[Closed] All of This Turbulence

[Tom Cooke]

Uccello di Hurte • Aloft

Mid-Morning on the 25th of Yaris, 2719

I
t’d been a strangely short walk back, all told. If Tom’s memories had given him trouble, he’d shown no sign of it. He’d been too relieved to think too hard on the imbala at his shoulder, too grateful just to feel the solid presence of him, to have felt the familiar firm grip of his hand as he levered him shakily to his feet. Then, on the stairs, he’d been too busy listening to Capaldi’s shouts, the banging of his fist on the captain’s door, straining to hear if there was anything underneath them.

In the hall, Aremu was past him before he could say a word, and he knew, by then, words weren’t needed. He noticed the drag of one leg on the floorboards and grimaced. Capaldi was still banging at the door, but he turned, and spilled out his surprise — and Tom couldn’t see what was in the imbala’s eyes, but he could see it reflected into Capaldi’s face, and he wasn’t surprised when the captain’s lapdog let the passive by. His own face was grim, grimmer, as Aremu knocked. It was a slow, even knock, nothing like Capaldi’s banging.

The door opened, and Tom sagged against the wall. Wasn’t just her field bright and sharp: she was vivid, even dark against the light coming through behind her; the smile on her painted lips was vivid, the old blood trail down her chin was vivid. There was some rumpling about her dress, a crease to the collar, but nothing looked torn, and he saw no other blood.

Watching her pout at Aremu, Tom couldn’t help the relieved smile that broke across his face. He wondered, maybe for the first time, how a Bastian galdor’d come to feel so strongly about a passive; but he reckoned the bonds of a crew were close, and Uzoji’d cared deeply for him. He couldn’t hear (or see, or feel, for that matter) Isidore Giordanetto, and Capaldi’s field beside him was dampening, and he felt pleasantly emptied-out. It was like getting through a fight alive.

The imbala moved past her, and she turned next to him. He’d not a single clue how he looked, but it couldn’t’ve been any worse than the rest of them. He half-expected her to dismiss him; but when she spoke, it didn’t sound much like a suggestion. He stifled the smile, nodded once (and fair seriously), and bowed as much as his aching back could handle. Then he moved into the study, seeing Aremu’d already half-melted into one of the leather chairs.

Tom collapsed immediately into one nearby. He sprawled like a cat, one skinny arm draped over the side, legs loosely crossed.

Like this, he could bring himself to look round him. After the engine room, it was chilly, and he felt spoiled for air to breathe. Frown deepening, he took in the broken glass on the study floor. He raised his eyes to the dining room door, and they widened fractionally. From here, he could make out half a man’s shape, utterly prone: a splayed-out leg, a limp hand near a puddle of wine and a broken glass bulb. Tom sucked at a tooth contemplatively. A little worried, but not too much.

Niccolette’s voice drew his eyes back to the door. He tried to focus on it. By the time she shut the door, he reckoned he’d got the gist. He reckoned Capaldi did, too — leastways, he sure as hell hoped he did, for his sake.

He felt slightly disappointed, but maybe Giordanetto hadn’t had enough scars to make it work benny.

Tom raised his head a little more as she moved back to tend to Aremu, brow knitting with concern when he groaned, and relaxing, just a pina, when he laughed. When Niccolette spoke, matter-of-fact, Tom rested his head back against the chair.

She turned and looked at him with raised brows, with something like a challenge in her eyes. He didn’t have much more pretense in him. He found it in himself to quirk one eyebrow sharply, then let his head loll and shut his eyes.

He drifted, or tried to, though he kept catching himself, like it still wasn’t safe, like he’d still wake and find himself — suddenly tense, he listened to Niccolette’s footsteps moving away. But by the time she came back, he’d forced himself to relax again. He opened up one eye to see her setting the bottle of Villamarzana on the table and fishing out two cut-glass tumblers.

“Aye, madam, I reckon so,” he grunted, and pushed himself up on the arm of the chair. He watched Niccolette pour one glass, then the other, and hand one to Aremu. When Tom took his, he raised it cheerfully to Niccolette and Aremu in a toast.

Then, he took a drink; he paused, thinking the Terenadetto wasn’t half bad, this time. Then again, nothing was half bad at a time like this. He drained most of the glass with his second draught. In a strange way, he didn’t think he’d been more comfortable in months.

“Thank you. Circle keep the both of you,” he breathed. His lips twisted, curling a little. He looked through the doorway to the dining room for a moment, tapping the rim of his glass with a fingernail, then looked back at Niccolette and Aremu. “Sostratos backlashed himself unconscious down in the engine room; he’s still there, so you know, but I suspect he’s no priority. Ada’xa Ediwo was just in time, else I don’t know what would’ve happened.” Not a single lie, he thought pleasantly. You’re outdoing yourself tonight.

He shifted against the leather, settling back again with his glass. He took another drink, finishing off the dregs. “The captain,” he started, then hesitated; his frown deepened.

Will there be problems? He didn’t want to ask, not with the trail of blood down Niccolette’s chin; he wished he didn’t have to care. But he thought of sharp-eyed Capaldi, Galatas, even mung Sostratos still in the engine room. He thought of complications; he thought of poisoned gin, of sabotage. He thought about the mess they might be leaving at Hawke’s feet.

“Is he our Brother?” he asked, much more softly.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Night, 25th Yaris, 2719
Uccello di Hurte, in the skies over the Tincta Basta

Niccolette set the glasses down and poured one by one, smiling. Two cut glass tumblers, and a wineglass with a hairline fracture running through the cup, into which she managed about half a glass before the bottle ran dry.

She brought the first tumbler to Aremu. He took it with a grateful little sigh; his eyes were fluttering tiredly, and his fingers left streaks of grime across the glass. He settled the cup against his thighs, and curled his cheek into the chair. He looked, Niccolette thought critically, more exhausted than anything. She tamped down on the fear prickling sharp in her stomach; she knew better than to cast hastily and afraid after a paralysis spell.

Niccolette knew Aremu well enough to know he wouldn’t grumble if it was serious; if it hurt beyond bearing, he would be tight and silent and drawn. She had seen him worse; she was grateful for those two little laughs, in a way she did not wish to think too deeply about.

Niccolette brought the second glass to Vauquelin. He too, she had seen worse, but he looked a mess. His collar was jerked open, his coat gone, his sleeves rolled up; his delicate politician’s hands were smeared with grime. No blood or split knuckles this time, Niccolette thought, amused. 

Niccolette lifted her glass to return his toast. She saw Aremu do the same in the corner of her eye, and the imbala drained the glass in a few long swallows. That ached, and Niccolette did not do more than sip hers. The spicy notes seemed milder now, more balanced; Niccolette supposed the airing out had done the wine well.

Aremu set his tumbler down with a shaky clink, and he rested back into the chair. Niccolette could see his eyes fluttering again; his chin jerked, once. He startled upright when Vauquelin spoke, and rubbed his hand over his face, blinking heavily. Niccolette could see the way he was looking at Vauquelin, and she looked between them, sharp and more than a little curious.

Instead of asking, though, Niccolette nodded. “And the ship?” She asked, arms crossed over her chest, holding the wine glass.

“Fine now,” Aremu said. His voice rasped, and there was a thick sluggishness to the words. He closed his eyes again, and he smiled.

Niccolette turned back to Vauquelin. Our brother, she thought, head tilting slightly to the side. She studied the small man draped over the leather seat, the deep, tired lines in his face, hard to read with only the starlight. The room was quiet, now, with only the faint creaking and swaying of the ship in the breeze, barely audible, the sort of sound which faded into the background on a journey like this. There was a faint, even shuffle of breath coming from Aremu’s chair.

“A moment,” Niccolette said, setting her glass down. She glanced over at Aremu; his eyes had not opened, and his bare chest was rising and falling evenly. She went across the room to Isidore’s bedroom, and she did not hesitate, but marched inside and emerged with an armful of blanket. She draped it over Aremu, who shifted, fluttered, and slipped deeper into sleep.

“He should be kept warm,” Niccolette said, lifting her chin firmly in Vauquelin’s direction. She went back to her wine glass, and took another sip.

Niccolette tapped her fingernails against the glass, and looked at Isidore, lying prone in the dining room. “The Captain is not our brother,” Niccolette said. “If he knows what is good for him, he shall be grateful his ship did not go down tonight, and he shall avoid any jobs with our relations from now on.”

Niccolette tapped her nails against the glass again, then drained the last of the wine and set it down. “If he does not,” she said, evenly, audibly, “I shall enjoy personally dealing with him.” She smiled at Vauquelin. 

“Do you need anything?” Niccolette asked a few moments later, quieter now. Her gaze flickered over him again. She thought he did not need it explained that they would not be leaving this room again before their journey ended. He looked worn, almost as worn as Aremu still dozing beneath his blanket. Our brother, she thought, curiously.

[Tom Cooke]

Uccello di Hurte • Aloft

Mid-Morning on the 25th of Yaris, 2719

T
he ship swayed, but he found it easier to stomach, now. Maybe it was knowing whatever’d gone wrong had been fixed, and, Circle willing, they’d stay in the air long enough to reach the isles; maybe it was that there was no need to stand, nothing to do, and so he could let the ship be a cradle rather than a prison. Maybe it was Aremu’d fallen asleep, and they could both hear the soft rasp of his breath, in and out, aligning with the gentle creak and tilt of the ship. Maybe he was just too godsdamn tired to care.

Niccolette excused herself went out through the other door with purpose in her step; she came back in with an armful of blanket. Tom watched as she draped it over the sleeping imbala.

She was telling him Aremu needed to be kept warm, no-nonsense and insistent as if she were giving him instructions for changing his bandages. She was telling him something else, too, he thought, and so he nodded once, with the same grim seriousness — as if he’d never’ve thought otherwise; as if it were information of crucial importance to him — though he knew, too, knew she knew he didn’t dare argue.

Then, the answer to his question. He raised his chin and looked at her thoughtfully.

It didn’t surprise him Giordanetto wasn’t connected; he knew his own paranoia, sure as he knew the risks of his job. He still felt deflated. No poison in the gin, no intentional sabotage, no drain operatives. Just a flooding man. He remembered the way the captain had looked at Niccolette at the dinner table, remembered the way he’d warned her away from the edge of the platform a day, a century ago, and — to think it’d only been — Tom muttered a curse under his breath. If he was curious what’d led up to Giordanetto sprawled paralyzed in the dining room, he wasn’t going to ask. Instead, he reached to set his tumbler back on the table in what felt like an enormous effort, and he sank back without a word. The glass was smudged. He thought of what’d happen if the flooder didn’t wise up and get the hell out of dodge, thought of the sharp-bright ting of her fingernail on her cracked wine glass.

Then he smiled back, a satisfied little curl of a smile, as if to say, I don’t doubt that one bit. Knitting his fingers over his stomach, he shifted again in his seat; he seemed to sink even deeper into it. He laid his head back against the seat, watching Niccolette evenly through lidded eyes.

At her question, he hesitated. He thought of the long night ahead in the captain’s study. His eyelids were drooping as it was, and he didn’t think he’d take much longer than Aremu to fall asleep, but something told him it wouldn’t be a restful night; there was much he hadn’t thought about down in the engine room, much he couldn’t think about, that he could feel flitting back into his mind, like ghosts in the corner of his eye. He thought ruefully of his grimoires and books of monic theory, but mostly of the slim volume of Deftung poetry still open on his bed.

He looked at Niccolette a moment more. It was hard, in the gloom, and harder still because it was her: he’d never found Niccolette Ibutatu easy to read, and these days, he wondered that the surprises would never end. He thought he could see something like curiosity in the tilt of her head, in the way she was looking at him. But she wasn’t asking, and he didn’t think he could get through that explanation without lying, and he didn’t want to lie any more tonight.

He turned his head, shifting just a pina. That great window that’d given him such grief earlier was dark, now, and out it — a whole tapestry of stars, almost better than the view from the deck. They spilled across the sky in a beautiful tangle Tom found he was content to leave nameless. Nearby, underneath his blanket, Aremu breathed gently, evenly.

Tom smiled. He looked back at Niccolette. “Not a thing, madam,” he replied. “Thank you.”

Unheeding of her or the sleeping imbala or the paralyzed captain in the next room, he shut his eyes. He tried to think what the old Tom, the natt he used to be, would say. Plenty of booze, a belly full of yats, a warm place to sleep, and his head a haze of stars. You could do worse.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Very Late Night, 25th Yaris, 2719
Uccello di Hurte, in the skies over the Tincta Basta

Niccolette nodded to Vauquelin. He shut his eyes, then, and she turned to stand at the window, arms crossing over her front. There was stillness behind her – one set of deep, even breaths, and then in time, a second, a little shallower, with the occasional faint hitch. Niccolette let her own breaths join them, and it was oddly easy to find a rhythm that seemed to fit Aremu’s, her inhales and exhales weaving through his and Vauquelin’s – as if, she thought, in the brief time before thoughts slid away, they all fit together, somehow.

There were no candles left burning in Isidore’s study, but Niccolette felt as if the very stars flickered with her, distant and bright. She gathered herself in peace for a little while, empty of thoughts, standing and watching.

In time, Niccolette stirred, and uncrossed her arms, and went to Aremu. The fear was gone, drained out of her; she had never lost her strength, but she had found again the calmness she needed alongside it. She knelt beside Aremu’s chair, far enough from Vauquelin that she could not feel the tangle of his field snarling her own, because she did not wish to take any chances with her focus. Aremu was breathing steadily and evenly still, his eyes fluttered shut.

Niccolette inhaled, deeply, and exhaled again. She breathed in and out, steadily, for some time, crouched next to him. She envisioned the burn on his back, and began to chant, softly, monite dripping from her tongue, whispered words filling the air in the space between her breaths. She wove the spell slow and steady and careful, and watched Aremu carefully as she cast. She saw it, when the spell sank into him, when his face twisted in pain and the muscles of his arms tightened, but she could do nothing but to keep casting, slowly and carefully.

And, soon enough, Aremu’s face smoothed out, and his breathing too, and the imbala sank back into sleep. Niccolette curled her spell, and propped her forehead against the arm of his chair, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She never broke the rhythm of her breath, though, and when she closed her eyes and opened them again, the moisture was gone, reabsorbed or evaporated by the heat; Niccolette could not have said which.

The galdor breathed steadily, a little longer, and looked down at Aremu’s leg. She thought of his limping, dragging gait; she thought of the bruise beneath the skin, and the way he’d propped the leg carefully, even as he dropped limply into the chair. Niccolette began to cast again, strange harsh whispers of monite echoing in the air, her field bright and etheric, wrapped around her friend. She wove the spell carefully and delicately; she used every trick she had learned, over years of long study, and she put more of herself than she should have into the spell – she did not only call on the mona, but she came to them, humbly, and asked, rather than commanded.

The spell sank into Aremu’s thigh, streaming energy passing through the blanket as if it was nothing to the mona, as indeed it was. Niccolette could feel the spell take hold, and her eyes flickered up to Aremu’s face. There was no pain, no tension; if anything, she thought some of the lines of hurt eased, some of the tightness reduced. Niccolette could feel blood trickling from her nose, but she held out, and by the time she curled the spell, she knew how well it had worked.

Sentimental, the Bastian chided herself as she rose. She looked down at Aremu, still snuggled peacefully beneath his blanket, and could not regret a thing. She found a handkerchief, and leaned forward against it, pinching her nose and letting the blood drain, until the flow stopped. She burned it, then, in a little pile on one of Isidore’s fine tables, far enough away from Vauquelin and Aremu so as not to disturb them.

And then, her very bones aching with weariness, Niccolette went back to the window, and watched the stars a little longer. She had learned the constellation as a little girl; one of her governesses had taught her. There, she thought, Roeth, the stick figure woman, if one squinted carefully. And next to her, of course, always, Imaaneth. One really had to use one’s imagination for Imaaneth.

Niccolette thought of being a little girl, of lying bundled up in her night things outside of her family’s winter home not far from Tessalon, of looking up at the stars and listening to stories about the gods. She found Hurteth next; she had always liked the tiger’s mouth best. From there – it was hard, Niccolette thought idly, to remember their pathways. There, she thought – Hulaleth, the tail, six bright stars shining against the sky. They were close together tonight, and she could not think whether they were usually.

The Bastian found her breath was catching in her throat, that she was losing her rhythm. She took a deep breath, and began again, breathing in and out, and searching for the Gods in the sky beyond. The lights of the stars flickered, distant and bright and unyielding. Whatever happened, Niccolette thought; there they were. She had watched these same stars as a child; she had not cared so much about the constellations, but she remembered that she had loved the break from routine, that she was allowed – encouraged! – to stay up late.

Niccolette closed her eyes, and simply listened. Her own breathing was soft and quiet in her ears; she could hear Aremu and Vauquelin once more, the both of them deep in the rhythms of sleep. She listened, and she found again the place to weave her breaths in and out of there, steadily, to bring them together. Her eyes flickered open, once more, and she watched the distant light of the stars, and lost herself in her breathing, let her head empty of all thoughts, whether painful or relieved.

In time, the sky began to lighten; the sunset was out of sight, but its ripples spilled across the entire sky, lightening the horizon, a faint, pale, gray-blue that slowly grew pinker over time as the sun gained strength. Niccolette watched it, a little longer, and when she felt the ship began to descend, she lowered her gaze. There, below – rising out of the deep blue water beneath, were the islands; bright white beaches, faintly red dirt, sharp green trees. She knew the contours of the one below like she knew herself; she could not think of how many times she had descended towards it, descended home.

And then, those thoughts too drained away; Niccolette was too tired to sustain them. She could only breathe, carefully, in and out, bathed in the pale gray-pink of the dawn, and let the island envelop her once more.

Rolls

Burn healing spell: SidekickBOTToday at 3:24 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (4) = 4
Bruise healing spell: SidekickBOTToday at 3:30 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6