[Closed] Come and Light My Eyes
Posted: Sun Sep 13, 2020 1:59 pm
Afternoon, Achtus 5, 2719
Demkaih's Home, Nutmeg Hill
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.”
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.”