Bury Me Face Down

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Niccolette Ibutatu
Posts: 552
Joined: Thu Jul 11, 2019 11:41 pm
Topics: 38
Race: Galdor
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Fri Aug 16, 2019 4:16 pm

Evening, 16 Hamis 2719
The Pawley's Lawn, Uptown, Vienda
The weight lifted – slowly. Niccolette tried to look up – tried to lift her head – and the motion sent another shudder of pain through her ear. She felt herself gag, and she swallowed the nausea down again, refusing to give into it with every fiber of her being, utterly refusing it.

Her body was her own again; Niccolette knew she was not heavy, that although she was not precisely short, not for a Bastian, neither was she tall, and she was slim. Funny, she thought – more than once Uzoji had joked she would have an easier time on the airship if she were heavier. It had been hard, at first, to pit her own slightness against the tossing winds – to learn to master her balance even in a storm –

Tears streamed down Niccolette’s cheeks, and she shuddered. It wasn’t the spell anymore; it wasn’t even the pain, for all that each breath sent a whistling ache through her ear, sent another stab of nausea down through her chest. Kneeling there, on the grass, Niccolette let herself cry. This time, she knew when it started; she knew when the first sob shook her. Over it, distant and only the faintest echo, she heard Ekain Da Huane’s voice. Another spell, Niccolette thought, drearily. She couldn’t bring herself to be afraid of the pain.

The Bastian took a deep, shuddering breath. She sniffled; she unclenched shaking hands from her side, brought them up to her face, wiping it off. She pushed herself up, slowly, digging her fingers into the muddy grass, forcing herself back to her knees. Mud and dirt streaked her face, streaked her hands – streaked her dress, not only the hem and her boots which had pressed into the ground, but the side where she had grasped it, all that lovely dark blue fabric smeared with mud and grime. There was still a thin trickle of something from her ear down her neck, a darkness against her pale skin.

Niccolette looked up, and Ekain Da Huane was gone. She shuddered, kneeling on the grass. His voice had stopped – stopped – her eyes flickered from side to side, slowly. The Bastian sniffled, wiped her nose on her sleeve. If she stayed down, she thought – if she just kept silent – the duel would end. She could go home; she could sleep. She could have someone see to her ear, help her make sure the damage wasn’t permanent. She could dry off; the heat in her field had dissipated, and Niccolette was shivering now, wet enough that the humid heat of the evening didn’t keep her from being cold.

Niccolette felt as if she could hear the seconds counting down in her head. Her eyes scanned the field again. She needed to find him, Niccolette thought. She needed to find him and to cast at him, or –

No.

The Bastian paused. She didn’t need to cast at him to keep from forfeiting. She only needed to cast. Niccolette sniffled, wiped her muddy face with her muddy hand again, and pushed her hair back off her forehead. She only needed to cast at all.

The Bastian took a deep breath, clenched her hands in her lap. She wasn’t aware of how much time had passed; she couldn’t have said. She couldn’t see Pawley checking his watch behind her; she couldn’t see the galdori huddled on the back porch, holding their breaths. If she had – if she had known how close her time was to being up – would it have mattered?

Niccolette began to cast. She lifted her chin – she didn’t stand, still kneeling, but her voice was loud – and if it quivered, if it cracked on the enunciation here and there – all the same, the living mona in the air around her shifted and shimmered beneath the rain, her field etheric. She cast a simple enough spell, the first one she thought of – a spell to let her see in the dark. The familiar words were more than memorized; they were a part of her.

The only thing difficult was the homing, because – because this time, Niccolette cast on herself and not her husband. Her voice quivered, there, but the streaming energy around her sank into her – her eyes flickered green, glowing for the briefest of moments – and then the spell shuttered out.

Weak, Niccolette thought – too weak. She had not been able to find Ekain Da Huane in that moment - in truth, the spell had not even really worked, not enough to notice - but it didn’t matter. She had cast; she had spoken, and that meant the duel would continue. The Bastian didn’t try to rise; she still knelt on the ground, half-sunken into the mud, but she was upright again, her chin lifted, and she looked back and forth on the field, slowly, waiting for the moment that Ekain Da Huane would reveal himself.

Three points to two, the duelist thought, coolly. Three points to two. He had not buried her; no one had, not yet. Her hands tightened further in the fabric of her skirt, and Niccolette’s field flexed, strong and powerful in the cool night air. She wasn’t cowed by her failure; she wasn’t cowed by his strength. She would not let him win by default; if she lost, it would not be with anything left to give. They would bury her only when she was truly dead.

Image
Rolls
Roll to cast: SidekickBOTToday at 12:51 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6
Roll for night vision spell: SidekickBOTToday at 12:51 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (1) = 1
Roll to determine severity of backlash (50% odds backlash): SidekickBOTToday at 12:52 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (4) = 4

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Ekain Da Huane
Posts: 22
Joined: Sun Jul 14, 2019 6:20 pm
Topics: 2
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: Graf
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Fri Aug 16, 2019 5:18 pm

the pawleys lawn • uptown
evening on the 16th of hamis, year 2719
Giannina had often avoided his eye. Not when they danced – when they danced, she would meet it. She would even smile at him. When he lifted her against the pull of gravity, delicate in his arms, still full of momentum like a bird in flight – he had thought he knew how she felt. He felt it himself, buoyant on the swell of the strings, their warm updraft. He had tried to send that feeling to her in the motion: it was all that he could do.

She had admired him from afar, before they had truly met. He had admired her, like a mountain deer with her large, dark eyes, her graceful limbs, her soft, careful voice. He had thought that indecision was a weakness, but Gia deliberated. She thought before she spoke.

She had wanted. He had wanted. He still wanted.

He did not know what he wanted.

Ekain stood still, waiting for Niccolette’s spell. He could not see her lips move, but he saw her lift her head, and he saw a flicker of light in her eyes, green like life. Like that living-bright field. He felt the drain of his upkeep, but he held the light warped around him. He waited to see the lights of her eyes find him, and when they flickered out, he could no longer hold his upkeep.

But now she had pulled herself straight, although she could not bring herself to her feet. She stared out into the rain expectantly, her chin raised, and flexed her field outward. Still powerful. He heard a little laughter rustle through the crowd on the terrace. He identified what he felt almost immediately, this time: anger. White-hot. Curling, withering, cruel anger.

The last of the spell bled away from him, and he emerged from the grey. With ponderous, careful steps, he made his way back to his original position, not sparing Niccolette a glance. His field red-shifted, but the mona were tense and strained; it was a tired sort of warmth, a dangerous, taut heat, like a fever underneath dry skin.

He turned back to Niccolette, his frown still carved into his face as onto stone. Something dark, he noticed for the first time, leaked from one of her ears. When had that happened? Her response to the amplification spell made more sense, suddenly.

Ekain thought about all of this for a few long moments. He forced himself to flex his field once more, but it could only push weakly against hers, the mona reticent. He did not feel as if he moved a la fois with it, but – he would not bring shame on himself.

Three to two, he thought. The subtle invisibility spell had been a disappointment; he still felt the irritation of it, buzzing against the back of his mind, buzzing like the mona. Buzzing like shame. It had been showy. It had been utterly foolish, and worst of all, it had been a waste of monite. It had not helped him to further his knowledge; it had exerted no real power over her; it had not glorified the gods. That strain, he thought, was a warning.


Rolls
Cast:
SidekickBOTToday at 4:23 PM
@ Graf: 1d6 = (1) = 1
Severity of Failure:
SidekickBOTToday at 4:24 PM
@Graf: 1d6 = (2) = 2 (Backlash)

He would not fail again. Conquest, he thought, steeling himself despite his weariness. His field grew hotter and sigiled. He would glorify the gods this time, he thought.

He could not think.

So he began to speak, because time was leaking away from him. The invocation – he focused on shaping the words correctly, careful not to slur – careful – then he began to weave the spell. It was complex, and he had had no time to prepare; he tried to hold each thread, weaving them together in his head, keeping each piece in his sight, each connection. He was most experienced with electromagnetics, and he knew how to use a current to relieve muscle tension, de, but a little more – only a little – his lips fumbled; his etheric field was so taut –

First, Ekain felt a bending in the air around him. A few wet hairs tickled at his face, wisping out of place. It was too hot. Then, a feeling akin to a blow to his chest. His breath caught, his heart fluttered, and his hand spasmed. He could no longer hold onto his cane. Both of his legs, it seemed to him, had grown so weak that they could not support him.

As he crumpled in the mud, he felt a horrible stillness in the air. “Yaldyet,” he croaked. He could not feel his field. The mona had abandoned him.

His heart pounded wildly, and he could not seem to control the muscles in his face. He was wincing, lips curled back from his teeth, and his eyes were squeezed shut. He could not look at his opponent; he could scarcely hear anything above the sound of his pulse. His head was bowed, and a tangle of hair came loose from his braids. He felt a prickling warmth in his eyes.

He let out another choked noise, gagging. The ground seemed to move beneath him, and he sank further. Distantly, he could hear the crowd murmuring, now, murmuring – more laughter, he thought. Terrible laughter. Where were the mona?

What were the rules for this? Pawley had said nothing. Everything was hushed. Ekain swallowed bile. He lifted his head; he brought his eyes, red-rimmed and brimming, blinking through tears and streaming rainwater, up. Niccolette Ibutatu was a hazy figure.

Ekain curled his long fingers into the mud, staring across at her. He breathed hard. This had never happened to him before.

He would not yield. He would not.
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Last edited by Ekain Da Huane on Fri Aug 16, 2019 9:27 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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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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Fri Aug 16, 2019 6:09 pm

Evening, 16 Hamis 2719
The Pawley's Lawn, Uptown, Vienda
Niccolette knelt on the wet, muddy grass, the rain streaming down around her. The air around her was beginning to heat once more; her spell had not been a success, but she had cast, she had reached out to the mona with her intent, and it was enough. Slowly, the damp in her dress began to hiss; it rose from her, hot into the air, her dress and hair steaming, the grass beneath her as well. She did not yet try to rise, but she found Ekain – first a flicker of something in the rain, just a sense of movement, and then, slowly, the long white lines of his figure.

He walked – slowly – back towards her, a foot, another. The air around him was shifted red, and Niccolette felt tension in his field. She kept her gaze on him, waiting, calm and ready. She did not tense; she did not know what he was capable of. Another spell – something that played with gravity, with sound – it might be more than she could bear. She would, Niccolette thought coolly, know soon enough.

The world had narrowed back to Ekain Da Huane again. There were no more distractions; there was nothing else in her mind but the duel, the sight of him, pale and red-shifted through the rain – the feeling in his field as if it was slanting. Niccolette titled her head, very slightly, to the side, and studied him, carefully. She flexed her field again; he pushed back, but it was weak, almost feeble – nothing like the powerful challenge he had met her with before.

Niccolette took a deep breath, in and out, slow and steady.

Ekain Da Huane began to cast. Niccolette felt his field sigil, felt it etheric, felt the tension of the spell rise – she could not hear more than that he was speaking, but she could see his lips moving, and she watched, and she waited – his field slanted, and she waited still -

And Ekain crumpled. Niccolette felt the release of tension in the air around him – felt the mona reject him. She felt the backlash rip through his field, scattering them.

Niccolette smiled, faintly. There was something cruel about it that she did not bother to hide.

The world was all silence for a moment, only the slow slushing of the rain and the faint distant ripple of laughter through the rain. For Niccolette, it might as well not have existed. The galdor took a deep breath, counting down the seconds in her head. She shifted; she did not bend forward to place her hands on the ground, but instead rose, slow and careful, straight up, until she was a small straight muddy blue line, her knees and toes resting on the ground. Then – carefully – she lifted the line of her dress out of her way as best she could, and lifted her right leg, placing her foot flat on the ground before; she pushed, slowly – wobbled – and climbed to her feet, her left leg planting as well.

Niccolette let go of her filthy, mud-soaked skirt. She held for a moment, just a moment, the careful count in her head continuing. Almost delicately, the Bastian took one step backwards – another – another – a fourth – until she felt the mona in the air around her once more, powerful and vibrant. Back, until she was out of the range of Ekain’s backlash, until she could be assured that calling her own spells would do her no harm.

Niccolette inhaled, long and slow, and began to cast.

The rules around backlashing in a duel were simple enough – there were none. What to do, how to handle it – it was left up to the discretion of one’s opponent. Certainly, there were those who argued that it should be treated with kindness, with grace. Some had argued for a rule change, that backlash should be an automatic forfeit. Others said that anything other than light touch spells were deeply shameful, that one should win against a backlashed opponent with as little force as possible. Some said that it was best to cast once, only once, then to let the opponent’s clock run out, politely – let their three turns elapse.

Others said that if the mona forsook them – well – then their opponent had no responsibility beyond that. Backlash, they argued, was the mona telling the caster they had overstepped, that they had made a shameful lapse, and therefore the right thing – the way to honor the duel – was to finish it properly.

Niccolette did not much care about what the mona had intended for Ekain. She was conscious of etiquette; she was conscious of not wanting to embarrass herself. And, too, she was conscious of not coming to the mona in anger; it never ended well, the Bastian thought coolly. If she had to guess – perhaps that was their lesson for Ekain today. Fitting, she thought, that such a cold man would not have learnt it earlier.

But backlashing was a gray area. Ekain had not yielded, and Niccolette meant to win properly. She did not need to embarrass him further; she felt seeing him on the ground, his white clothes stained with wine and grass and mud, that he had done that well enough for himself. Well, Niccolette amended, mentally – she did not need to embarrass him much further.

Niccolette had chosen an anesthetic spell – one which would dull Ekain's senses, would leave him somewhere between sleepy and unaware. It was not the easiest cast, even when fresh; her field pulsed around her, powerful and etheric, and she was distantly aware, in her good ear, of a few startled gasps from the audience. The Bastian watched the energy stream from her to Ekain, watched it sink into him, to numb him – almost like a painkiller.

Niccolette held, then, her field still around her, steam hissing from her skin. She was trembling beneath the rain, trembling more than a little, but she did not speak or move. Thirty seconds ticked by, slow and painful – Ekain’s turn, forfeited, for how could he cast?

“Heye Da Huane has forfeit his turn!” Pawley’s voice called out, breathless with excitement.

Niccolette inhaled, deeply, and exhaled again. She cast her final spell, then – a simple choice, almost childish. She had chosen it deliberately, carefully. Conquest; it was conquest she meant for tonight. She would not do him grievous injury, no – but he would walk away with marks that would not leave when he changed his clothing. Niccolette cast a weals spell on the Gioran, raising swollen red marks like hives against the pale whiteness of his skin, leaving her imprint behind. The lingering effects of the anesthesia spell she had cast meant it was almost gentle – meant that he would not feel it now, not much, just, Niccolette thought, a faint tingling against his skin.

He would, Niccolette thought coolly, feel it later. Of that – she was sure. The marks would be itchy and uncomfortable as long as they lasted; the drag of his clothing against his skin would irritate, would remind him of her. The marks would fade, of course; they would last for more than a few days at the utmost, but – for that time, let him look at himself, and if he did not feel regret for what he had done to Gia, let him at least regret this duel.

Niccolette curled the spell, and ended the duel.

There was a long pause, then Pawley’s voice, loud and still startlingly cheerful. “And the winner is Ms. Ibutatu! Well done, madam!”

Niccolette wobbled; she pressed her hand to her face. She was aware of her breath catching in her throat; she was aware, abruptly, again, of how much her ear hurt. She touched her hand to it, shaking, then lowered it again. She couldn’t quite seem to bring herself to move again, Niccolette thought, dizzily.

“Nicco,” Francoise was there, then, her eyes wide, one hand reaching out lightly to touch the Bastian’s. “Nicco, darling – ”

Niccolette turned to her friend; her eyes brimmed with tears, and Francoise wrapped her arms around her. “Oh, Nicco,” Francoise whispered, holding her tightly, with no regard at all for the mud that smeared the Bastian’s clothing.

Niccolette hugged her back, buried her face against Francoise’s shoulder, and sobbed, shaking softly. She felt Francoise’s arms around her – one hand stroking her back, the other tangling itself in her hair. Niccolette cried in her friend’s arms until she was breathless, until she could bring herself to look up again. Enofe was there, then, and Aurelien Rochambeaux as well, Francoise’s husband. Enofe was frowning, worried; Aurelien was frowning, distasteful.

Niccolette sniffled, looking at Enofe. She rubbed at her eyes with her left hand, feeling the ring pinch against her finger. “I had to,” she told her brother-in-law.

Enofe sighed. “Let’s get you inside, Niccolette,” Enofe said, gently. Strain had creased his face; he looked old and worn beneath the streaming rain. “You need to rest.”

Niccolette sniffled. She wiped her eyes again, and accepted a handkerchief from Aurelien. She rubbed at her face with it, and it came away streaked with mud. After a moment, the Bastian nodded, almost meekly, accepting. Enofe took her arm on one side – Aurelein, after a brief glare from Francoise, on the other – and, standing between them, without even a single glance back for Ekain Da Huane, Niccolette made her way inside. She was still strong, the Bastian thought, tiredly, her ear throbbing. Uzoji would have believed in her, and he would have been right - and not even death could take that from her, not yet. She wobbled, stumbling, but she caught herself - she did not fall. Not yet.

Image
Rolls
Roll for anesthesia spell: SidekickBOTToday at 2:22 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (5) = 5
Roll for Weals spell: SidekickBOTToday at 2:25 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (3) = 3
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Ekain Da Huane
Posts: 22
Joined: Sun Jul 14, 2019 6:20 pm
Topics: 2
Race: Galdor
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Writer: Graf
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Fri Aug 16, 2019 10:14 pm

the pawleys lawn • uptown
evening on the 16th of hamis, year 2719
Niccolette was standing up. Ekain registered it as if in a dream; he saw the slim, small shape of her, the ripple of her dark blue dress, now drenched black by the rain, stained and scattered with twists of muddy grass.

The soft, distant lanterns played, ghostly, with the planes of her face, the deep shadows, the smeared kohl and the eyes that glittered inside.

Only a moment ago, he knew, she had been pressed to the lawn, unable to raise her head. He knew that she must still be in pain, of course. It gave him something like satisfaction. The dark leaking from her ear told him that the amplification spell – coupled with the happenstance of distant thunder – had left its mark. He could not imagine that the gravity spell had not put a great deal of strain on her muscles, even as little as she had resisted it.

Yet now he was crumpled on the ground, clawing in the mud, and she was standing a few feet across the lawn, staring down at him. That, too, gave him a feeling akin to satisfaction, though he struggled to define it.

Niccolette was stepping back, he realized. He could not think why, at first: he worried that she had taken his posture as a cue he had not meant, as a sign that he meant to yield. He resisted the urge to shriek that he did not. Then, when she had stepped back far enough, he saw her lips move again. She had moved out of the range of his backlash.

He wanted to stand; he wanted to meet her standing, even if he forfeit his last two turns. Even if all the mona had abandoned him, and he had brought shame on himself. He wanted to stand up straight, and he wanted to arrange himself into a shape of dignity. Nevertheless, all of the energy had bled from him. The pain in his leg, now, was nigh unbearable; he bore it, but there were tears in his eyes. Everything else had turned to mud, to water.

It was strange, then, to feel the pain ebb under a blanket of numbness. The worst of the spasm in his leg was subsiding. Even his fingers, coated though they were in the chill slime, began to feel thick and unwieldy. Warm.

It was infuriating. He wanted to cry out that it was not fair. He had expected more pain. As Niccolette curled her spell, he heard Pawley – distant, as if he were trapped in a bottle – call out that he had forfeit his turn. This time, he could not bring himself to smile. He lay scowling in the mud, staring at her through the tangled, drenched mess of his hair with red-rimmed eyes.

Niccolette spoke again. He did not recognize the spell immediately, but he felt streaks of tingling against his skin – and as the realization dawned on him, he stifled a screech, clenching his jaw shut to prevent the strangled caterwaul from coming out. Weals! Where were they, the lawn at Brunnhold? He could not bear to look toward the terrace, toward all of those pale, indistinct faces.

By the time Pawley called out Niccolette’s victory, Ekain was faint. He felt as if the weariness, the nausea, had stolen his reason. His churning stomach made him gag again; he clutched at his clammy face with a clammy hand.

The Anaxi woman from earlier was suddenly at Niccolette’s side, joined by a smattering of other galdori. Ekain recognized Enofe pez Okorie among them. Niccolette was touching her ear, he realized, as if she were in pain – she was crying, he saw, still, then tangled in the embrace of her friend. An awful feeling bubbled up in him. Swallowing bile, he turned his face away, no longer able to look. He curled.

More than a minute passed before he could face the world again. When he looked, he saw that Niccolette had already left; the terrace had begun to clear out. Then the dark sky and the wavering lanterns began to whirl, and he had to lower his eyes again.

The numbness of her spell was fading, and the marks she had left on his skin were beginning to sting like the lashes of a whip. He felt one, two, three on his arms, but he could not bear to look. He thought that they would stand out luridly, red on white. He thought of the Swan, streaked with red wine.

A few times he cast about for his cane in the mud, but he could not find the handle. He was more tired than he had been in a very long time. He could think of nothing more; if the loss of the duel struck him deeper, he was not able to process it. He only knew that the thought of his clothes – the thick, heavy white fabric, drenched with rain and wine, that clung to his skin – was horrible, unbearable, and he longed to peel them off. Even his earrings seemed to weigh down his ears.

Eventually, he felt a pair of strong arms slide underneath his. Groaning softly, he let himself be hauled to his feet. A white blur on his periphery told him that his cane had been recovered. “’Ere you go, sir,” husked a voice. Ekain’s lip curled. Dayee.

“Heye Da Huane,” came a familiar voice, smooth, cultured. Darkness pressed at the edges of Ekain’s vision, but he managed to focus his eyes on a thin, freckled face, a swirl of red. Because of the absence of the mona, he had not felt the other galdor’s approach. Even now, there was something irritated in the set of his face; he seemed to bounce at the edges of his vision, as if eager to leave.

Somehow, Ekain forced a thin smile. “Mr. Pawley,” he said softly. “Kdeuee. It was –” He swallowed another gag, sagging against the animal that held him. “You honored us,” he breathed, “by permitting us to have our contest on your lawn.”

“Of course. Do you, ah – well – is there anybody –”

Ekain saw a handful of other faces nearby. One dark face leapt out at him, handsome brow knit with concern – and something like embarrassment. It swam away shortly, and he could not seem to find it again.

He managed to raise a pale hand. “Please. No. My carriage,” was all he could say. His head lolled back against the dayee’s shoulder. The darkness pressed all the more, and he felt overwhelmed by the desire to sleep. The sky moved.

Ekain roused himself. Forcing his eyes back open, he met Pawley’s, then offered him another soft, smooth smile.

“Give Ms. Ibutatu,” he murmured, slurring a little on the name Ibutatu, “my regards, verahay.”

“Of course, Heye.”

He sagged in the animal’s arms. Euohey was pressing down on him, pressing him deep into the earth, and he could hear nothing but the churning rock, the rushing of Imaan’s waters in his ears. He felt that he had done all that he needed to do, and so, with one small nod, he let them carry him off.
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