[Closed] Come and Light My Eyes

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, Achtus 5, 2719
Demkaih's Home, Nutmeg Hill

Niccolette stood at the large, curved window, watching as the airship descended down towards Thul Ka below. She breathed in and out, steadily, counting the seconds of her breaths; she didn’t quite slip into the rhythm of meditation, but she came near enough as to make no difference. All of her was emptied out, calm and still.

It had been cold when she left the Rose on the second of Achtus, but Niccolette knew it would not be in Thul Ka – not, at least, by her standards or the standards of anyone from the sister kingdoms. She wore a dress of pale orange Mugrobi silk, cut with rippling red and orange fabrics intertwined in the bodice and through one side of the skirt, a narrow but colorful silhouette. She was far more sensitive to cold than heat, though, and the dress covered her arms from wrists to shoulder, and every inch of her long neck.

Niccolette combed her hair back over her forehead, and watched the sun gleam off the city below as they dipped down beneath the level of Cinnamon and Nutmeg Hill, so all the world was swallowed up by the city. She reached up, and pulled the cord to draw the blinds, letting them swish down and swallow the room in darkness. Her trunk was already gone, taken out of the room in preparation for the landing; she followed after it.

“Do you have a reply, madam?” Aqedha had bowed when Niccolette had come to find her at the Widow’s Walk, the same day that Demkaih’s letter had reached her.

“I am the reply,” Niccolette had answered. “Take me to him.”

As if, Niccolette thought, a hint of familiar anger burning through her veins, she would wait; as if she would sit calmly in the Rose, sending only a message back to Demkaih, and let him come to discuss with her what would be done. She did not care what shame he felt, and nor did she put any stock in his regret for the demands of his baser instincts. She had snorted aloud, reading such words.

She saw no point to it, sitting and waiting in the Rose when he had a lead in Three Flowers. Aqedha had, perhaps, been surprised, but they had been on an airship that same night. Even now, the Mugrobi was waiting for her at the ship’s exit; the human bowed lightly at the sight of her, and Niccolette inclined her head in response, joining the crowds to wait.

She did not push and shove, or force her way out first, but those around her drifted subtly away at the brush of her vivid, bright field, fully extended in all its strength. Aqedha hewed close, and within a few moments of landing at the dusty airship yard, Niccolette and the other woman had climbed into a moa-driven carriage, Niccolette’s trunk on the roof and Aqedha’s small carrybag alongside it.

Niccolette turned to Aqedha, and raised her eyebrows, delicately.

Aqedha leaned out the windows, giving the coachman instructions to Nutmeg Hill; the wheels of the carriage jerked and groaned beneath them, and they began.

There was no light in the carriage, not at this hour; pale sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, pouring onto the seats and ground. Niccolette sat, hands folded over one another in her lap, back perfectly straight, chin raised. She waited, watching the shifting gleam of the light, and found the rhythm of her breath once more.

The carriage came to a stop, in time; the door opened, and Aqedha eased out and offered a hand back up with the slightest of grins. Niccolette took it, descending in the narrow, elegant skirt. The coachman heaved her trunk down, settling it on his shoulder.

“Where now, ada’na, madam?” He asked.

“Inside,” Aqedha said, just barely managed to control the widening grin on her face. She smoothed it away, regaining her control. They went inside.

“Please fetch ada’xa Demkaih,” Aqedha said to a man Niccolette did not know, passing through. The courier grinned, this time, unable to help it. “Kindly tell him I have a message he will want to see with his own eyes.”

[Demkaih Alkrim]

5th Achtus, 2719
Aubelland Estate | Afternoon

"Bajea, ju leave more openings than the holes in Hulali’s net!” Liykos teased hoarsely, bouncing on feet as he held his hands at the ready to protect his face, dark eyes spirited even if his loose ochre linen shirt was umber with sweat and his breathing heavy. He grinned, in his infuriating way, as Demkaih frowned back at him and rubbed the tender spot on his cheek where Liykos had made contact.

“Ea, and that is why ju must practice with me. Again, adame. Let us go again.” The larger not-galdor raised his hands and beckoned to the human, who groaned as he shook his head.

“Yaka Dem, we have been at this too long. The sun is looking for it’s bed, and I ha—” He shifted to defend as the spice merchant moved, the fluid two step of a well practiced stance that brought with it the accompanying one-two of large fists. Liykos weaved low, shifting his weight to one leg and gracefully sidestepping, turning it into a roundhouse kick. Demkaih ducked down, hands on the floor to take his weight as he swept a leg towards the other man’s supporting appendage. Liykos was quicker though, dropping his weight to fall on one hand in an seemingly effortless cartwheel. Landing on his feet, he lifted an arm to block Demkaih’s own roundhouse, grunting as the force rattled through his bones. There was no pause, the other man closing in with an arching upper jab to the ribs, followed by an elbow to the jaw.

“Ma’ehau!” Liykos barked, stumbling back, swearing angrily and putting his hands up in an abrupt end to their training. Demkaih dropped his stance, apologising as he reached for his friend.

“Epa’ma Liykos, I did not mean to—” The frustrated human waved his hand, walking it off in the reed mat covered room they practiced in, moving to the open doorway so he could step outside and spit the blood from his mouth into the sandy dirt beyond the stairs that led to the entrance. A crease of concern on his brow as he panted to catch his breath, the bigger wick moved to pick up a towel from a wooden bench by the edge of the mat. Patting the sweat dripping from his face, the tall Mugrobi gave his friend space. It had been an accident, but it didn’t make it right. Demkaih knew he had pushed too far, he knew, but it was for good reason.

Three Flowers, and that damned riddle. It was obvious now, almost embarrassingly so. He’d sent word to Niccolette, and now awaited her reply—if it came at all. The waiting was hard, he’d prayed and he’d worked. It wasn’t enough though. Blue eyes scanned shadows, and watched corners, half expecting some assassin to burst forth and claim his life for the events of Dread Isle.

And so he had convinced Liykos to practice with him, and at first the man was eager and happy to do so. But as the sessions got longer and more frequent, his enthusiasm waned. Demkaih’s punches were harder, and more of them contacted. The human wouldn't admit it, but his friends almost obsessive need to punch something was a little frightening.

Today was probably a good day for Demkaih to take a break for a while, or at least to take his frustrations out on something less alive.

Throwing down the cloth, the tall business man reached to remove the sweat logged loose linen shirt that he also wore, part of the traditional garment worn by his people when practicing the fluid Ag Úgin’dzeq; The Art Of Blade Dancing. The martial art itself was designed to be performed with the chakra blades, however it also included the movements and stances to defend ones self if your blades were disgarded. It was structured, and at the same time it wasn’t, a dance in the truest aspect of the word. The idea of the movements was to confuse your opponent, to take them off-guard, before striking down with spins and twists that targeted tendons or large blood vessels. On the defensive, it allowed one to both move away and counter, and required a certain level of acrobatic talent.

“Ju bear scars I do not understand, adame.” Liykos’ voice said softly as he returned to the taller Mugrobi, wiping the sweat from his brow and removing his own shirt. Demkaih looked at the human, before looking down at his chest. His fingers grazed over the silvery line across his torso, before reaching for the puckered skin at his shoulder. He frowned, and picked up both his shirt and the used town, moving to walk with Liykos in tow.

“Hulali knows my path Liykos, and I will put my trust in Him.” He said cryptically, cutting off any further questions about the markings. The two men walked together in silence as they left the wooden building specifically designed for Ag Ugin’dzeg practice, headed for the plantation homestead. It stood, white against the golden sand dunes of Mugroba in the distance, nestled between carefully cultivated plantations of saffron and tumeric, their violet and magenta flowers gone for the winter. Beyond that, trees of cloves and peppercorns, cinnamon and star anise, all rather unremarkable at this time of year. The cotton was ready for picking, dry and brittle and exploding in fields of white, and if they weren’t being picked they were being bundled ready for delivery to the factories for dying and spinning. Ornamental plants were common too, lavender and flowering succulents, geraniums and frangipanis. A combination of seasonal plants and all rounders, that left the sprawling estate in a constant state of colors and scents. There were two large wooden buildings on the property, for the processing of harvests and the storage of goods, and two other smaller homes. One for the staff who chose to live on the plantation, and the other a guest house for those visiting business partners. There were gravel-laid pathways that led from the estate gates up to the homestead, or towards the guest house, and through the ornamental gardens, where as the wood fenced plantations were merely guided with hard earth packed trails. Whice and piikki made their homes in the array of foliage choices, whilst other animals kept the pests away—ostas in the barns and large predatory lizards in the plantations. Free roaming roaming Serkaih Hounds guard the estate from uliam that may wander in from the dunes, their sand colored coats and long legs allowing them to blend in and move fast.

Reaching the back entrance of the property, Likyos held the door open for his friend and employer, sucking on his teeth.

“Ju keep too many secrets Demkaih! What is it that haunts ju? What obsesses ju so?!” Entering the house, both men moved through the kitchens and towards the wet room, a tiled room designed for bathing with the use of poured water and wet cloths. Stripping down, unashamed by their nudity in this private space, the two mugrobi washed the sweat and grime from their bodies, the water draining away to be reused on the gardens. Quietly, unasked, house staff removed their sullied clothing and brought fresh garments. Toweling down, and dressing in loose chocolate colored pants and a high collared crimson sleeveless top that buttoned together to his throat, Demkaih paused outside of the room to utter a prayer of thanks to Hulali at a small bowl of water, his figurine already in the pouch hanging from his belt. Liykos came beside him, mimicking the words and the movements.

“Too many things, Liykos. A great too many things.” Offering his friend a brief smile, the taller wick moved to leave the wetroom and head towards the heart of the house, an open-plan living room scattered with low lounges and tables, and large cushions for resting with a pipe or a drink. It was decorated in oranges, reds and violets, large intricately woven rugs covering the floor. The windows of the room were large, thrown open to the afternoon breeze before it got devastatingly cold overnight. The scents of the frangipani flowers lingered in the air, and the view was a sweeping scape of the plantation, the Turga and buildings of Thul’Ka down in the far distance.

“A pipe, adame, to relax sore mus—” Demkaih paused as he approached the low table, hand pausing at the woven hose of the intricate hooka pipe, as a slender gentleman with tight golden curls entered the room. He bowed respectfully, his brown button down jacket and pants smooth and well pressed.

“Ada'xa Demkaih, epa’ma, I have been sent by Aqedha. She advises she has a message for ju, that must be seen with ju own eyes.” The tall wick straightened, any sense of relaxation on his face replaced immediately with a deep frown, his eyes flicking to Liykos.

“Thank you, Naqiz. I will see her at once.” He said sharply, moving to follow the young steward, Liykos frowning and tsking as he moved to chase after his employer. They crossed the tiled flooring of the open space between rooms, heading towards the foyer entrance of the home.

“Aweh! Demkaih, wait! Dem! Ju—bajea!” The lanky human almost ran into his friends back as the wick stopped short, swearing and looking up to see what caused the sudden stop.

“Niccolette?” Demkaih said softly, as though her appearance was the most unexpected thing he could have anticipated at this time. He’d not—it wasn’t—why would she—

“Ada’na Niccolette, welcome to Aubelland Estate. May I take your bag?” Liykos shifted gears, bowing deeply to the Bastian as his friend gaped uselessly. He smiled warmly to the woman, even if there was a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. So this was the widow that had ensnared the other man, like a fish on a gaff. He straightened, vibrant yellow jacket loose against his bare chest, dark eyes looking at the coachman with purpose. Beside Niccolette, Aqedha smiled as though she’d won some grand game, delighted by the bafflement on her employers face. It was common knowledge Demkaih did not get flustered, and the ‘message’ as it was spoke many volumes without words.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Afternoon, Achtus 5, 2719
Demkaih's Home, Nutmeg Hill

The coachman had come inside after them; he set Niccolette’s trunk down, but waited. His attention was mostly on Aqedha, waiting for instruction, but his eyes strayed around the elegant foyer as well, searching it, and then drifting back to Niccolette and Aqedha both.

Niccolette spared him little attention; she only waited.

Achtus was cold in Anaxas; this year seemed the coldest she had ever felt. Most years, they had shifted to Dzum during Achtus, and let the island be their base in Achtus, Ophus, and Intas; Uzoji, Niccolette thought, had never cared for Anaxi winters. She had teased him; compared to Florne or even Vienda, the Rose was warm.

Compared to Mugroba, it was not.

She had not realized that her hands had begun to ache, in the cold; she knew it only now as she stood in the midst of Demkaih’s foyer that she had missed this sort of warmth. It was not only her hands, Niccolette thought, grimly; the cold had a way of aching through all of her, slowly and steadily, until the discomfort became something like normal, and nothing she could set aside. She felt the warmth, now, tingling, racing through her; she breathed it in, deeply, and felt it fill her lungs like she had forgotten it could.

Yes, Niccolette thought, idly; she had been right to come.

Niccolette?

Niccolette lifted her chin, her gaze sweeping over the tiled floor and settling on Demkaih. He was as tall as she remembered; there was nothing in her cowed by the looking up. He said nothing more, and her gaze drifted to the man next to him – a human, Niccolette thought – who greeted her and bowed, deeply.

It did not trouble Niccolette that he knew her name; she thought very little of it. She bowed back, and rose. “Yes,” Niccolette said, glancing back over her shoulder at the coachman, and then back at the Mugrobi in the yellow jacket; her eyebrows rose a little.

Aqedha, a little reluctantly, looked away from Demkaih and thanked the coachman; he left, his face still more than a little curious, but sensible enough to follow instruction.

Niccolette turned them to Demkaih, looking squarely at him. She gave him a moment to recover his senses, her eyebrows lifting a little more. There was silence, then, between all of them in the large, high-ceiling entryway, full of sunlight; the sounds from the rest of the house and the plantation beyond drifted in, but could not seem to touch it.

After a moment, Niccolette shrugged, her vivid red and orange dress gleaming with the motion. “I do not care to wait,” she told Demkaih.

If Demkaih still did not return to himself, she would follow the man who had bowed when he took her trunk – it was heavy as if full, though not usually so for its size – and pay little more heed to the man she had, in fact, come to see. He was not, she thought, very useful to her too stunned to speak, but she did not think he would be so for long. If he was, Niccolette thought idly, then perhaps she had been wrong in her estimation of him – but right, still, in her choosing to come.

She could not – would not – let him set the pace of her own searching for her husband’s killers. Yes, she had told him the whole of Uzoji’s death; yes, they had pledged to search together, and sealed the pledge with blood and fire both. All the same, she would not wait – not for him, and not for anyone.