Habits [Closed]

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 39 Bethas 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette woke to a bleary, throbbing feeling. Her head ached, somewhere between a dull pounding and the vague idea that she might still be drunk. She curled up in the bed, shuddering, and wrapped her arms tighter around the pillow she had been clutching in her sleep. A wave of tears came, then, and Niccolette sobbed softly into the pillow. She didn’t try to fight it; she knew better by now. She let it take her, and she wept until she could breathe again.

Slowly, shakily, the Bastian pushed the pillow away. She sat up, rubbing her face with her hands, and glanced at the nightstand. An empty wine glass sat there, the faintest traces of dark liquid at the bottom. Niccolette peered over the edge of the bed, and saw the bottle laying on its side on the floor.

Niccolette sat still a moment longer, thinking. Her head throbbed, and the thought of trying to go back to sleep hurt even worse than the thought of getting up. She eased out from beneath the heavy blankets, feet dropping to the cold floor. Niccolette glanced at the empty fireplace, the ashes sitting in the hearth, and away again. She stumbled to the window, opening the shutters and squinting outside. Night, she thought; the moon was bright enough through the trees to hurt her eyes. She closed the shutters again.

Niccolette crossed to the closet, opening the doors. She didn’t look at the lovely hanging dresses, blues and grays and blacks and browns and brighter colors beside; instead, she went unerringly to the shirts and folded slacks. She pulled the shift off over her head, leaving it in a pool on the ground. The galdor looked down at herself for a moment, grimaced and looked away. Her right hand lifted, crossing her stomach, and pressed softly against the scar that lay over her side, and then she was sobbing again, sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe, dropping to her knees on the floor of the room, gripping the edge of the closet with one hand, the other arm wrapped across herself. The air darkened around her, her field shifting a deep blue. The galdor sobbed until she was shaking with cold, until her teeth were chattering and her jaw ached.

Slowly, slowly, the tears stopped again; the blue-shift bled, drearily, from her field. Niccolette sniffled, wiped her nose on her arm, and climbed achingly to her feet again. She fumbled in the closet, pulled out a shirt; she buried her face in it, but it smelled like soap. Another wave of tears threatened, and Niccolette held, still, waiting for it, but it passed – it eased, and she pulled on the shirt and buttoned it with shaking fingers. The trousers next; she pulled them on, and lifted her cold bare feet up to the shelves and turned the hems up – once, twice on each side, so the bottom of them sat above her ankles.

Niccolette shoved the bottom of the shirt into the trousers and buttoned them closed. They hung loose on her hips, and she fumbled through her husband’s things for a belt, the one with a ragged extra hole that let it sit smaller than the rest. It was closer to the top, and Niccolette pulled it through the loops of the pants, buckled it closed, and took a deep breath.

Niccolette made her way barefoot down the halls. Her Quarter Fords house was empty; it was large, and had been large even when it had two residents and a host of day time staff. Now it was just empty, most of the rooms closed; sheets covered the furniture here and there. There was no dust, though, or at least very little, but none of the fireplaces had been lit either, and more than a few of the lamps had run out of fuel. It was tucked into one of the wealthier pockets of the Mugrobi-heavy neighborhood, a quiet corner where - like a diamond in the coal bin - it glittered discretely, half-hidden off the main road among the trees.

It was in the foyer, close to the door, that Niccolette paused, one hand reaching for a heavy black coat that hung on the coat rack. She had almost thought she heard something – a noise. She held still a long moment, then, hearing nothing else, tugged the coat down and pulled it over her shoulders, wearing it nearly like a cloak. For a moment, she stood, almost warm, and breathed in the faint, spicy overtones layered into the wool. She grasped the open front of the coat and pulled it tightly against herself, and closed her eyes, and for a moment – for a moment –

Niccolette let go of the edges of the coat. She wiped her eyes on her hand, and made her way down the narrow hallway towards the dining room. Niccolette went to the side table, still stocked with cups and decanters. She wiped her eyes on her arm, picked up a bottle of amber liquid, and poured it steadily into a cup. One, she thought, two, three – then again, then a third time, until it sloshed over the edge when she picked it up with her shaking hands. She rubbed her eyes on her hands again, and took a sip. Her headache eased, slowly; she took another, and she didn’t feel quite so cold. Another, and Niccolette thought she could bear the notion of going back to her empty bed.

Niccolette made her way back out of the dining room, bare feet quiet on the cold stone and thick carpets. This time, in the hallway, she was nearly sure she had heard a noise.

Niccolette tugged her hair out over the collars she wore, and pushed the rest of it back off from her forehead with her fingers, dragging them through it. She took another sip of whisky, and turned towards the noise, the fingers of her free hand resting lightly against the wall to keep her steady.

Niccolette paused in a nearby doorway, frowning into the room beyond. Yes, she thought after a moment, she was awake. Even thinking of the wine and spirits before she had slept, she did not think she had drunk enough to hallucinate. That meant – yes, there was a tall, slender looking person with long white hair rummaging through their things. Her things.

Niccolette stared at their back for a long few moments. She rubbed her eyes on her hand again, then lifted the glass to her mouth and took an unsteady drink, licking her lips, watching the person who was robbing her.

“Take what you want,” Niccolette said, finally, wobbling slightly and leaning against the doorway. “Just be quiet,” the galdor's head still throbbed, and she wasn't sure if the whiskey was still helping. She looked at the – man? woman? – as they turned to face her. After a moment, she shrugged, the coat shifting over her shoulders, not quite sure what else to say. Her eyes dropped, drawn to the glittering gold ring on her left hand, then pulled away. She took another swallow of whisky, and wished she’d thought to bring the bottle.

“Leave the grimoires,” Niccolette added a moment later, practically. There were tears welling in her red-rimmed eyes already, and she wiped them away again. “They are hard to replace.”

Shakily, the Bastian turned and walked away from the doorway, taking a few slow, uneven steps down the hallway. She did not think she would make it to the bedroom, and she did not wish to cry on the floor, not again. There – Niccolette pushed open the door of a room not too far away, stumbled inside to the cold, bare fireplace, the familiar full shelves – the two chairs. She set the glass down on the little table next to the armchair closest to the door, and sat herself down as well, heavily. She drew her feet up onto the seat cushion, curled herself against the heavy back, and began to cry again, softly, burying her face against her knees, the air around her a soft, hazy blue once more.

[Xavier Zhirune]

☾ Quarter Fords

in the LATE EVENING of BETHAS the 39th, 2719

Mung bastard—Xavier had stepped out of the pleasurable haze of Surwood Isle and the wick festival straight into the late Bethas chill of Old Rose Harbor and smack into the kind of trouble they didn't need and didn't want. Ne really. They'd put that sad Bastian and his ridiculous money problems behind him—they'd had their fun and spent their coin and that was that, just like it was supposed to be.

Until it wasn't.

Like some horrible portent from the gods, Elias Mercucianno had washed back into their lives all the way from Vienda to the Rose. Not that the albino wick had denied him, for the handsome chin of a man had been just a few feet from drowning there on the beach and the willowy musician was too generous to let the galdor who wanted death so badly to claim him to actually do so. Ne. That just wasn't how life worked—how dare some spoiled jent think he could solve his problems by just dying like a coward. Xavier had never tried to give up that way—there was too much of life—

But, for fuck's sake, it was expensive.

If they really wanted to help, the pathetic creature needed clothes to wear and food to eat and a roof over his head and monic reparations and—the list, it went on and on really. They hadn't realized that in offering some hope, they'd just adopted a painfully attractive baby. This is what being nice got you, however, and Xav knew better, they did.

They'd learned this lesson more than once before, and yet they were apparently fated to repeat it.

Everyone deserved family. Everyone deserved second chances.

Everyone else, anyway.

So, like the good crewmate they were, like the dutiful deckhand they'd been raised to be, Xavier set to work. They chatted up the barkeeps where they played a few tunes for drunk sailors. They flirted with those drunk sailors for a few pleasurable moments for a few rumors. They winked at strangers in the streets where they busked. They plied secrets from the lips of sweet vendors with sweeter promises. They sifted the hearsay and the lint from the words they collected over a few shots of Gioran whiskey, Eli's warm, distracting body not necessarily helpful while they planned their robberies, but not entirely as unwelcome as they pretended him to be. Gods, that damn face—what a curse in all the right ways.

Finally, out of all their options, some place in Quarter Fords stuck out. Abandoned for months at a time, someone had said. Totally golly-owned whispered another. Brothers, they were warned. Who wasn't in Hawke's pocket here in the Harbor, anyway? That didn't intimidate Xavier in the least. It was the potential of well-maintained and totally unoccupied that appealed to them, though they hoped to the Eternal Child themselves that none of their finery would be recognized by any of the Widow's Walk pawn shops once they were exchanging it all for coin.

Getting away from Elias without being obvious about their plans had proven itself to be difficult. Wine. Music. Sex. Whatever it took to have a satisfied, sleeping galdor before midnight, honestly, even if that left the Gioran a little more ragged around the edges than they preferred to be for a bit of necessary larceny. Needy and clingy, that damn sad Bastian, the albino wick questioned the mess they'd gotten themselves into when they slipped from the man's bed, when they slipped on their darkest clothing and double-checked their bag of tricks in the dying light of a flickering oil lantern, meticulous and always over-prepared.

Old Rose was never quiet, never still. It seethed and writhed, it moved with the tide. Trade and thievery, legitimate business and illegal crimes. They were simultaneous here. They were often just two sides of the same coin.

In the late evening hours, Xavier Zhirune made their way through the streets alone and it would have felt glorious had they been more of an irresponsible creature—had they stayed away from the Harbor in the first place. Here they were, facing their own music, and it was not as harmonious as they'd hoped.

The Quarter Fords were fancy and the tall wick wasn't always as stealthy as they were purposeful. They strode through streets like they belonged, tall and majestic, hair a slice of moonlight above the cling of their dark clothes. They strode up to the gate like they belonged there, too, violet gaze taking in the darkness of the estate, the lack of any sign of activity, the lack of even a servant leaving a lantern lit or a hearth fire keeping the sea breeze chill away.

Benny.

It wasn't even like Vienda—the Seventen were hardly a threat here, anyway.

Slipping between the unlocked gates and carefully making their way to the front door instead of a clocking window, they listened, well-trained ears made even more sensitive by a few quickly muttered words of Monite, an old Spokes' trick for catching dobbers. Everything amplified for a few quick moments, once the pale musician was satisfied with the silence, their lithe fingers brushed over the door handles, realizing with surprise that the house was not only empty, but unlocked.

Xavier hesitated there, other hand curled against their satchel, gaze drifting over moonlit topiaries and scraggly, unkempt grounds that perhaps could have been as nice as the neighbors' here in one of the wealthier parts of the Harbor. Perhaps the place was already cleaned out—who would leave a score like this one untouched?

Untucking a knife from their hip and pressing the cool metal against the transluscent skin of their wrist, their fingers were tight around the hilt, unburdened by the usual baubles and rings they decorated with. Cautiously, they slipped their narrow frame into the foyer, silently closing the door behind them and standing in the darkness of moons' light filtered through faded curtains and thick, expensive glass, getting what layout of the lower floor they could through archways and shadows. Quietly on soft-soled shoes instead of their usual fancier boots, the willowy creature began to explore, keeping a look out for objects of value that would fit into the extra bag slung over their shoulder.

The dining room was promising—silver cutlery, finely wrought candlesticks—full of the usual fare for a quick coin. A petty thief's dream, really, with full table settings and a host of those extra bits of tableware everyone set out but no one knew how to use. Enough for a few outfits for some sorry-ersed jent, surely, and easily kept quiet when stashed between napkins. Just heavy. They even put their own knife away, a false sense of security creeping in while they scrounged for small change in salad forks and tea spoons like a godsbedamned amateur.

Xav frowned: everything about this place made the back of their pale neck tingle. Everything about the choices they'd made since that first morning in the Rose making their stomach turn just a little more sour.

From the formal dining room toward the kitchen, they peered through the larder, exploring for expensive wine. There was plenty and the tall wick set a few choices out on one of the counters to come back for, saving the breakables for last. They noticed many of the labels were an odd mixture: Bastia, Mugroba, and some ridiculously pricey Hessean vintage. Excellent taste, whoever owned this place but didn't want to live here.

The hearths were cold.

The surfaces dusty. Furniture covered.

The windows hadn't been opened to the salty air for weeks.

Eventually, Xavier found themself in a study, tugging down their hood and relaxing their guard as they shifted their shoulders and resettled their bag. The place had gone from strange to normal to strange and back to normal again, and to say that the albino wick wasn't just a little on edge would have been an understatement—the last room they'd not even bothered to linger in had been full of candles! Some bizarre extension of this library, the air had been thick with lingering mona, almost oppressive for the feral musician, and all the candles made it look as though some cult had taken up residence in this abandoned estate. Was it a prodigium? Was it a golly plot? Was it some Black Hand tekaa twisted magic? Was it some Vitanist altar? Hopefully, there wouldn't be any bodies, but whoever last lived here must have been a mad mage with an impressive taste in wine. At least the shelves seemed normal—books were a commodity for Silas Hawke, that much even the albino wick knew, and well, for that matter, the ersehole they'd left blissfully snoring could use a bit of a re-education themselves, truth be told. Fingertips traced over spines, their curiosity piqued, their guard down.

They should have known better.

They heard movement. Soft. Dragging. Unsteady. They felt the heavy brush of a field and heard the slur of a voice, slowly turning their head to narrow their violet eyes at a petite dark-haired woman who might as well have been Elias' godsbedamned dead sister.

Fucking Bastians.

Her accent gave her away, and the pale thief tensed, tall body gathering their glamour in preparation of self defense.

Then she spoke.

And for all their wit and words, Xavier blinked.

"Eh?" Even in the darkness, they could see the young woman had been crying. There was wine. Oh gods. Ne. Just ne. Nausea rippled through the albino and for a brief moment, they were quite convinced they could smell fire and ashes.

Fucking sad Bastians—was there something wrong with an entire Kingdom?

"I thought I were bein' mant manna quiet, mujo ma." Finally, Xav found their voice, purring coyly just above a whisper with their unshakable Gioran accent and deep Tek affectations. Offering a smile. Offering a wink while they glanced back over the leather-bound volumes that were—now that this woman said something—definitely grimiores. The tall sliver of moonlight hummed, tongue between their teeth, feeling the flutter of their heart against their sternum and the surge of adrenaline that danced through their lanky, lithely muscled limbs.

Flight would have been the wiser choice.

But Xavier was hardly wise.

"These? Listen, I can be outta here faster 'f ye jus' wanna tell me where th' valu—ah—shit." They tilted their head again, playing the fool, but like a restless spirit, she was gone. Across the hall.

They heard the sobs.

Their violet-stained lips, painted but faded after an evening of putting them to use, curled into a bitter sort of sneer. An easy score their pretty erse. Fingers slid away from books and the willowy, petulant beast stood in the room for several long moments, unsure whether they wanted to throw up or go back to the kitchen to drink some wine. It was an odd feeling, this familiar, creeping suspicion, this twisted repeat of a memory, this damn whole situation.

They could just leave—

They should just leave—

They had other houses—

"I be takin' yer cutlery an' I ent sorry." The albino wick called, moving with their typical grace to lean against the doorframe, to cross their arms over their chest and toss their head in just the most perfect of ways to move strands of colorless hair from their face. Maybe they stared. Maybe they were enjoying the rush of fear too much to run. Maybe they were a sucker for a good sad story. Any story but their own.

"Ye squattin' here? 'Cause I've got 't on good word ent anyone s'posed t' be here, darlin'. Ye best get a move on, too, when I'm done."

Gollies didn't need to squat anywhere. Not unless they were Bastian, had an amazing chin, and were pathetically downtrodden. This woman had two of those things in common with the first. Xavier was surely doomed.

⟡ ☾° ⟡

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 39 Bethas 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette could not breathe. It was soft crying, soft and steady, not quite as painful as the sobs that had wracked her on the cold floor in front of the wardrobe, but nonetheless it seemed to occupy all of her; it felt as if the sadness that had crept in sat heavy on her lungs, filling them, and she could not reach out to the world around her through the haze. She knew she must be breathing; she knew enough of the body to know that. But they were shallow, painful breaths, aching and weak, as the tears swept through her like rain.

The small study where she had stumbled to was as quiet and empty as the rest of the house. It was warmly decorated, almost lovingly. There were two heavy, soft dark green armchairs perched in front of the hearth, small tables at their arms. It was easy to imagine a fire glittering in the empty space, soft and warm, lighting the room; the light of it would fall softly over the thick, overstuffed cushions, making it comfortable against the cold night outside.

And now -

One chair was covered with a thin white sheet, protection against the elements, like an odd, ungainly ghost. So, too, was the couch against the nearest wall, neatly covered with a sheet of its own. Once, guests could have sat there in the edge of the dappled firelight, talked maybe of serious things, or maybe just laughed and chatted. Next to the couch was a small table, dark amber bourbon glittering in a cut glass decanter, small cups covered next to it, as if waiting.

Shelves filled with books lined these walls too, an eclectic mix - physical and static conversation grimoires and treatises, yes, but collections of poetry as well, Mugrobi names gleaming along delicately bound spines. History books, too, from across Vita, with their own shelves. Another shelf had books on airships, with a small hand-crafted model sitting in the middle of one of the shelves, proudly occupying its own space. A handsome writing desk sat at the back wall, but its surface had been cleared off, swept clean; there was no paper, no books or notes or anything still living on the surface. A second study – an odd ghostly twin to the first, the one Xavier had found, with all its living conversation grimoires, and the door that opened from its back.

The softly sobbing Bastian gripped her legs a little tighter. The air around her was shifted a dark blue, and the color extended from her more than six feet; even filled with sadness, the sharp, bright strength of her field was obvious, full of living mona. Niccolette could no more have stopped the tears than she could have rewound time - have taken herself back to Achtus or Ophus, when she never would have sat in this room alone. If she had been sad - surely she had been sad then, at times, though just now she could not think of why - it would have been with her husband at her side, his arm around her, the warm, steady strength of him. 

For a moment, with her eyes closed, with her head tucked into his coat, Niccolette could almost feel him with her still. He had not liked her to cry, of course; she knew it had hurt him, when she did, somewhere deep in her chest. But he had never shamed her for it; he had never let his own pain come before her comfort. He had held her, and whispered words of love to her, and never tried to keep her from feeling.

There was a voice from the doorway, intruding in her thoughts. Niccolette sniffled and looked up, reflexively, at the odd pale creature. Niccolette could still not tell if they were a man or a woman, but they were, she noted absently, oddly beautiful nonetheless. 

The Bastian sniffled, and sighed. Tears streaked slowly from her red-rimmed eyes, glittering down the already wet trails on her puffy face. Squatting; not a concept she had been aware of, before the Rose. She knew the word though, and tilted her head slightly to the side, curious that they would think of it. “It is our...” The Bastian paused, and looked down at the dark slacks. She rubbed at the wet spot on her knee with unsteady fingers, then traced her hand down her own leg, touching the cuffs at the bottom.

“It is my house,” Niccolette said, flatly, meeting the Gioran’s violet gaze evenly, her own eyes brown in the dark light, only faintly edged with green. She flexed her field, once, a cool wave of indectal power rippling through the dark, dusty air of the study. She eased back, not putting her legs down, but uncurling slightly, settling her upper body against the comfortable back of the seat, still studying the Gioran in the doorway. The Bastian sniffled, picked up her whiskey, and sipped at it again, swallowing another bitter mouthful.

“But I never cared for the cutlery,” Niccolette offered, and burst into tears again. It was a struggle to put the whiskey down; she nearly spilled it, and could not manage to reach the table. Instead, she ended up tucking the glass between her legs and the arm of the chair, where it wobbled precariously, before beginning to sob into her knees. This time, the tears were not nearly so quiet; they were loud and miserable and violent, and wracked her like a winter squall, ripping her breath away. The air around her darkened further, a seething dark blue, and Niccolette sobbed until she did not have the breath even for that.

[Xavier Zhirune]

☾ Quarter Fords

in the LATE EVENING of BETHAS the 39th, 2719

The willowy Gioran heard the words clearly, violet eyes fluttering and indomitable will wavering. The petite creature, small and graceful instead of narrow and well-chinned like some other Bastian they knew, had crumpled in some overstuffed chair, wearing someone else's coat—clothes?—intoxicated and incredibly distraught. The pale musician wasn't a fool: they read their audiences, they read crowds, they read their marks, they read strangers all the godsbedamned time to get what they wanted, whether it was a better tip, a free drink, a wild night, or a decent job like this one. They were too empathetic for their own good, too easily drawn into the stories of others so that they could sing their own better, so that they could weave their way into the hearts of those most vulnerable to their particular larcenous habits.

Xavier heard the our, heard the shift, and they were not the kind of creature that shied away from the red-rimmed gaze that met their colorless one. If anything, there was a flicker of roguish defiance, an aloof carelessness brushed on like the smoky kohl that lined their eyes. Just a mask, but one just as comfortable as their well-worn, scandalously tailored pants.

"Well, now ye can g'out an' buy new shit. Benny, eh? If that ent a gollygirl's dream when they're down 'n th' dumps, I ent sure what would be." Came the retort, but it was softer than it should have been. The hilt of the blade instead of the edge, Xavier's tone.

Oh, but gods could the woman cry!

The Bastian jent the albino wick had left in their bed could certainly blubber and groan, but his pain was old. Elias' wounds were scars, well-aged and stiff, gnarled and in need of cutting out to regrow and repair. This one? This wisp of a creature all crumpled in a chair, hardly threatening and sobbing as if her whole soul would fall out of her eyes? Xavier could tell her pain was new. They could taste that metallic tang and had they been someone other than a petulant but merciful beast, they might have savored the flavor.

Galdori deserved to know this kind of hurt, after all.

Galdorkind needed to feel it.

Galdori didn't know enough sorrow. There wasn't enough in all of Vita to open their eyes to the truth, it seemed.

The woman's sadness was loud. It bled into her powerful field and washed over the willowy Gioran's glamour like hot summer storm clouds high above the face of the earth, dangerous and threatening, full of turbulence. Still, as if they were totally undaunted despite the ache in their chest such sounds caused, despite how they felt punched in the gut with the wailing in the dark, they moved about the room, pilfering silver and the time piece from the mantle, dragging lithe, long-nailed fingers over the spines of books like some curious feline,

"Ye chen y' got a buncha fuckin' candles 'n there? Ye part 'f some cult t' Naulas? Y' sacrificin' Hawke's enemies for Circle favors? That ent how 't works, is it? That why I can't take any 'f these pricey grims?" Xav didn't give any mercy in their words even if there was a gentleness to their tone. They spoke loud enough to be heard, the tenor of their voice at once obvious about their birthright and yet ambiguous in it's orientation. Their voice carried in a way that marked them as a skilled vocalist had someone known what to listen for, but they were quite sure that the Bastian woman couldn't even hear herself think, let alone hear their voice, above the wrenching volume of their sobs.

They glanced over their shoulder at her one more time, watching the way her body shook like she wanted to wring herself dry.

"Sounds like ye 've seen 'nough death already. Singin' t' Naulas ent gonna bring n'one back. Ent sure th' gods even listen like that, but it feels nice t' hope."

They might have known that kind of loss—it was surely the death of love she wept over, real love—had they ever allowed themselves to truly feel such emotion. But they didn't. They couldn't. No matter how much they might have longed to do so, they just couldn't dare. Letting people in like that—they'd let Juniper slip away to Brunnhold again after Surwood, they'd let Elias slip away as soon as they found an open window to get away, and they'd let plenty of others slip through their bejeweled fingers like sky through a rip in the sails.

This dark-haired woman was just more proof as to why they'd made the right damned choice.

Their glamour rippled beneath the weight of sorrow in the galdor's field, and Xavier sighed. They tossed their now-heavy satchel in the opposite chair, hands coming to rest on their hips,

"I can't work with all this goin' on. Lemme get y' back upstairs an' tucked 'nt' bed, eh?"

In bed was the best place for pretty, sad Bastians, after all, but the albino wick was quite sure they wouldn't be invited to crawl in after this one and perhaps had there been less pathetic, body-wracking sobbing, they might've been disappointed,

"This ent th' kinda audience I prefer, an' I ent sure I've ever had anyone watch me pilfer silver instead 'f steal hearts from onstage. C'mon. I know I'm prettier than yerself, but I ent up for bein' a distraction right now. I've got coin t' earn an' I'm already savin' a life. I ent signed up for yers, too."

Hands reached out as if attempting to lead a child, the tall musician hardly afraid of such a wretched, heartbroken creature. Perhaps they should have been. Perhaps they simply didn't want to let themselves feel what they saw.

⟡ ☾° ⟡

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 39 Bethas 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette shot a disgusted look at the Gioran when they suggested she should be happy to buy new things, lifting her tear-stained eyes from her husband’s pants, and looking as if they had suggested she should go and roll in the waste of the harbor, take a bath in garbage. But disgust was not strong enough to hold her, and the sadness surged up again, and she wept once more.

She could hear the faint chime of the wick’s rings against her silver; she heard the clock’s ticking become muffled as they shoved it into a bag. She heard their comments, scattered and fragmented, distant murmurs about candles and death, about Naulas. It washed over her like so much noise; it floated on the surface of her mind, and could not go deeper.

The tears did not stop; Niccolette had not known, before Intas, that she could sob so, that it was possible to cry even when one was gasping for breath, that it was possible to produce an ocean of tears, seething and roiling like the Tincta Basta in the storm, crashing against her and swallowing her whole. She felt as if she were in the Eqe Aqawe once again, trapped in heavy black thunderheads, pitched and rolling from side to side, tossed about by powerful air currents like a child’s toy. But she did not know the spells to calm the ship; she could not find the words.

There was a soft but heavy thump on the chair next to her, and Niccolette felt the wick’s glamour intrude on her field once more. She shuddered, and found that the sobs were coming to an end, leaving her breathless and aching. Her stomach in particular seemed to hurt; too many tears, even with all her practice. She felt nauseous, too, and picked up the little whiskey glass she’d tucked against her legs, swallowing the last of it and setting the empty glass back on the table.

“No,” Niccolette said, straightening up from her knees and leaning her head back against the chair. She did not wish to go back to bed; she could not bear it any more. She could not lie lonely between the sheets of her home for even one more minute; she did not wish to sleep, not just now. Sometimes she remembered her dreams, and it was like losing him again.

The Bastian sighed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and fumbled in her husband’s coat for a handkerchief, checking different pockets until she found one. She rubbed at her face, blew her nose, and held the crumpled gold kerchief in her hand, lowering it to the chair next to her legs. She looked up at the Gioran, and rubbed her face with her other hand; she had ignored their outstretched hands with perfect ease.

“If you have the stomach for stealing from me, you ought to be able to do it to my face,” Niccolette pointed out.

The Bastian sighed; she uncurled her legs from the chair, and rose, unsteadily, grasping the back of it. She fussed at her husband’s coat; his shirt had come half-untucked from the messily cut belt, but she did not worry about that. It was the coat she cared about, and she gave it a little tug, until it fell properly. Satisfied, she picked up her glass and wandered to the decanted of amber liquid against the wall, ignoring the empty spaces around it, the missing spoons and the other bits that the wick had already taken.

Niccolette made a face at the bourbon – it was not her favorite, Uzoji’s Thul’Amat bourbon. She ran her fingers along the decanter. He had made her try it; he loved the stuff. They had brought it themselves from Mugroba, all the way to the Rose, and Uzoji had fretted over it as if it were the most precious cargo they had ever carried. Niccolette smiled a little at the memory, and a few more tears leaked from her cheeks, but she did not cry again.

She picked up her glass, tilting it back to get the last of the whiskey out of it, and set it back down. Then she unstoppered the bourbon, and poured herself a glass. She glanced back over her shoulder at the Gioran. “Would you like some?” Niccolette asked, a little edge of amusement to her voice. “It was my husband’s,” she shrugged, thinking of Mugrobi hospitality.

If the wick wanted it, Niccolette would pour them a glass. She did not think Uzoji would have minded; he had never minded wicks, nor strange guests. She brought both glasses back to the chair, or however far was necessary, and settled down again, her feet flat on the ground once more.

“It is not for Naulas,” Niccolette said, casually, resting her head against the back of the chair. She took a sip of the bourbon, and made a little face at the sweetness of it, then took another sip and set it down. She closed her eyes for a long moment, sleepily, then opened them again and look at the wick once more.

“The candles,” Niccolette explained, feeling the alcohol humming through her veins. Nothing about this night felt real; nothing but her sorrow had, not for some time. “It is a plot, you understand? To facilitate communication with the mona,” she shifted a little against the back of the chair, taking a deep breath, an audible whoosh in through her nose, and a soft sigh outwards. “Those who designed it say it is for restoration, but,” Niccolette flexed her field, a wash of sharp living energy flexing out from her, draining the last of the blueshift away. “Even after, it does still…” she trailed off, and shrugged, closing her eyes again.

"Anyway," The Bastian added sleepily, "you should try Hurte. She would like you," she gestured at the wick, eyes half-open once more.

[Xavier Zhirune]

☾ Quarter Fords

in the LATE EVENING of BETHAS the 39th, 2719

Xavier couldn't help but snort at the small Bastian's look of disgust, at her unfiltered disdain for the pale musician's comment about buying things for comfort. They weren't above such things, honestly, and why should they be? Perhaps it was the context that disturbed the delicate galdor, the implication that they were still in a position of wealth and power even as they sobbed over something they no longer had.

The albino wick hadn't really seen anyone cry with the sort of shattered sadness the young woman was pouring into the world, pouring her soul into each broken breath and pouring the deep hues of the sea into the colors of her field. It wasn't as though Xavier was so calloused that they didn't feel, that they couldn't have any mercy on the poor thing—gods, hadn't they too much? wasn't Elias proof?—but it was just that they didn't know how much they had left to give anymore.

She was wrapped up in clothing that obviously wasn't hers while they were here stealing for coin to buy clothing for a man who'd lost everything.

Everything but love.

That other Bastian probably was incapable, after all, but this Bastian had been so deep into it that she was surely drowning.

Finally, she took a moment to knock back a little more whiskey and narrow her eyes at the willowy Gioran, straightening in her chair and glaring at them while they patronized her company with an offer to take her back to bed, to get the sensation of deep ache from weighing down their glamour and washing into their every thought, to get the sound of her sadness out of their sensitive ears. She refused and they frowned, watching the little guttered woman dig through an oversized coat as if this was a circus act, her sharp words drawing a snort from them,

"It ent stealin' since y'ent stoppin' me, since y'all but said I could have it. Now, it's jus' packin'." Xavier retorted, but their voice was devoid of harshness, "I'm used t' an audience, ye chen, an' I don't mind if ye wanna watch me work—I jus'—"

She stood unsteadily and the graceful, petulant musician took a step back, then another, quite aware that the last time they found themselves robbing a drunk Bastian's house, it burned to the ground. Maybe that was why a smirk played across their well-carved, albino features like the curve of a waxing crescent moon or maybe it was because they found watching the sad thing stagger toward the liquor cabinet for more of what she didn't need reminded them of their own habits, here feeding the very things they didn't need to keep around but did anyway.

"Ne, I—a'ight." They waggled lithe fingers, almost refusing, but she revealed herself, then, in the words was and husband, and Xav's narrow shoulders fell a little, their tall form slouching.

Fucking Bastians and their fucking miserable Kingdom, apparently.

They met her somewhere in the middle of her journey, somewhere in her unsteady return across the room, lacquered nails brushing a smaller, delicate hand to retrieve their glass and raise it in a sort of gratuitous toast, the sliver of moonlight towering over her before stepping away again, unwilling to stand within the oppressive and sorrowful weight of her aura for longer than was necessary, wary of the way it seemed to have its own gravity, pulling everything down, down, down to wherever her heart was at the bottom of the fucking harbor.

They chose to lean near the hearth with the kind of feline grace they'd perfected over the years, wearing one of the many masks they'd crafted—one of indifference—to hide just how much the young woman's sorrow actually touched them. They didn't need it. Everything was sad enough, really. They had enough shit going on as it was. They hurt too, sometimes, when no one was looking, and they didn't need to take on someone else's cargo anymore than they already had.

This whole situation was absurd, ridiculous, and instead of feeling ashamed of it all, instead of knowing when to bow and leave the stage, the pale musician continued to live in the moment, thrilling and terrifying as it was:

"Oes, I know bits an' pieces 'bout yer gollymancin' ways. Y'ent got th' feelin' 'f someone far from th' mona, ne like some other Bastian I know—" Xavier all but purred from over the rim of the brandy, pausing to take a delicate sip to be polite.

This was not a situation they'd imagined for their evening.

Since when had anything gone as planned lately?

Since when did they even fucking plan?

They sighed then, rolling the alcohol around so it burned against their tongue before swallowing, sagging further against the stonework, wincing at the strong flex of a field that would have been intimidating had the young woman not been so guttered. Not that it mattered—galdori were always dangerous, either in casting or in backlashing, in making good decisions or bad ones—and this one was clearly no exception.

Did she have anything else to live for?

Her tears seemed to imply she didn't. But here she was.

"—th' mona an' I get along jus' fine, mujo ma. I ent gotta need for yer fancy, learned stuff, but I know folks who might. Ye got a book on that restoration spitch I can steal?"

They winked, the flicker of a devious smile creeping over their beautiful, well-carved face.

"Hurte? Oh." She was complimenting them in a way and it was unexpected, considering their intentions, considering why they were here in the first place. They stared, violet eyes wide for a moment, blush rising to the translucent surface of their cheeks, and then laughed, musical and loud,

"I like t' think I ent got many enemies, oes, th' Circle included. An' though Imaan saw 't fit that I were born a macha bastard 'stead 'f a proper olio Gioran, th' rest 'f th' gods 've seen me make m' way fair benny thus far. Ent got many complaints—"

Their free hand gracefully twirled some bone white hair in effeminate emphasis, and the tall creature shrugged,

"—ne 's many 's it looks like ye got, anyways. This Hawke's fault 'r are ye onna th' birds 'n his roost? For bein' a buncha Brothers, ye sure 're all shit at keepin' fami alive—m' other Bastian friend's 'bout th' same: pretty 'n'sad."

⟡ ☾° ⟡

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 39 Bethas 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Strangely enough, for all the heavy weight of sadness in Niccolette’s field – for all the wrenching sobs that had wracked her just moments ago in Uzoji’s armchair – her voice didn’t flicker or stutter on the word husband, and not even on the word was. If anything, there had been a little sliver of warmth in it, then, remembered and still felt, easing a little bit of the sadness. She gave the Gioran the glass unhesitatingly, with something very nearly like a smile – just a little one, faint and private, not meant so much for the tall, pale stranger as the memory of Uzoji.

They retreated away from her again, and Niccolette did not mind. The chair was more comfortable alone, and she had never learned to quite like the brush of a wick’s disordered glamour against her field. She could tolerate them, naturally; one did not work for Hawke without being able to tolerate a wick’s glamour! But that was not to say she enjoyed it, not really, and it was easier to be in the same room with a little distance between them.

Niccolette reached for the bourbon, and took another sip of it. She grinned faintly at the wick’s observation that she wasn’t far from the mona, very well aware that it was true. Her field rippled softly around her, a little more of the heavy, blueshift sadness draining away. Not gone – never gone – it did not drain into the air so much as settle back beneath Niccolette’s skin, held private once more.

Niccolette raised an eyebrow at the Gioran’s question, a sharp look settling on her face. “You have come to rob a house without finding who owns it?” The Bad Brother giggled. “Not enough to know it is empty, I would think,” She took a deep breath and sighed, shifting against the chair. Her feet tucked up again, resting bare on the cushion of it. “But then it was never my sort of…” Niccolette made a little face and shrugged, deferring to the expert with a little toast of her glass. She glanced back at the carved airship on the bookshelves, then away, swallowing a lump of tears in her throat.

The Bastian cuddled her cheek against the side of the chair once more, tucked up and comfortable, still studying the tall Gioran. She eased the front of Uzoji’s coat around her, snuggling beneath it like a blanket, and shrugged. She did not wish to speak of complaints, much less Uzoji’s death; she did not wish to speak of Hawke’s blame or lack thereof. She did not wish to speak of any of it.

Niccolette swirled the bourbon a little more, took another little sip, and set it back down, a little unsteadily now; the glass clattered against the table, but Niccolette had drank enough that the liquid did not slop over the edge; the glass teetered, but did not fall, did not break. There was a heavy warmth in her chest, comfortable, weighing her down towards sleep – down, towards a place where nothing could harm her, at least not until she woke again. She wondered even now if this might be a dream; she was still not entirely sure.

“Mmm,” Niccolette took a deep breath, struggling back towards awareness. “No,” she said, thoughtfully. “You should not take the books on restoration. I should like to keep them, I think,” the Bastian rubbed her hand over her face, feeling the softness of her fingers, the cool pinch of the metal of her ring. “They were difficult to find. Most of what is written says you must – you must repent, you understand? For forgiveness. But… I did not.” Her gaze was distant, soft, and there was a little warmth in her tone again, soft and fragile. “Never for a moment did I regret…” The Bastian made a little face and trailed off, pulling the coat closer around herself.

“I do not think you will be hard to find,” Niccolette said, casually, looking at the Gioran from over her knees, all bundled up now. She smiled, a little ruefully. “Perhaps you do not think me very formidable? I understand,” she glanced at the distance between them, and, then, casually, flexed again, pulsing her field to the fullest extent of its reach, the edges of its bright, sharp energy washing over the Gioran once more.

“I will not bother for clocks and spoons. Even the jewelry, if you find it,” Niccolette grinned, almost challenging. “The rubies, at least, and they would look nice on you. But the sapphires I like, so – those… those I should find you for. You understand,” she closed her eyes for a moment, sleepy still, then shook her head a little, sniffling, and opened her eyes again.

“Would you bring me that?” Niccolette asked a moment later, gesturing to the shelves next to the Gioran. “The one – Ijeoma,” one slender finger wiggled, pointing to a book with golden letters down the spine, the Mugrobi name visible in the moonlight, close to head height for the wick. “I shall stay here a while, and read,” Niccolette said, quietly. “I should like you to be gone by the time I get up again.”

[Xavier Zhirune]

☾ Quarter Fords

in the LATE EVENING of BETHAS the 39th, 2719

"Ne,I did all m' rumor diggin' an' research like usual. I'm s'posed t' be robbin' an empty house, ye chen. Y'ent s'posed t' be here, rosh. N'one is—I had 't on good gossip that this house spends more time empty 'n th' Rose than ne. Since ye don't seem t' be squattin', I've gotta guess as t' who ye 're, oes. Ent gonna tell, though." The sliver of moonlight tweaked their nose with lithe fingers and the most impish of smirks, resisting the urge to roll their violet eyes at the accusation that they were foolish or at least lazy about planning their rare escapades into larceny. Truth be told, they'd rather be performing on stage than shoving silver into a sack, but sometimes there were just things that needed to be done so Xavier did them.

A pale eyebrow arched while the small, sad Bastian let their words trail off unfinished, but their back was turned, setting their barely touched cup of brandy on the mantle to return to wandering the room. Lacquered nails traced over various things, appraising the serving set sitting where their drink had come from, tracing over labels of various alcohols, drifting back toward the bookshelves by ruffling curtains simply to run a single finger across the hull of the tiny model airship. They had no interest in one so small, no matter what it was worth, for they missed it all too much.

All that sky.

All those stars—so close.

A glance over their shoulder at the clattering of glass revealed to the albino wick that the young woman was wrung out from too many directions at once, and they chuckled at the warning to once again leave the books alone,

"Ye gollies make magic so damn complicated. M' friend ent sorry, neither, ye chen, but I've got a feelin' some 'f th' reasons ent so diff'rent. I also think that's part 'f his —well, never ye mind." The tenor of their voice was quiet, hushed, more curious than defensive, but while they tucked away an ivory bookend just because they needed something to do with themselves while standing in someone's occupied house while they drank and wept and watched them steal their things without attempting to stop them instead of actually thinking it had any value.

The Bastian, crumpled in a man's coat, glanced at them for a moment and perhaps her words would have been a compliment had it not been for the flex of her field—the Gioran's start of a coy smile turned into a wince and they hissed, fumbling to keep a hold of their bag by clutching it to their chest. Their lips stayed curled in an expression of undeniable disgust, finding the typical needful display of galdori power to be more insulting than intimidating,

"Ye may be well-studied, eh, but seems t' me yer a little in th' gutter. Th' mona ent gonna tolerate that forever, s'far 's I know, but I'm pretty fuckin' sure I can get a knife somewhere 'n that small lil' Bastian body 'f yers before y' off me with all that damn vroo. If I needed to, mind ye, but from th' looks 'f things, yer bleedin' out through all those tears already. I'd jus' be addin' salt t' yer wounds, an', I'll have y' know, despite what 't looks like here—" The tall musician jangled their stolen goods with the tinkle of metallic things for emphasis, "—that jus' ent who I want t' be. M'haps ye need some hugs an' tea, an', uh, if I didn't already have m' hands full with one heartbroken golly, ye chen I'd be better able."

Their defiance was luminous in their voice, a level of dislike for galdorkind thinly veiled, but it wasn't entirely devoid of empathy—a strange contradiction. It was that empathy that had them in over their heads enough already—what was sinking down into deeper water like they were here?

"Jewelry, hmm. It's true—shades 'f red 're macha with m' perfect skin, though, t' be fair, with a palette like mine, what doesn't? An' well, I tend t' stand out 'n any crowd, for mant manna 'f reasons. Most folks ent interested 'n huntin' me down 'cause I stole their stuff, though. It's usually for other reasons." They winked, coyly at that, for truth be told, they had no disagreement, really. Their annoyance gave way to a shallow, flattered grin at the mixture of kindness and generosity that seemed so out of place as if it made up for the ugly, jarring weight of her field.

Xavier glanced down at everything they'd pilfered thus far, any usual satisfaction in stealing from under the noses of galdorkind totally washed away by too many tears and her tidal wave of a field. Their own glamour wasn't a faint flicker, to be fair, but it certainly wasn't anything in comparison. Their violet gaze strayed from all the spitch that would be worth a few fist-fulls of pennies and ha'pennies in the end to the doorway, tempted to find an excuse to move through the rest of the house now that they seemed to have so much permission, now that the young woman's red-rimmed eyes drooped shut for a moment or two.

They began to move among the books, only to startle at the sniffling, the waggling of fingers, the request. Narrow shoulders tensed and sagged again, and their body gracefully shifted, turning toward the shelf as if it was the most reasonable of things to do, as if this was all just simply the most acceptable of possible situations to be in.

They laughed, shaking their head and scanning titles in the general direction of the woman's rather vague indication, glancing over gilded text until they found the name—Ijeoma—and lifted it from its place nestled between other books. Pale fingers ran over the cover, opening the book to flip through pages, violet gaze taking in contents.

The willowy Gioran didn't hesitate to approach the crumpled creature in the chair, setting the bag they'd filled with trivial things in the opposite seat before offering the book to her, not at all shy to be far closer in her personal space than at all necessary for the exchange despite her magical display, pouring themselves into the thick, living cloud of it with a glamour as warm and expressive as the notes of their beloved oud.

"Ye jus' gonna sit 'ere an' read?" Xavier hummed, making sure lithe fingers brushed the stranger's hand when they passed the book to her, "I ent used t' hearin' that request—folks usually be askin' for an encore."

The albino wick, tall and cautious, winked and giggled, ready to turn and wander the house to hunt for treasure, not even bothering to pick up their other goodies. Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't. Jewelry probably had a better value than cutlery and candlesticks, after all.

⟡ ☾° ⟡

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 39 Bethas 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

The book was one of poetry; Mugrobi poetry, and somewhat old, from the imagery and the language. Niccolette did not object as the Gioran took their time looking through the pages, waiting still and quiet and curled up still in the chair. She watched them as they came closer, much closer, feeling the warm, loose strangeness of the wick’s field creeping deeper into her own.

Niccolette reached her hand out for the book and raised her eyebrows at the brush of the wick’s fingers against her hand. For a moment, she did not quite know – then the implications sank in, and Niccolette made a noise that was very nearly a giggle. It trailed off into something strange and sad, and the Bastian shook her head, and pulled the book back towards herself. She seemed more amused at their audacity than anything else, although even that amusement was only a thin layer over the deeper well of sadness. It did not touch the heaviness of her field, and after a moment she wiped her eyes with her free hand, taking a deep breath.

The Bastian pulled the book into her lap and opened it, dropping her gaze to the words on the page, and did not look at the Gioran again, tracing her fingers over the heavy, thick pages. Only when she felt their glamour leave the edges of her field – when at the edge of her gaze Niccolette saw the long slim figure heading towards the doorway – did she speak again.

“Niccolette Ibutatu,” the Bastian said, quietly, looking up from the chair. Her husband’s coat was still wrapped around her, her heavy dark hair spilling onto the collar of it, a book of Mugrobi poetry on the knees of his pants. Her eyes glittered green in the darkness, still red and swollen with tears, but there was a small, private little smile on her face at the second name, and a little more of the blueshift eased, slowly, from her field. She did not say another word, but lowered her gaze back to Ijeoma’s poetry, and let the wick go about their business uninterrupted.

The book, Uzoji had told her, was mostly Ijeoma’s take on some tribal myth about an evil body-snatching creature – superstitious nonsense, but Uzoji had said it was well-written. All the same, that had not interested him particularly; it was the last third of the book, after the end of the oral poem, a second chapter which was Ijeoma’s own poetry.

Niccolette flipped past the epic and found the second chapter. She went through the poems slowly at first – and then faster and faster, searching, her hands shaking – and stopped, abruptly, close to the end of the book, letting out a faint, shaky exhale of breath. There – there were the words she had wanted to find.

The Bastian stared down at the page; sitting in the study in Uzoji’s chair, she could remember him reading the poem out loud to her. She formed the words with her lips but did not dare to speak them aloud; if she focused on them, slowly, one by one – drank in the elaborate metaphors about dreaming, about desert sands and sparkling skies and the bit Uzoji had delighted in – something about the spaces between – she could almost hear his voice instead of her own; she could almost conjure him into the emptiness beside her. A spell, like a spell, and if she said the words –

Niccolette read the poem through, once, as slowly and carefully as if it were a grimoire, and then again, and again, and again, until she had to stop, shaking, because she was losing track of the words – losing track of the sounds – she wept, then, clutching the book to her chest, and forced herself through the poem again, sobbing, and a sixth time after that. She had nearly finished the bourbon without realizing it, and she drained the last of it, fortified herself, and kept reading. A seventh time, and she clung to the remembered sound of his voice – an eighth, and she closed her eyes and tried to picture his face, the firelight flickering over it, the smile in his eyes. A ninth, and she wished she could remember the smell, the fire, the wool of the blanket, the bourbon, and all their exact proportions.

A tenth, and she brought her will to it, bearing down on the words.

Niccolette finished the final recitation and lowered the book, almost expectant – waiting – shuddering – but nothing happened, nothing had changed, and she closed the book and lost herself to sobbing once more. Stripe the Circle, she thought; damn the Gods, and she cursed them as bitterly as she had hoped a moment before, unable to put words to either. The spaces between, Niccolette thought; between the horizon and the sky, between the grains of sand, between life and death. She gripped the book tightly and lifted it to throw – and then set it down, swallowing hard, on the small stand by the chair.

Niccolette lurched to her feet – she crossed the room and drained the bourbon the wick had left behind on the mantel. She made her way through the still-empty house, silent and trembling, and stripped Uzoji’s coat off at the door, hanging it up. She buried her face into it, but she could only seem to smell her hair, she couldn’t – Niccolette recoiled from it, shaking with horror, and stumbled back away down the hall, half-running, bare feet catching rough against the floor. She eased herself out of her husband’s clothing, folding the shirt and pants with hands that she could not still, and pulled on a shift of her own. She collapsed into bed, hoping – hoping – but she was not too tired to weep, after all, and she was still crying as she fell asleep, curled up between the sheets, bleary and throbbing still.

[Xavier Zhirune]

☾ Quarter Fords

in the LATE EVENING of BETHAS the 39th, 2719

Xavier was thinking about jewels, but also their mind had drifted back to the room with the candles, all the little fires of hope snuffed out by so many tears. The pale musician smirked at her amusement when they passed the book over, watching the ripples on the surface of her dark waters while she curled around the cover. Snorting, their violet gaze swept over the pages as they were opened before turning away, snatching up their things, and moving with all intention of wandering the rest of the house.

Only, the sad Bastian said her name and the willowy Gioran grinned, though their back was turned,

"Oes—I chen who ye 're. I said I asked 'round—it ent like yer a stranger under Hawke's wing, eh? I grew int' adulthood on th' decks 'f airships, an' more'n'a pina manna 'f 'em m' last maw I were 'n th'air, I heard Ibutatu on th' lips 'f those afraid t' fly." Xavier all but hummed from over their shoulder with a very dramatic tilt of their head, almost singing the words and leaving out the rest of what they knew—or only guessed—because no one needed to gossip at a moment like this. Not looking back as they gracefully poured their moonlit self out of the room, their fingers trailed along the wall with the faintest of smiles.

They had no interest in lingering in the drowning weight of the powerful galdor's field nor in the heaviness of their heartfelt loss and sorrow. Still, the moonlit creature didn't make it far—just perhaps out of hearing range somewhere else in the house before they simply pressed their tall form against some furniture and buried their face in their lithe hands. They breathed deep, slow breaths, finally allowing that rush of fear to claw up their spine—tumultuous, inebriated galdori were always so fucking unpredictable and they had, honestly, been quite confident they were going to find this place devoid of company.

It was ... but it wasn't. Ne really.

Perhaps to the sad Bastian down the hall, the house was emptier than it had ever been, but to Xavier, it was too godsbedamned full.

It took several moments for the albino wick huddling in the dark to regain their composure, for them to find the mask of moonlit bravado and graceful aloofness they usually wore. Once they did, however, they took their time meandering about the rest of the house because they'd been told they could, selective about what they considered worth taking.

They'd left the books, oes, but did they listen to all the rules the young but obviously powerful galdor had so generously spelled out for them?

Gods, ne.

Keepin' the rules was for cowards and heroes, and Xavier Zhirune was neither of those. They made sure to pick out the prettiest piece from Niccolette Ibutatu's collection of sapphire jewelry, tucking it away in the inner pocket of their dark well-tailored coat instead of with the rest of everything else. It took them several moments to find a piece of paper—torn without concern from some book or another the petulant creature didn't bother to read the title of anyway because they didn't normally carry any calling cards while robbing houses—and on that paper, in their prettiest, carefullest hand, the willowy Gioran wrote:

Marvelous Mermaid Inn
Castle Hill
Room 36
See you soon, sad Bastian. Bring your books.

xoxo Xavier Zhirune

Smirking at their own foolish decisions and even more foolish hopes, they carefully folded their note and tucked it among the other sapphire jewelry as if it belonged there. Picking up all the other things they'd stolen—taken—been given—the tall sliver of moonlight chose not to go back downstairs, leaving the house through one of the upstairs windows like the unwanted aberration the albino wick truly was, slinking off into the night, back through the cold, rowdy streets of the Old Rose before sunrise toward the inn in Castle Hill where yet another sad Bastian was probably not sober, either.

⟡ ☾° ⟡