without delay. He lunged for Demkaih with wide swings on either side of him.

Hulali had to be watching over him, as the Mugrobi caught the movement and fell to his knees, letting himself arch back to watch the blades sweep over him above his face, crossing his arms over his torso. The wound in his side burned in protest, fresh blood seeping through the dark fabric of his shirt. Not waiting for the over balanced wick to recover, the bladesman swung his own circular blades outwards at the exposed underside of the man above him.

They sliced deep and true, one taking the wick across the stomach and the other across his throat. Blood gurgled from the cut artery, even as the wick fell to the sand, daggers discarded and hand over his throat in a vain attempt to stop the flow. Spattered in his opponents life force, Demkaih rolled to his feet with a grunt at the pain in his side, teeth grit and brow drawn as adrenaline raged through him.

Two gunshots. He’d heard two.

Taking a run at the flames, the merchant took a diving leap, rolling on the sand as he passed through and standing quickly with daggers at the ready. By Hulali’s tits, he wasn’t on fire!

“Niccolette!” He called, coughing as the smoke caught in his lungs and stung his eyes, looking around for the Bastian and the other men. He’d taken out Hat, and Wick. That left Jaw Scar, and the two other men he’d seen before Nicco had tossed her lantern. His field reached for hers, curved blades held at the ready, blinking to clear his eyes in the thickening smoke.

Damn these flames!

Dice RollsShow

Knocking Bowlerhat unconscious SidekickBOTToday at 22:44
@Raksha: 1d6 = (4) = 4

Demkaih distracted by gunshot SidekickBOTToday at 22:54
@Raksha: 1d6 = (2) = 2

Demkaih ducking under that swing to take out the Wick SidekickBOTToday at 23:00
@Raksha: 1d6 = (6) = 6

Demkaih leaping through fire and flames SidekickBOTToday at 23:05
@Raksha: 1d6 = (5) = 5

Tue Mar 17, 2020 8:43 am

30th Hour, 27 Roalis, 2719
Dread Isle, Outside the Rose

Niccolette spat a mouthful of something she was grateful not to see in the sand. She drew a rasping breath in and it scraped against her lungs, but she did not cough.

Another breath, and another. Niccolette’s gaze fixed on the flames; she found the count of them, steady, a shortened rhythm. The fire jerked; the flames rippled along the edges with the count of her breath.

Niccolette began to chant. She held her gun tight in one hand, but she was conscious of having only a few bullets remaining, and conscious too of the figure moving through the dark edge of the woods, the man she had pushed away creeping through the trees, light glinting of the metal buckle of his belt.

Niccolette’s field pulsed etheric in the night air. The firelight gleamed off soot-streaked skin and danced in the ribbons that ran over her dress; it caught the low lights in her hair and lit up the pupils of her eyes. The fire bowed towards her with each breath, the flames that danced along the top shifting towards her and away.

Through it all, she cast. Hazy energy streamed up in the air around her like smoke; it pooled and flowed and reached, streaming tendrils into the woods. There was a startled, pained yelp, distant, and Niccolette did not need to look to know the haze was sinking into the man’s chest, steady and even.

Niccolette had made quite a study of lungs, what felt like a lifetime ago. At first she had been focused on understanding, and then on healing and strengthening. Then, next, she had learned the other side of it.

This spell was a particular favorite. The lining of the lungs was not strong; the ribs protected them, encased them in a hard shell of bone; but the mona could reach through the ribs like a knife. And they did.

Niccolette did not hear the gurgling, this time, as both of the man’s lungs collapsed. She saw frothy red blood on his lips, gleaming in the firelight.

There was a burst of motion through the flames to her side. Demkaih was there, gleaming with blood, blades in his hands, looking around, blinking through the smoke and calling her name. Niccolette did not stop her cast to speak to him; she was chanting still, breathing steadily, and she had scarcely curled the first spell before the second began. The flames bowed to her meditation; there was a ripple through the fire she had set to the island with each rhythmic breath, in and out, drawing in the smoke and the world beyond and sending it back out just a little changed.

Niccolette inhaled; the fire leaned towards her, smoke and flame both. She cast, harsh heavy syllables of monite in an aching, rasping voice; she exhaled, and the fire pulsed away, flattening faintly down. This spell hovered in the air; energy streamed down her own through, and crawled for Demkaih as well, filling his mouth.

It hurt. It hurt Niccolette too; it was sharp and painful and vicious, and it filled all her senses, so there was nothing but the breath and the words and the flames and the pain. It was like a thousand knives crawling down their throat, pricking at the sensitive flesh of their lungs. Niccolette cast through it, even and steady.

The Bastian curled the spell; she spat another mouthful of bloody something into the sand. She could breathe easier through the smoke, and Demkaih too; it rasped, still, painful, but their lungs knew what to do with it a little better than they had before. If breathing was not easy, at least it was not painful - not, at least, compared to the spell.

“One more,” Niccolette said, calmly, the Estuan tucked between the rhythm of her breath as the Monite had been, holding the upkeep of the breath spell. “Unless you left any behind.” She glanced around the fire streaming across the beach, scattering in the wind, gleaming in the tree tops. Jaw scar lay facedown on the ground in the sand where she had shot him; the other man was twitching in the trees still, but less and less with each passing moment. Niccolette’s gun gleamed in her hand; the rippling dark fabric of her dress was wet with mud and sand, and smoke and mascara alike were smeared across her face. She held her head as high as she had coming off the boat; she bowed to none of it, but only breathed steadily, in and out, and let the flames bow.

Rolls

Wed Mar 18, 2020 7:56 am

27th Roalis, 2719
DREAD ISLE | 30 On The Clock

Blinking hard, eyes watering from the smoke, Demkaih coughed and turned to squint at the flames as they bent low and then curved back. Like the rhythm of someone breathing in, and out, and from the smoky chaos he felt her. Bright, like the first star of the evening, Niccolette field was blinding in its power. He turned for her, turned to the chanting of her voice, moving closer to the younger Bastian.

The flames lowered, flattened in a threat to extinguish, and Demkaih saw her then. Streaked with soot and mud and sand and blood, lit by the flames like the goddess Hurte in the flesh, her dark hair wild around her face and clinging to her skin and cheeks flushed with exertion and raw power. The older Mugrobi marveled for a moment, time frozen in that moment it seemed, at the beauty in his friends widow. Something stirred in him, a warmth that he had so carefully avoided for so many years. Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline, or the comradeship of battle, or the smoke in his lungs but by the Great Turga in this moment he felt awed by her.

If it were another lifetime, he would have kissed her.

A writhing, burning, caustic sensation crept down his throat and into his lungs, forcing improper thoughts from the merchants mind. He coughed, swallowing, gasping at the pain that tore through his respiratory system. It hurt, by the Circle it hurt, and Demkaih wondered if the galdor had sensed his shameful attraction for her. This was her rebuttal, her disgust. So it should be. Uzoji was not at rest, and here the old fool was acting like a child. That was no adame, no poa’xa. Guilt burned the back of his neck, even as the worst of the pain subsided and the dark skinned man realized that he could breathe better. It was uncomfortable, it was painful, but it was easier.

It was not an act of rebuke, but of assistance.

“One more,” Niccolette said, calmly, the Estuan tucked between the rhythm of her breath as the Monite had been, holding the upkeep of the breath spell. “Unless you left any behind.”

Demkaih allowed himself to grin then, his face full of victory and running on the high of the moment. He laughed, a raspy hoarse thing with the spell and the smoke, making a small flourishing movement with the blades and almost shouting in reply as he moved to stand in front of her and scanned the dock.

“Ha! You do not leave rats alive to spoil the stock my adame! I have the one in the hat, although he is not dead, he is not going to be a problem anytime soon.” The blue eyed Mugrobi said with a glance back at the brunette, not catching the movement behind him, blinded by the flames.

Blinded by her.

The gunshot cracked loudly, and Demkaih twisted with the impact of something hot and painful catching him in the chest near his shoulder, under his collar bone. His field pulsed in surprise, weaker in comparison by far compared to her own, and he made a sound of anguish as he stumbled back to look for the source of his injury.

“Maguala desema!” The Mugrobi spat, lifting one blade in defense, the other starting to lift only to fall with a growl of pain, staring at the gunman as he cocked his two shooter again.

He shouldn’t have been so distracted.

He was not a good man.

Yar’aka.

Dice RollsShow

Sneaky ersehole gunshot to the shoulder/chest SidekickBOTToday at 22:43
@Raksha: 1d6 = (5) = 5

Wed Mar 18, 2020 4:11 pm

30th Hour, 27 Roalis, 2719
Dread Isle, Outside the Rose

Demkaih laughed, harsh and booming through the empty night, echoing over the roar of the flames. Niccolette grinned, too, eyes bright, turning to look at the other man. She had expected competence; he carried his blades easily enough that she was not in the least surprised by it. She wasn’t sure she had expected excitement; it caught her and torn through her skin, and something inside her burned as well, like a glowing flame in the pit of her stomach.

The upkeep of the spell caught and flickered; Niccolette held it, breathing steadily through, although it would become just a little harder to breathe, the smoke just a little harder to bear.

There was a sudden loud crack of a gunshot; Demkaih jerked, and Niccolette could feel the pain ripple through his field and catch in his throat. The gunman – the last of their assailants – was lifting his two shooter again.

Niccolette stepped to the side, out of the way of the larger galdor, and raised her pistol. She fired; the bullet struck dead center on the human, and he dropped. Niccolette exhaled out, the last of her breath rippling through the air, and murmured the words of monite she used to end her meditation. The flames on the beach rippled and bent outwards, away; the fire had torn through the dry scrub that littered the beach, and moved past it to more distant trees. Glowing embers flicked through the air, but the flames themselves had been fading already, and Niccolette’s command enough to put the last of them to rest.

The trees still glowed firey all around them, and the flames were spreading more distant through the rock; somewhere on the other side of it there was a sharp boom and a plume of flame lit up the night, some trove caught up in the blast. Niccolette watched it, feeling the distant brush of heat; it glowed in her pupils and caught the light across her as she turned to Demkaih.

Practical, Niccolette hiked up her skirt, one bare leg gleaming in her firelight, and tucked her gun away in the holster strapped around her thigh. She shook out the long dark skirt, and went to Demkaih, raising her eyebrows.

“Sloppy,” Niccolette murmured. She slid her fingers under the edge of his shirt, peeling it away from the bloody wound with the edges of her nails; she was roughly of a height with it, standing close to him on the empty beach. Her gaze flicked up to his face, and she offered him the faintest edge of a smile; she had been teasing him, although she understood that he might not have realized. Through his chest she could see distant glowing flames; the air around them was still thick with smoke, although with the fire having burned off the beach, it wasn’t as bad as it had been.

“Take your shirt off,” Niccolette said, crisply, in a voice that brooked little argument. She paused, and shrugged. “If you can. I shall return.”

Niccolette made her way from the pier deeper into the beach, past glowing embers; the flames in the trees that ringed it caught her. The once-twitching body was on fire, now; the rest of the men who’d attacked them lay here and there. She found bowler hat, still slumped in unconsciousness, and knelt next to him; Niccolette’s fingers pressed up beneath his chin, and she cocked her head to the side, waiting until she had confirmed the feeling of his pulse. Yes, she thought, coldly, still alive; it was sluggish, but, then, she did not particularly care if he lived long.

Niccolette patted him down, next, hands searching the pockets of his clothes. Nothing on him, nor Demkaih’s other victim, the gash in his throat glistening in the firelight. She went back to jaw scar, and there she found a slim metal flask. Niccolette raised it to her nose, breathing in, and nodded, content. Gin, better than whiskey, wine or some other foul Rose liquor; not as good as vodka, naturally.

Niccolette brought the bottle back to Demkaih, her gaze flicking over his bare chest with competent, professional scrutiny. “Sit,” she told him, gesturing to the pier with her free hand. “Better to deal with the wound now,” Niccolette said with a little shrug. “It will hurt,” she warned him, holding his gaze, and lifted her eyebrows. “Tell me now if you cannot handle it.”

Rolls

Thu Mar 19, 2020 7:48 am

27th Roalis, 2719
DREAD ISLE | 30 On The Clock

She was grinning back at him, and for a moment Demkaih forgot himself. He forgot his surroundings, and the fire, and the blackness of the night. For a moment, his heart caught in his throat and his mind focused on her.

And it was all that was needed.

The pain that seared his shoulder was hot and sharp, before flaring outwards like he’d been punched and stabbed all at once. Swearing, refocusing on the world, he saw the glint of the pistol as he raised his dagger. The click of the hammer as he steadied his stance. It would all be too late though, but at least he could take the second shot and give time for the mage to take out the last man. At least he could do that.

Another gunshot, and the tall Mugrobi waited for the bite of the bullet that never came. Instead, the assailant dropped to the ground, life extinguished in a second. Demkaih lowered his blade, looking back at the Bastian and sighing with relief.

Thank the Circle.

Hanging his weapons on his belt as the flames around them lowered to her command, the older man felt the throbbing in his shoulder and his side, now that the danger was over he felt everything. Blood stuck his dark shirt to his skin, wet and cold now that the flames had died. The explosion further into the isle was like the great sky lights of Clocks Eve in Anaxas, but the blue eyed bladesman didn’t turn to look. He watched the woman, lit up in the glow of the pyre, as she tucked her gun away and approached him.

“Sloppy,”

Demkaih straightened as best he could as she inspected the wound through the hole in his clothing, looking down at the woman with an arched brow, before chuckling softly at her barely there smile—by Hulai’s Oceans that hurt. In the aftermath of the battle, the galdor teased him, a comradery of victory.

“I am in the business of selling spices and wooing business partners. Not often do I have the need to dismember a competitor.” He said evenly, keeping the pain out of his voice with the stubborn sense of dignity and pride his upbringing had instilled. Still, his field could not hide it, especially so close to the younger Bastian who looked through the hole that went in one side of the man and out the other. Fortunately, if fortune could be applied to a gunshot, the pellet had taken an angle, missing his shoulder blade by a hairs breath.

Nodding at the firm request from the skilled young woman, Demkaih reached over his back with his good arm, grasping the shirt and tugging it up and over his head. He grimaced, dragging it down his arms, feeling wet fabric streak blood across skin marred from ink and soot and sand. And someone elses blood.

Someone else that he’d killed.

Was he meant to feel bad now, or disgusted, or ashamed? Was there a right way to react after slicing through the throat of another person, very alive and now very dead by your hand?

He wasn't a good man at all.

Regarding the ruined garment for a moment, the merchant sighed and threw the shirt aside. There would be no point trying to salvage it, or put it back on, sticky with the slowly congealing fluid. As he waited for Niccolette to return, the tall Mugrobi checked himself, prodding at the now only oozing slice in his side and trying to see the bullet hole. His blue eyes scanned over the dark planes of his own person, taking in the cloying thick blood that beaded on his skin. It could be his, or it could be the wicks, it was impossible to tell. The spatter across his face though…

He knew who’s that was.

Glancing up at the brunette, Demkaih followed her guidance, moving to the pier and grunting an involuntary sound as he moved to sit with legs hanging over the wooden platform. He smirked at her comment, taking the gin with a questioning look and gentle fingers, slugging a mouthful and handing it back with a gritty exhale.

“Bhe, what do you take me for adame? Pfft, I am Mugrobi. We can handle a little bit of discomfort.” The tall, seated man dismissed her with humor, though he held her gaze for a moment too long afterwards. Long enough to convey the seriousness in which he took this moment, before turning his gaze onto the dark waters around them.

“Hulali will give me the strength in this, as He did in our battle. He knows the path we take for vengeance, and He rejoices.” It was said with genuine belief, and a firm nod, indicating to the grime streaked Bastian that he was ready.

An Unexpected Victorian Fantasy

[Mature] Light the Match

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