Glitter and Gold [Memory]

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Just after dawn, 54th Roalis, 2714
Outside the Jail, Uptown, Vienda

Niccolette’s chin lifted slightly at Arion’s words. Perhaps it was foolish to be offended when she herself had just said the same thing. Nonetheless, Niccolette was, decidedly, offended. Arion did not seem to notice, though, and while Niccolette considered calling his attention to it with a pulse of her field or a gentle flex of emotion, after a few moments she decided against it. In truth – Arion wasn’t necessarily wrong about being her only ally in this. Niccolette ran her fingers over the empty space on the fourth finger of her left hand, scowled, and dropped her hands to her side.

Arion took his time, and Niccolette, slowly, crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her weight from side to side. She raised an eyebrow at him again, not that he noticed that either. Finally – finally, he began to stride off, with barely a word to her. Niccolette held for a few moments, expectant, but when he refused to yield she gritted her jaw and followed.

The walk was not long, but Niccolette’s head was pounding, and the shoes that had been comfortable last night seemed unexpectedly difficult to manage. She had held her composure together for the time to took to leave the jail cell, but Arion seemed intent on moving quickly, as if he was not aware of the height difference between them. Niccolette did not rush, not on his behalf; she walked at the pace that was comfortable for her, and if that meant he needed to stop more than once for her to catch up – well, let him.

They stopped at a tailor’s establishment, and Niccolette frowned. What, did he think she could simply order new clothing? Did he expect her to – what – hose off in the backyard like a human? Arion took out a key and opened the door. Niccolette followed him inside, followed him to the stairway, and held there at the bottom, waiting for a few moments. It had occurred to her that this was, perhaps, not a tailor’s shop and – instead – that Arion had taken her to his home, which happened to be located above a tailor’s shop.

Niccolette held at the bottom of the stairs, and considered her options. She could go back out onto the street in her filthy pink dress. She had some money; she could pay a taxi driver to take her somewhere. Francoise’s home, perhaps – a cheap hotel, even in the Dives, where she as unlikely to be recognized. There were certain risks to either, socially; Francoise would be discrete, but Niccolette did not yet have the measure of her new husband, and she did not wish to trust herself to him. A cheap hotel would be uncomfortable, and to ask Francoise to bring her something there was a risk as well. Certainly, she could not go back to the Belleverie.

Fine, Niccolette thought. What was the worst that could happen? She would be believed to be having an affair with this prim, superior lawyer? Well, she had not had the best reputation for her choices at Brunnhold; perhaps it would not be such a surprise to her friends after all to learn that she had equally poor choice in her affairs. Grinning with actual amusement, Niccolette followed Arion up the stairs, into the apartment, through the waiting room, and into the plus lapis lazuli room. This one, at least, she approved of, and she looked around, nodding faintly.

Arion went to the desk and picked up a letter opener. Niccolette watched him, arms crossing over her chest again. She ran through a few spells in her mind, thinking. If he came at her with it, meaning her harm – severing the tendon in his thumb would be an easy enough spell. That would force him to drop it. There was always a pain spell for quick incapacitation, but it could be risky; he might spasm and cut her, if he was too close when she cast. Novices always thought of spells for paralysis, and – well. Perhaps those worked well on the dueling field, but they simply took too long to cast in a true fight.

Severing the tendon, Niccolette decided. And then, when he had dropped the letter opener, perhaps something a little more painful.

Instead, Arion walked away to the far wall, dropped to a knee, and used the letter opener to take the doorknob off the door, leaving only the one on the inside. Niccolette watched him, silent, and stayed still and straight as he – presented her with the doorknob. Niccolette looked down at it, and did not reach to take it. Arion shifted, almost hesitant for the first time, and explained.

Niccolette nodded, slowly, once, and took the doorknob from Arion’s hand. She did not touch him, nor did she thank him. She nodded again at his proposed plan of action. “Very well,” Niccolette said, coolly. She took a deep breath. “If you have the facilities,” something in her voice suggested she doubted he did, made it sound like a challenge, “I will take a cup of tea.”

Niccolette swept past him, as elegantly as she could in the smeared pink dress, and shut the door to the bathroom firmly. Inside, she did not hesitate; she crossed to the bath, turning on the taps, checking the temperature of the water with a dirty hand until it felt right. She went to Arion’s cupboards next, ruthlessly pillaging them until she found a proper comb. If soap wasn’t out and easily available, Niccolette would look for that as well, displaying absolutely no respect for anyone else’s privacy. Last, if he had it, she would take his shampoo.

Last, Niccolette took a straight razor from Arion’s things.

Once the tub was reasonably filled and Niccolette had everything she needed, she went to the center of the room and stripped off the filthy outermost layer of the dress, and the first layer beneath. Below that was a corset, delicately tied in the back by the Belleverie’s maid the night before, over the rest of her underthings. Before she could finish, however, Arion knocked on the door, announcing the tea. Finally, Niccolette thought.

Niccolette opened the door, raising an eyebrow. She wore her corset still, petticoats and shift. Somehow despite the full dress of the night before, her arms and neck were still faintly grimy. His mirror sat propped at a new angle, his straight razor in front of it. “You may go,” Niccolette said, taking the tea if he hesitated, and shutting the door in his face promptly.

Niccolette set the tea down, and angled herself with her back to Arion’s mirror, glancing back at her reflection over her shoulder. She grimaced, faintly, then cut the laces of the corset with a single, unhesitating stroke of the razor, letting it tumble to the ground with a thud. Last she stripped off the layers still remaining beneath, leaving them in a filthy heap. Somehow, despite all that clothing, every inch of her skin seemed to feel grimy. She would burn this clothing later, Niccolette decided. Even the underthings.

By now the tub had run enough. Niccolette turned the water off, and climbed in, the scalding heat blissful against her skin. She picked up Arion’s soap, rinsed it off once, and began, diligently, to scrub the filth of the jail cell from her skin.

Arion called from outside the room to ask if she needed anything else.

“No,” Niccolette called back, and went back to scrubbing, soaping her arms and legs, her torso, every inch of herself with a wet washcloth, working it against her skin until the pale flesh glowed red from the friction. Her hair next; shampoo or soap, whatever she had found. Niccolette rinsed, and rinsed, and rinsed again, dragging the comb through it with brutal efficiency.

At last – long last – Niccolette began to feel clean. The tub was filthy, the water too, and she rose from it, standing, and let it drain to nothing around her feet, still working on her hair, teasing out the last of the knots. She let the last of the water drain, then ran the taps again, filling the tub a second time. The first had been for cleaning; the second, Niccolette decided, was for enjoyment. She settled back into the second tub full of hot water, eased her now-much-soothed head back against the rim of the tub, and sighed contentedly.

“Why so many bathrobes?” She called to Arion through the door, more than a little amusement tinging her voice. The tea was lukewarm now, but Niccolette picked the cup up anyway, taking a long, contented sip.

[Arion Lux]

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Arion's Home, Vienda

If you have the facilities.

It was perhaps the most offensive thing Arion had heard in his life. As if a man of his standing, resident of an apartment such as this, couldn't provide something as pedestrian as a cup of tea to a guest. It was insulting in the extreme, and Arion quietly seethed as he disappeared into the kitchen, rattling around as he salvaged and reheated breakfast's hot water from less than an hour before, unearthed his finest tea service and tray, and dug out the nicest blend of leaves he had at his disposal. That will show her, he decided, still seething, as he retrieved the reheated kettle, filled the waiting teapot, and carried the ensemble back through one door and to the other. He was still seething as he knocked on the door. Even the sight of Ms. Ibutatu's corset and petticoats was not enough to penetrate the bubble of vexation that had created, though his summary dismissal and the door that narrowly avoided his head managed to make things even worse.

"If you have the facilities," he muttered under his breath, a soft, sarcastic imitation as he set about his desk, flipping through drawers and compartments until he'd found the pen, paper, envelope, seal, candle, and matches necessary to compose a message to Ms. Ibutatu's associate. The indignant muttering continued as he wrote, his journal placed on the desk beside him, information crossreferenced with his notes, a succinct message to Ms. Francoise Rochambeaux explaining the predicament of her friend, and her immediate needs. "I've got your facilities right here," he grumbled, waiting the requisite moments for the candle to melt so that he could seal the envelope closed with wax.

His voice became a little more haughty as he abandoned his desk for the doorway, letter in hand, hesitating for a moment at the threshold as he considered whether or not to disturb his client and inform her that he was stepping outside. "You may go," he quietly quoted in a put-on Bastian accent, and was out the door and down the stairs before he even gave the subject a second thought. It didn't take much to find someone on the street nearby: dawn was progressing into morning, and while the stores were still closed and the streets were still largely empty, the opportunistic poor had already begun to emerge from the woodwork. Of all the residents of Vienda, they were perhaps Arion's favourites: not as pretentious and self-absorbed as the Galdori upper classes, and not as grimy and downtrodden as those in the industrial quarters of the city. These were opportunitists, too young to work anywhere else, and yet willing to do whatever was necessary for anyone with a shill or two to spare. Arion respected that. They were working at their situation, taking advantage of the opportunities that came their way. Too few people did that, and Arion always made a point of rewarding that initiative with coin. It wasn't charity, it was incentive: people knew that Arion Lux paid well, and that ensured that Arion was never without a willing errand boy or girl when he needed one.

He was back likely before Ms. Ibutatu - Niccolette, he insisted upon himself, deciding to downgrade the woman from the more respectful form of address, in his mind at least - was even aware that he was gone, slumping back into the chair by his desk, by sheer coincidence the one most defensively proximate to the bathroom door. "Do you need anything?" It was heroic, frankly, that he was still willing to offer hospitality to the woman after her affront, even if the offer was met with a blunt no. The seething continued as Arion eyed his surroundings, channelling a little of it into the process of tidying his desk away once more. His attention strayed across the open page of his journal, and the neatly scrawled notes about her case. Perhaps she wasn't always like this. Perhaps this merely her on an especially bad day. Perhaps he should cut her a little slack. He sank a little in the chair, irritation fading, once again finding the mindset of consideration that had spurred his moderate reengineering of the bathroom door.

"Why so many bathrobes?"

The question caught Arion by surprise, and even managed to provoke a smile, although thankfully Niccolette was not there to see it. He considered an evasive answer, or a dismissive one, but decided against it, settling on a more tantalising answer instead.

"It's a bit of a long story," he admitted, voice loud enough to carry through the door behind him, "Involving Hessian triplets, a pirate captain, and an airship full of misplaced hookers. You see -"

Arion's brow furrowed at a strange sound drew his attention from across the room: an odd, subtle scratching, like a key in a lock, but all wrong. He closed his eyes, but couldn't quite pick out the sound, not quite. Were those voices? Muffled speaking beyond his door? His eyelids cracked open, a glance cast at the clock above his mantle. A little early for the tailor, and certainly too early for clients. His hands tightened, gripping the arms of his chair. He delved into his mind for a few specific words, familiar phrases of monite tumbling from his lips. A sensation like a cold chill settled across him as the incantation took hold, and he felt his senses stretch outwards, beyond the scope of typical galdori ability. The muffled sounds grew louder, and beyond the door he felt it, the subtle glimmer of a glamour lurking in the room beyond.

He heard it again, the scratching sound of picks in a lock, that damned dirty wick if he were to guess. He checked his surroundings for weapons of opportunity, cursing himself for the fact that anything useful was safely stored upstairs. The garish letter opener was grasped as he rose to his feet, slow and cautious. His mind tried to fathom the situation: a wick, breaking into his apartment. Had they followed them here from the jail? Sent by the Seventen, perhaps, hoping to get revenge against the problematic woman for last night's humiliation? Passing the fireplace, moving slow and quiet, Arion grasped a poker for his other hand: not a sword, but it would have to do. But no, that didn't make sense: what sort of Seventen had the money and the inclination to go to such lengths for a woman who'd already been arrested and charged? Surely, Niccolette hadn't harmed or embarrassed him {i]that[/i] badly, had she?

Arion advanced towards the door, poised and ready, as the scratching sound resumed once more. Some mysterious affiliation with the past that Niccolette was so reluctant to expand upon, perhaps? That seemed like the only logical explanation, and it was the one that Arion chose to settle upon - for now at least - as the door clicked, and swung open.

"I'm sorry -" The words tumbled out of him before his senses took full account of what was before him. A wick yes, he'd sensed as much; but too fieldless humans as well, loitering behind them. Large, scarred, threatening humans. It probably should have changed Arion's intended approach, but it was already too late for that. "- but now's not a good time. Perhaps you could come back later?"

The statement completed, the question posed: with the final syllable, Arion swung the fireplace poker with all his strength towards the wick's head.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early morning, 54th Roalis, 2714
Arion Lux’s Apartment, Uptown, Vienda

Niccolette grinned broadly in the tub, taking another sip of tea. From those few words she could already hope that the story would be terribly scandalous, the sort of thing Anaxi society said a man should not tell a woman, especially not a man like Arion and a woman like Niccolette. Naturally, of course, the sort of story she had always best preferred, but not one she had remotely expected from this talkative, arrogant lawyer of hers. Perhaps, Niccolette thought, she should not be so surprised. He had scarcely hesitated to invite her into his home, after all.

Niccolette set the tea aside and lifted one long bare leg, her small foot emerging from the soapy water. She examined it with her fingers, carefully checking for dirt, scrubbing diligently a last patch of it with a pleased hum at the renewed pale glowing whiteness of her skin. Arion’s voice trailed off before he had remotely begun to explain the bathrobes, rather to her disappointment, and he hasn’t told her a thing about the hookers or the airship.

“What happened?” Niccolette called through the door. Silence, disappointingly. She made a face. So rude, she thought. Well, she supposed manners weren’t essential for a lawyer. If one acquired all one’s clients by dragging them from jail when they had little choice in the matter, then one hardly needed to employ manners in the matter. Bullying, badgering, and the condescending use of chairs would, clearly, work just as well.

At least he made a decent cup of tea. Niccolette took another sip of it.

Then, with a little sigh for her lost story, Niccolette switched to her other leg. This foot was already cleaned, but she gave it a last little scrub, then looked up to see a man pulling himself up slowly onto the window ledge outside the bathroom. Niccolette lowered her leg, lowered herself, so only her chin emerged from the bathtub, long wet hair floating behind her, one now-clean hand holding lightly the side of the tub.

“Mr. Lux,” Niccolette called. “There is a man who wishes to enter your apartment with the bathroom window,” experienced eyes swept over him. Human, Niccolette decided. Strong and scarred. Not, she thought, friendly, but she supposed it was hard to tell. Could he be a client? She really knew very little about Arion.

“May I assume, if he meant well, he would use the door?” Niccolette called again.

Irritatingly, only more silence. The bastian pursed her lips. The man was fumbling with the windowsill now, cracking it open, squatting half on the ledge. He seemed utterly fixed on his task, and then all at once he looked up and seemed to see Niccolette. His eyes widened, a mixture of emotions flitting over his face.

Niccolette grinned.

Well, she thought, if somehow this man was an invited guest, that could all be sorted out later. Arion had only himself to blame, really. All the same, she would do her best not to truly injure him.

A pain spell, Niccolette thought casually, might scare him too much - if he lost his grip, he might fall forwards or, worse, backwards. Death was so difficult to undo. So, then, something unpleasant - something to frighten him, something to make him turn around and climb promptly back down that drain pipe.

Living conversationalists, as students, were wonderfully creative in seeking out a wide range of spells that could be used to cause temporary, unpleasant, and highly visible discomfort. These sorts of spells were, naturally, favored on the lawn and in other fuels as well. They humiliated the victim, marking them often for several days, without doing any permanent harm of the sort frowned on in the lower tiers of dueling, or when one had agreed to go lightly on the lawn.

Niccolette began to cast, a low soft murmur of monite like a prayer. This stinging rash spell had been described in a Brunnhold grimoire as imitating the effects of accidentally rolling around nude in a patch of prickly, poisonous grass. It produced a lovely sort of scraping stinging effect, and these long unpleasant welts. Niccolette had adored both the description and the affect, and had long ago committed it to memory.

The man jerked, eyes widening in a very different way.

The stinging rash spell wasn’t Niccolette’s best; she could see the marks that it produced were disappointingly small. The human, surprised, lost his grip on the windowsill, pitched forward, cracked his head against the windowsill as he passed through, and then cracked it again against the ground. He slumped into stillness.

Niccolette rose from the tub, grimacing. Well, certainly not quite the intended effect. Uzoji would laugh at her. She stretched her arms up over her head, slowly, luxuriously, and stepped out of the water, murmuring a few more lines of monite to herself. The headache cure didn’t work terribly well either, a faint feeble moment there the ache seemed to subside before the throbbing resumed. Niccolette grimaced again. She supposed the mona wanted her to have a hangover, for whatever reason.

Niccolette walked over to the man on the floor, crouched, and extended one hand beneath his nose. She felt faint fluttering breath, and shrugged. Like as not, she thought, he would be fine. At least, as a human he wouldn’t be noticeably stupider than before. She wouldn’t waste a quantitative cast on determining how badly he had hit his head, especially not when she didn’t intend to cast s healing spell.

Niccolette selected the robe that looked to be the most appropriate size. From one of the hookers, she hoped. She slid her hands under her hair, lifting it up and over the collar, and tied the sash in front, securing it firmly over her body.

Then, stepping casually around the welt-covered man breathing faintly but steadily on the ground, and around the heaps of discarded filthy clothing - stopping only briefly to drink the of the tea - Niccolette made her way to the door to find out why Arion was ignoring her. There was a faint but familiar sounding thump from outside - something hitting flesh, Niccolette thought, and she turned the handle and opened the door, watching curiously and nonchalantly for a few moments before deciding whether to intervene.

Rolls

Niccolette, stinging rash spell, then headache cure: SidekickBOTYesterday at 5:35 AM
@moralhazard: 2d6 = (3+2) = 5

[Arion Lux]

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Arion's Home, Vienda

The wick was fast, frustratingly slow. A duck and a dodge, and the fireplace poker swung wide, missing the invader's skull completely, and crashing against the corner of the open door. Arion muttered a colourful Bastian curse under his breath, and the wick's mouth split into a grin; that was the moment when the offhand struck, the letter opener lunging forward towards the wick's flashy mid-section. Silver finish coming away with a hint of crimson, Arion allowed himself to respond with a grin of his own.

"There is a man who wishes to enter your apartment with the bathroom window. May I assume, if he meant well, he would use the door?"

"Not necessarily," called back, a few backwards steps retreating out of range of the wick as he made another lunge towards Arion. Drawing on lessons from his youth, Arion felt himself settle into a fencing stance: a fireplace poker and a letter opener were hardly an épée and a main-gauche - or main-droite, given the backwards left-handed manner in which Arion held them - but they would have to do. The wick advanced, and a jab of the poker discouraged him, but the effort drove Arion backwards, retreating across the study with careful, practised footsteps: enough for the wick to move clear of the door, and allow his human compatriots to enter the room.

Arion flashed a tight smile as his assailants began to fan out around him, herding him towards the same corner of the study that led to the bathroom. Another individual, Niccolette had said. That explained the leisurely pace of their advance: why rush in and risk harm, when their opponent was unknowingly being driven towards an ambush? Besides, clearly Niccolette was the objective here: perhaps these three were tasked merely with distracting Arion until their associate could abscond with - or otherwise deal with - Arion's client. "Look," there was an edge in Arion's voice, but also a civility, the carefully chosen words of a negotiator. "I'm sure you are all very reasonable men under the right circumstances, and believe me -" A faint ghost of a laugh crept into his words. "- I've met my client, and based on what I've put up with today, I'm sure whatever grievances you have are perfectly valid. But unfortunately for you, you have broken into my home, and are attempting to harm someone under my protection. As a point of professional pride, I simply cannot let that stand."

There was an awkward moment, almost a stillness, as the wick and his humans reacted to that statement, far more confused than threatened, much to Arion's dismay. "Wot's 'e on about, Jon?" It was the uglier of the two humans - though it was an especially low bar - who asked , his question directed to who Arion presumed was their leader. "Wot'sis client 'es on about?"

"He's a lawyer, innit?" the wick shot back, as if it was patently obvious. A deep, rumbling chuckle emerged from somewhere in the wick's gut. Arion noticed that he was slumped slightly, one shoulder dropped a little more than the other, an arm ever so slightly shielding the side of his stomach that Arion had jammed the letter opener into. He should have left it there, he mused in hindsight: it would have made for a nice target to aim for. The wound didn't seem to lessen any of the wick's menace, however, which he turned fully on Arion once again. "We ain't here for your client, mate," he clarified, exposing an only partial set of yellow-stained teeth. "We're here to put your pompous golly erse in it's place."

"Oh." Arion visibly deflated as the situation dawned on him. Not violence intended for his client, then, but violence intended for him. That was disappointing, not to mention boring. The fleeting hope that Niccolette's circumstance might have brought with it some unexpectedly welcome intrigue and excitement evaporated completely, leaving Arion simply with the understanding that either in this room or elsewhere in the city was an individual who he had deeply offended. That was an understanding of the world that he'd possessed when he awoke that morning, when he'd gone to sleep the night before, and every day and night prior to that for most likely the majority of his life. There was a reason that Arion's liquor cabinet also contained a tin box specifically for the treatment of blows to the face. There was a reason that swordplay had been part of his educational studies for this particular job. When your career was built on either sending people to jail, or preventing that from happening, you were bound to fall out of favour with people from time to time, and that was even before Arion's ascerbic personality was added to the mix. "So you're just a quartet of idiots -"

From behind them, beyond the sealed door to the bathroom, came an unpleasant thud and a crack, and the unmistakable sound of a body tumbling to the floor.

"- a trio of idiots who decided to break into the home of a galdor and pick a fight. Very well then."

Arion drew in a breath, and began to incant, but not in monite. Instead, a string of nonsense words tumbled from his lips in other languages, mostly Gioran, with a little Mugrobi thrown in for flavour and musicality. There wasn't much in his toolbox as a perceptive conversationalist that might be useful in a situation like this, particularly not with the remedial, elementary understanding that Arion had personally pursued. But the wick and his humans didn't need to know that. In fact, it would be better for everyone involved if they did not.

"It's clockin' magic, Jon!" The more unseemly human asked, with a waver of fear in his voice.

The wick stood his ground, trying to sound confident, although he didn't quite seem entirely convinced. "No it ain't! That's not even monite! It's Mugrobi, or some shit!"

"How'n y' be so certain, Jon?" asked the marginally more attractive one this time, almost pleading, trying to edge a little closer back towards the door without anyone noticing.

The wick turned to him and scowled. "Because that's monite's what I bloody speak, innit, Allan?"

That was the moment that Arion chose to strike, exploiting the momentary distraction from the wick. Swinging the poker like a saber, not a rapier, he set his sights not on the wick's head, but between his legs. The wick tried to dodge, but not enough, a glancing blow carving across his precious commodities, and doubling the wick over in a stomach-churning instant. Arion reversed the direction of his strike, the poker arching down from high overhead, and while the wick attempted to raise a hand to stop it, he couldn't prevent the blow from striking against his temple, and depositing him onto the floor like a sack of damp, groaning spuds.

Arion turned to the human on the right, the one that wasn't Allan, and prepared to flash him a predatory smile, perhaps even with a pithy remark to back it up. Instead, he noticed that the man's attention was decidedly elsewhere, torn from the unconscious Jon not to the galdor responsible for that circumstance, but to the open door behind them, and the bathrobed figure framed by it. "Feel free to stand there being distracting," he offered, with a shrug that loosened his shoulders, his arms beginning to limber up as he set his sights on the humans once again, "But it isn't going to hurt my feelings or dent my masculinity if you feel compelled to join in."

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early morning, 54th Roalis, 2714
Arion Lux’s Apartment, Uptown, Vienda

Niccolette laughed from the doorway, leaning against the frame. She straightened, slowly, and adjusted the lines of the bathrobe, running her fingers through her hair from the front, pulling the long wet brunette strands back off her now-clean face.

“Was that meant to be Mugrobi?” The Bastian asked. Her eyes wandered over the two humans. The first not, not-Allan, had seemed more afraid. She thought him likely to break and run easily enough. Allan, as well, seemed fearful, so perhaps he would run as well? Niccolette decided it didn’t much matter. She hadn’t caught much of the conversation, as she had been busy enough in the bathroom, but she thought perhaps it would be useful if at least one of them was conscious.

Niccolette inhaled, deeply. It had always fascinated her how wonderfully fragile the body was. She settled her gaze on Allan, taking a few easy, comfortable steps forward, close enough that she knew – if she flexed – the edge of her field would be able to reach the humans. She began to chant, a low, comfortable, easy string of monite – quick, but always effortlessly precise.

At Brunnhold, naturally, she had studied the healing of bones. Students being what they were, there were plenty of bones to practice healing on. There were no bones which, when broken, could be said to be pleasant. Fingers and toes, smaller bones in the hand – naturally, it was not fun to break such bones, but nor was it terribly serious. Depending on one’s profession, of course. For a confisalto dancer, broken toes might be serious indeed. But even with a broken foot – sufficiently motivated, one could run away. One of Niccolette’s personal favorites was a broken collarbone. Excruciating, nauseating, and it took rather a long time to heal. It was unpleasantly hard to get back in place as well; for a human, such an injury could well be permanently devastating, given how long the arm had to be immobilized to heal properly. And that was with the help of monite.

But, Niccolette thought, pleasantly, for sheer, utter terror – there was nothing quite like breaking an opponent’s leg.

She curled the spell with an effortless phrase, building in the smallest of delays. She was quick at casting, but she liked the moment of silence that fell over the room, the brief hush as the humans wondered – as they had to wonder – what it was she had just done.

Then Allan’s thigh bone snapped, buckling outwards, and dropping him unceremoniously to the ground.

Niccolette raised an eyebrow at not-Allan, tilting her head to the side slightly.

Allan, of course, was busy screaming.

“Wot – “ Not-Allan glanced at the bathroom door, where a figure was just visible inside the window, then down at the wick Arion had clobbered with a poker, who was still groaning pathetically on the floor, then over at Allan, thrashing and, from the helpless clutching of his hands, unable to figure out if it would be better or worse to try and shove the bone back into place. "Wot the clocking chroveshite - "

Carefully, deliberately, well timed, Niccolette smiled and flexed her field outwards to its fullest extent, all her years of practice and study of healing magic – and its opposite – imbuing it with an almost bright sensation, sharp and teeming with life. It washed through Arion, its edges lapping at Not-Allan.

Not-Allan turned and ran, stumbling out of the apartment. There was a loud thunk from the staircase outside, followed by a series of quieter thunks, the scuffle of feet, and then more frantic running.

“The one in the bathroom is still alive,” Niccolette said, a faint echo of ‘for now’ somewhere underneath her accent. “Were they for me or for you?” She raised an eyebrow at Arion, combing her fingers through her hair again. She frowned faintly, teasing at a knot, but worked it out easily enough.

Niccolette did not think it likely that any of her and Uzoji’s enemies had tracked her here to Vienda, but she supposed stranger things had happened. For a moment, she felt a faint pulse of fear – although she was too well-governed to let it show in her field. If these four had come for her – they might well have sent more for Uzoji. Had someone thought, with the two of them separated…?

Niccolette thought of her beloved, of his knives, and smiled a little to herself. No, she thought, they would not catch him unawares; and if they did, they would not live to regret it.

“We should gag the wick,” she added, casually.

Rolls

Niccolette, leg breaking spell: SidekickBOTYesterday at 12:20 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (4) = 4

[Arion Lux]

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Arion's Home, Vienda

Arion's nose crinkled at Niccolette's words, as if his face had wanted to frown, but his brow was too consumed with stubborn indignation to consent to the process. We should gag the wick. Such a pedestrian suggestion, as if Arion was some first year at Brunnhold, and not someone with a lengthy career in an intellectual discipline, who was visibly old enough to be her father. The corners of his eyes crinkled into a narrow-eyed glare that was meant for her, and yet aimed towards the disinterested middle distance that lay between Arion and the wick she'd spoken of. It was prudent, of course. Perhaps over prudent, given the lesser magics that wicks were capable of, but prudence was like money, or tea, or nudity among the attractive: even if you had too much, you were unlikely to be worse off for it, and to complain about it was to expose one's all-consuming idiocy.

Yet, prudence meant doing as Niccolette had suggested; doing as he was told. To say that Arion's aversion to that notion was childish failed to understand it properly: it was more fundamental than that, a rejection of things that were unwilling to follow the proper order of things. This was his home. He was the lawyer, and she was the client. He was the target, and she the bystander. Elder versus younger. Man versus woman. Every social convention, every comfortable rule, every common practice, insisted with absolute certainty that he take charge in this situation. It was expected. It should have been assumed. Yet, here was Niccolette, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe, trying to tell him how to deal with being attacked by a gang of unsavouries. As if it was his first time.

"I'd be more concerned about the one whose leg you broke," Arion countered after a brief pause, trying not to let himself seem too impressed. It was harder than it might have been. It took a certain kind of someone to look at the healing potential of a living conversation, and decide to twist it around into a means to inflict harm instead. It had been done with such ease, too, such comfortable readiness, as if this was merely the sort of something that Niccolette Ibutatu did on a regular, unremarkable basis. Perhaps it was just the manner that Niccolette had about her, an ability to seem unphased even when she wasn't; and yet he had seen her earlier, emotions leaking through the grime and fatigue that she had worn in the drunk tank. A porcelain complexion then, perhaps, perfect and pristine until something caused it to crack.

He glanced in her direction, his hand idly fidgeting with the weight of the fireplace poker that now hung by his side. "Unless you're planning on undoing that robe and distracting him into silence, he's going to wake the neighbours, and they're bound to notice that something is up. Entirely the wrong sort of moaning and groaning than they're accustomed to hearing." His hand gestured off vaguely in the direction of a cabinet in the corner, his attention already returned to the wick on the ground in front of him, groggily teetering on the edge of consciousness. "I have drawers of gifts and souvenirs from clients, customers, ex-lovers, and what not. Feel free to rummage."

The words were uttered almost with disinterest, as if it was a topic that had already escaped from Arion's attention, suitably delegated and no longer worthy of a place in his mind. His thoughts had moved onto other things, onto the question that Niccolette had posed. He had an answer, but not a satisfactory one. They were here for him, not her. To put him in his place, apparently. He had offended someone, then, enough for them to send a group of uncouths to do him harm. How deeply uncharacteristic of him. That certainly narrowed things down, to approximately everyone that he had ever met.

He let out a sigh at that, dropping into a crouch, setting the poker down on the ground beside him so he could carefully hoist the part-conscious wick and slump him up against the wall. Fingertips peeled back the wick's eyelids, and the sluggish eyes beneath. That meant something, certainly, though Arion wasn't particularly certain of what: it was merely a thing that people did, and Arion was nothing if not a dutiful practitioner of doing the done thing. A gentle pat on the side of the wick's face was met with a groan. The hand lingered, steering the wick's attention towards him, fingers snapping in front of his face until the wick's eyes opened of their own volition. In that instant, that groggy moment of delayed thought and vulnerability, Arion's eyes locked with the wick's, and monite began to tumble from his lips, genuine this time rather than falsified. It was a simple magic, as Arion knew no other kind: he'd never enjoyed it, never been entirely comfortable with the idea of soliciting the aid of unknowable forces of nature to help him with problems that better men could resolve with wit and guile; but it was a useful magic, particularly for someone in his line of work, a simple suggestion pushed into the Wick's thoughts, a gentle urging to loosen his tongue, and comply with Arion's perfectly reasonable questions.

"Now then," Arion said slowly, with a smile and a tone that was somehow both pleasant and menacing at the same time. "Be a good chap, and tell me everything you know about why you're here and who sent you, eh?"

Rolls

Arion's Suggestion spell, vs Wick resisting: SidekickBOTToday at 6:35 PM
@Amphion: 2d6 = (4+1) = 5

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early morning, 54th Roalis, 2714
Arion Lux’s Apartment, Uptown, Vienda

Arion was frowning sullenly at the floor. Niccolette waited, running her fingers through her hair again. She tossed her head, lightly, and brushed the hair back over her shoulder, back onto the wet bathrobe. She crossed her arms over her chest, waiting impatiently for the man to catch up. He had been quick enough with that poker; for a moment, she had thought perhaps he knew what he was doing.

Finally, whatever thoughts were slowly ticking through his mind seemed to catch up to his mouth. Niccolette grinned, glancing at the human on the ground. Allan had largely stopped screaming; he seemed, Niccolette thought idly, to have lost the strength for it. Common enough; shock took many that way, and Niccolette was not unused to screams followed by silence. Neither was Arion wrong that he might begin again.

He had not, Niccolette noted, answered her question. Very well; she supposed he did not know either, yet. There were plenty of them left alive; one very unconscious, in the bathroom, one conscious but perhaps not in a state to talk with his leg broken, and the wick – who, though he was hardly sensate, seemed as if perhaps he could be coaxed into wakefulness. Niccolette did not think well of wicks, as a general rule, but she had known some not as stupid as most galdori seemed to expect, and this one had, at least, seemed to be in charge. She supposed that was why Arion was hesitant to gag him; he meant to interrogate him. Well, Niccolette thought, for all that it had taken him some time to think of it, it was not such a bad plan.

"As you like," Niccolette shrugged. She made her way across the room to the cabinet. Her lips pursed, and there was a faintly distasteful look on her face as she opened it. She tugged her hand back into the sleeve of the robe, and used the fabric to tease through the items, not quite caring to touch them, but not so squeamish as to ignore the drawer entirely.

After a few moments, Niccolette fetched out what looked like a silk scarf with a truly atrocious pattern of hearts on it, the jarring red and pink making the already odd design look even worse. She lifted it up, checking it carefully in the light, then closed the drawer behind it and carried it over to the human.

Allan flinched when Niccolette came close, moaning again, his whole body shaking.

“Shhh,” Niccolette murmured, looking down at him. “You will be quiet now."

Allan groaned, jerking, almost trying to wriggle away from her on the ground.

Niccolette sighed. The Bastian slid a bare foot out from beneath the hem of her robe and pressed – lightly, very lightly – on the spot just above where his leg bulged.

Allan’s whole body tensed and jerked; tears streaming down his eyes, and a horrid rasping groan echoed from his mouth.

“Shhhh,” Niccolette told him, raising an eyebrow. Her foot still almost rested against his skin, the faintest brush of her sole against his pants enough to make him jerk again.

Allan made a sort of whimpering noise this time, and didn't move. Sweat was beading on his forehead, matting his hair.

“Good,” Niccolette said, firmly, moving her foot off his leg. “Hold still.” The Bastian knelt, folded the scarf, and shoved quite a bit of it into the human’s mouth without the faintest hesitation. She tugged at it, checked as if to make sure he could still breathe, then tied a knot in the scarf behind the back of his head, securing him. “You may want to scream again as the shock wears off,” Niccolette told him, smiling a little. “I would try not to. The gag will not feel so nice as it gets wet.” She patted his cheek with her hand.

Niccolette had felt the etheric shift of Arion’s field at the edges of her own, and now, as she turned from the human, she looked back at the galdor, raising an eyebrow at the question. The Bastian rose, adjusting her robe a little more to preserve whatever was left of her modesty, and crossed her arms over her chest, studying the wick curiously. She stepped out of range of the human – she thought it unlikely he would have the physical or mental strength to try and grab at her, but she had not bothered to bind his hands, and she did not wish to be caught unawares.

Instead, casually, Niccolette took a few steps from the human, crossing behind Arion, and stood a little back and off to the side. She had heard enough of Arion’s spell – a useful little suggestion spell, Niccolette thought. She was close enough that both Arion and the wick would feel the bright, vibrant liveliness of her field. She pulsed it, gently, once, a subtler one than before, just enough that the sensation of it would flare for both Arion and the wick. She studied the injured man, eyes lingering for a few moments on the bump Arion had left on his head, and pursed her lips, thoughtful. The Bastian did not interrupt, though, letting Arion ask his question as he saw fit.

[Arion Lux]

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Arion's Home, Vienda

"You stole summin' that din't belong t' you."

The Wick's words were slurred, like the mutterings of a man drugged, or drunk. They tumbled from him with a strange kind of stilted ease, the information compelled from him by the grace of the mona, whatever ability he might have possessed hobbled by the onsetting concussion that Arion had been a hospitable enough host to provide. His eyes were an uncomfortable juxtaposition, heavy lids eager to stagger closed at drunkenly swaying intervals, yet the eyes beneath locked onto Arion with unwavering focus, as if the act of looking away was an effort they lacked the ability to resist.

Arion's own eyes stared back with equal focus, burning with almost predatory intensity, as his verbal contract with the mona siphoned the answers he sought from his unfortunate victim. "I haven't stolen a thing in my life," he countered, less defensive and more proud, perhaps smug, even. The statement both was and wasn't entirely true: Arion had built a life for himself here, fashioned with blood and sweat atop the foundation that his galdori privilege provided. From his first day at Brunnhold until now, he'd had no need for theft, no need to take that which could merely be bought with lesser effort; but that was his life now, not his life before. It said nothing to the struggles of a young orphan, whose mother had both sacrificed everything for him and abandoned him completely in the same singular, final breath. Perhaps he had stolen then. Perhaps he even had since, as part of teenage misadventures, or his sabbaticals from this life into the cultural maelstrom that was his occasional journeys to foreign lands. But if he ever had, he'd never thought of it that way. He'd never stolen anything of consequence; not anything that would have been missed; not anything that anyone might seek to end his life over, and waste money on hired muscle to do it. Not that they'd apparently wasted much money in this instance, if the unconscious and incapacitated bodies scattered throughout Arion's home were anything to go by; but still, it was the principle of the thing.

Of course, dismissing the motivations behind the attack did nothing to explain it, dissuade it, or prevent a potential encore. Arion allowed himself a moment of pause, collecting himself and his thoughts. It was a familiar situation, strange as that seemed. Arion hardly made a habit of beating and interrogating intruders in his home - how many occasions did it take before such a thing became a habit, he idly wondered - but he did frequently find himself in circumstances where the answers he wanted were not being provided to the questions he asked. How many times had he found himself in this position during a trial? How many times did he find himself opposite a witness willing only to provide exactly the answer that the question required of them, hiding behind the fickleness of language like a shield? It was that battle of wits that made Arion's career as a lawyer so satisfying. It was something that took the sheer effort it required for Arion to even wrap his mind around the contradictory rule sets that came with living existence, and fashioned it into a tool, a weapon that Arion could use to parry, riposte, and disarm an inferior mind. That rules and laws did not make sense was irrelevant, provided you understood and accepted them better than your opponent, and in that regard, language was no different from law, or morality. If you understood its limitations, you could exploit that to your advantage.

"What is it your employer believes I have stolen?"

A direct question, specific and unavoidable. It set the swords of language aside, and replaced them with a crossbow. In a courtroom, a witness was required to answer, and such a question made it impossible for them to dodge and evade. Thanks to the mona, the wick was subject to the same stipulations of honesty. At least, that was how the mystical agreement between caster and facilitator was supposed to work.

"She weren't yours t' take."

If Arion had expected clarity, he didn't receive it, and the response caught him off guard enough to preempt his attempts to hide a reaction from his face. She? Money, jewels, documents, those were within the scope of things that Arion might have - even though he probably hadn't - stolen, a she? A person? Abduction was hardly his forte. Too uncouth. Too uncivilized. Besides, why would he force himself into the situation of spending time with another person, when there wasn't a guaranteed financial transaction involved? Blackmail and ransom could be lucrative, yes, but even a mountain of crowns wasn't worth the hassle of spending time with a person who wasn't either willing to be there and be civil, or being paid to at least pretend as much. But then, there was language, its patchwork monstrosity of a physique looming ominously in the difference. Steal didn't have to mean steal. People stole hearts, stole away, and stole virginities each and every day. At least some of those sounded a little closer to the realms of something Arion might be guilty of, even if it did stray a little too far into the kinds of messy interactions that Arion usually strove to avoid.

A husband, then. Or perhaps a father, or brother, or other lover, mentor, teacher, unrequited paramour - it didn't so much narrow the pool of suspects as shift it towards a different subset of society. There was still overlap, of course: whomever the she in question was, the parties that Arion had apparently offended still needed the wealth and resources to employ the wick and his associates. Perhaps with time, with careful consideration and analysis, he'd be able to compare one set to the other, find those who corresponded to both, narrow the field to a much shorter list -

Arion's expression contorted into something partway between a wince and disgust, as a notion began to dawn. The compulsion to pinch at the bridge of his nose, and stave off the tension headache that was beginning to rear its ugly head, was strong; but Arion knew better than to break eye contact with the subject of his magics. A faint sigh of frustration and resignation escaped from him. "Please tell me this isn't about the airship."

Confusion flickered across the wick's face, the compulsion to answer honestly conflicting with a question that demanded he do the opposite. It was enough to dislodge a little of the spell's hold, enough to allow a shred of free will to emerge, to solicit the faintest hint of a sneer on the wick's features. "You should 'a stayed out a' business that weren't none a' yours."

Arion's brow furrowed at that statement, and he nodded along, almost grateful for the wick's advice, a hand settled on the man's shoulder. His eye contact broke for a split second; an instant later, Arion's arm shoved the wick violently backwards, head slamming against the wall once, then twice, an angry red smear left upon the striped paper in the wake of the second. The wick slumped, and for a moment longer Arion remained where he was, before drawing a breath into himself, and rising back to his feet.

"My apologies, Ms. Ibutatu," Arion offered calmly, a hand smoothing down the front of his clothing. "It seems a former case of mine did not have the good manners to arrange an appointment." His eyes strayed to the wick once more, fully unconscious this time, before shifting back to Niccolette. "You may gag him now, if you like."

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early morning, 54th Roalis, 2714
Arion Lux’s Apartment, Uptown, Vienda

Niccolette felt a soft flutter of relief at the man’s clear response that it was Arion they were after. She was had not been worried about Uzoji; he could well take care of himself. And yet she did not like to think of having left him to do so, no matter how angry.

Niccolette’s fingers slipped to the empty place on her left ring finger, traced it slowly. Naturally, she was still furious with her husband, but that was no reason to wish him attacked by four armed thugs. Perhaps just one, so she could be assured he would have no trouble. No, Niccolette thought, shying away from the idea immediately. She pursed her lips, and, penitent, sent a quick prayer to Hurte. Uzoji prayed himself to Hulali, of course, but she was sure Hurte must have a special place for Uzoji, as she would for any so beautiful. If any dared to mark her husband, the Bastian thought, they would know Her wrath. And, by her deadly symmetry, Niccolette’s.

Arion was, disappointingly, tiresomely diligent in his insistence of his own innocence. Niccolette covered a yawn with her hand, gently stretching her neck from side to side. This was, she thought, rather a dull interrogation. She could easily give the wick some encouragement of the living kind. But, then, there seemed to be a woman involved. Niccolette rolled her eyes. How typical, she thought. How utterly -

Not a woman. An airship. The pirate brightened a bit, thinking of the Eqe Aqawe (right now, Uzoji could well be flying to Vienda - he could nearly make the trip in two days - at any moment, if she chanced to look up outside, would she see -) and glanced at Arion with a tiny frisson of new respect. The Bastian yawned again, hiding it behind her hand when he smashed the wick’s head into the wall. Sloppy.

Niccolette raised an eyebrow at Arion when he suggested she gag the wick, and made a faintly distasteful face. She had gagged the human, in the interest of not wasting time, but the Bad Brother felt the rules of interrogation were fairly clear. The wick was Arion’s prisoner; he ought to do the gagging himself.

Besides, he had taken blows to the head; if the wick woke up at all, he would be thoroughly scrambled. She doubted there really was much need to gag him now - but, then, a backlash would be terribly inconvenient for them both. One hoped a wick had the discipline not to start casting while hardly able to think, but - if he could remember the monite... they were hardly known for showing the proper respect. Although - she had not felt the man’s glamour. It might be well to weak to drive away the mona of her field.

Arion’s, on the other hand...

Yes, Niccolette thought. The gagging of the wick was decidedly his problem, and not hers. Let him reach into that abyss he called a drawer.

The Bastian flapped a hand at him, and wandered back into the bathroom. She emerged a moment later with her empty tea cup and a comb, setting the cup down on Arion’s desk with a meaningful look. She pushed her hair back with one hand, and began to comb it, dragging Arion’s comb through the wet strands before they could dare to tangle.

“Is this the airship of the hookers?” Niccolette asked, curiously. She glanced down at the bathroom, back over her shoulder at the man breathing unsteadily on the bathroom floor, then over at the human with his broken leg and the slumped, unconscious wick.

Niccolette tugged at a snarl in her hair. She frowned, teasing the strands over her shoulder and playing at them with her fingers for a few moments, easing the knot apart rather than ripping it through. Thus satisfied, she began to comb again.

It was only a few moments before Niccolette’s hair was sleek against her back. She set the wet comb down, a few strands of hair glistening between the teeth, and opened her purse with clean hands, fishing out a nail file. The bath had done wonders for the dirt beneath her nails, but they had been left ragged and uneven. Niccolette sat on the chair closest to the bathroom, tucked the hem of the bathroom around her legs, and began to shape her nails, carefully smoothing the edges down. This, she thought, was clearly much more important than the gagging of Arion’s wick.

[Arion Lux]

54th Roalis, 2714
After Dawn - Arion's Home, Vienda

Niccolette, it seemed, was more interested in attending to her hair than to the gagging she had been so insistant about before. Perhaps she no longer felt the need, what with the wick's now unconscious state. Perhaps it was a stubborn expression of her youth, or a rudimentary powerplay designed to assert that she would not be complying with any instructions or suggestions. It hardly mattered: the end result was the same.

For an idle moment, Arion contemplated the option that neither of them gag the wick: that they merely trust in the integrity of his unconscious state until he could be collected by one of Arion's associates, and redistributed to a more convenient part of the city. Not that Arion had associates for this sort of an eventuality, not precisely at least, but with enough coin and enough connections, it wasn't all that difficult for a galdori like himself to find a few strong arms willing to discretely move a few unconscious forms from one place to another with minimal questions, particularly if a healthy dousing of cheap alcohol was sprinkled across them as a mask of plausible deniability. He was a lawyer, after all, and galdori of his ilk were notoriously choosy about which sorts of unlawful activity they were willing to turn a blind eye to, particularly when they were being paid to do so. A defendant, inclined to resolve their problems with their fists and without the attention or involvement of the authorities? That was worth a little gossip, perhaps, but not enough that anyone would make any undue fuss.

By the time Niccolette had emerged from the bathroom, Arion had come to a decision on his next course of action. "Do I strike you as someone likely to have multiple interesting anecdotes about airships?" he asked, a phase that was delivered as if it were a rhetorical question, though, in reality, it was a much more valid inquiry than he was willing to let on. In truth, far too many of his trips aboard airships had become that most baleful of things - interesting - and he knew precisely which old friends he held almost entirely responsible for that.

With a heave, Arion encouraged the wick away from the wall, slumping him over his shoulder and hoisting him on the floor. It was not an impressive feat of strength - wicks in Vienda were seldom wealthy enough to have the overabundance of meat on their bones that many of the galdori did - but it was surprisingly practised: as if it was a manoeuvre that Arion had performed with quite some regularity, which in fact he had, although the less said about that, the better. He turned, careful not to send the unconscious wick's head colliding with the wall behind him, and with similarly practised ease, managed to open the doorway that led from his lounge to the rest of the apartment beyond, weaving his way through to the bedroom. He cringed slightly as he peered at the neatly arranged, freshly cleaned sheets, and was forced to deposit the unpleasantly scented wick on top of them. An unfortunate downside to his habit of perusing the drunk tank was the frequency with which he was forced to involuntarily experiment with which aromas proved the most difficult to remove from soft furnishings. Learning from his vomit-soaked mistakes, he allowed himself a brief moment to rescue his pillows and stow them safely away, before returning to the main room.

Arion didn't stop long: he crossed first to his desk, retrieving a surprisingly ornate wooden hilt that flipped open into an intimidatingly sized knife, pausing to check the sharpness and the function of the spring and hinge before closing it, and slipping it into his pocket. So armed, he turned to the doorway beside which Niccolette had stationed herself, and allowed his first glimpse of the thus far unseen assailant that Niccolette had taken care of herself. A moment later he emerged, a lowlife slung over his shoulder once more, and came to a hesitant halt just over the bathroom's threshold.

"I find," he offered by way of vague explanation, "That when one needs unwanted individuals discretely removed from one's home, those you hire to do so tend to ask far fewer questions if they find said individuals unconscious in the bedroom, as opposed to on the living room floor -"

His vision gestured downwards, towards the pants pocket where his knife had been stowed.

"- and even fewer questions if they come across them in a state of partial undress. The taboos of polite society can be quite valuable, once you realise how to manipulate them to your advantage."