[PM to Join] Nocturnal Creatures

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Hamis, 2719
The Lycat, Uptown

Niccolette felt a discordant note through her field; one coming from Drezda, she realized, somewhat hazily. Her own field remained crisp and indectal, unaffected; there was no colorshift, not anymore, not even the faint near-goldshift she had summoned before. Control was easier, by now; stillness was easier. If she let anything leak through, then Niccolette knew all too well it might all leak through – all the anger, the fear, the sadness, the hurt.

She was sorry her glass was empty.

Drezda called herself contradictory, and Niccolette smiled, faintly. She had watched without comment as the Hoxian drained a healthy mouthful of the wine she had praised; she wondered if the other woman had even tasted it. Contradictions and overlap, leading to complexity. Drezda finished her glass. Niccolette sighed, and brushed a strand of hair off of her face; her hand settled back down against her side, and her gaze lowered to the empty glasses on the table.

Niccolette did not look up as Drezda rose – she did not look up until Drezda addressed her, her tone sharp. Then, abruptly, Niccolette’s gaze jerked up, and snapped onto the Hoxian, suddenly bright and sharp. The feeling ran through her field; it was not the bright liveliness of a typical living conversationalist’s field, suddenly, but a sharper feeling, like a warning running through the air around her.

Do not, Niccolette thought, coolly, dare tell me what to do.

But the feeling faded, and the surge of anger too, and her field dampened faintly against her skin once more, politely contained for public consumption. Niccolette lowered her gaze deliberately to Drezda’s hand, and delicately set her own hand in the Hoxian’s, pale, slender fingers resting against the other’s skin. She felt it, the careful contact between them, in more than just her fingertips.

“I suppose,” Niccolette agreed. Her gaze skidded away, then, and she felt exhausted; beyond exhausted, drained, and empty. She wobbled as she rose; her legs were shaky and weak beneath her, and she held tight to Drezda with one hand, and pressed the other to the side of the booth. Her head was swimming, and the lights of the bar blurred dizzily around her; she could not focus on them.

Niccolette closed her eyes and breathed deep, trembling, standing there next to the booth. Her field flexed in the air around her – not to intimidate, as it had a moment before, but as if molding itself to her, as if offering her strength. Niccolette counted the seconds of her breath, the inhales and exhales, and Drezda was too close not to feel it, the way the mona responded to her breaths as if they were a spell. She swayed, her eyes closed, but did not fall, and never lost the rhythm of her breath.

After a few moments, Niccolette exhaled out the last of it, carefully. She opened her eyes, and mastered herself, carefully; she had her will still, she thought grimly through the haze, though it seemed little else remained to her these days. She turned her gaze to Drezda, and lifted her chin, more steadily than she’d done anything else since first trying to stand. “Shall we?” She asked, with only the slightest tremble in her voice. The tears in her eyelashes were gone, dried or blinked away; it would be hard to know which.

Niccolette knew she was fooling no one; not herself, and not Drezda. All the same, she took careful, deliberate steps, and her legs held beneath her as they walked through the bar, although somewhat grudgingly. There was an ache, somewhere deep inside her, which seemed to grow worse with each step. There was no placing it, quite; Niccolette knew it not for any injury, but for a sort of weakness in her muscles, a lingering gift from her duel with Ekain. She bore through it; she could do little else. She was conscious of eyes on her in the dimly lit bar, eyes other than Drezda’s; she did not look to meet them.

It was Hamis, and the evening air outside was cold. Niccolette shuddered; it seemed to cut straight through the red dress, straight through the cloak she had borrowed from Francoise. Her teeth were chattering, and she clenched her jaw to still them, swaying slightly. She could ask Drezda to take her – Niccolette wondered if the dinner party was still going on. She wondered what would happen if she walked back in – like this – she couldn’t bear it.

“I should not like to go back to where I am staying,” Niccolette said, quietly, directly. She looked at Drezda, and she was conscious again of a burning heat behind her eyes; she was conscious, too, of the memory of the other woman’s touch, not just against her hand, but somewhere else, somewhere she was not sure she could name. She swallowed, hard, and stiffened her back as best as she could, and let the other woman decide.

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 28, 2719 | Late Evening
The Lycat, Uptown Vienda

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There was something off about Niccolette but godsbedamned if Drezda could identify what it was. Her companion was incredibly still, not simply calmly but almost blank emotionally. Her field was strong and unwavering, not a ripple or discordant note in its Living-heavy mass. Maybe it was that stillness, that very controlled deadening that perturbed her so, especially in light of the tears that had wet her lashes. It was more than that though, something just out of her conscious reach as if her mind had been puzzling over something in the background and had come to some sort of conclusion. It was a niggle in the murky depths of her subconscious, creeping questing fingers along the edges of the light, seeming to seek contact but still avoiding discovery. Every time she tried to grasp it, it slithered away again. So close and yet so far. She’d have to leave it be for the time being, see if it might slip closer so she could pounce on it once it could be caught unawares. In the meantime, she had to do her best to avoid worrying at it like a tongue at a loose tooth.

However, as she gave her stern order, there was no need to avoid dwelling on it; she had a distraction.

Black eyes met hazel ones, the Hoxian glued in spite of the burning intensity there. Maybe she should have flinched or looked away but she was mesmerised. She felt the warning ripple and didn’t allow her field to grow doe-toed although there was definitely a moment where she wanted to cower — magically at least. Instead, the diplomat made her field flex minutely, chin lifting a little so that for a moment, she gazed down her nose at her, refusing to back down when she knew that Niccolette needed to get out of here. She might be lively now, but Drezda trusted her previous instinct. This was for the Bastian’s own good and damn if the fire wasn’t attractive.

Once upon a time, Drezda had been attracted to strong women, been prepared to bow before them, submit herself to them when really she’d wanted to emulate them. Now, a headstrong and powerful woman was attractive because of the challenge she presented, the sort of woman who it would be impossible to bend — or next to impossible. Something trembled through her own field, the sentient particles shaking violently for a brief moment so that they created something that seemed hard, sharp, not quite impassable but discouraging. Then it settled.

No, she wasn’t going to back down, even if she was probably halfway to being drunk. Then again, that was probably why she could do it — liquid courage, bravado. The young woman just wanted her to take her bloody hand and let her lead her out. She wasn’t trying to be nasty but godsdamn it, firm got her what she wanted. Maybe nasty came to her more readily, it had to be admitted, but she was clocking well trying, wasn’t she?

Only when the other woman took her hand and visibly deflated did she herself relax, weary in spite of the victory. It wasn’t really a victory though, was it? Not when it involved getting a woman to do something that was for her own good. What was more, the Hoxian had obviously been right because the Bastian didn’t look well at all. She’d made the right decision, even if it had been touch and go there for a moment.

Drezda kept her touch light, guiding. Despite the firm tone that had brooked no arguments, she was gentle now, almost timid. A hand found the other’s lower back, hovering more than touching, intending to be supportive rather than intrusive. It probably looked intimate to anyone looking on and wasn’t that better for the woman’s pride — the pride of them both, perhaps — if it looked that way rather than as if the Bastian might sink under her own weight. Okay, maybe she wasn’t that bad but there was certainly an unsteadiness about her.

However, the Living Conversationalist didn’t seem to need it, some strength mustered from somewhere and she drew her hand back hesitantly. She couldn’t say that she wasn’t disappointed, something that surprised her actually because there hadn’t been designs here, there had just been-

Just been what? She had no idea what this was or what it had been. There had been flirtation, there had been definite interest flickering between them but while there had been a moment, it had passed. She didn’t expect anything, didn’t know that she wanted anything but there was some sadness all the same.

“We shall indeed.”

The pretense of aid and intimacy was gone now, the Hoxian matching the pace that her companion set, leisurely and relaxed, turning her gaze around her almost lazily although really she was seeking other eyes, a challenge in the onyx orbs that told them to look away. Most did but not all. Well, it couldn’t be helped but she’d tried to dissuade curious people all the same.

Once they hit the Hamis air, a cool damp hanging around them, she cleared her throat softly, resisting the urge to fold her arms against the chill.

“Well, I think I can prove just as useful as any man and flag a cab for you, m’lady!” she announced grandly with a shallow bow, a faint smile alighting on her lips at the joke. However, it flickered uncertainly at the other’s words. The corners of her mouth pulled down, a crease appearing between her brows. She didn’t want to go back to where she was staying and that left, either a rented room for the night, which the diplomat would have to pay for as Niccolette hadn’t come with money or else… well, Drezda did have a spare room and it wasn’t as if- she wasn’t asking-

“Would you like to return home with me? I have a spare room and while spartan, it should be comfortable. And I could provide you with some… suitable nightwear. Additionally, rather than venture out on the morrow in that dress, I could also provide you with a change of clothes. If you wish. We… we’re likely the same size,” Drezda admitted, white teeth contrasting against reddened lips as she caught the bottom one briefly.

A cab would be necessary either way, certainly more convenient than walking home and better for Niccolette if she chose to accompany her. So she glanced up and down the street, a cab parked none too far away, no doubt an enterprising driver taking advantage of those who were likely to stagger out of the bar. Her mouth puckered in a minute pout as she sighed.

“I shan’t need to flag anyone down after all. No displays of gallantry for me this evening, it seems,” she teased lightly, self-conscious and feeling that the joke was sure to fall flat. She headed for the driver and began a brisk speech, rather no-nonsense even if a delicate slur had entered her voice and everything swayed a little merrily, lurching when she moved, especially suddenly.

She gave her own address and then turned towards her companion, beckoning her if she hadn’t followed.

“Well? Where shall it be? Would you prefer that I secure ozzer- ahem other accommodation?” she questioned, speech ready to break down into inarticulate syllables.

The wine that she had chugged was starting to hit her hard now, the foolish urge to grin striking her. Not that she’d give in to such a thing! She was Hoxian! All the same, there was a crooked upturn that she wasn’t entirely aware was there.

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[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Hamis, 2719
The Lycat, Uptown

Niccolette reacted very little to Drezda’s pronouncement, and the shallow bow and faint smile that accompanied them. Her gaze had drifted away from the other woman; she seemed to be looking at nothing at all, utterly still in the crisp night air. Her jaw was clenched tight against the chattering of her teeth. She heard the joke muffled, as if from a great distance away, or through layers of cloth; as if her ears were full of cotton, her whole head stuffed full of it, so that it had nowhere to go but to spill out of her ears.

And Uzoji – in her memories, only, now, Niccolette thought. In her head, only – calling a thousand cabs, in Vienda, in the Rose, in Thul Ka, in Laus Oma. “Let me just – ” he might have said, grinning at her. She could hear the low, warm, rumble of his laugh; she could feel it, if she wished. On a night like tonight, she would not have needed his coat. He felt the cold worse than she did, anyway, and yet he’d never hesitated to drape it over her. She thought he probably would have.

Niccolette’s breath was coming unevenly. Drezda’s voice was drifting in and out. She swayed, once, and took a deep breath, steadying herself. She turned back to the other woman, but it was slow going. She held there at the entrance of the bar as Drezda strode to the cab driver, and came when the other woman beckoned her. Her steps were slow, and even, and steady.

There was something like a popping in her ears, a whooshing, and Niccolette blinked, and shook her head, delicately. “No other accommodation,” she said, quietly. “Thank you.” It was a kind invitation, Niccolette thought; more than kind. She could return to Francoise’s, tomorrow, when the party had ended – when there was no chance that Desverdes or even Aurelien would see her in such a – such a state. Niccolette was aware that she was trembling again, although she could not have said why. There were, really, so many reasons.

With Uzoji, she never would have found herself in such a state, Niccolette knew. How dare he, she thought, and not for the first time. How dare he leave her like this? And yet – she wished she could ask him. Should I trust this Hoxian? She would have liked his judgment. There were things worse than embarrassing oneself before a house party of dignitaries; there were things worse than coming to a friend’s home late at night, with whiskey on your breath and a slightly creased collar. Long ago, Niccolette had determined that shame was largely a matter of what one felt; it could not be put upon you, if you refused it. And yet, perversely, Niccolette thought she would rather run such worse risks; they seemed now easier to bear.

Whatever she felt – whatever her judgment said – whatever Uzoji might have done – Niccolette did not hesitate to climb into the carriage.

Niccolette settled onto the seat of the carriage, tilting her head back slightly, resting it against the seat. The cabin felt as if it were spinning around her, whirling, monstrously. In flight, she thought, it would be a very bad sign; no airship could survive such a whirl. It shuddered into movement beneath her, and for a moment she could not tell what was real and what was fake.

But only for a moment.

Niccolette opened her eyes, and sat up. She took a deep breath, and brushed her hands over her skirt; she ran her fingers back through her hair. It was harder to come back, every time; it was a little more tiring. She felt it, inside her, something dark and yawning, an emptiness; she could have sunk into it, so easily. She did not know where it led; she did not know what would happen, if she submerged too long.

“Thank you,” Niccolette said again. She reached out, and set her hand delicately on top of Drezda’s, not quite taking it, but resting bare skin on bare skin. Their fields were still too close to be apart; Niccolette let a pulse of gratitude, warm and soft, echo from hers, catching the edges of Drezda’s and washing through it. She had thought to smile, but she found she did not have one to offer. She squeezed, once, gently, and eased back, settling her hands together in her lap.

Niccolette couldn't have said what she felt; she couldn't have said what she wanted to feel. She took another deep breath, careful, and felt it tremble through her. The carriage was rocking beneath them, now; she looked across the cabin at Drezda, wondering and weary, and held herself upright a little longer.

[Drezda Ecks]

Hamis 28, 2719 | Late Evening
Carriage from the Lycat to Drezda's Home

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The offer of accommodation at her own home was on the table but Drezda didn’t think that the other would take it. It might be the most sensible option in many ways, also possibly the most comfortable one under the circumstances but it would mean that the Bastian would have to interact with her, at least in part. Niccolette hardly seemed to want to associate with the diplomat anymore, a coolness about her that she’d love to put down to exhaustion and inebriation alone but couldn’t be sure. It niggled at her, the uncomfortable feeling that her last action in the bar, the order she had given had pushed something past its breaking point. There had been a warning there, a focused anger that had made the Hoxian somewhat hesitant to touch her or to persuade to do anything further. Perhaps it had been enough of an offence that it had established a rift between them, the two pushed apart rather than brought closer together by this entire experience. Drezda didn’t expect them to be friends but acquaintances were nice sometimes, certainly better than enemies.

She had made an effort though, she had done her best tonight but there was good reason why she had so frequently tried to keep people out in the cold; it was far easier to reject people before they could reject you. Already, the young woman felt somewhat resigned to such a thing. The last thing she’d expected was for the Bastian to agree to accompany her and it showed on her face, eyes widening in a suddenly slackened visage.

“I uh… Good! That’s- I’ll sort things then!” Drezda responded, turning her attention back to the driver so she could confirm details with him instead of staring at the Living Conversationalist. She couldn’t understand why the other had agreed to come with her, couldn’t understand why she hadn’t chosen the other option on the table and the alcohol flowing through her bloodstream wasn’t making things any clearer.

The young woman dallied, unsure what to make of things now that the situation had taken an unexpected turn and she found that she didn’t want to face Nicco just yet, or at least avoid her as long as possible. She couldn’t put it off forever and while the driver might be willing to put up with her chroveshit excuses of wanting to take the air for a few moments, her companion probably wouldn’t wait. Honestly, she might well pass out while Drezda wasted time and while it was tempting to allow that to happen, the Hoxian knew that it wouldn’t be fair.

She joined Niccolette in the carriage.

The raven-haired woman tried to fold her hands into her lap but discovered that she couldn’t put them into such a composed position. Instead, she settled for draping an arm along the back of her chair while the other rested against her hair, checking the various strands with her fingers, using it to ground her. She stroked it slowly, calmly, curling a poker straight lock around her finger. The twist fell out as soon as she released it. The arm that had tried to find purchase on the back of the seat wasn’t in a comfortable position and so it shifted down again, hand placed into her lap and the other soon joined it rather reluctantly. She just didn’t know what to do.

Her companion seemed quite drained, the act of remaining upright appearing to take a sizable effort on her part. She hardly seemed like a good talking companion right now and in any case, the Hoxian didn’t know what topic she was supposed to bring up. Should she talk about what the other should expect when they got to the diplomat’s home? There wasn’t really anything to say about that, not unless she was planning on giving her the dimensions of the room she’d mentioned; everything that needed to be said had been said. It probably wasn’t ideal to discuss why Niccolette hadn’t wanted to return to her current abode or why she hadn’t wanted Drezda to secure alternative accommodation for her. It would all be small talk, pointless and dull, and without any real feeling behind it.

As such, she didn’t say anything until the Bastian herself spoke, offering her thanks and Drezda’s response was brief, brushing off her thanks and stating that it wasn’t far, tensing a little at the touch of her hand. It wasn’t a lie, it really wasn’t all that far and if she had walked it, she would have been home within fifteen minutes or so, longer if her pace were truly leisurely. Even if she’d been on her own, she probably would have gotten a cab because the chill was biting now and she’d walked to the bar in the first place so wasn’t that good enough?

Thus, as the carriage wheels drove through the streets of Uptown, the Hoxian assessed her physical and mental state. She had slipped up with that second drink, she knew that and there was something of an itch now, something that made the prospect of arriving in a dry house disappointing. Still she had a hold on herself, she might be a bit tipsy, perhaps a little beyond that but she was quite functional, thank you very much, and certainly not drunk. Things might be shifting a little more than before, everything surrounding her performing a slow, lazy dance and she might have an inclination towards brighter spirits but she certainly wasn’t worse for wear. Tomorrow, she would probably be a bit disappointed in herself for being so needlessly weak, for not stopping at one drink as she’d promised herself but for now, she was content with the alcohol bubbling merrily through her bloodstream.

After the carriage came to a halt and the door was opened, the diplomat found herself jolting, a little shocked. Surely, she hadn’t been drifting off, had she? Perhaps she’d allowed herself to get a little too absorbed in that warm bliss in her system but awareness came back to her now, sharp and stinging cold as if she’d been slapped. She cleared her throat, drawing herself forward so that she was at the seat’s edge before she rose, slightly bent as she sought safe purchase for her feet. A dark hand was there to assist her, the porch light dancing across the back of it. The driver had evidently rapped on the door upon arrival and she hadn’t noticed; she really must have been dozing. She accepted the proffered hand tentatively, a light touch for the sake of steadying herself as she descended.

“Welcome home, Mistress,” came the rumble of the Mugrobi’s voice from above her, the porch lights catching the back of his head so that his features were in silhouette.

“Good evening, Jerome. I’ve brought a guest. Niccolette might uh… she might require a little assistance.”

The last word came out in a tangle of ‘s’ sounds, the Hoxian wincing delicately as she heard her own slurring. She cleared her throat again. “I have to see that Cora organises the guest room for her,” she added, brushing past him to the warmth of the hallway where the human housekeeper waited to take her coat and no doubt assess just how much she’d had to drink.

While the mistress of the house explained the situation, speaking with slow care, her imbala servant went to see to the Bastian.

“Good evening, Miss Niccolette. Can I offer assistance?” he asked, his voice warm and kind, certainly not judgmental, white teeth visible in his angular face as he smiled. If she couldn’t manage to rise by herself then he would assist her but otherwise, he would offer the same hand that he had offered his mistress, hovering near at hand to support her further because he would realise at once how far gone she was. If it was truly necessary then he would lift her out, gentle and respectful. In spite of the soft blue of his uniform, he had quiet dignity that seemed more at home on a galdori master than a servant, although the absence of a field was further evidence of what he was not.

.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Hamis, 2719
A Carriage to Drezda Ecks' House, Uptown

Niccolette had thought to hold herself awake. Drezda brushed away her thanks, and shied from her touch, and Niccolette did not make another attempt to bridge the gap between them. She did not understand; she was too tired to search for it. She turned away, looking at the passing lights out the window; it was dappled with water still from the recent rains, and the city passing by shone through the droplets, refracted and scattered. She had meant to watch, but she found her eyelids growing heavy; she found herself curled into the cushion of the carriage as the wheels rocked over the paving stones below, uneven and steady all at once.

The world blurred into light and sound and the rushing of the carriage wheels, like the steady pouring of rain. Niccolette dreamed herself on a lawn behind a great house; she dreamed of the ache that pounded steadily through her head, and a slim tall figure in red-stained white, standing opposite her. She dreamed of the ground cracking open beneath her, reaching up with dark familiar hands to claim her for its own. They wrapped around her – they settled against her side, her arms and legs, covered her mouth, and pulled her beneath; she could see the blades of grass as she passed through them, feel them, viciously sharp, stinging at her skin, cutting her open.

She could not fight; she could not scream. There was a distant, dull boom that echoed through the air, and it was all that she could hear. Her body ached as if she had run; there was a throbbing pain in her leg, half-remembered, and she was on her knees – she was being pulled down, stretching back – there was darkness closing over her as the ground sealed her inside, and only then could Niccolette try to scream, but it was too late – too late –

Niccolette’s eyes jerked open. She doubled forward, shaking, her face pressed against her hands. She held them over her mouth, because she knew she would scream if she did not; there were tears burning sharp behind her eyes, and all the whiskey she had drank churned in her stomach, as if it wished to come back up. There was a lilting, Mugrobi-accented voice directed to her, and Niccolette looked up, tears shining in eyes caught green by the lamplight. She shuddered again; her hands were tight in her hair, against her scalp. She let go, slowly; she straightened up.

Niccolette glanced down at the dark, long-fingered hand offered to her, and back up to the imbala’s face. She shook her head, faintly, and shuddered, regretting the motion; nausea was churning through her, and she did not want to be sick. She gripped hold of the seat, and eased herself forward, slowly; her skin was aching and clammy, and the malaise fluttered out through her field, for just a moment before Niccolette shuddered and pulled it back beneath her skin.

She clung to the door for a moment; she managed one step, and then another, and then her legs were like water. Niccolette gritted her teeth and swallowed the cry that threatened to emerge, and the sob too, clinging to the carriage.

Niccolette glanced up at the imbala, tears shining all the more brightly in her eyes; she blinked them away, as best as she could, although she felt one sliding slowly down her cheek, tracing the curve of her nose. She licked it off her lips with a little grimace, tasting the salt and the faint bitter tang of the lip color that still remained. Her legs ached; all of her ached, all through, and Niccolette for a moment had the absurd feeling that the earth had squeezed her too hard, that what she felt, the lingering pain, was from being crushed. She shook her head, faintly, pushing the dream away, and straightened up as best she could, looking at the imbala once more. She had not caught his name; she did not especially care.

“I cannot,” Niccolette said, quietly, in Mugrobi rather than Estuan; she had an accent close to that of a native speaker, distinctly flavored with the tones of Thul Ka. She closed her eyes, and held still as she felt the imbala come closer, and lift her the rest of the way from the carriage. There was no discomfort in her at being touched by a passive, and she was well beyond shame for her state; it had flickered, briefly, somewhere inside her, and then guttered out. There was nothing to sustain it.

The Living Conversationalist knew her limits; she knew, too, how well she had exceeded them. She did not try to fight it, not anymore; she let the imbala carry her, and closed her eyes, and surrendered briefly to the clawing hands of the earth once more.