Wicked Game [Mature, PM to Join]

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Race: Galdor
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Sun Sep 01, 2019 9:38 pm

Late Evening, 19th Roalis 2719
Outside the Trove, On the Border between Castle Hill and Berret Park
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In the early stirrings of a Roalis night, the heat of the day was already fleeing from the Rose; there was an odd dampness to the air nonetheless, the grasping hands of Hamis holding tight. Benea and Osa glinted full in the cloud-scattered sky; when the clouds shifted in the winds trickling in off the Tincta Basta, shafts of moonlight spread through and reached down to glisten on city streets, lit here and there with flickering street lamps.

Niccolette would have preferred the dark. The moonlight scattered over piles of garbage, here and there; caught the face of a beggar or two, rattling empty bowls on the cobblestone streets. The Bastian stood beneath a half-crumbled balcony at the border where Castle Hill ran alongside Berret Park, on the edge of the Trove, a bar that straddled the two. She slumped back against the warped wooden wall, its half-hearted coat of paint peeling in the humid air.

The clouds overhead were moving, swift, a testament to the breeze that trickled through the streets, but the clean smell of salt water had long since mixed with garbage and waste, with the faint scent of fish rotted since the morning’s catch. Niccolette burned it from her nose with a deep drag on a cigarette, deep enough that she found herself coughing. She twisted her face towards the wood, shuddering, and coughed a little harder, the heaving sending a sharp twist of pain through her ear.

Niccolette grimaced, dropped the mostly-full cigarette, and ground it out against the cobblestone street with the tip of her boot. It was too many years for her to find the habit again, she thought. Better not to try too hard. She wiped at watering eyes with her fingers, and ignored the faint buzzing hum that had been, for some time now, all she could hear in one ear. The galdor turned her attention back to the streets, watching men and women pass from her darkness of her little corner.

Niccolette had never liked the Rose. But, she thought, anything at all was better than the loud silence of the home she had shared with her husband; tonight, even urine and stale beer smelled better than that emptiness. She had lost track of the days somewhere; she could not have said if she had been in the Rose one day, two, even three or four. She knew she had slept; sometimes, she had dreamed. Once, she had found something in the dark, but it had not lasted. Sometimes she had tossed and turned, unable to find the stillness that sleep needed, and equally unable to rise. Sometimes she had gotten up; she had dragged herself through the motions of living, bathing and eating.

And, of course, drinking.

The Bastian reached down to the ground at her feet, swaying unsteadily, and picked up the bottle she had left there, a small white bandage tucked against the palm of her hand. Black comfort; fitting, Niccolette thought. She did not much care for it – too sweet – but it had looked a world better than anything else on offer at the shithole of a bar behind her, and at least it had a reputation for not turning to vinegar. Niccolette had not bothered to get a glass, and she did not bother to get one now; the Bastian placed the drink of the bottle carefully at her lips, tilted her head back, and swallowed the largest mouthful she could manage. She lowered it, swallowed, and coughed, grimacing at the taste.

Niccolette shivered, and leaned back into the hidden shadows beneath the decrepit balcony. It smelled, she thought, of mold and rot; she would not be surprised if it collapsed onto her head, but she could not quite bring herself to move. The Bastian wore a high-collared black dress, tailored to her slender body, with soft cuffs and frills – and over it, against the coming cold, a man’s coat, a little too big for her in the shoulders, folded back at the arms, one side of the collar subtly, carefully mended – clean, though. It smelled of soap, Niccolette thought. For a moment she thought she might weep, but it passed and left her a little emptier inside.

The Bastian held there against the wall; there was a burst of loud laughter from inside, and she remembered why she had left. Too much. The silence, alone at home, was too much; the laughter, even drunk as it was, was too much. Out here, on the boundary of the street – alone with all the Rose – Niccolette thought, perhaps, she would be able to find stillness that was not too still.

Niccolette took another drink from the bottle, and pushed her long brunette hair back, up and off her face, out of her kohl-rimmed eyes. If not, she thought bitterly, there was always black comfort.

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Last edited by Niccolette Ibutatu on Wed Sep 04, 2019 1:29 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Xonia
Posts: 44
Joined: Thu Nov 08, 2018 10:06 am
Topics: 8
Race: Galdor
: Xonia the Nomad
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Sun Sep 01, 2019 11:03 pm

She had never remembered feeling as cold as she felt right at that moment. Fever ravaged her body which was laced with infection from the various cuts and wounds that tore her tender skin. Xonia wasn’t even aware that she was mostly unclothed, but she would remember the stench of the cell and the sounds of echoing laughter. Dwight, the man who’d held her prisoner for… days? Weeks?

She rolled onto her back, startled to find herself able to move at all. Where was she? She gave a few, rasping cries and then coughed. Finally, she gave a loud enough cry that maybe somebody… ANYbody… would hear her and help her. She pulled her tattered shirt about her, teeth chattering. Oh gods, she didn’t want to die.

To someone walking up on her, she might come off as a beggar at first… but upon closer inspection and if the moonlight was just right, one would see the bruises and one could probably smell the scent of illness wafting from her pale frame. The young lady was struggling to get up by that point, she was in such bad shape that her struggle should be palpable to those around her.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
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Race: Galdor
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Writer: moralhazard
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Sun Sep 01, 2019 11:56 pm

Late Evening, 19th Roalis 2719
Outside the Trove, On the Border between Castle Hill and Berret Park
Another burst of drunk, cheerful laughter emerged from the bar. Niccolette made a face over her shoulder at it. What, she thought, was the point of being nearly deaf in one ear if she could not use it to her advantage?

Niccolette pushed herself free from the wall, the bottle of black comfort swinging low against her leg, and took a few steps, crossing in front of the open door. Heat and warmth echoed from inside, mingled with the reek of old sweat and sour beer. Niccolette did not look, but settled in on the other side, against the warped wood of the wall there; now, with her bad ear towards the door, she could hear nearly nothing.

For a moment - for a few, blissful moments - there was nothing loud, nothing to disrupt, nothing to make her think.

A handful of low, rasping cries echoed from the alley on the other side of the bar. Niccolette grimaced, the sounds scraping against her raw nerves.

“Be quiet,” she called, snapping, a heavy Bastian accent curling beneath her words. Her head was throbbing, a little; the pain felt as if it had started in her ear, but it was spreading steadily through her head. Niccolette lifted the bottle again and took another drink. She wiped her mouth, set the bottle down, and arched her head back against the wall, sighing. The night air was crisp and cold against her skin, but the alcohol was finally settling into a warmth in her chest, a fizz like heat through her veins, even as it numbed the edges of her.

The beggar cried out again, a low, utterly pathetic sound.

“By the Circle!” Niccolette snapped. She pushed off against the wall - stumbled once - and rounded the corner of the bar. A small, slight figure lay on her back on the ground, barely clothed, struggling in vain to rise.

Niccolette stalked forward, utterly intent on making the creature pay for its insolence - and stopped, abruptly, a few feet out, at the feeling of a field against her skin. She held still for a moment, staring down at the girl, and pursed her lips. She would have thought her a wick, but the field was strong for a glamour - too strong, perhaps. Niccolette caprised her, swiftly, the sharp bright living mona of her field reaching out into the younger woman’s. Weak, Niccolette thought; odd, muddled, but -

A galdor.

The Bastian groaned, rubbing her face with one hand, her head throbbing again. She crouched on the ground, her husband’s coat pooling around her, and peered down at the girl.

After a moment, the living conversationalist began to cast, a simple enough quantitative spell, something to tell her about the condition of the half-dead looking girl on the ground before her. The monite flowed steadily from her lips; she had slurred her words, slightly, but the strange harsh language was clear and precise, every syllable perfectly enunciated.

Niccolette curled the spell and waited. Information flooded in - the girl was feverish and dehydrated, cut and scraped up, some infected, although the mona has not seen fit to tell Niccolette which. More information trickled in, slowly, somewhat uncertain. Not her best spell, but then, Niccolette knew she had not brought her full will to the cast. Worse, the Bastian could not be sure if the mona had revealed to her all the injuries that troubled the miserable creature.

Even just what Niccolette had been able to see - the host of scrapes and cuts, exhaustion and weakness, was bad enough. Not, Niccolette thought, irritably, something easy to fix. Not, she thought too, anything she should care about in the slightest. Not at all. It would be best to get up, to walk away; she did not think the girl would die tonight, but then - dehydration and exposure were dreadful bedfellows. It was not impossible that she would not last until dawn. And if she did not? So what? It was nothing to Niccolette if some galdor she had never met died, nothing at all. She had killed some of her own race when they meant her harm, and never regretted it for an instant.

And yet -

There was someone out there who had done this to a galdor. Niccolette pursed her lips, staring at the girl. Barely dressed. And how the fuck had she gotten away so weak? If this was a trap, it was a poor one indeed; they ought to have already sprung it.

Niccolette stared down at the pathetic wretch on the ground a moment longer, thinking. She sighed, long and slow, and leaned forward, snapping her fingers in the girl’s face. “You are awake?” The Bastian asked, arching an eyebrow down at the girl. “You can hear me, I think. You are not yet dead.”

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Rolls
Overall status quantitative cast: SidekickBOTToday at 8:35 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (3) = 3
Last edited by Niccolette Ibutatu on Mon Sep 02, 2019 7:11 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Xonia
Posts: 44
Joined: Thu Nov 08, 2018 10:06 am
Topics: 8
Race: Galdor
: Xonia the Nomad
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Mon Sep 02, 2019 9:22 am

Time Keeps On Slipping
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As the other Galdor neared, Xonia could feel their fields clashing some even as her own was weak at the moment. She was starting to recognize her own kind and was very much against her own kind. But what choice did she have but to ask for help, this poor girl who had been through the worst of things. Images of her captor’s face flashed before her eyes and she nearly started to crawl backwards in haste of getting away from the woman. But SHE wasn’t the one who had beat her or… worse.

The smell of alcohol and tobacco permeated into her nostrils, she opened her eyes to see the face of a woman who wasn’t too happy to see her at all. Not that they knew one another. She could feel the magic and her throat started to close in panic at first, but then she calmed herself and let it happen. Her wounds were pretty numerous, there were some mending bones, specifically a badly set leg break that should probably be fixed… There were lots of cuts and bruises, lacerations and abrasions… and then some questionable injuries such as signs that she was in the process of losing a fresh pregnancy.

The biggest problem was the fever that ravaged her… She’d been badly taken care of by her captor… badly treated in general. He had not treated any of her wounds; his intent had been for her to die. “I killed him,” she murmured out softly… “I killed him… He wanted to kill me slowly… so I killed him… a Galdor.” It sank in then that she actually killed a living thing that wasn’t wild game and she began to weep as much as her body allowed it to happen.

She needed to find Cor, needed him to know she was alive and that she knew more about what happened to Lorent. She needed to tell him what happened in general! But it was hard to even say as much when one was so weak that they could barely move. She didn’t want to die, though, wasn’t ready. “Help… find… Cor…” And that was the last of what she got out, for the next thing was that she passed out.

The darkness’ yawning maw was welcoming to her… it was where pain ended and euphoria began, where cares flew away with the dust in the wind. It was a warm and comforting blanket that cocooned her just right. Yes… now if she could just stay within the blanket of darkness for a time, that would be wonderful. She did not have to be afraid anymore when she was embraced by unconsciousness. But then the sound of snapping fingers woke her and she could feel the pain surrounding her body once more and wanted, again, to weep.

“Not… dead… yet.” She uttered in irritation, not toward the woman mind you but for the pain she felt. “Don’t want to die,” she added with a sigh.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Mon Sep 02, 2019 7:10 pm

Late Evening, 19th Roalis 2719
Outside the Trove, On the Border between Castle Hill and Berret Park
There had, when she approached, been a rush of feverish mumbling. Niccolette could not hear terribly well; she thought, perhaps, that the girl had said the word killed – something about a galdor? There had been weeping as well, and a whimpered call for help, which had eased into silence almost immediately, and with it the girl’s eyes had fluttered shut.

Certainly, none of it bode well for the girl’s overall state of mind. Nor, in truth, did the injuries that the mona had reported back. The most immediate dangers were the fever, the blood loss, and, naturally, the continued cold and exposure. The exposure was easiest to deal with, naturally. Particularly given how drunk she was, Niccolette was hesitant to tackle the fever or the blood loss directly.

Still, Niccolette thought, if she did not bring the fever down, she thought there some chance that the girl might sleep too deep into unconsciousness before she could even think what to do with her. Hard to be sure, of course, but she did not seem strong. Too many old breaks; too much of her strength drained by the cuts and infections.

The girl jerked herself back awake at the snapping of Niccolette’s fingers.

“Good,” Niccolette said, crisply, in response to the girl’s weak insistence that she was not ready for death. “That shall make it easier.” Niccolette pressed her lips together, studying the girl. “This will hurt, but it should help,” the Bastian shrugged.

Niccolette inhaled, deeply, and exhaled, and began to cast. Bringing a fever down was a tricky thing; it was not so easy as simply telling the body to be cooler. There was something to be said for a fever; from Niccolette’s own learnings, it was said that the fever could help to drive out some illnesses. The body needed the fever, or so it was believed; it was part and parcel of its own response to infection, part of how it restored itself.

And yet – too high – too high, and it ravaged through, swept the mind clean and left a drooling imbecile behind. Too high, and it could kill.

Niccolette’s voice was smooth and steady in the filthy alley. For the girl, she knew, it would feel as if she were burning up from the inside for a few moments – as if the fever was scorching her veins – and then the feeling would lessen, would fade. The pain would diminish, and the fever would lower. She could feel it had not decreased much. Too many injuries, Niccolette thought; the body wanted this fever too badly. She hoped, at least, that she had brought it down enough that the girl would survive. She curled the spell, and leaned forward, prying the girl’s eyes open and checking her pupils.

Niccolette grimaced. “I shall return,” she sighed.

She rose, unsteadily, wobbling once. Her ear ached, and she rubbed it for a moment, although it didn’t help. She glanced around the alley, and, seeing no other signs of life, left the girl there a few moments, making her way back around the edge of the building, back towards the bar. On her way, Niccolette leaned slightly, catching herself against the wall and picking up the bottle of black comfort she had left behind. She held still a moment, swallowing a too-sweet mouthful of wine, then shoved her way back through the door, back into the bar.

Niccolette glanced around, lips pressed taut together. This was not, she thought, irritably, how she had wanted to spend her night. For a moment, she considered leaving the girl. She had lowered the fever; it was more than she had had to do. It was not her fault, whatever had happened to her, and it was not her responsibility to save her either. She owed her nothing.

The Bastian felt a headache already throbbing at her temples. Well, Niccolette decided, it would be rather a waste of a spell or two to let her die now. Best to see it through.

“You,” Niccolette strode over to a table of two men, looking between them. Not too drunk – early in their night still, not yet swaying. Working men, Niccolette thought, from the cut of their clothing. “There’s a penny for each of you, if you come with me.” The Bastian did not bother to wait for their agreement; she turned and swept from the bar.

Even with her bad ear, Niccolette could hear the scrape of chairs behind her, the sudden shuffle of a table against the floor.

Niccolette let the men follow her back to the alley. She knelt again, settling her fingers beneath the girl’s nose. Still breathing, the Bastian thought. Good.

“I need her carried,” Niccolette glanced at the men, and stepped back, giving them space to lift her. Niccolette paused, thoughtful, and flexed her field, bright, sharp living mona flooding through the alley, washing over the girl on the ground and the two men alike. “Touch her in any way not necessary,” Niccolette said, almost casually, “and you shall wish you had not been born.”

The two men glanced between one another; there was an awkward silence.

"Ent the sort fer tha', miss," One of the men said.

The other shook his head. "Never liked 'em beat," he mumbled.

Niccolette nodded, and did not speak again, arms crossing over her chest, the bottle of black comfort resting lightly against her husband's coat.

The two men stepped forward, gingerly approaching the galdor lying on the ground.

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Spell to reduce fever: SidekickBOTToday at 3:52 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (2) = 2
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Xonia
Posts: 44
Joined: Thu Nov 08, 2018 10:06 am
Topics: 8
Race: Galdor
: Xonia the Nomad
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Writer: Kimmie
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Mon Sep 02, 2019 9:17 pm

Time Is of the Essence…
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The woman was doing something with her magic that made her tense at first, for the last person to have healed her had been a long time ago… definitely not Galdor. Their energies clashed a little at first, but she forced herself to calm down and let it happen as it was happening. When she stopped the unconscious fighting, it got much easier for the healing to permeate into her ravaged body.

Oh, Gods, the pain was so damned intense! To her credit, she didn’t cry out with it. And then it was replaced by some kind of euphoria. She felt the waves of calm crashing down on her for the first time since she’d gotten away from the man who’d done what he had done. She remained asleep while her rescuer disappeared for a time before coming back with the men. When she heard what was said about keeping their hands off of her and knew she at least had a protector.

She was too tired to fight and closed her eyes again to try and rest the best she could, showing trust in the woman for what she had already done for her.

There was a dream that soon came to her, and suddenly she remembered something that didn’t make sense to her yet. The face of her captor was the face of a man who had traveled with she and her guardian for a time when she was younger… He had been a scary sort with dark blue eyes that looked black sometimes, some evil etched within the brights of his eyes.

She sat up, gasping from the fever dream. But she was better… somehow she was better, but not out of danger yet. The girl looked around the room, it looked suspiciously like the room in the hotel where she had robbed a Galdor man for a goodly amount, enough for a horse and then some. Where had she put the money? Oh… yes… the hollow tree in a clearing in the woods closest to Old Rose Harbor. She made it… she was alive and she had made it out of the clutches of a madman.

Xonia might not know a lot of things, but she knew better than to try to walk. She had to pee, there was a ringing in her ears and she was confused about her surroundings. She looked around and then her tired eyes found the form of the woman who’d saved her, or was trying to do so now.

The girl relaxed down and murmured loud enough for the other to hear, “I… thank you… for this… for whatever my thanks is worth.” Her voice was shaky at best. She lay her head back and sighed, sweat starting to dribble down her face to indicate her fever had broken for the moment. The blonde pushed blankets off of her, feeling overly warm by that moment.

Fuck, but she felt like she’d been run over by a stampede of horses. Her body hurt and ached from the recent fever, her joints aching a bit. Strangely enough, the other pain was gone, which was more of a surprise at the moment.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Mon Sep 02, 2019 10:39 pm

Late Evening, 19th Roalis 2719
The Elepha's Inn, Castle Hill
Niccolette had thought perhaps the galdor might fight; she had held herself ready for a counterspell, although with the strange, disordered nature of the girl’s field, she had not been sure what to expect. All the same, she let some of the sigiled heat release from her field when the girl slumped into unconsciousness. Niccolette pressed her lips together; she thought perhaps fight might have been better than acceptance.

The men rose; between them, they had maneuvered the girl into the arms of one of them.

Niccolette nodded. “Your coat,” She told the other.

“My…” The man glanced down at himself, at the thick, warm coat, patched and re-patched in a dozen places. Unlike the coat Niccolette wore, the patches showed; sometimes the wrong color thread had been used, here and there, but there were no rips, no tears, and if it was threadbare in some places, it wasn’t many. It was clean too, well-kept, and just looking down the man brushed a bit of something off the edge of it. He scowled. “Ne, carryin’ a girl’s one thin’, but– ”

“I do not wish to keep it,” Niccolette snapped. “Cover her with it. Until we are in a place of privacy.”

“I – ” the man sighed, and drew the coat off, slowly, grumbling. He lay it over the galdor, and followed along with them, keeping it a close eye on the coat.

Niccolette led their strange little procession out of the alley, and down the street. She had thought of taking the girl to their home. It was not as if they did not have enough space, but she – she could not abide it. The thought of someone else sleeping there – of a stranger – it ached in a place Niccolette did not wish to name and could not think of. She turned her mind from it, and did not consider it further.

Instead, they went a few streets deeper into Castle Hill, and stopped at The Elepha's Inn, the first Niccolette found that seemed suitable - in both directions. The walls outside had been painted recently enough that they had not peeled; the windows were paned with glass, each of them, and that glass shone, with no stains or streaks. And yet it was on a small street, tucked away; the steps creaked as they climbed up them, and the furniture in the main room was darned, carefully and neatly, but darned all the same.

When one did not care for the cost, it was easy enough to buy what one wished. Niccolette sent the men away with a penny each, as promised, and both still with their coats. She paid for the room, and gave extra coin for the services of their cleaning lady, for fresh hot water, extra sheets, and a clean shift. If the shift was too large – well, Niccolette thought, they were only human. The owner’s son was awake, idling outside, and Niccolette made him repeat back the list of materials she needed three times, until she was sure he had it straight, before sending him to the nearest chemist.

The first step was to clean the girl of blood and dirt both - that was the cleaning lady’s work, though, not Niccolette’s. The Bastian waited for the boy, and took the alcohol, the gauze and wrap and tape, and brought it up stairs. Not all of the galdor’s wounds could be dealt with by simply using alcohol and wrapping them tight; there were some which were too deep for such measures to be effective. Niccolette treated them all as best as she could all the same, and once the maid had finished cleaning, instructed her strictly on how to ease water down the unconscious girl’s throat. The living conversationalist’s hands were steady and even, if not especially gentle, as she used the secular skills she had learned long ago. Now, she thought, perhaps it was for the best that the girl seemed to stay deep unconscious.

The cleaning lady settled the galdor beneath the heavy blankets, once Niccolette had secured the last of the bandages. She shifted, as if she meant to say something; Niccolette did not look at her, and after a moment she left with the last bucket of once-hot water,

The Bastian sat on the edge of the bed, and reached for the bottle of black comfort on the nightstand. She took a long drink; she could feel herself shaky and tired already, could feel that another cast would be risky. You have come this far, she told herself. The Bastian cast an eye over the galdor again, thinking of the worst of the cuts. She took a deep breath, and began to cast, pulling herself to the effort.

Again, Niccolette thought, aware of the tired edge creeping into her thoughts – it was for the best that the girl was not awake. This spell too, hurt – and badly. Cleansing the infection from a wound, she knew, could be done gently, but it was a painful process, and to do it gently took a thousand extra phrases, took time and tempering and patience which Niccolette rarely had. People had screamed, before, when Niccolette cleaned their wounds. The girl tensed beneath the blankets, but she did not wake, even as Niccolette bore down on the monite, enunciation clear and deliberate, stretching out the spell as long as she had the strength.

Niccolette was shaking by the time she curled the spell, but she had burned the infection from the worst of the wounds, and begun them along the path to healing.

The Bastian grabbed the bottle of black comfort from the nightstand. Her head ached; there was a bit of blood trickling from her nose, and she grabbed a handkerchief, pressing it to her nostril. She stumbled across the room, and sat heavily in the thin wooden chair against the other wall, resting her face against her hands. She shook for a long few moments, overtaxed, then eased back, slowly, dropping the bloody handkerchief on the floor. She settled Uzoji’s coat more firmly against herself, tucking her chin beneath the collar. For a moment, she nearly – but then, tired and aching, Niccolette lifted the brandy wine, and drank again, deeply. She wiped her mouth on her hand, set the bottle next to the chair leg and leaned back against the seat.

Niccolette was drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep when a thin voice from the bed woke her. She shifted, wiping a little more blood from her nose, and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her legs, studying the shifting figure on the bed. After a moment, the Bastian shrugged. “It is not more than I can give.”

Niccolette pulled Uzoji’s coat tighter again, suddenly cold. She rose, unsteadily, holding onto the back of the chair for a few moments, until her balance had returned. Carefully, she made her way back to the bed, studying the galdor lying there. “How are you feeling?” She asked, the question not so much warm and friendly as – clinical, almost dry.

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Rolls
Alleviating infection and starting to close wounds: SidekickBOTToday at 7:11 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6
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Xonia
Posts: 44
Joined: Thu Nov 08, 2018 10:06 am
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Race: Galdor
: Xonia the Nomad
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Wed Sep 04, 2019 11:16 am

She watched quietly for a moment and realized she’d woke the woman up from sleep, probably much needed sleep at that, and she felt bad for doing so. But the still yet unknown figure replied to her and Xonia sat up the best she could. Goodness, but she had no energy. “Even still,” she said breathily, “I have some money I stashed somewhere. I can repay you.”

It was all she could do to scoot her feet off the bed. She sat tiredly at the edge of the bed, her muscles weak. “I’ll live. I’ve survived before, I can do it again.” Residual coughing happened for a moment and then she sat there for a long moment to calm that down. “I am not ready to die, that is for sure. You should sit back down.” Too much happening, she thought. She had plenty of questions and no answers, that part bothered her the most. Dying after all the bull she just went through to get to where she was, well that would suck.

She had to relieve herself and was going to do it by herself no matter how much it hurt to move at the moment. Hopefully it wouldn’t be asked about, but she spent at least the next ten minutes struggling to the restroom without asking for help or indicating she wanted company. Of course that meant falling asleep for a spell while on the pot, but she would eventually return to the bed and flop gratefully down.

Hopefully the other had gone back to sleep as well. She went back to sleep, herself, and didn’t wake again for another few hours. By that time, she was a bit more aware of the world around her. It upset her that she could remember what happened to her, but she still couldn’t remember who she was. She sat for a long time, stormy expression written across her face.

She glanced over toward her rescuer, and if she was awake, she would finally say something. “I don’t have a name that I can remember, so I am called Xonia just as a formality until I know who I really am. I think… I said I had money I could repay you with, I just have to remember which tree I hid it in.” After all, she had stolen the money. “It’s the least I can do to thank you.”

With a heavy sigh, she leaned forward and rubbed her head.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Wed Sep 04, 2019 1:17 pm

Very Late Evening, 19th Roalis 2719
The Elepha's Inn, Castle Hill
Niccolette stood above the girl, lips pressed together for a long moment. She thought, irritably, that her patient was not being in the least helpful. She was aware that the girl would live; she had seen to it with her own hands, had brought the mona to bear on it. If she were to die now, it would be because she did not wish to go on, and she had already shown that she meant to fight. Niccolette had wanted to know which injuries pained her, which she still felt, what changes she had noticed in her condition.

But – no matter.

She was too tired to ask further, and, in truth, she would not have guessed that the wretch of a galdor would be able to stand. Niccolette crossed her arms over her chest, watching the girl struggle towards the small water closet attached to the room. She knew full well what it was the girl was doing, but she did not ask, nor did she offer to help. She watched her gait, carefully, mindful of the half-healed broken leg. The girl could not be doing it any favors, walking like this, but then – Niccolette could understand, she supposed. She wished she did not.

Niccolette stumbled back to the chair, grabbing the back of it and sinking slowly, gratefully, back down against the hard wood. Her whole body seemed to ache, and she grabbed the handkerchief from the floor again, holding it to her nose. She had meant to stay away – she had meant to wait for the girl to return from the bathroom, because Niccolette thought it not inconceivable that she would be unable to manage the trip alone – but the world blurred and flickered around her, and Niccolette was fast asleep once more by the time the other galdor re-emerged, one hand gripping a bloody handkerchief in her lap. She had forgotten even to drink more of her wine.

Niccolette woke to an aching neck, her shoulders tight; her buttocks felt bruised from the hard chair, and she rose, shakily. She glanced once at the bed, and saw the girl still fast asleep. The Bastian crossed to the window, prying the shutters open, gazing out into the streets beyond. It was well into the lateness of the night now, though not quite late enough to be early. The moons still shone from overhead, rounded and full behind scattered clouds. The breeze caught at Niccolette’s hair, whipping small strands across her face.

The Bastian sighed. She touched her fingertips to her nose, and pulled them away clean; a careful rub produced dark scattered flakes. Niccolette glanced back at the bed again, and considered leaving, but -

There was one danger yet left to face.

The Bastian crossed back to the chair. She did not sit again, but shrugged Uzoji’s coat off, and draped it over the back of the chair. She knelt on the floor, black dress pooling around her legs, and eased her eyes closed, resting her hands against her legs. Niccolette inhaled, deeply, and found the rhythm of her breath, soothing and calming. She counted steadily, silent inside her head, and breathed in and out with it, the pattern that had, for the last years, connected her to the mona. She traced it again and again, until there was no more need for thought or count.

Then, and only then, did Niccolette let her mind drift into calm stillness. She opened herself to the magic particles around her, and let her awareness of them float free. With each breath in, she took in the world beyond and transformed it to herself; with each exhale, she breathed herself back out into it. She was one with all things, in those moments without thought, and the mona held them all together.

By the time Niccolette opened her eyes again, the girl was sitting on the bed, frowning. The air was warm around her now, pleasant; warm enough, in fact, that even on the bed the girl would feel it, a dry heat against her skin. Niccolette exhaled one last time, finishing her meditations, and rose carefully, using the seat of the chair to keep from wobbling.

Niccolette glanced at the girl on the bed, pressing her lips together. She shrugged faintly at the introduction; she found amnesia interesting, from a medical perspective, but she could not have really said she cared beyond that. The girl would live, probably.

Niccolette sat on the edge of the bed, more because she was tired than from some desire to be close to her patient. “I am Niccolette Ibutatu,” Niccolette said, and shrugged, uninterested in money stashed in trees. “If you shall feel better to repay me, then you may.”

“You shall live, I think. There is one danger yet remaining," Niccolette said, one hand smoothing out the edge of the blanket. She glanced down at it, at the pale gold band glittering on her finger, then back up at the young women.

The Bastian raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish to keep it?” She asked. Her gaze flickered to Xonia’s stomach, then back to her face, her expression carefully blank. “I can help you,” The living conversationalist paused, then shrugged. “Either way.”

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Xonia
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Joined: Thu Nov 08, 2018 10:06 am
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Race: Galdor
: Xonia the Nomad
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Thu Sep 05, 2019 9:13 pm

The amnesiac watched in some concern as the woman, probably overtired from taking care of her, moved over and then felt the dipping of the mattress as Nicolette sat down on the edge of the bed. She did not smile at the older woman at all, a line of frowning marring the spot between her eyes whilst she processed the situation as she normally did. “I most certainly will as soon as I can remember where I put the money,” she said solemnly, still sounding weak but not nearly what she had been.

Her eyes remained steady on the face of her rescuer when it was brought up that… Oh… So it had happened. Her eyes flickered away and she said, “Yes, save it. It isn’t the child’s fault…” She cleared her throat and bit her lip. Her hand moved to the spot and she whispered, “It was conceived in what I thought was love.” She gave a wavering sigh and said further, “But that doesn’t matter now.”

She turned her head on the pillow and again, surprisingly didn’t start crying. She looked sad for a minute but that was it. Her eyes closed and she relaxed back against the pillow. “I killed him. I had to kill him. He killed somebody I loved and then pretended to be something he wasn’t. When I discovered who he was in the grand scheme of my… unusual situation, he turned sour and made me into a prisoner. When I knew I would die if I didn’t get away, I killed him. I don’t remember how, I… blacked out. I woke up with him dead and my nose bloodied. Then I remembered my friend here in Old Rose Harbor, someone trying to help me… Gods, I didn’t mean to tell you all of this, I am sorry. You have every reason to tell me to shut up.”

Xonia shook her head at herself for her penchant for being chatty even when she should be resting soundly still. “In any case, do… what you must to save…” She said this softly, and was done talking for the moment. She stared up at the ceiling with her bottom lip firmly between her teeth for too long, leaving little red marks on the tender skin there.

Assuming that Nicolette began doing whatever she needed to do, she lay still and suffered through whatever pain she was still feeling without a word of complaint, added to the possible pains she would get from being healed for the third time in a short time. Her body was still physically exhausted and it would take a lot of rest after she was done for her to be 100 percent.

She glanced over toward her rescuer again at some point and watched her through lowered lashes. The girl wondered at that point what Nicolette’s story was, why she looked like she was in deep mourning… Or at least, that was what she thought she observed since she knew what the mourning felt like and could imagine the expressions and such.

At the end of it, she would not pass out again yet. Whatever happened, Xonia would stay quiet for a time, which would afford Nicolette more sleep if she needed to. If not, then maybe she would speak some more. But she didn’t want to pry either.

“Tell me your story,” she said quietly. “I want to know more about the woman who saved me from certain doom. I would like to offer my hand in friendship… I don’t have a lot of friends, but.. Oh bother, I am doing it again.” She ran her fingers through her tangled mop of hair. Her mouth quirked in annoyance of her own actions. Damn it, but she needed to learn how to shut up. That is what got her into the mess, not shutting up, not listening.
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