[Closed] Drag Me Into Place (Memory)

[Charlie Ewing]

Roalis 14, 2720 - Some Hours Past Midnight
Engine Parts Shop, the Rose

The inside of the warehouse was colder than the Roalis air outside, and darker too. There was a kind of chaos to all of it, but the kind that Charlie knew only seemed that way on the surface. He kept his own workspace much the same--at least he had at home, and was steadily adopting a similar system in his new one. A mess, he felt, was only a mess if you couldn't find anything in it.

To prove the point, Nestor set off down the rows and bade Charlie follow along after. Niccolette, he noted, stayed behind. Which was all well and good; he didn't really think he needed her help. He could have gone by himself, had he known where he was going. Besides, Charlie was very interested in where that tattoo really ended, and he didn't think he needed to have that conversation in front of her. Even Charlie Ewing had standards--at least, he was pretty sure he did. What those standards were seemed to be up for negotiation.

There was a heavy thunk as Nestor handed him the first part. Charlie took hold of it with one hand and tucked it under his arm. He grinned as he kept following along. He knew that one now, even if a lot of that night was sort of a vague blur. The important bits were retained, he thought. Like the meaning of the compliment. Not that there was much mystery in it, the way Nestor said it. But Charlie liked knowing the exact shape of compliments. Sometimes it proved useful. There was a difference, for instance, in complimenting his face or other parts of him; a difference in telling him he was pretty or other, less polite adjectives. Set the tone for the whole thing.

"I don't think so," he answered, more cheerful than he'd felt since starting work on the engine. His eyes scanned the shelves, or what he could see of them in the light of the lantern Nestor carried, gleaming indistinctly. "I would remember a tattoo like that. It's very distinctive." Charlie was rewarded with a laugh for drawing out the last word.

"Oes? Mujo ma, jent. Ent as you can see th' full effect of it under all circumstances, ye ch--ah, hand me that--ne, th' other--oes, that one." Charlie feigned a critical eye, looking at the lines that disappeared down one hip, nodding solemnly. He was a great appreciator of craft, you see. Of all kinds.

They went back and forth like that as they went down Charlie's list. An easy kind of banter Charlie could slide right into, at any hour and with anyone sufficiently interested. Much easier than trying to draw blood from the conversational stone that was Niccolette Ibutatu, at least, and Charlie felt his spirits rather bolstered by the exchange.

At last though the final part was loaded into his waiting arms, and Charlie knew he couldn't linger. He didn't even really want to, though he did manage to mention both that it was his birthday, and where he would be spending it. The more the merrier, that was Charlie's philosophy. Lately. All of it was heavier than he had expected, so maybe he was glad to have a second pair of hands after all. He wandered back over to where Niccolette stood, eyes closed.

"This is all of it then," he declared overly loudly as they walked back towards Niccolette. If she had somehow fallen asleep standing up, Charlie would... Well he'd have to wake her up somehow, and wasn't particularly looking forward to the prospect.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Some Time Past Midnight, 14 Roalis, 2718
Crossing the Rose

It began with the rhythm; the routine was long since familiar. Niccolette knew it, now, in a place beyond words. She felt the calmness of it flicker out through her field, spreading into the world beyond her with each breath, restoring and renewing after a night of heavy casting.

She had found of late she did not need to chant, except for that it anchored her to the meditation, held her in place as she knelt or stood or sat. Just now she did not need it, or rather she could not have it, and so she thought no more on it.

Her eyes opened once, long enough to fix on a lantern hanging not so distant on the wall, flame glowing in the oil at its center. Niccolette watched it, held her focus, and when she closed her eyes it was with the sight of the lantern somewhere deeper than the backs of them, lingering.

She breathed, steadily, in and out; she held the count. The noise of conversation faded away; the tiredness, too, receded back against the bright light of the flame. She breathed in, taking in the world outside with each breath, letting it pass through her field into herself, and she exhaled it back out, smooth and even.

Niccolette had no sense of time, in this way. It might have been minutes or an hour when Ewing’s field nudged at the edge of hers, and his voice nudged at her senses.

Niccolette’s eyes opened; the distant flame on the wall seemed to glow in them, for just a moment. The air around her, too, was faintly warmed, thick with the feeling of etheric mona, for all that no spell had been cast, and her field was brighter and sharper than ever.

Niccolette inclined her head when Ewing spoke; she saw no need to respond. Nestor wandered over behind him; he stopped at the edge of her field, and then eased back a step.

Niccolette fetched her coin purse from one of the small hidden pockets sewn flat into her dress. She brushed past Charlie, and pressed a coin into Nestor’s hands. “For your trouble. Send the bill to him.” Something sharp gleamed in her eyes and her grin. “Any unreasonable argument may be referred to me.”

“Understood, Mrs. Ibutatu,” Nestor grinned. “A pleasure, as always.” He bowed lightly, the coin swiftly vanishing. “Give my regards to your husband.”

Niccolette smiled.

The parts were divided up between two bags. The Bastian took one, and however she felt about the weight of it she said nothing. They went back out into the warmth of the night, and Niccolette set no less quick a pace than last time, and showed little more interest in conversation. The warmth in her field clung to her as they walked.

The men at the entrance to the shipyard did not stir, this time; one was leaning against the wall, and there was no way of knowing whether his eyes were open or shut, in the shadow.

When they reached the ladder there was a rustle from overhead, and a tousled head of red hair which came over. “Niccolette!” Willie called down. He came over the side, lightly dressed, and scaled down the ladder.

He raised his eyebrows at Ewing.

“Ewing,” Niccolette said with a delicate wave of her hand. “A mechanic,” her gaze slid over to him, and she shrugged.

“The lack of an insult means she likes you,” Willie said cheerfully; he bowed. “William Falloner, but you can call me Willie.” He reached out for a light caprise, his field more quantitative than static, although with some of each; he didn’t linger.

“Let me take that,” Willie reached out for the bag; Niccolette surrendered it gladly, her shoulders aching.

Niccolette went first, her skirts long enough that she did not worry about it. Willie held the ladder steady for her, his back to it, and grinned at Ewing.

“How’s the engine looking?” He glanced sideways up, studying the ship. “We had a godsdamned time and a half getting her here, I’ll tell you that!”