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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
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Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: moralhazard
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Sun Aug 18, 2019 3:58 pm

Early Afternoon, 30 Intas 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill
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Aremu tucked the sleeve of his shirt over the stump where his hand had once been, smoothing it yet again before clasping the little pin that would hold it in place. His hand lifted next to his chest, adjusting the lapel of his long white jacket. 

Niccolette watched his reflection in the mirror, sitting silent on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were red and swollen from weeping; the deep black fabric of her dress made her look even paler than usual, and her thin veil was pushed back over her hair.

Aremu looked up and met her eyes. Niccolette thought that perhaps he tried to smile, but it seemed to slide off his face before it was more than a thought. The Bastian watched it go - then, yet again, she buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

Niccolette wasn’t sure how long it was, but then Aremu was crouching next to her; he didn’t quite touch her, but his voice was low and soft. “We can’t stay here much longer.” His voice broke too, and Niccolette could hear the harsh sounds of his own stifled, teary breaths, layered between hers.

“I cannot,” Niccolette sobbed. She lifted her face from her hands, looking at the imbala. “I cannot - I cannot do it.”

“You have to.” Aremu said, firmly. “There’s no choice. I’ll stay with you.”

“No,” Niccolette shook her head from side to side, slowly. “No,” she wiped her nose on the back of her hand, grimaced slightly. Aremu was pressing a handkerchief into her hand; she couldn’t seem to take it. Instead, Niccolette pushed it away; pushed him away, one small hand resting against his chest and shoving.

The Mugrobi sighed, not shifted in the slightest by the galdor’s efforts, still crouched next to her.

“I cannot,” Niccolette repeated, and began to sob again.

“All right,” Aremu said, quietly. “All right.” He knelt in silence for a long time, until Niccolette’s eyes were even more swollen, until her nose ran with snot once more, until she had wept so hard that she thought she might be sick.

“Give that to me,” Niccolette snatched at the handkerchief. She wiped at her eyes, sniffling; she held it to her nose and blew, hard, taking a deep breath. 

“We are going,” Aremu said, quietly.

Niccolette sniffled again, looking up at him.

Aremu was looking back at her, dark eyes flat and hard. His shaved head gleamed in the light that filtered in through the window, and the edge of his forearm rested against his knee. “My poa’xa’s wife is no coward.” He said.

Niccolette’s eyes overflowed again. Slowly - slowly - she nodded.

“Come,” Aremu took the handkerchief from her and set it to the side. He rose, and extended his hand to Niccolette, waiting and holding firm.

Niccolette stifled something that felt like another sob. She stared at Aremu’s hand for a long moment.

“Come,” Aremu repeated, firmly. 

Niccolette shuddered, but she set her hand in Aremu’s and let him pull her to her feet. She brushed at her eyes with the fingers of her other hand, taking a deep breath.

Aremu let go of her hand, turned -

“No,” Niccolette sobbed. “No, I cannot do it,” She shuddered, her arms wrapping across herself, gripping her own upper arms in a tight hug. Her knees felt weak; she shuddered, and nearly sank back to the edge of the bed.

“Flood it,” Aremu said, turning back. He gripped Niccolette’s elbow, forcibly holding her up. “You may cry as much as you like, Niccolette. But you shall not shame Uzoji by refusing his funeral.”

Niccolette jerked violently back away from his hand, letting go of herself in her outrage. Her chin lifted. “How dare you!” She cried, anger flooding her voice. Her field snapped in the air around them, red-shifting in the harsh light.

“How dare I what?” Aremu’s voice was cold; he didn’t flinch or step back. “How dare I tell you the truth?”

“You are a liar,” Niccolette spat at him. “You always lied for him.” She couldn’t tell if she was crying; all she could feel was anger, throbbing through her. “He felt pity for you, that is all. How could you be his brother, you? Where is your ohante?”

“You shame him,” Aremu said coldly. Niccolette couldn’t tell if he’d even heard her; his face was hard as stone. “If you refuse to attend, it tells all who knew him that Uzoji married a woman so weak that she could not honor his death properly.”

Niccolette shuddered. Her field flexed; it slanted, and the air went hot around the two of them.

“Casting won’t change it,” Aremu warned. “Nothing will. Show me! Was he wrong to choose you?” He didn’t look away. “He gave up everything to have you! Was he wrong?”

“No!” Niccolette shuddered. “You would not - you cannot dare -“

“Cast, if you like. Brail, even,” Aremu spat the words. “Give yourself an excuse. But you and I will know the truth. Liar that I am, who will believe me? Perhaps you don’t mind.”

“Stop!” Niccolette was shaking now; her hands clenched to fists at her side. “Stop - stop - just stop - you do not understand. I cannot, I cannot face them -“ tears welled up once more; she lost her anger, lost the red-shift of her field, and a few more broken sobs shuddered from her chest.

“So you’re a coward then,” Aremu said, flatly. “At least Uzoji is dead - at least he was never here to be disappointed by you.”

Niccolette slapped him, hard enough to turn his head. The mona flared to lift around her again, the room hot and red once more. She went to slap him again, and Aremu grabbed her hand, squeezing tightly.

“Coward,” Aremu said, coldly, letting her go.

Niccolette screamed in fury; she squeezed her eyes shut, squeezing the last of the tears out down her cheeks. “You are a liar!” She spat, eyes opening again, watery but clearer than they had been. “I will never shame Uzoji - I will never - I shall go! I shall go now, I shall - I shall do whatever it takes!”

The words hung in the air between them, taut; Niccolette’s field still buzzed in the air, but the last of the red tint drained from it, leaving a faint feeling of exhaustion behind. A long few moments passed, like heartbeats between them.

“I know,” Aremu’s voice softened. He shifted closer – slowly, and when Niccolette didn’t push him away, he wrapped his arms around her.

Niccolette tensed, her whole body taut. Slowly, slowly, she let herself relax into the hug. Slowly, she lifted her arms as well, and clutched the imbala tightly. “I am sorry,” Niccolette whispered. “I know you loved him too.”

Aremu sighed; Niccolette could feel the rise and fall of his chest. “I loved him,” he said, quietly. “I am a liar, but I loved him.”

Niccolette sniffled. “He loved you,” she whispered.

“I know,” Aremu rubbed her back, drawing slow circles with his hand. “No more crying, hmm poa’na? At least until this ten times flooded funeral starts.”

“No more crying,” Niccolette took a deep breath. “Maybe a little.” Her voice shook.

“Maybe a little,” Aremu’s voice shook too, and he sniffled. “Come on, then.” He stepped back, and offered Niccolette his hand again.

Niccolette took a deep, shaking breath. Slowly, she put her hand in Aremu’s; slowly, she let him draw her out, through the door, into the hallway beyond; slowly, she let him lead her towards the mourners that awaited. And if a few more tears slid down her cheeks, at least she did not stop; at least she could manage that much.

Late Afternoon, 30 Intas 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill
It was a sunny, clear afternoon; as if no sandstorm dared darken the horizon, not now. Winter light shone clear through the long windows, washing the room of the wake bright and cool.

“Uzoji Ibutatu shone a light on all those around him,” Osefe pez Nuru was elderly – bent and stooped with age, and today bearing the weight of it more heavily than ever. He stood in front of the assembled company, his dark skin and white clothing in sharp contrast against the pale sandstone walls. His gnarled hands were locked behind his crooked back, and he had drawn himself up to every inch of what height was left to him. Normally, his eyes crooked up at the edges thanks to the laugh lines that extended back into his temples; normally, his face smiled with effortless ease.

Osefe’s eyes drifted over those gathered at the wake. “In the classes of mine he took,” the Thul’Amat professor said, “his curiosity burned bright, an inspiration to other students. Uzoji was a natural leader, but he never led by force – only by example.”

Niccolette sat at a small table at the side. She tried to look at Osefe, but nothing but the ornate casket at the front of the room could hold her gaze for long. A few tears trickled from her eyes, sliding down her cheeks, and Niccolette wiped them on a handkerchief, doing her best at least to stay quiet. She looked back at the casket, at the whirls of gem-studded gold crossing the stone. Empty, she thought. Empty, empty, empty. There wasn’t anything of him to bury – not even scraps.

Niccolette shuddered again, and doubled forward. One small pale hand grasped the edge of her seat, and she choked back a taut breath in her throat.

Heads nearby snapped towards her, and the Bastian pulled herself upright again, shaking slightly, her chin lifting and her eyes focusing back on Osefe. Nalia pezre Rayowa, her youngest son straddling her knee, was looking at her; Niccolette could feel Uzoji’s sister’s glare against her skin. She could not bring herself to return the look.

It was Rayowa’s hand that found her back, gently, a soft brushing weight against her black dress.

Niccolette turned to look at her husband’s mother. She could feel herself crumpling; she could feel the sharp tears in her eyes.

Osefe was still speaking; not the first and not the last, one of more than a dozen gathered there today to speak of Uzoji, to honor his accomplishments, to celebrate his life. “… and he leaves behind him a wealth of love…”

Rayowa smiled at her, and for a startling moment Niccolette thought she saw a glimmer of tears in the older woman’s eyes. Gently, Uzoji’s mother gestured to the door nearby.

Niccolette nodded, the faintest motion. She rose – as careful and quiet as she could – rose, gripping her handkerchief in one hand, and edged her way from her seat. She slipped through the door; it was hard to hold the heavy thing with shaking hands, but Niccolette did the best she could. She slid into the hallway beyond – took a few steps away – then doubled forward, pressed her face into her handkerchief in her hands, and sobbed, her whole body heaving with the force of them. A few minutes, Niccolette promised herself. A few minutes, and she would go back inside – she would not shame Uzoji –

The thought tore through her, ripped her apart like paper, and the Bastian sobbed harder, dropping to her knees on the cold sandstone, face still buried in her handkerchief.

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Last edited by Niccolette Ibutatu on Sat Oct 19, 2019 1:15 am, edited 3 times in total.

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Demkaih Alkrim
Posts: 39
Joined: Tue Apr 23, 2019 8:00 am
Topics: 5
Race: Wick
Location: Thul'Ka/Old Rose
: Hulali's waters wash your sins clean, adame.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: Raksha
Contact:

Tue Aug 20, 2019 8:42 am

30th Intas, 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill|Afternoon
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It was a beautiful afternoon, clear as Hulali’s most pristine waters and calm as the morning ocean. The winter sun cast itself through the windows with a bright glow that gave heart to all in the room that day. Demkaih stood observing from the doors, hands clasped behind his back and chin lifted slightly as he looked over the older man at the head of the audience, listening to his words in silent respect. He had known Uzoji and his siblings through his father, their families quite often spending time together whilst the adults talked shop. As children do, the young mugrobi children had made temporary friends, playmates that they only saw during these times that could pick right back up where they left off. Anoze had been close to Dem’s own age, though they were not particularly fond of each other. The young budding entrepreneur found himself more often than not playing with Uzoji, the boy ten years his junior and reminding Demkaih of his sister. It was easier to relate to the younger boy, easier to fall into the same motions as he did with Anna.

He’d been at the wedding seven years prior, when Uzoji had married the girl of his dreams beside Hulali’s Most Sacred waters in the blessing of rainfall. Niccolette was a beautiful woman, and everything the younger man had wanted. He had broken the carefully arranged marriage of his parent’s doing for her, and whilst others may have frown on Uzoji for this slight. Whilst others may have disapproved of the Bastian woman, Demkaih applauded him. His father was a man bent on the marriage to his love over his duty, to a woman who the Mugrobi man would never remember meeting, but Hulali had seen fit to welcome her back to the waters. He had never loved again, even after being matched to Elisabetta, his heart forever belonged to Esma Alkrim.

And now, he was here at the younger man’s wake, the celebration of his life as short and vibrant as it was. The old professor spoke of Uzoji, full of elderly smiles and the warmth of fond remembrance, and people smiled in kind. This was not a place for grief or weeping, but of love and acceptance of the man’s soul into the Antelife. Hulali would receive Uzoji, his spirit bolstered by the well wishes of his friends and family. The decorated ornate casket at the front of the room caught the sunlight as though Uzoji himself were rejoicing in their words, a falsity however given the bright young man that Demkaih knew was not in that box. His body was lost to the tragedy of his trade, or so they said. A shame, flood it all a damn shame.

The sound of a tight breath almost echoed in the room, all heads turning to seek the sound. It was Niccolette, the brunette Bastian doing all she could to hold herself together, to honor her husbands life in the Mugrobi tradition. Demkaih could almost feel the glares from Uzoji’s family burning into the galdor, and his blue eyes darkened. This was truly the wake of Uzoji Ibutatu, but he would not have welcomed the cruelty from his family towards his beloved. They brought shame upon themselves, forgetting all that Hulali taught them in favor of stringent tradition.

By the Gods, he couldn’t stand here and watch this belittlement.

Taking a few steps back, the man pushed the doors open just enough to slip out, gently letting them rest in place as he sighed heavily.

“Hulali, I pray you share your wisdom with these souls, in the hope that they might find some measure of your compassion and calm.” He muttered quietly, pressing his knuckles briefly to his forehead in a symbolic religious gesture. Dressed in bright crimson and amber silks, wrapped around a shoulder and his waist with his other dark shoulder free, the Mugrobi had chosen traditional dress for the occasion. His woven sandals padded lightly on the sandstone floor, carved bracelets and necklaces stained with the same colors of his outfit. His head and face were cleanly shaven, and a small pouch hung from his belt containing a small carved effigy of the Fish Headed God. This day, out of respect for Uzoji, Demkaih had left his circular blades at home.

Making to leave the building, looking for a much needed breath of air, the tall wick heard the doors again behind him. Drawing around with a slight frown, believing he had perhaps left them ajar, Demkaih paused when he saw the slight figure of Niccolette drop to her knees with a sob that was barely muffled by the handkerchief she held to her face. The spice merchants son hovered for a moment, unsure if she would want a man she barely knew approaching her in such an overwhelming moment of grief, but then he moved. He couldn’t leave her in this sorrow, Uzoji would never have forgiven him.

Letting his mediocre glamour settle warmly around him, careful not to intrude on her own field, the wick in galdori clothing crouched down and carefully put an arm around her shoulders and a hand under her elbow.

“There is much to be said in the smiles of friends and family, but the tears of a wife speak louder than any tradition can contain.” He said softly, his deep voice quiet and soothing.

“Come, Miss Ibutatu. We should celebrate the life of your most honored husband outside, where Hulali’s waters shimmer like diamonds in the sunlight, so He might hear our words far clearer than from within stone walls.” Demkaih said with honest conviction, daring anyone who might be in the hall to challenge his words as a slight against Uzoji. If she would allow him, the tall Mugrobi would all but lift the young Bastian to her feet with a careful gentleness, and let her lean on him as they escaped the cloying personalities on the other side of the door. He wasn’t entirely sure she would recall his face, but hoped she would trust the kindness of near strangers.

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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: moralhazard
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Wed Aug 21, 2019 1:19 pm

Early Afternoon, 30 Intas 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill
Niccolette flinched when Demkaih’s field first brushed her own. The faint blueshift drained from the air around her, slowly, leaving it clear once more. Her sobs didn’t stop – each one seemed to wrench through her – but she lifted her gaze, shuddering, looking with reddened, tear-filled eyes at the tall Mugrobi crouching next to her. If she knew him, there was no sign of it in her gaze, no flicker of recognition. Neither, however, did the Bastian pull away – not from the hand beneath her elbow, nor the arm around her shoulder.

Niccolette sniffled, softly. She took a deep breath – a sob slipped out, and she flinched away, trying to swallow it down – failing, her slight, black-clad body shaking. The veil on her hair had come half-loose, slipping further back down her head.

At the first gentle sense of lifting, Niccolette would yield – she shifted, stirred, slowly, and her feet found the floor, her body rising. "Yes," she whispered. She was still sobbing, softly; she didn’t seem to be able to stop. Her skirts were a tangle around her legs at first, and Niccolette stumbled, and nearly fell. Demkaih would need to give her a good deal of support, but the Bastian fixed hazel eyes on the second door, and – if she did not make it outside under her own power, neither did she fight the Mugrobi’s help.

At the touch of sunlight on her face, Niccolette shivered. She could not quite seem to stand herself, not yet, but she lifted her head a little, and the sobs lessened, slowly, though tears still trickled steady down her cheeks. She took a deep, slow breath – it hitched in the middle, briefly, then smoothed out, and Niccolette found the strength to take another.

Rayowa pezre Lasha’s home was high on Cinnamon Hill. This was the house where Demkaih had come as a boy; it had been renovated, considerably, since her husband’s death nearly twenty years ago, but he had been there since, and would know it well. The door that the Mugrobi had chosen led to the front of the house, where he and Niccolette could either take the short driveway straight down to the road – or else turn right, into the garden. Niccolette did not have enough strength to force Demkaih to do anything, but she turned right with whatever she had, as if there was no question to it, as if he would not hesitate to follow her lead (or, perhaps, to help her lead).

The garden was small, decorated with bits of desert plants, with waving grasses which did not need much in the way of water – hardy enough to survive the sandstorms that ravaged Thul Ka, but no less beautiful for it. The plants that survived here were strong, tough and beloved. Sandstone benches were set here and there throughout the space, all matching, all a beautiful, mottled tan. An assortment of short and tall trees cast shade over the whole, stirring in the faint winter breeze.

“Here,” Niccolette sniffled, snot running from her reddened nose. There was a little space between two of the trees – to the less discerning eye, it might well have looked as if it were full of plants, a prickly-looking cactus in the center especially daunting.

Niccolette found her feet against the ground, shaking still, and slipped free of Demkaih’s arm. She wiped her eyes with her hands, sniffled, and unhesitatingly eased her slender body around the cactus, disappearing behind the trees. Demkaih would find that even he could fit through, if he tried. It had been easier as a boy, of course.

There was a small, narrow space behind the trees and from it – like from the upper stories of the house – one could look out from Cinnamon Hill at the full splendor of Thul Ka below. The only thing that had changed since Uzoji had first dragged Demkaih here to play more than two decades ago was the additional of a small sandstone bench – not quite a match for the others, darker and sleeker. The view had been lovely then, and it was lovely now, with sunlight glinting off the stone roofs, off the distant factories, off the Duna, the Yug and the Turga where they spilled together.

Niccolette sank onto the bench with a shudder, black skirts crumpling beneath her. She gripped the sandstone with her fingers, her wet handkerchief tumbling to the ground. She looked out at the view for a long moment, then up at Demkaih, fresh tears spilling from swollen eyes over her cheeks – held his gaze for a moment, then turned back out to the city. Niccolette began to sob again, softly, doubling forward a little more. “He loved this place,” she breathed the words, almost soft enough to be swept away on the breeze. Her right hand lifted, crossing her body slowly – it settled onto her side, pressing, gripping, as if some comfort might be found there. Her left stayed firmly clasped to the bench, as if she might drift away if she let go.

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Demkaih Alkrim
Posts: 39
Joined: Tue Apr 23, 2019 8:00 am
Topics: 5
Race: Wick
Location: Thul'Ka/Old Rose
: Hulali's waters wash your sins clean, adame.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: Raksha
Contact:

Sat Aug 24, 2019 10:31 pm

30th Intas, 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill|Afternoon
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If she stumbled, if she leaned heavily, Demkaih didn’t sway or falter as he all but carried her from the house of Rayowa pezre Lasha. He would not let her feel a fool in the presence of her husbands family, nor would he bring shame to her by acknowledging any missteps. As the sunlight brushed their skin, the tall Mugrobi slowed even more to allow Niccolette a moment to catch her breath, letting his eyes scan the length of the entrance to the house. He’d spent a lot of time here as a child, playing with Uzoji and his siblings, and as much as somethings changed some definitely stayed the same. When the younger woman gave indication she wished to turn right, he would do so with ease of familiarity. He knew this garden, had run through this garden, had broken a terracotta pot right there in this garden.

Pausing when Niccolette spoke up, Demkaih let her go when she pulled away, watching her lithe body slip between the plants and the wall into a nook that he remembered with a nostalgic burst of surprise. How many years had it been since he tried to get behind that cactus. Flood it, he was not a boy anymore, would he even fit.

He would have to.

Breathing in as much as he could without puffing out his chest, the larger man slipped his way behind the cactus, breathing some choice curses as needles caught his clothing or scratched across dark skin. Coming out on the other side, he let his lungs release slowly, walking to the edge of the small nook and looking out across the beauty that was his home. Thul’Ka, bordered by Hulali’s three great waters, so pristine in the afternoon sunlight. How could anyone want to leave Mugroba with views like this?

Turning back to Niccolette, he approached the bench, her hazel green eyes capturing his blue ones for a moment before they swept to the city view below.

“He loved this place,”

Demkaih barely heard the words, so soft on the tail end of her sobs, so heart wrenching in their vulnerability. He reached within the folds of his outfit, withdrawing a deep burgundy silk kerchief and shifting to sit on the edge of the bench, a respectful distance from the grieving widow as he held out the square of fabric for her. Lacing his fingers together, forearms on his knee’s, the tall Mugrobi nodded.

“Yes, he did. I recall coming here when he was not much more than eight I think? I would have been about seventeen or eighteen, and we would steal sweet bread from the kitchen and hide from Anoze and the others to eat it. By Hulali’s grace, I got so fat, it is a wonder I could even fit here. Though, I fit better as a child then I do now.” Breathing a small private half chuckle, the man straightened and bowed towards her.

“Forgive me for stealing you from the house, but I could not stand by and watch your suffering knowing the judgement that would be hung on your head. Hulali teaches compassion towards others, yet I feel like some people forget that when they focus so hard on traditions.” Lifting his head, he held a hand on his chest.

“I know you may not remember who I am, but I know you Niccolette. I was at your wedding, where Hulali choose your union as his own under a blessed downpour. I am Demkaih Alkrim. Uzoji and I were acquaintances through our parents. We grew up together, or rather, I watched him grow up.” Lowering his hand to rest on the small carving of the Fish Headed God he wore on his necklace, the merchant fell silent for a moment.

“I am truly sorry for your loss. Uzoji was a good man, and a kind friend. He loved you, Niccolette, more than the devout love the Gods. He would be cursing his family for their transgressions against you, I am sure. I pray to Hulali that they find the path to love rather than judgement.”

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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: moralhazard
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Contact:

Sun Aug 25, 2019 12:58 am

Early Afternoon, 30 Intas 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill
Niccolette glanced again at the tall Mugrobi, and slowly released the bench beneath her - even more slowly, reached out and took the handkerchief he offered. She clutched the red silk in her hand, and dabbed at her eyes, taking a shaky breath. Her right hand still clung to her side.

Niccolette turned her gaze back to the city below, and listened to the galdor speak. His words reminded her of the sunlight, almost too bright and yet oddly soothing.

Niccolette released her side and bowed back to Demkaih in response, a neat seated gesture. Her breath caught a little in her throat as she listened to his re-introduction. If she felt ashamed or upset by her treatment by Uzoji’s family, there was no particular sign of it in her face - but when he mentioned their wedding, the downpour, Niccolette shuddered, and tears began to stream down her cheeks again. She turned her gaze away, out over the city, and shuddered, shoulders heaving.

“It does not matter,” the Bastian whispered. “He loved them, and I -“ Niccolette was quiet, lowering her handkerchief to her lap. Her hand tightened a little on the red silk. “I love him. I must try.”

Demkaih Alkrim. Niccolette believed that he had been at her wedding; she had no reason to think otherwise. She could not remember meeting him that day; she could not remember much of anything, not specifics like that. She remembered the riverbank - she remembered the sudden downpour that had opened up overhead, the fierce joy in Uzoji’s eyes as he held her close, her laughter mingling with his in soaking wet clothing. She remembered the taste of sweets she had never tried before, bursting on her tongue - bright colors and smells. She remembered Rayowa’s smile; she remembered ruined silk, dripping with rain water. She remembered Uzoji’s hands gripping her arms; she remembered the light of victory shining on his face, the water that had dropped from his skin - the way he had shaken his head beneath it, scattering droplets free.

Niccolette felt a sob rise up in her chest, and she could not swallow it back. She wept for a few moments more into Demkaih’s handkerchief, until she could breathe again.

“Nalia blames me,” it was a surprise to Niccolette when she spoke. She fixed her gaze on the distant rivers, and did not look at Demkaih. “She believes if I had been a better wife to him, that he would be here today.” Niccolette shuddered and doubled forward, her hand pressing against her side once more, the red of Demkaih’s handkerchief peeking out between her fingers like blood. “This is why she looks at me so.”

Abruptly Niccolette could not sit; she flung the handkerchief to the bench and rose, pacing back and forth in the narrow space, her black skirts swishing wildly. “In Bastia, we weep at funerals,” she told Demkaih, looking up at him now. Tears glittered in her eyes, and anger too; she crossed her arms over her body, gripping the black sleeves with her hands.

“Why not?” Niccolette sobbed the words. “Why not? Is Hurte not angry for that Uzoji’s soul must be reborn?” She wiped at her eyes futilely with her hands - leaned down to snatch up the handkerchief again and continued to pace.

“We hire mourners too,” Niccolette said, shaking. “To make sure the Circle knows - that they know! This was a good life - this one - he shall be missed -“ she banged her leg against the bench and tripped, half-catching herself in a tangle of black skirts. She tried to sit, fumbling on the edge of the bench - then slid from it to the ground below, doubled up, and curled her body together, hands clutching at her skirts.

Niccolette began to weep again, sobbing, clutching Demkaih’s handkerchief against her legs, unable to even bring it to her face. She cried, and she did not dare say the words hidden in her heart: that more than she feared anything, she feared that Nalia was right.

She could not stand the way they talked about his death here. Aremu, she knew, had sent the word that it was a mechanical malfunction. It was the last lie he would ever tell for Uzoji: that it had been a simple accident. Uzoji had been flying the Eqe Aqawe, the airship he had loved; something had gone wrong; and just like that he was gone. An accident! As if a pilot like Uzoji could have been lost in such a way! Niccolette hated it, and yet she could say nothing; she could correct no one. A malfunction, yes, but no accident. Rage spiked through her, and Niccolette shuddered, refusing to let the red-shift into her field, holding back the fury.

The anger pulsing through her was enough to stop her sobs, at least, and the Bastian shuddered, uncurling slowly, resting her head back against the bench. She took a deep breath, and brought the handkerchief back to her face, blowing her nose into it now. She still could not look at Demkaih again, staring out over Thul Ka instead.

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Demkaih Alkrim
Posts: 39
Joined: Tue Apr 23, 2019 8:00 am
Topics: 5
Race: Wick
Location: Thul'Ka/Old Rose
: Hulali's waters wash your sins clean, adame.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: Raksha
Contact:

Wed Sep 04, 2019 5:59 pm

30th Intas, 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill|Afternoon
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D​​emkaih listened, without judgement or comment, listened to the young widow speak on the affairs of her family by law. He knew the prejudice that Mugroba could contain, the silent yet loud judgements on those who weren’t from Hulali’s Great Rivers. Uzoji broke tradition, broke arrangements, for love, and no matter what Niccolette said or did she would always be the catalyst for that event. Arguably, Nalia could be right. Their union could have been the mouth of the tributary that sent Uzoji sailing into his fate. But Demkaih knew better. Hulali taught his people that life was unpredictable, a seasonal river uprooted by floods. No matter how fixed it’s course seemed, all rivers could become shifted off course.
​​
​​And always, with reason. Hulali would have reason to shift Uzoji’s, and though it was not visible now, one day it would be.
​​
​​Watching the young woman stand, his blue eyes followed her pacing, his mediocre field glamour caprising the rage that simmered within. Even in her grief and her anguish the Bastian was beautiful, Uzoji had always seen the diamonds between the glass, and the Mugrobi couldn’t imagine the young man would expect this for her. Not this utter sorrow.
​​
​​As Niccolette raged, proclaimed the mourning that Bastia would embrace and flourish, the tall wick-come-galdor sat silent as the stone, letting her emotions play themselves out till she knocked the bench with her leg. He watched her deflate again, slipping to the ground and sobbing her grief openly, without judgement. Finally she stopped, staring at the city below them. Demkaih let the quiet settle between them for a moment, before slipping from his own spot on the bench, moving to kneel before the broken woman.
​​
​​ “We do not have actors to keen our grief, and our traditions focus on the happiness our loved ones brought us. We use laughter, and celebration, to ease the unbearable aching in our hearts.” Removing the necklace that hung around his neck, Demkaih ran a thumb over the fish-headed figurine that hung off it. It was a prayer, the figurine a carving by his own hand, created during the wake of his own father. The young man he had been had been beside himself with grief, but the Mugroba in him had stood fast to tradition. He hadn't wept, at least, not publicly. In the quiet of his room, in the tiny hours of morning, he'd sobbed his anguish and his hurt, blinking away tears as he shaved curls of wood to shape the figure of Hulali. A prayer was said, a commitment made, and the necklace had remained with him ever since. A physical holding of all the grief he could not share with the rest of his family.
​​
​​ ”It does not mean the Circle doesn’t hear us though. In the privacy of their homes, away from the eyes and ears of those who would judge them, we grieve for that which is lost. We rage, and we question why? Why would Hulali let the river take our family and friends? We loose faith, or find it. I am not able to talk to your God, Niccolette, but I can talk to mine.” Taking his waterskin, the red swathed man cleared the ground between Nicco and himself, placing the figurine inside. He lay the waterskin reverently beside it, placing both hands on the ground and leaning down to press his forehead to the figurine.
​​
​​ “Oh, Blessed Hulali, Giver of Life and Sailor of the Eternal Seas. Hear your son, Oh Wise Captain. Hear my prayers in this day of Uzoji Ibutatu’s journey back to your Waters.” Lifting his head, he uncorked the skin, picking up the figurine and pouring water over it. The clear liquid flowed down over wood and dark fingers, pooling on the ground between them before being sucked into the dry earth. Corking the liquid with one deft hand, Demkaih reached for the brunette’s hand, and if she would let him, he would wrap it gently around the carved deity and hold his own hands gently around hers. Bowing his head and closing his eyes, the devout man spoke with genuine passion and belief.
​​
​​ “Blessed Father of the Tides, we weep for the soul of Uzoji, tears born of your Waters. Hurte’s daughter, Niccolette Ibutatu, commits her tears to your pools. She weeps her love for your son, and her pain for his departure. Most Revered Wave Rider, we pray to you to the Circle, that you might know the great worth of this man. Of the true nature in his heart, and the fire in his chest. This man was a friend to many, a son to some, and a husband to one. His wife, his love, she knows his soul. His worth. Oh Great Gods, Oh Mighty Hulali, we weep with sorrow for the departure of such a bright light, and proclaim his reach was far and fair. Care for his soul, as he returns to the cycle. Know his worth, his heart, and let his return be one of greatness. We commit to you, with the Waters of the Turga, and the tears of the loved.” Opening his eyes, Demkaih looked at the younger woman, clasping his hands more firmly around her own and pushing it gently towards her, his glamour filled with encouraging warmth.
​​
​​ ”Hulali takes our words to the Circle. Hold this, take it. Speak to your God, and keep this safe. This was my prayer. My commitment for my father. It is your commitment now, your prayer now. Speak, and the Gods will listen.” Although softly spoken, not more than a whisper, the timbre in his voice was ferverant and genuine. Even if Niccolette might not believe in the Gods, Demkaih did with all of his being. He believed in Hulali, and loved with everything he could give.

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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: moralhazard
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Wed Sep 04, 2019 7:02 pm

Early Afternoon, 30 Intas 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill
Niccolette inhaled, a deep, shuddering breath. She tried to find the familiar rhythm of it, but she could not; the inhale caught somewhere in her chest, caught and held, and there was no stillness in her, none at all. She let herself unfold, let herself rest back; her feet were perched on the dirt beneath her, the black skirt of her dress covering her legs, and she slid them out, slowly, extending her legs against the hill. She uncurled her torso as well, easing back against the bench once more, expanding her chest. She had learned, once, how to breathe; she would, Niccolette thought miserably, have to do so again.

Niccolette watched the city; she could see the sky clear, distant wisps of clouds blowing through the great blue expanse. From Thul Ka, scorched brown earth and blue rivers spread, the three great waterways glistening in the winter air. Niccolette watched them, and if they did not bring her peace, at least they did not worsen her grief. Light glinted off a distant descending airship, and Niccolette turned her gaze away.

Demkaih was kneeling next to her now. Niccolette blinked at him, slowly, and brought her mind to what he was saying, finding her way back to the present. She listened and watched in silence, her gaze lingering on the fish-headed figurine as he slid it from his neck and cupped it in his hands. She settled her own small hands in her lap, the fingers of her right finding the ring on her left, twisting it slowly back and forth. It was easier to do now than it had been, and Niccolette curled her hand into a fist, suddenly terrified the ring would slide off – that she would lose it –

Niccolette watched Demkaih bend, watched him press his forehead to the tiny figure of his God, honoring Hulali with his respect. The water trickled over his fingers and the figure alike, pooling on the ground, sucked up by the thirsty earth. Niccolette licked her own dry lips, unthinking, and extended her hands when Demkaih reached for them, her lips trembling.

He placed the small wet carving in her palms, and closed his hands around hers. Niccolette bowed her head with his, heavy locks tumbling down over her shoulders, swallowing hard. She could not hold onto each word that Demkaih spoke, but the weight of them washed over her, settled on her like a blanket, as warm as his field. She felt that too, easing gently against her own, the first time he had done more than hold respectfully back. Niccolette did not doetoe her field away from his, did not recoil, but neither could she open herself up to him; she feared that to make even the slightest reach would be to spill all she felt to the mona, and to find the organization of her indectal field once more would take more than she had to offer.

Niccolette nodded, slowly. Demkaih pushed her hands back towards her, and she held them against her chest. Carefully, trembling, she opened them, chin tucking down as she examined the small hand-carved figure against her palms. Then, just as slowly, Niccolette closed her hands over it again. She lifted her cupped hands to her mouth, pressing her lips against the space between her thumbs.

For a moment, Niccolette had thought she might speak. There was so much she wanted to say, and she knew – she knew – inside, she would have no choice. It would not be long before she needed to return, before she needed to walk, slowly, past the empty glittering coffin, take her place at the front of the room, and cut her chest open before all of the assembled crowd; break her own ribs, one by one, and take the whole bloody mass of it from herself; reach inside, and clasp her fist tight around her own heart, then draw it, beating still, from the cavity within – extend it to all those who had come today to mourn Uzoji, to let them see her life’s blood drip steadily from her fist.

Niccolette’s eyes fluttered shut, her lashes tickling her own skin. She shuddered.

There was so much she wanted to say – to Hurte, the goddess of beauty. Once, Niccolette remembered, she had thought Hurte would keep Uzoji safe; she had thought that Hurte could not possibly let a man of such beauty be destroyed. Niccolette shuddered, and tears slid from the corners of her eyes. Was our love not beautiful enough for you? She threw the question at the goddess in her mind. Why? Why take him?

And Hulali! Niccolette thought of his name on Uzoji’s lips, and she could almost smile – to think of all the times he had called on the river god, in seriousness and in jest. She did smile; the thought of Uzoji stubbing his toe in the dark and grumbling about Hulali’s tits was more than she could bear, and she smiled and then she wept a little more, pressing her forehead against her cupped fists.

“I – I do not know the words,” Niccolette whispered, and she was not sure if she spoke to Demkaih or the little statue he had given her. She shuddered again, feeling the sobs rising deep in her chest. Tears trickled from her eyes, spilling down over her fingers – running, between them, and dripping onto the little statue of the fish-headed god cradled against her palms. The Bastian tried to catch her breath, and then she was sobbing again, soft and breathless, slender shoulders shaking beneath the black fabric of her dress.

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Demkaih Alkrim
Posts: 39
Joined: Tue Apr 23, 2019 8:00 am
Topics: 5
Race: Wick
Location: Thul'Ka/Old Rose
: Hulali's waters wash your sins clean, adame.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: Raksha
Contact:

Fri Sep 13, 2019 3:25 am

30th Intas, 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill|Afternoon
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H​​e felt the hesitation in her stronger field, Living mona drawing back slightly as though to mingle too much would somehow be too much in this moment, and he respected that. Sky blue eyes watched the lithe Bastian as she held her hands to her lips, as she tearfully smiled and wept all at once, silently pleading fairness and kindness on her heart from the Circle.

Together, they sat in silence as Niccolette barely held herself together, until finally she spoke.

“I – I do not know the words,”

Demkaih let his hand come to rest on her shoulder gently, feeling the forceful sobs wrack their way through her frame as though they would tear her apart. He let his other hand rest over his heart, the silent blessing of Hulali in his religion.

“You do not have to know the words. Hulali hears your heart, and your prayer in your tears. You do not need to know the words.” The devout man said firmly, grasping her hands around the figurine and squeezing them gently. He sat with her then, offering quiet companionship as she wept her anguish. Behind him, the sun moved over the pristine limestone of Thul Ka, reflecting like so many diamonds off the Turga and dazzling in its beauty. Airships moved slowly among the light cloud cover, and from the river a sudden flock of birds rose like a single living entity to fly over the city. The faint sounds of traders wafted on the breeze, and vaguly from within the house, they would hear voices giving tribute to the soul of Uzoji.

It could have been deemed peaceful, should one want to see it that way.

Finally, and only when she was ready, would he lend her a hand to stand from the dirt ground, holding her arms and looking over her face.

“Uzoji would be proud of you, Niccolette.” The dark skinned Mugrobi said in a hoarse voice, his belief clear in his tone.

“He would be proud of your ferocity and your love, and he would be proud of your unwavering commitment to his name. Do not let those inside deem you judged, for only the Gods can judge us.” Letting her go, Demkaih bowed again, stepping back slightly and straightening with a deep inhale and exhale.

“Are you ready to show them that you are Niccolette Ibutatu, strong and study against the waves that threaten to crush you? If so, I will escort you back inside.”

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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: moralhazard
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Contact:

Fri Sep 13, 2019 9:56 am

Early Afternoon, 30 Intas 2719
The Home of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Cinnamon Hill
Niccolette felt the heavy, warm weight of Demkaih’s hand against her shoulder, his gentle squeeze of her hands. He did not press; he pulled back, then, and let her weep in peace. Niccolette sobbed a little harder. Some part of her which could think of such things reflected, drearily, that she should have been embarrassed, to weep so in front of a stranger. Again. She could not; she could not muster up the faintest sense of shame. There was no space left for it amidst the fullness of her sorrow.

Niccolette’s hands tightened on the little figurine; she could feel the edges of the carvings press into her palms, and she held it tight. For a while, there were only her sobs, the anguished rasp of her own breath in her ears, her heart pounding. For a long time, she could not even bear to look out at the city; she let her eyes shut, and tried to find peace in the darkness behind her eyes.

But the light filtered through, slowly; it always filtered through. She shuddered, and opened her eyes again, tears trickling down her cheeks still, looking out over Thul Ka below. She remembered – held it even tighter than the little fish-headed God’s statue – the first time she had come here; she remembered Uzoji’s arms wrapped around her, holding her against him, the soft brush of his cheek against hers. He had let her stand a little time, and take it in, then he had turned, his lips grazing her skin. She had felt the rumble of it as he spoke, echoing through her.

“I’ve wanted you to see this for so long,” he had said. She had heard the grin in it; even then, she had not needed to see him to know he smiled. “It was nearly all I could think about, last summer. When Anoze was more than I could bear, I’d come out here and look at the view, and think about taking you here. I’d have done whatever it took.”

“Marrying me was, perhaps, a bit extreme,” Niccolette had giggled; she remembered the bright burst of joy that had bubbled up through her chest, the flutter of it.

“No,” There was a fierceness to him, then, low and hot, and Niccolette had shivered, and Uzoji had held her a little tighter. “No.” He did not let her look at the view, then, not for a little while.

“But do you like it?” He had whispered, eventually, when he had remembered to let her breathe.

“Oh yes,” Niccolette had whispered. It was not, in truth, the view that she had been looking at. “It needs a bench, I think.”

“A bench?” Uzoji had laughed.

“Yes!” Niccolette had shifted against him. “A bench. We shall sit here whenever we come to see your family, and admire it,” her hand traced a slow path over him.

“A bench, then.” Uzoji had grinned at her. “Anything for you, beloved,” he had taken her breath away again, and Niccolette gave it willingly.

“These waters are Hulali’s, you know,” Uzoji had told her, some time later, when they were looking at the view once more.

“And Hurte’s,” Niccolette had grinned at him. “As all beautiful things are.”

Niccolette felt the hard ridge of the stone against her back, cool against her. She took a deep breath, and found, to her surprise, that the tears had run dry once more, and that the emptiness inside her was a little easier to bear. She shifted, and eased her hands apart, ever so slightly; Hulali was left imprinted against her palms. She found a still dry corner of Demkaih’s red silk handkerchief, and wiped at her face; she was not certain that it helped, but she blew her nose anyway.

Demkaih helped her to rise. Niccolette’s legs shook, cramped and painful, and she was grateful that he did not let go; it was a long moment before she could stand on her own. He was studying her face, and Niccolette met his eyes, unashamed of her tears. They were not weakness, she knew. When Demkaih spoke again, it was nearly more than she could bare, and Niccolette took a deep, shuddering breath, pressing her lips together.

He bowed to her and he saw her strength. Niccolette bowed back, slowly, and settled herself upright once more. “Yes,” she said, and if her eyes were red and swollen, if she had not quite succeeded in wiping all the tears from her face once more, her voice was strong and sure once more. “Thank you, Demkaih Alkrim,” Niccolette took a deep breath. “I shall not forget your kindness.”

Niccolette lifted the small statuette, and slid the string beneath the high collar of her dress; she tucked the figurine in at the front, and settled it against her skin, a small, gentle lump, almost invisible beneath the heavy detailing of the black dress. Her hand rested against it for a long moment, and then she nodded, ready, and let Demkaih escort her back inside.

There were, Niccolette thought, firmly, things that she needed to do. First, she would speak; she would not falter, or hesitate, or weep. Not now. Later, yes; she could not deny herself that knowledge. For now, she would hold fast the strength that Uzoji had so admired, and she would find the words. She loved him; she would not do less. She would, Niccolette promised herself, do whatever it took. She always had.

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