[Mature] Light the Match

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

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

Adame, Demkaih had called her, again. Niccolette had watched him sit with a heavy grunt, breathing smoothly and evenly. She half-regretted ending her meditation; it was harder, now, to sustain the equanimity she needed in order to cast. She let go of the last of the breath spell with a careful, long exhale, meeting Demkaih’s gaze.

He looked around the dark waters, and said Hulali would protect him. Niccolette made a little face, glancing away. He did not protect Uzoji, she wanted to say, sharp and bitter. Nor did Hurte, and She should have loved him for his beauty. Her hand gripped the fabric of her skirt, tightly; the other squeezed the flask. Niccolette breathed in, deep, and exhaled out as well.

“As you like,” The Bastian said with a little shrug. There was more than calm in her voice; there was something there, some nameless ache, beneath the easy words. She did not acknowledge it. She knelt on the damp wood next to the Mugrobi, gaze flicking professionally over his bare torso. She made a little face at the sight of the wound in his side; grime-smeared fingers hovered, close. She did not touch it directly, but guided her sight with them.

Sluggish bleeding, at least; it was the sort of cut which needed a deep washing and pressure, but not stitches, not if the bleeding was already slowing. Niccolette turned her attention back to Demkaih’s shoulder. She could feel the weight of so many casts bearing down on her, aching through her bones; she did not dare risk a quantitative cast to diagnose him.

“Hold this,” Niccolette gave the flask back to Demkaih. “Do not drink the rest just yet,” she told him, a little sharply. With both hands, carefully, she pressed against the skin around the bullet hole. She was not gentle; gentleness served no purpose. She searched with her fingertips against the hard muscle and the bones, gaze distant, feeling for anything out of place, any hint that a bullet remained.

Niccolette exhaled when she was done, crouched next to Demkaih still. She took the flask from him again. “Lean back,” Niccolette said, unscrewing the top. Merciless, she poured the gin through the wound, her face set and expressionless through any cries of pain. It did not bother her; she could not let it bother her. She let him enough for another drink, pressing the open flask back into his hand.

The Bastian breathed in deep, and exhaled once more. She found the rhythm of her breath, kneeling next to the Mugrobi, her head bowed. She chanted, quietly; it was not a spell that she cast, not at first, but words of affirmation and connection, reaching out to the mona and pledging herself to them, again and again. She spoke them into the cold night air; she offered them up and herself too, all that she was; all that she had left to give, she gave, and freely, unrepentant.

The words faded in time, but she kept the rhythm of her breath. Flames glittered distant over the dark water; they flickered in time with her, and Niccolette knew them.

Slowly, she began to cast. A spell to knit together torn flesh was one of the first things any healer learned; muscle was harder, with all its tendons and veins. One needed to explain to the mona in detail how the shoulder should be, and guide them, verbally, through the process of making it whole. But Niccolette knew many spells for such purposes, and Demkaih was not the first she had sewn back together with the mona.

It hurt, as she had promised. The pain of her palpitations, the pain of the washing out of the wound with gin – it was nothing compared to the cast. Niccolette went on, merciless and unyielding; hazy energy streamed from her and wound into Demkaih’s shoulder, sinking into the wound, filling it with each word she spoke. The pain, too, filled it and him; he would feel it through every inch of the wound, a crawling, prickling, stabbing sensation, as if Niccolette had reached inside him and driven a thousand tiny needles into his skin. It was the feeling of her dragging him to healing, of her demanding to the mona that his shoulder be made whole; she did not temper it with kindness. There was no strength left for that, not in her.

Blood trickled, slowly, from her nostril. Niccolette cast through it, steadily, unperturbed, and through the taste of it as it dripped onto her lips. Whatever lip color she had worn was gone, but her blood smeared bright red over her lips as they moved. She did not so much as react; she did not so much as reach up to wipe it away. She only kept going, and let the bright red gleam on her face in the distant firelight.

Finally, Niccolette curled the spell; finally, the pain would begin to ease. Demkaih’s shoulder was whole, once more, on both sides; sore, still, tender and painful, with circlular scars to show where the bullet had gone – the muscle beneath was not fully healed, but he might have been shot weeks ago, rather than minutes.

Niccolette sat back, a little hard. She wobbled; she fished a handkerchief from her dress, slowly, and bent her head forward, a dark curtain of messy hair tumbling between them as she pressed the handkerchief to her nose, pinching the bridge of it with her fingers. In a few moments, the blood flow slowed; Niccolette wiped her nose and balled up the handkerchief, tossing it into the dark water below.

“We have half an hour before my boat returns,” Niccolette said, quietly. She lifted her chin, looking up at the glittering stars, and combed her hair back off her forehead; she turned, slowly, her gaze going to the slumped-but-breathing figure Demkaih had left on the beach. “I think it enough time to deal with the last of our pests.”

Rolls

Healing spell: SidekickBOTYesterday at 7:55 AM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6

[Demkaih Alkrim]

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

The devout Mugrobi didn’t take offence to her comment, nor the tone in her voice, or the slight turn of her features at the mention of his revered God. He knew that the Bastian was angry at the Gods, and he understood her pain. Hulali hadn’t caused it, He hadn’t taken Uzoji, but He had strong shoulders to take the blame for the things others caused. Demkaih knew in his heart, judgement on the lithe galdor would not fall from the Fish Headed God, for He was merciful and kind.

Still, he didn’t say as such. Those things did not need airing.

Taking the offered flask, the tall man tsked a little at being told not to drink it in jest, though it quickly turned to a grimace and a disgruntled groan as delicate fingers prodded at the wound in his shoulder. He focused on the water, free hand fisting on his thigh as he recited Hulali’s Prayer in his head to distract himself from the shooting pain that her investigations caused, exhaling heavily when she stopped.

“Yar’aka.” The word was an acknowledgement of what was about to come, and with a good inhale, Demkaih leaned back on the elbow of his good arm. He fished in his pouch for the small carving of Hulali, gripping it tightly in his poor hand and nodding to indicate she could do what she needed to.

A vibrant stream of Mugrobi curses and insults aimed at the pain, and the man who shot him, flowed like the Turga in the rainy season from the merchants lips as the stringent alcohol sterilized the wound. He threatened the dead, and the living, and the gods-be-damned bullet for its handiwork, but he didn’t turn his words on Niccolette. When she handed him the flask he took it with an almost aggressive grab, forcing down the last of the gin with a hoarse cough and a shudder before tossing it aside.

“Hulali give me strength for that which I face.” He growled, sweat beading on his brow and breathing slightly faster and heavier, turning his eyes from the dark of the water to the beauty of the Bastian. She was true to her people, with fine features and lascivious dark hair, a pocket sized galdor perfectly appropriate for the floral artistic Bastia. There was yet a Bastian he had met that had been unattractive…

But by the Ten something magical, unrelated to the mona, happened when she cast.

Demkaih watched without shame, letting his gaze wander over her face as she reached for the particles around them. Across the water, he saw the flicker of flames gutter and writhe in time to her breathing, marveling at the power of the woman. He felt a stirring in his chest again, one that Uzoji would have punched him right in the jaw about. Ah, but the gin had warmed his core and buzzed in the back of his head. That was excuse enough to put aside his thoughts of the boy, and just enjoy the goddess that knelt beside him, until she looked up again. Then, the older man turned back to the ocean again with shame painted on his cheeks, grateful for the color of his skin and the blood across his face.

His eyes widened with a gasp as Niccolette began to mend the wound, hand clenching around the figurine and other through the fabric of his pants. He bit back the first sound of pain with as much stubborn pride and dignity as he could, tendons on his neck standing firm as he strained to hold back, but it was too much and with a ragged sound Demkaih squeezed his eyes shut.

“Take—ah—from me the hu—argh—rt which I feel and—maguala—help me to stand in the pools of your—your wisdom!” He huffed through the prayer, jaw tensed and teeth grit, sweat rolling down the side of his face and catching on the smooth curve of his scalp.

“Jara, my pico is Your ra…and my ubo sails Your vigo so xa may…better this esera in Your blessed Grace—Nicco, ju…yaka…ju must stop. Pe’a. Pe’a, pe’a…” Demkaih faltered, light headed with the pain, whining pathetically as he begged for her to stop. He growled another raw, hoarse sound, panting relieved breaths when finally—finally!—the spell was curled. The Mugrobi let himself fall back on the wood, taking a minute to compose himself as Niccolette stemmed the blood that seeped from her nose. A slightly trembling hand ran over his face, smearing the half dried blood with sweat downwards onto his throat and chest, before turning to look at the galdor. She looked drained, woozy, and Demkaih frowned.

He was ashamed. For the first time in his life, the man felt shame for being nothing more than a wick in galdori clothing. He should have been able to heal himself, or blow through those erseholes like a walking match. Instead, he’d fumbled in the dark with his blades and his body, messy and unchained.

Though to be fair, that part had excited him more than he’d like to admit.

“Domea. You have done enough this night.” Sitting up carefully with a groan, the dark skinned Mugrobi placed a hand gently on her own, looking the Bastian in the eyes.

“Let me be your hands now.” He said quietly, almost reverently, before getting to his feet and cracking his neck.

The interrogation was vicious, and it was bloody, Demkaih obliging to any whim the Bastian had of him as they tortured the man in the hat for the information they needed. By the time the boat came, there was nobody left on the beach to ever take the tale of their expedition back to curious ears. The Mugrobi washed the blood from his face and chest, and arms and hands, in the chilled ocean waters, before he rode back to Old Rose in Niccolette’s boat, abandoning his little row boat in the reef. They traveled in silence, not willing to discuss any of their leanings with the stranger dragging them to shore. It gave them time to think on the words that were torn from bloodied screaming lips.

Were they real, or were they the ramblings of a desperate dying man?

Demkaih ignored the pain in his side as they rowed to shore, stubborn enough not to bring it up, both for his pride and in a gentleman’s move to save Niccolette anymore work this evening. There were so many things this evening that he wanted to discuss, and maybe to forget. Not a drinker usually, the dark man could definitely understand the desire to get utterly senseless at this moment. His mind wandered to Thul’Ka, and his eyes over the woman's form silhouetted by the glittering of the moon like diamonds on the water.

Uzoji had been a lucky son-of-a-bitch.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Very Late Night, 28 Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette had not so much as flinched when Demkaih began to beg. If it disturbed her, if it troubled her in the least, not a whit of it showed on her face. She cast evenly through his whimpering, his panting, and she curled the spell when it was time for it to curl, not a moment sooner. She did not apologize; she did not ask whether he was alright, as he sank back to the boards and shuddered.

Instead, Niccolette dealt calmly with the bleeding from her nose, and when she was ready, told Demkaih what needed to be done. No more did she flinch as he did it, nor shy from the instructions that she gave him. She watched, and listened, and asked, gleaming in the distant firelight, grime staining her pale cheeks and blood smearing her nose and lips, a little crust of it around one nostril.

Niccolette passed the boat ride in near silence. Dread Isle burned behind them, but the flames were glowing and fading; there was not so much to consume, in the end, and once it was gone what was left behind was little more than a smoldering of black ash. The Bastian did not look back at it, but out over the waves, at the distant dark horizon, invisible in the night, and then eventually at the growing lights of the Rose, phosphor and oil lamps hung here and there on a quiet patch of the wharf, casting blue and yellow light with long stretches of shade between.

The man rowed the last of the strength to shore. Niccolette handed him the coin she had promised. She looked up at the human – nearly a height with Demkaih – and titled her head to the side. She smiled, then, faintly, although there was nothing kind in it, and pressed a single finger to her lips. She pulsed through her field; it sharpened, and bore down on the human, and Demkaih too, a little distant.

“Oes, madam,” he mumbled, bowing his head.

“Good,” Niccolette said coolly. She set an extra coin into his hand, and let Demkaih help her out of the boat and onto the dock. She did not look back; she walked smooth and straight and upright, her chin raised.

“We have much to discuss,” Niccolette glanced up at Demkaih, and left it there, as if there were no need to elaborate further; she would brook no argument. She took them to a busy street; the Rose was no Thul Ka nor Florne, but there were bits which sparked with life at all hours, and not too distant from even the quietest corners of the wharf. Only when they were inside the carriage did Niccolette let herself relax; she leaned back against the worn, threadbare cushion of the seat, her hands tangling in the black fabric of her skirts, and closed her eyes.

Something – some strong emotion – shuddered through her. She kept it from her field; she did not let it show. Her hands gripped, tightly, fingers digging in; her face twisted, too, the briefest flicker. She held, silent, eyes closed; she did not cry. Niccolette exhaled, slowly and steadily; she lifted her chin once more, and settled her hands together in her lap. Her thumb settled lightly on the bottom of her wedding right; her forefinger and middle finger took the top, and she turned it, slowly, steadily, back and forth.

The carriage rumbled to a stop on the quiet street in Quarter Fords. Niccolette let Demkaih help her out, as she had let him help her in. The feathered moa clucked, quietly, one preening at its feathers, the other shaking them out in the crisp evening air.

Niccolette led Demkaih to the door. She took out her heavy key, and opened it; she went inside. The Bastian took a deep breath; the house had been cleaned, since Demkaih had last been there. There was a faint lingering warmth inside, tinged with monic energy, the last remnants of the meditation which had occupied Niccolette through most of the day.

The Bastian sighed, letting out a long full exhale. She glanced back over her shoulder at Demkaih. “I shall bathe,” Niccolette said with a little shrug. “It shall not take long. There is wine and liquor off the kitchen, if you like - or, if you wish to clean yourself further," she gestured with one hand at the bathroom she had used a few days earlier, with its heavy tub, sink and commode.

Niccolette gathered up the heavy strands of her dark hair in her hands, lifting it off her back. She turned away from Demkaih, letting him see the row of gleaming buttons down her spine. Her maid had settled her into the dress earlier, but Niccolette did not have the patience to find her button hook and undo them, one by one, all herself. She held there for a moment, and then glanced back over her shoulder at Demkaih.

“The buttons?” Niccolette asked, raising her eyebrows, as if surprised he needed to be told.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

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

They reached the Rose, phosphor lights coloring the black of Hulai’s waters with sapphire and citrine, somewhat comforting as the Dread Isle turned to ash in their wake. As the row boat reached the docks, Demkaih stood, helping the human to moor the little vessel and stepping onto the wood whilst Niccolette made the necessary exchange of coin.

And of unveiled threats should their passage reach any ears outside of this night.

He took her hand, helping her from the boat in silence still, his blue eyes shaded in the evening light and circular blades catching the low lights of the Harbour. He nodded, walking without question to follow the Bastian, shirtless and bloodied and wet and armed. In any other city, in any other country, his appearance would be immediately noticed and questioned. But here, in the Rose, no one cared about the tall Mugrobi and the silky Bastian as they swept through the busy street. His gaze swept across strangers as his meagre field held tense in readiness, concerned that what had occurred on the Isle might follow them inland, protective of the spent galdor even if he was aware she could probably still take care of herself.

Still, he loomed with purpose.

The hailed a carriage, and the older merchant assisted Niccolette into the vehicle before climbing up and shutting the door behind him, sinking carefully onto the seat opposite her. Pale eyes watched the woman as she allowed herself a moment of weakness, just a hint of exhaustion and emotion, so fleeting it was barely there. He frowned, opening his mouth to say something.

Are you alright?

I am sorry.

He closed it again, realizing that none of his words were of any use. No, she wasn’t alright, neither was he. And what good was sorry? It wouldn’t rewind the clock to stop the blade across his torso or the bullet in his chest. It wouldn’t make him a better man. It wouldn’t make him a galdor.

Staring out the window, instead of at the widow that drew his attention, Demkaih pondered the night as they rode. It had been more than he’d expected, but then also, exactly what he’d imagined. He looked at his hands, blood and grime under his usually perfectly clean hands. They looked like the hands of a crook, a desema.

A murderer.

They came to a stop, and the tall man blinked to clear his mind, not realizing they were already there. Dutifully, he stepped out, helping the brunette down and following her to the familiar blue door under the woeful willow tree. As they entered, his gaze swept down the hall. The place was cleaned, and fresh, and smelt of—

Well it smelt of her.

Demkaih turned back to Niccolette, looking down at the younger woman in the small space of the hall as she glanced back at him. He nodded.

“Ea, domea. I would like to wash, if only briefly, as not to sully your pico. Wine. Ea. This seems like a good idea.” His head had turned to the bathroom she’d gestured too, nodding and looking over the amenities on offer. Perhaps, if he could wash out his pants in the tub at the same time, he could dry them by the fire and—

“The buttons?”

Demkaih looked back, looked down to see the trail of buttons against the curve of her back, dark hair caught up in her hands and face impatiently expectant.

His mouth felt dry.

“Epa’ma. Of course.” The Mugrobi managed to blurt, warmth spreading across his scalp and down his spine. He’d seen her naked, only a short while before, ill and full of grief and anger. It shouldn’t have been any different now, here, to help undo those clasps that held her filth and blood stained dress together.

It shouldn’t have been. But it was.

He reached for the first one, fingers mildly shaky—that had to be the weariness and the pain from the night. It popped through the small loop easily, too easily, and Demkaih swallowed. He sent a silent prayer to Hulali to keep his mind on track and his hands professional on his task.

Another button, and the taller wick couldn’t help but notice how her hair had a tendency to curl just so at the ends.

Another. And her neck was elegantly long, but not too much so, jawline sweeping away to the soft curve of her cheek.

And another. The gentle sway of her back, curved as her delicate arms were raised above her shoulders, reminded him of the sweeping dunes of Mugrobi. So perfectly defined and poised.

Another. The swell of her soft curves, dipping at the waist and rounding ever so slightly at the hips, flowing onward to long legs that were hidden now by the soft material but were easily remembered. Delicate ankles, and petite feet, something he’d never noticed in a woman before.

By the damned Circle he had to stop.

“It is done.” Demkaih said quietly, in a slightly strained, hoarse voice. He bowed to her briefly, awkwardly, before moving as rapidly as he could into the bathroom and shutting the door. Exhaling slowly, the dark skinned merchant closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cool wood.

Gods, he was doomed to eternal damnation at this rate.

Inhaling again, he turned to the bath, quickly finding his way around the running water and soaps. He ran it hot, but shallow, unwilling to take all of the Bastian’s heated water. Removing his blades, his belt and his pants, Demkaih stepped in and washed quickly, pushing the filth of their vicious encounter off his body and scrubbing under his nails. He carefully washed the wound in his side, swearing at the seeping that came from his ministrations. When he was done, he drained the water, taking a towel and drying off rapidly, before wrapping the soft material around his waist and tucking it with a fold to keep it in place. Taking the bloodied pants, he used the basin to wash them as best he could with soap and his hands, wringing them well as he looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked like shit.

Letting his gaze flow over the puckered scarring in his shoulder, and the slowly re-congealing wound in his side, Demkaih hardly recognized himself. This wasn’t him. He was a good honest man of Hulali. He grew his spices and made his business trips and followed all the necessarily customs of his customers.

He didn’t cut open the throats of bandits.

He didn’t enjoy it.

He was a good man.

“Aw’eh! A good man.” The bitter Mugrobi muttered to himself, before collecting his things and leaving the room.

Padding down the hallway, towards the kitchen, Demkaih hung his pants on a chair by the fire before sifting through cupboards and drawers till he found a bottle of Hanged Man. He should use a glass. Or a cup. Or something. Instead, he pulled the cork with a satisfying pop, and slugged the wine directly from the smoked glass jug. Rasping a sigh, the entrepreneur sat down in one of her chairs at the table, turning it sideways so he could look into the fire and brood.

He’d killed a man.

And he didn’t feel anything.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Very Late Night, 28 Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette held still, very nearly patient as Demkaih undid the buttons of her dress, one by one. He was gone nearly before she could turn around. Niccolette studied the tightly shut bathroom door for a long moment, then shrugged her shoulders; the dress slid free, soiled black fabric pooling at her feet. Beneath it, she wore a front-laced corset and a black slip, soft smooth fabric which fell to her ankles. She carried the dress over her arm, the hem brushing the ground and the smoke-tainted ribbons still bright enough to echo back the gleam of distant lights through the windows.

Niccolette left the dress heaped on the floor of her room, boots, corset and slip alongside it, and set her gun down on the bedside table, holster alongside it. She ran her bath hot; she ran her bath steaming and vicious, and climbed into it without the faintest hesitation, lowering bare skin into the water and easing herself back against the metal side of the tub. She groaned, softly, letting the water soak into all her aches and pains, letting the heat wash her clean.

Niccolette turned the faucet off when it was high enough, ring clinking softly against the metal of it. She shifted forward in the tub, and lay back, slowly; her hair dipped in first, and she felt the water climb up against her scalp, cradling it. She went deeper; it lapped at her ears, brushing warm, and she went deeper still, so that the surface closed over her face. Niccolette lay there, holding her breath, watching the ceiling through the shifting, wavering water.

And then – slowly – she came back out; her hair hung heavy and wet against her head. She took a cake of soap first, rubbing it up and down blood and grime-smeared skin, revealing the remaining bruises beneath, old and new; she washed her face clean with her fingertips, dark red eddying and swirling away from her in the tub. She washed her hair last, rubbing palmfuls of lily-scented soap into it and running more water over it, until it, too, washed clean.

Niccolette rose from the tub; she wrapped herself into a towel, and wrapped a second one another her hair, leaving the filthy water behind to drain away. She took a palmful of lotion, and set the towel aside, and when she was dry enough, carefully, she rubbed it into the contours of her skin. The Bastian sighed, and unwrapped her hair; she sat, facing away from her mirror, and dragged a brush through it, steadily, drying it again.

Niccolette rose; she pulled a shift on, loose white silk that hung to about her knees, with thin straps over her shoulders. Over it, she wrapped a dressing gown of pale golden-yellow silk, soft and delicate. She ran her hand over it, slowly; the tears caught her then, and refused to let go.

Niccolette sank back down onto the seat at her vanity, and cried, softly, against her hands. It was a brief squall; it blew through her and passed. The Bastian patted her face dry, blew her nose into a handkerchief, and left it in a crumpled ball; she brushed her hair out once more, pushed it back off her face, and did not trouble to look at herself as she went back out to join her somewhat unexpected guest.

Niccolette adjusted the tie of her robe, sighing, and padded barefoot back through her house. She glanced around at the bathroom; she checked the study, and then followed faint, distant noises into the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway, raising her eyebrows at the sight of Demkaih, dressed in only a towel and taking what looked like not-his-first drink directly from the bottle.

Niccolette made a soft noise that, on someone less delicate, might well have been called a snort. She made her way into the kitchen, and leaned her hip against the table; she did not ask, but reached out and took the bottle from Demkaih, taking a long drink herself. The Bastian sighed, contented, and set it back down into the Mugrobi’s hand.

Niccolette wandered off without a word, into one of the closests of the kitchen. She came back out with bandages and a cloth pad, eyebrows lifting lightly. “You washed it, I trust,” Niccolette said, dryly. She pulled a chair around next to him and sat, propping her things on the table. She would nudge at his arm if he didn’t lift it without prompting, examining the slice in the glow of the stove’s firelight.

Niccolette settled the pad against his skin with bare hands; she took the length of bandage, and wrapped it steadily around his side, and up across his chest. It was an even, professional motion; if her hands brushed him, it was never longer than necessary; if she bent close, it was only to look at the wound and bandages. At last, done, Niccolette sat back; she took the bottle from him once more without the faintest reluctance, and drank another mouthful.

“Idiots and fools,” Niccolette said, with a grimace, “but well-armed.” She set the bottle back on the table; she rose, stalking, slowly, back and forth, stovelight glinting off the yellow silk. She was tired; she was tired all through her bones, every inch of her aching even after the hot bath, but she could not sit still. The Bastian frowned; she ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back off her forehead.

“What do you make of it?” She turned to Demkaih, leaning against the counter by the stove, studying him evenly.

[Demkaih Alkrim]

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

Demkaih didn’t turn his head at the sound that escaped the brunette as she entered the kitchen, not looking away from the warm crackling of the fire within the stove, swigging at the wine again heavily. He’d had a few goes whilst waiting for the younger woman, cheeks warm and head mildly buzzing as the fortified drink thrummed through his weary system. Her field, tired yet tangible, was thick in the air around them. It didn’t merge with his dismal glamour, it merely overtook it, like a flash flood overtook a gentle stream. The wick lowered the bottle, no longer grimacing or huffing his way through the burning vinegar taste.

As Niccolette leaned against the table with a hip, the Mugrobi relinquished the bottle to her hand, blue eyes lazy in their trip from the fireplace up to her face, honorable politeness somewhat dropped in his very mild intoxication. They took in the golden saffron robe, catching the firelight in warm earthy hues, and the slightly pinker hue of her Bastian tanned skin after being washed free from dirt and blood. Her dark tresses were dry, though he could tell if he ran his fingers through them they would still be slightly damp nearest her scalp. He watched her tilt the bottle, taking a long drink, before handing it back to him. Demkaih took it, raising the drink in a sort of ‘cheers’ to the galdor, before turning back to the fire.

He needed to look at anything else, anything else beside Niccolette Ibutatu. Wife of Uzoji. Widower. Galdor. And nothing more.

Slugging the dark red beverage as the Bastian wandered away for something—bandages?—Demkaih made a sound in his throat. A scoff, as though to point out he was no fool, lifting his arm with a grimace at her encouragement. His gaze drifted down to the handiwork as she moved, fascinated by her neat and tidy dressing of the wound. It was clear, even though she was younger than himself by at least ten years, she had ages in her soul. The world had made Niccolette grow up, even if she might not have wanted to. Her hands worked, professional and not in any way lingering or giving an indication that perhaps this growing feeling in his chest might not be one sided.

Of course it is one sided, you old useless pervert.

She took the bottle again, and the Mugrobi lowered his arm gingerly, rubbing his face with both hands before crossing his arms over his chest.

“Indeed.” His voice rumbled from within, tone thick with agreement. As the Bastian placed the wine back on the table, rising to pace the room before him, Demkaih stared into the flames. He refused to follow the golden swish of fabric as she walked to and fro, jaw tightening slightly in the effort. He could feel the alcohol behind his eyes, and it was enough. He really should stop there, not a drinker it would be a bad idea to keep drinking.

He reached for the bottle as she turned to lean against the counter, regarding the picture of the gallow strung figure on the front.

“When asked about this Drain, these people, the head of the snake, he just gave us that stupid rhyme, I believe he did not know anything, except some collection of words that I assume are meant to matter. No one could suffer through that pain and keep the lie.” Narrowing his eyes, Demkaih spoke quietly.

“A city of flowers where no bloom lives,
Where the leatherneck visit each day.
The Fishermans Daughter and Fry Pan take bids,
Whilst others to Hulali they pray.”

The Mugrobi repeated the words that had been hastily spewed from bloodied lips as the man in the hat had finally succumbed to their questions, taking another drink of the wine and studying the level of the bottle through the smokey glass. Half way.

Shit.

Letting the bottle rest on his thigh, Demkaih sucked on his teeth and shook his head slowly.

“I do not know. Not yet. Maybe it means something. Maybe it means nothing. I am…bhe…I am unclear. Are the words of a dying man to be trusted? A city of flowers where no bloom lives? Bah, riddles. Why must it be riddles!” He waved a hand, finally looking up at her frowning face.

“I think he is talking about somewhere in Mugroba though. Or the Islands? To Hulali they pray. There are many who worship our Great Father of the Oceans. But I do not know of leatherneck. Perhaps a turtle? Or a fish? Or something. Liyokas, my friend, he might know what that is. Did you or Uzoji ever come across anything like this? Is this familiar to you?" Demkaih’s brow was drawn in thought, silent in his contemplation. After a moment the bare chested man lowered his gaze to the bottle, before glancing at the fire again.

“I...I have never killed a man before this night. I have killed livestock, and predatory animals. But not a man.” There. He’d said it out loud. And yet, it didn’t stir anything in his scared chest.

Was he broken?

Making a harsh sound, rubbing his face again, Demkaih raised the bottle and looked at the woman with a wry half smile.

"Pay no heed to the rambling of a drunk man, for that is what I am to become. And gladly, this night," He took another mouthful, before offering her the bottle should she wish to take it.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Very Late Night, 28 Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Demkaih was staring again into the flames of the stove, the dim red glow of the coals beneath and the brighter flickering above. Niccolette glanced down at it, then back at him, watching the firelight glint off the rough glass of the bottle. She glanced away, listening to the Mugrobi repeat the riddle once more.

“I doubt he could have kept his tongue,” Niccolette agreed, her jaw clenched tight. “A fucking child’s riddle – it is just nonsense.” She looked back at Demkaih; her jaw clenched tighter, her nostrils flared, and her hands tightened in the pale silk fabric of the robe. The Bastian took a deep, careful breath, and let it out; she smoothed her hands over the fabric, tugging at the wrinkles without much care.

“Mugroba,” Niccolette agreed. She frowned. “He must have memorized this nonsense to pass it to someone,” she said, slowly. “Someone out there for whom this striping ridiculous shit makes sense. By Her Deadly Terrors – ” The Bastian shuddered, and took another deep breath. “No,” she said, grimly. “It is not familiar to me. Flowers which do not bloom, a godsdamn leathery fish –” The Bastian breathed in deep once more, and out again.

There was silence between them, disturbed by the faint splashing of the wine in the bottle, and the soft crackling of the stove’s fire. Niccolette glanced up at Demkaih when he spoke again; her eyebrows lifted.

The Bastian sighed. “Where did you even find this?” She stepped forward; she took the bottle from him again, turning it over in her hand. “I am surprised we had such shit,” she made a little face, and took another drink herself, then set it back in his hand, patting him lightly on his bare shoulder. “Wait here.” Niccolette ordered, suddenly crisp.

She left Demkaih behind in the kitchen, staring morosely into the flames. Niccolette went into the dining room, and down, from there, into the small cellar she and Uzoji had laid beneath the house. She settled her hands on her hips, glancing around. Much of what they had put there was gone; either she had drank it these last months, or that godsbedamned Gioran wick had stolen it.

There was, at least, Bastian wine still. Niccolette found a bottle of Nassalan; she turned it in her hands, checking the label. Laid down a few years ago, the Bastian thought with a little grimace. It would have been better left to age; she and Uzoji had bought it intending to drink it in another few years – five, even, or ten.

Niccolette’s hands tightened on the bottle; she was breathing hard, through the tears. “Gods damn you,” she whispered, softly. “How could you do this to me? You fucking –” The words broke off, and she shuddered. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

Niccolette brought the bottle back out, and if there was a new rim of red around the edges of her eyes, she showed nothing of it on her face. She popped the cork, took the Hanged Man from Demkaih, and plopped it down on the counter with a heavy thud. “There,” Niccolette said, thrusting the bottle of rich dark wine into his hand; it had deep, spicy flavors, rich and full-bodied where the fortified wine had been thin and sharp.

“If you mean to indulge,” Niccolette said, crisply, “you should at least enjoy yourself.”

The Bastian sat again, next to Demkaih. She sighed, leaning back a little against the chair; she crossed her legs at the knee, the line of her knee and calf showing against the pale silk, the robe open – ever so slightly – to reveal a faint hint of newly clean skin.

“I was twenty,” Niccolette said, casually. Her eyes were closed; she did not look at Demkaih, but spoke almost lightly into the air. “The first time,” The Bastian shrugged. She sat up and opened her eyes; she took the bottle from him, and took a heavy drink from it. “My father sent men to bring me from Brunnhold to Bastia by force, after they found out about Uzoji,” Niccolette said, coldly. She shrugged, looking away once more, heavy hair hanging like a curtain between her and Demkaih. “I killed one of them in their attempt.”

[Demkaih Alkrim]

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

"Memorized enough to matter in those final moments, agreed. There is importance there but why? And where? And…” He rubbed his face again, tired and annoyed, and a little tipsy. The deep inhale and exhale of the Bastian was tangible in the silence, before Demkaih confessed his true mind, staring at the bottle and the fire. Anything but her eyes whilst the Mugrobi opened up things that a stronger man would hold onto, his stoic proud exterior cracking around the edges.

Instead of bringing down harsh words of judgement, or delicate laughter, Niccolette scoffed at the taller merchants selection of wine, taking the smoky bottle from him and studying the label for a moment. The dark man shrugged a little, appreciative of the gentle touch, nodding as she ordered him to stay put.

“By the turgid waters of the Turga.” Demkaih muttered into his hands once she’d left the room, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his toweled thighs and covering his eyes for a moment. He felt ashamed, but also, relieved. There were many things this night that weighed on his mind unexpectedly. Taking his first blood, and lack of conscience were certainly big ones. At least Niccolette was a safe audience. She had seen bloodshed, and dealt it no doubt, a cleansing flame of her own volition.

He refused to linger on the gentle touch of her palm on his shoulder, how it was warm and cool all at the same time.

Sitting back as the lithe galdor returned, Demkaih glanced up to look at her, taking the roughly offered wine with a firm grasp as not to drop it. He turned the label over, reading the fanciful script and words about its age and its place of origin, before lifting it to his lips and taking a long draught. Lowering it, the Mugrobi nodded with a sigh of enjoyment.

“Bastia. Is there nothing your kingdom makes that is not a work of art?” He smiled a little, lifting the bottle with a thankful tilt of his head as the brunette pulled up a chair beside him. His piercing blue gaze trailed down to the exposed sliver of skin that escaped between saffron silks, lingering for a moment too long before the Mugrobi forced himself to look back at the fire with a hard swallow of more rich red wine.

At the sound of her softer tone, Demkaih looked back at Niccolette, studying her features as she opened her eyes. They looked so much more brown in the firelight, the green in them lost in the earthy tones of the room. Handing the bottle over, he contemplated her words for a moment.

“Your father seems like a brutish man. No one deserved to be forced from the person that holds the other piece of their heart.” His words were a little too direct, too personal, the wine buzzing warmly in his skull. Demkaih shook his head.

“He did not understand the power of love, or respect Hulali’s wishes. When the heart knows, it knows.” The dark man said firmly, quite sure that anyone who wanted to force Niccolette to do anything she didn’t want to deserved all they got.

“So young for such things, and yet, so old. Tell me, how did you feel, when it happened?” He asked quietly, taking the bottle back for another drink, before returning it to the Bastian. His eyes skimmed again over her, before looking at the fire, hands clasped together and forearms resting on his legs.

“I fear I am not the man I thought I was, Niccolette. I have spent my whole life being something I thought I was meant to be. Something my father wanted me to be. I had to keep the business going, and I had to ensure my sister did not fall into poverty. I had to be a man, like him. A good man.” The merchants brow was drawn, and he pulled a face, a questioning expression as his hands moved to gesture in his tispy emotional state.

“When the Tashwa murdered him, I was maybe a little younger than you are now? I was so angry, I felt so much rage and hatred. I wanted to find every single one of them and avenge him. That was went I found my path to Hulali, and to Ag Úgin’dzeqThe Art of Blade Dancing.” Sitting up, Demkaih turned slightly to face her better, loosing his usual stern face in his conversation, lips loosened by the drink.

“Whilst it is made for combat, the first learning is that Ag Ú’gin’dzeq should not be used for that. It is a meditation, an exercise, to bring us closer to the Gods.” The older Mugrobi snorted, gently taking the drink back for a cynical mouthful, brushing uncareful fingers against her own.

“Closer to the Gods my erse.” He muttered before taking a swig, handing it back and shaking his head.

“Circle forgive me I did not mean that.” The devout man said in a rush, his cheeks warm from the drink and the fire and the company, and his uncouth words.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Very Late Night, 28 Roalis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

N o,” Niccolette said with a little smirk, meeting Demkaih’s gaze. “Everything of Bastia is art.” She did not hold his gaze look; hers drifted away, just a little, although not so far that she could not see him, or the tight movement of his throat.

Niccolette did not comment on the subject of her father, although her mouth tightened. She pushed her hair back off her face again, sitting back more comfortably against the chair. She was well aware of the unexplored depth in Demkaih’s voice, but it was Uzoji she thought of in that moment.

“Afraid,” Niccolette said, a little quietly, in response to Demkaih’s question. She took the bottle of wine from him; she tipped it back, taking a long drink, and settling the bottle down into her lap, the smooth curve of the glass resting against her thighs.

“Not of what I had done,” Niccolette said, looking away. “I felt no regret or remorse; it was conquest, and it was necessary. But I was afraid of how Uzoji would look at me.” She picked up the bottle again; she swirled it, gently, watching the firelight glint off the dark red liquid inside. She took another drink.

“I should have known better,” Niccolette said with a little smile, growing slowly. She settled the bottle back against her lap.

Demkaih spoke, then, and Niccolette turned to look at him, listening. Her attention was on him, then, for that moment, and nowhere else; not on the lingering taste of wine in her mouth, or the soft gold ring glinting on her finger, or even the aches that still made themselves known soft beneath her skin.

“Ag Úgin’dzeq,” Niccolette murmured. She pronounced the Mugrobi effortlessly, with all the ease of a native speaker. She raised her eyebrows, curious at the idea that the enormous blades the man carried were meant to be used in meditative practice. She relinquished the bottle to Demkaih when he reached for it.

Niccolette would not have noticed the light blasphemy, but she did notice Demkaih’s startled backpeddle, her hand closing around the neck of the wine bottle once more.

Niccolette giggled. “Closer to the gods, my erse,” she repeated, teasingly. She took another drink of wine and handed the bottle back to Demkaih; what she had already had was buzzing warm through her, thick on her tongue and glowing in her veins.

Niccolette tilted her head back and ran her fingers through her hair, moving from her scalp backwards, teasing out the tendency of it to clump too close together, feeling the leftover damp drying with the strength of the heat. She took her time with it, a few moments, careful and deliberate, as she thought.

“So you are afraid too,” Niccolette said when she settled back, looking at Demkaih. The foot which was not on the ground bounced, lightly; she uncrossed her legs, settling both feet against the floor, and tucked one ankle behind the other instead. “Not of how another will look at you, but how you will look at yourself.”

The Bastian ran her tongue over her lips, slowly, tasing a few droplets of wine. She was quiet, shrugging, shifting on her seat to look at Demkaih. “Conquest is not an easy path,” Niccolette said, a glint of firelight in the light brown of her eyes.

“It takes a boldness, and a strength of will,” Niccolette was quiet, looking at Demkaih. Her field held in the air around them; something at the edges of it softened, letting his more meager offering mingle deeper - if he wished it too. It wasn’t quite so overwhelming anymore; it was not dampened or restrained, just made welcoming, subtly, around him.

“What happened to all that rage and hatred?” Niccolette asked, curiously. She thought of Demkaih’s grip on her arm a few days earlier, brutally tight. With a little smile, Niccolette undid the wrap on the dressing gown; she shrugged it off of her shoulders, so it caught against the crook of her elbows. Her shoulders were bare, gleaming with the reflected firelight, with only a little strap of white silk interrupting them. Down the arm closest to him, Demkaih would see the print of his own hand, the rounded edge of his palm and distinct stripes where his fingers had pressed, a dark purple-blue against her skin.

“I think it is still in you,” Niccolette said, smiling, looking at him. She shrugged the silk robe back up, looser than before. “Waiting for you to be ready.”

[Demkaih Alkrim]

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

Demkaih listened with interest, with genuine desire to hear what the brunette had to say about her first kill, letting her take the bottle without hesitation. He watched her smile, and couldn’t help but stare, before glancing away for a moment. He knew what Uzoji would have done, because the older man was sure he would do it to. He would have gazed on the Bastian with love and with fiery passion, because he would have seen her. Because he’d given his heart to her.

And that should be respected. That line, was respected, by good men.

Covering his inappropriate wine and adrenaline fueled thoughts with more words, Demkaih raised the bottle in a toast at the galdor’s perfect Mugrobi, drinking deeply and handing it back. The more the merchant spoke, the looser his lips became, and the curse at the Gods was slipped from a careless tongue. Embarrassed, if not a little fearful of such terrible words, he tried to take them back. Niccolette didn’t deserve his lack of composure, lack of being a man like his father expected him to be.

She took the wine back, saving him from more of the too easily drinkable liquid, and took him by surprise as she teased him with his own words and a giggle. Demkaih’s brow lifted as he looked at her, before the taller wick chuckled in return and relaxed. Chugging another mouthful, blue eyes followed her hands through dark hair, marveling at the way it moved and caught the barest hint of auburn in the firelight. It was like the ripple of the desert sun across black sands near Hox, like a hidden fire that you just wanted to reach out and touch to see if it was as warm as it looked. Or as soft as it seemed.

“So you are afraid too, not of how another will look at you, but how you will look at yourself.”

The merchant bladesman blinked, realising he’d been staring far longer than he’d meant to, sitting upright and taking another drink for good measure. He put the bottle on the table behind them, between their chairs where either could reach, and leaned his elbows on the back of the chair.

“Perhaps. I had not thought of it that way. When that man died I felt…nothing. Nothing. No remorse, or regret, or feeling of horror in my stomach. Would not a good man feel something for murdering another person? Would not a good man be weighed by moral conundrums?” He turned a little more towards her as he spoke, elbows shifting to rest easily by his side, hands on his knees.

It was impossible to avoid watching the dart of her tongue across her lips, Demkaih mesmerized by the movement, suddenly wishing he’d not had so much too drink. Or maybe that he should have had more.

He should get up, and walk away. Be the good man he was supposed to be.

“No, it is not.” The older man murmured, enjoying the way the firelight burned in her gaze, reading more into her words then perhaps a sober man would. He didn’t miss the softening of her field, enjoying how the galdor turned to face him more, letting his dismal glamour gently tangle around the edges of her aura.

What happened to all that hatred and rage?

Demkaih felt his heartbeat in his ears, tugging his lower lip between his teeth to suck on the edge in contemplation.

“I uh—” Delicate fingers reached for the tie in the gown, and the Mugrobi felt his breath catch, watching silky fabric glide effortlessly down lithe shoulders to catch in the crook of her arms as Niccolette exposed tanned skin. Dragging his gaze from her beautiful, soft smile, the dark skinned man looked at the smooth lines of her arm. His eyes immediately picked out the bruising under unmarred skin, the shapes undeniably those of a hand. His hand. There was a surge of guilt and shame in his glamour as the Bastian suggested that those things he’d held onto when his father died had never really left. She shrugged the golden fabric up over the thin white strap of her slip, and like slow motion, Demkaih watched his hand move.

He reached out, tentatively, to slip cautious fingertips under the edge of the yellow silk. Swallowing the trembling feeling in his throat, pulse rampant in his ears, the Mugrobi drew the robe back down her arm gently in an almost tender movement. He touched the back of his bent fingers against the marks on her arm, stroking gently down over the bruises with a small frown in his brow. Lingering there, head a buzz from the wines and fairly certain his heart would just about explode from his chest, Demkaih trailed a lax pointer up again to outline each specific finger mark in the ugly colored injury. He was breathing, but it was shallow, too consumed by the moment of invasion that he didn’t want to break. Blue eyes wandered over the curve of her beneath the white slip, before meeting her gaze with an intense and meaningful look. For a moment, the tall bladesman looked at her, flicking to the soft bow of her lips, before swallowing hard and pulling his hand away carefully.

“Hulali forgive me, I am sorry.” The dark Mugrobi said in a low, rougher voice, thick with desire and needful things. He curled the offending fingers into a tight fist, arm resting on his lap to give the poor Bastian some sense of dignity.

“I should probably go, before I do something Uzoji would never forgive of me..” Demkaih all but breathed, fingers still tingling from the brief touch of smooth lighter skin. It was a shameful truth to admit, but the merchant’s embarrassment didn’t seem quite as deep as it should be.

“Niccolette I—I I am not a good man.” Light eyes caught her dark ones again, full of meaning that a handful of Estuan couldn’t possibly relay. And yet, he made no move to leave, instead finding himself leaning just a little closer to the tempting blush of her lips.