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[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 21 Roalis, 2719
Oiler's Rest, off the Wharf

Can’t, the human said, in that rough, scraping voice of his. Niccolette stared at him, through the throbbing pulse of her headache. She was breathing a little harder than she wanted to be; it was harder and harder to stay upright. She couldn’t hold the count of her breath; it slipped away from her. The numbers bled into one another; they tumbled around one another in her head, and she was breathing again before she meant to, her eyelids fluttering.

Trying, the human added. He flinched; his fingers spasmed against her wrist, tightening again. Niccolette tightened too, inhaling deeply through her nose. It was only pain, she told herself, feeling the dull ache of the grasp and the vicious, sharp press of nails against her skin. It was only pain; it would pass.

Trying, the human had said.

Niccolette stared at him. His face was like a dark bruise in the low light; there were faint pops of red in the sclera as well. Not enough sleep, Niccolette thought, clinically. She looked down at the hand clenched around her wrist, the long large fingers with their dirty nails. Niccolette took a deep breath.

A spell, she thought. The easiest thing to do with a control spell would be to bent the wrist forward; the tendons along the back of the hand could not sustain their tension in such a position, and would inevitably relax. Niccolette breathed in deep, trying to center herself; she could not find the count of her breath, she could not – panic welled up in her chest. The galdor shuddered, and relaxed her grip on her field; she released the sigiling, and even the flex, so that it hung loose and indectal in the air around them.

She could not come to the mona like this, Niccolette thought, clear and throbbing in her mind. She closed her eyes; tears sparkled on her lashes. It was only pain. She sniffled, taking a deep breath, and opened her eyes, looking down at her wrist once more. Slowly, she shifted; she knelt more fully on the floor, feeling a prickle of pain as one knee brushed glass.

Niccolette let go of the stool with her other hand. She wobbled; she set it down on the floor, for a moment, catching her breath and her balance. Her head throbbed, and she took a deep breath, opening her eyes. Carefully, she brought her free hand to the human’s wrist. She grasped it, firmly; she set her thumb on the back of his hand.

"Do not fight me," Niccolette said, lifting her gaze to his. Her voice was softer, now, but still with the sharp ring of command. She did not ask; she never asked. She demanded, with all the strength and iron will that she might, another time, have brought to the mona.

Niccolette pressed; she bent his wrist forward, her fingers digging in to his forearm to provide something to push against. She did not have a lot of strength in her wrists and fingers; she did not know if she could do it, physically, what would be so very easy with the mona. But she knew better than to ask them, here, tonight, and so she would try her hands instead. Her gaze flicked up to the human; her jaw clenched, and she pressed a little harder.

[Peregrine]

21 of Roalis, 2719 - Evening
The Floor of Oiler's Rest

Did the lady believe it, when Peregrine said "can't"? They weren't too sure. Seemed a fair moony thing to say, that someone couldn't let go of an arm. At least, they were mostly certain that it weren't the normal way of things. Hard to really say for sure; Peregrine couldn't remember what it was like to be in a body that was yours by birth. Probably listened more, they thought. Usually. Though they'd lived long enough to know that weren't always true, neither.

The lady stared and they stared back. Couldn't have said what thoughts were running through that pretty toffin head, not for all the money in the world. Barely able to keep track of the thoughts in their own head most of the time, hey? She looked at their hand, the way it spasmed and wouldn't let go. Took a breath. Peregrine wondered if she was going to cast, and they stiffened right up like a fucking board. Bad enough to be under the pressure of that field of hers, but if she cast on them proper they didn't know what would happen. What they would do, trying to get away from that feeling.

In the end, the lady didn't cast at all. The pressure on them eased back, too, and they just felt the regular abrasive scrape of the mona crawling all over them. Buzzing in their ears and trying to worm under their skin, it felt like. No love lost, between them and the mona. Not now and not Before, neither.

Do not fight me.

Peregrine didn't wanna fight the lady. Peregrine didn't want to fight nobody, as a general rule, hey? Fighting could end up in the face broken or worse, and they weren't too good at it besides. They could handle a knife well enough, and shit--they'd been a soldier, once. But it weren't the same, and that didn't come with them when they went to a new face. Something deep inside them cowered and bristled at once, at that tone of command. Something from a hole, from Before--but Peregrine shoved it back, even though it hurt and it was hard when they floor tilted under them even though they was sitting still on it.

Their wrist was bent forward; they could feel Gideon's fingers trying not to uncurl. To stay clutched around the lady's wrist. Maybe, Peregrine thought in a fuzzy sort of way, Gideon's fingers were hoping that the lady could force the Peregrine out. Wouldn't matter if she could, of course--whoever had been in here before was gone forever, as far as they knew. So there weren't no point to fighting them this way, hey? Peregrine tried to help the lady, to make the hand listen to one or both of them together. She pressed on their wrist and not much happened. She looked up at them and pressed again, harder. It hurt, fucking shit it hurt, because none of them fingers wanted to do this--but it worked. The lady held their wrist and pushed their hand and it uncurcled, let her go.

"Fuck!" Peregrine hissed, and scrabbled back. They knocked into the stool behind them and scraped it back a few loud, screeching inches before the stopped. Blearily they stared across at the lady. One hand came to clutch at the one that had been on her wrist and held it to their chest--just in case.

Which meant, they realized slowly, the angry toffin lady and all her magic had both hands free again. Peregrine blinked at her, slow. Weren't nobody going to come and stop her if she did try to do something to them. Weren't like they were nobody's favorite patron here or nothing. Weren't like most folks would as try to stop a lady like this from doing whatever the fuck she wanted. The thought made them dizzy, sick. Or was that the drink? Both, they thought. They felt filthy, and tired, and they couldn't get up off the floor. Drank too much, again. They should say something. Something to maybe change her mind from whatever it is that she wanted to do to a Peregrine, for... for tearing that shirt, they supposed. Or grabbing her wrist, or... Being Peregrine.

"Neat trick," was all they managed

Roll

Nicco/Peregrine Hand-Holding:
@Cap O' Rushes: 1d6 = (5) = 5

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 21 Roalis, 2719
Oiler's Rest, off the Wharf

Niccolette pressed. For a moment, she thought it would not work; the human’s hand was hard and taut beneath her fingers. The fingers seemed to spasm, to dig deeper into her skin. Niccolette could feel the fingers pushing into her skin, the nails digging in; she could imagine all the musculature and the bones below, the hidden diagrams beneath her skin. Was it possible, she wondered, to squeeze hard enough to displace the tendons? They were fragile things. Could he strain her muscles, simply by pressing –

His whole arm was locked up, and shaking, but – slowly – the fingers loosened, and Niccolette could jerk her hand free.

The human lunged back, scrabbling over the glass and sick covered floor. Niccolette pulled back too; she sagged against the bar, shaking, limp, sweat dampened hair sticking unpleasantly to the filthy wood. She shuddered; she drew her injured arm close against her chest, breathing hard through an equally damp prickling in her eyes. She stared blearily at the human; he was staring back at her too.

She was still, Niccolette thought tiredly, on the floor. Everything hurt; her head, her palm, her wrist, her arm all the way down – her other hand too, just for good clocking measure. None of it serious, Niccolette thought, tiredly. Her hip, she thought, vaguely, too, where she had struck the human. Her ear; her ear hurt worst of all. That – she could not think about that. She squeezed her eyes shut; there were tears trickling down her face now. She stifled a sob; more than anything she wished Uzoji were there to laugh at her. Stuck on the floor, Niccolette thought, bitterly, tangled up with a human with a broken hand. He would have laughed; he would have laughed as he took her hands and helped her to her feet, and folded her into his arms. He would have laughed, gently, as he carried her home, and helped her to bathe and to wrap these fucking idiotic wounds.

“Go fuck yourself,” Niccolette said in response, looking up at the human. At some point she had opened her eyes again. Tears were trickling steadily down her cheeks now, welling up from deep inside her and spilling out from her eyes. She took a deep breath; she shuddered. She had a second handkerchief, she thought, fuzzily, somewhere; she never left home without three, anymore. She could not muster up the energy to find it. She could not even summon up anger for the ripped silk shirt; it had gone, too, and left her all alone.

Niccolette closed her eyes, then; she leaned her head against the wood of the bar. She could hear, distant and vague, the murmurs of voices all around. She did not try to grab hold of her field; it hung, crisp and indectal and unperturbed in the air around her, the mona buzzing only faintly with all the disturbances of the last hour. She did not try even to grab hold of herself; she knew she could not stand.

She ached, though; she ached, and it was all she could bear.

[Peregrine]

21 of Roalis, 2719 - Evening
Getting the Fuck Out of Oiler's Rest

Crying--the golly lady was crying. Peregrine frowned and looked away. They didn't know what she was crying for; they didn't care. They couldn't help, and they'd never been much good with crying ladies. Or crying anyones at alls, for that matter.

"Gladly," they said, with feeling. There is nothing they wanted to do more than to fuck off, hey? Nothing they'd been wanting more. They had the whole walk home ahead of them, and after the excitement the drink was starting to wear off. Now they just hurt and was tired and smelled--well. They didn't want to think as to what they smelled like. If there was anyone in the shower when they got home, they thought, they would just have to bodily haul them out. They'd done it before.

They grabbed the stool next to them, using it to help haul Gideon's body up off of the floor. They swayed a little on their feet; they didn't fall back down again. That was good. They weren't too keen as to repeat the experience. They blinked, then fished a coin out from their pocket to set on the bar. For the trouble, they thought; it weren't nearly enough to make up for that, but it was a start. Probably. Although they didn't think they'd be allowed back in this particular establishment no mores. They didn't think that was a loss, not really, but they were annoyed. All because of some fancy lady in a shirt that didn't even look like it fit her none too well. Fuck that fancy lady and fuck her shirt too.

They opened their mouth to tell her so, and shut it abruptly after. Weren't looking to start nothing, not right now, they really weren't. The warm fuzzies of the drink was leaving them, and let some common sense back in. Like: don't go picking fights with golly ladies what seemed like they wanted to put Gideon's lovely face through a meat grinder, hey? Peregrine was lots of things, but stupid weren't one of them, not usually.

They took one last look at the crying lady on the floor. Memorized her face as best they could--so as if they ever saw her again, they'd know to go the opposite direction as fast as they could. Then they stumbled out of the bar and made their way home.