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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Mon Sep 23, 2019 9:17 pm

Midday, 30th Vortas, 2709
The Cafeteria, Brunnhold
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Niccolette shrugged, sitting back in her cafeteria chair, dropping her fork to the side of her half-full plate. “No, Florne is quite dull this of year, really. I should prefer Vienda for winter break,” she glanced halfway down the table, catching Francoise’s eye. She had spent some time in Vienda with Francoise the summer before, and it had been too much fun; Niccolette thought it a much better idea than going back to Florne, to sitting in that old, stuffy, empty house, where even to make too much noise seemed to be a crime.

Francoise grinned back at her, raising her filled-in eyebrows, then turned back to the stone-faced Hoxian on her other side. “No, Nixi,” she said, lips pressing into a pout. “I told you, it’s very important to me!”

The roar of the cafeteria drowned out most of the conversation outside of the immediate group of eighth formers; they sat huddled close together, chatting more-or-less companionably through the lunch hour. The cafeteria was a sea of green, students of different sizes and ages and nationalities all mingled together. For some, it was a distraction from the real purpose of the day; for others, it was a brief glimpse of freedom, an hour where they might put off the boredom of the afternoon of classes yet to come.

“Really?” Aletheia Palverton giggled, running her fingers through the edges of her blonde braid. “Oh, but everyone says Florne is so lovely in the winter! It snows, naturally, and – aren’t there ice sculpture competitions? I mean, that’s what everyone says.”

Niccolette shrugged again, shifting slightly in her chair. “Well, I say it is boring,” she grinned, wickedly, reaching forward to fiddle with her fork again. “There are much more interesting things in Vienda than ice sculptures!”

Aletheia giggled louder, with a little shriek thrown in for good measure.

“Well, I think,” Margaret Lumsden began, leaning forward intently, too pale brows pulling tightly together in the middle of her forehead.

“Nicco, would you pass the salt?” Marsden Holt called.

Niccolette picked the shaker up, and made as it to throw it across the table.

Marsden laughed, flinching back. “No, no, pass it!” He reached out, and wrapped his hand over Niccolette’s, raising an eyebrow at her. “Your aim’s terrible. Last time you almost hit me!”

“Well,” Niccolette said, grinning. She did not pull her hand away. “I did not, in the end.”

“No, but I think that was because you meant to!” Marsden grinned at her, a little broader.

Niccolette giggled and pulled her hand back, leaving the salt shaker in Marsden’s grasp, her fingers gently slipping away from his warm hands. “You shall be in Vienda as well, during the break?” She asked him, smiling slightly.

“Yeah,” Marsden’s eyes flicked over her, up and down, carefully. “Yeah, should be. You know, some of it.”

“Oh, how fun!” Aletheia said, cheerfully. “Oh, we should all hang out then, don’t you think?”

Niccolette shrugged again; she was smiling at Marsden, just a moment longer, before she looked back at Aletheia. “Yes, I suppose,” Niccolette said, casually. “We shall have to do some shopping, of course. I heard,” she leaned forward slightly.

Aletheia leaned forward as well, wide-eyed.

Margaret still sat, arms crossed firmly over her chest, her brow furrowed and her jaw clenched.

“I heard there is a new store,” Niccolette grinned. “Quite fashionable.”

“A new store?” Aletheia asked, low-voiced.

“Yes,” Niccolette bit her lip, and very carefully did not look at Marsden. “One I have been to in Florne, naturally. The proprietor, he has opened a place in Vienda. Francoise and I have already decided to go… perhaps you shall join us?”

“What do they sell?” Aletheia was almost breathless now, glowing pink with excitement.

Niccolette leaned forward and whispered into her ear.

Aletheia shrieked, her eyes wide, and began to giggle. “Nicco!” She hissed. “Nicco, that’s – that’s naughty!”

Niccolette sat back and laughed, grinning. “So you shall come?”

“I’ve heard of it!” Margaret blurted out. No one looked at her.

“Oh!” Aletheia giggled harder. “Oh! I don’t know, I really don’t.”

“What do they sell?” Marsden asked, grinning. His arms rested on the table, and he was leaning forward too.

Niccolette glanced at him, and giggled, turning back to Aletheia. “You must! We shall have too much fun, you will see.”

Aletheia giggled still harder, and then nodded, smiling brightly.

“Can I come?” Marsden asked. He was still looking at Niccolette. “Come on, Nicco. I’m sure I can – uh – carry your parcels.”

Margaret let out a loud, indignant humph, scooped her tray up, and stomped off from the table.

Niccolette let out something that on someone less delicate might have been a snort, her lips pressed together, her eyes dancing. “Oops,” she said, casually, tracing her fingers over the rim of her water glass.

“Oh,” Aletheia said, eyes widening. “Oh, no, do you think we should go apologize?” She glanced back over her shoulder, then back at Niccolette.

“I am sure she will come back,” Niccolette said, casually, smiling. “I would not worry.”

“I must prepare for class,” Nixi was far too Hoxian to raise his voice, but even his rhakor looked strained in the face of Francoise’s wide-eyed pout. He rose, carrying his tray, and left the table, and perhaps he seemed to hurry a little.

Francoise slid along the bench, sidling in close to Marsden. “Boyfriends,” she said, meaningfully, “are too much work!”

Niccolette grimaced, then pushed the feelings away. She giggled instead, finding the humor in it. “I thought you liked Nixi!”

“Well I did,” Francoise sighed. “But you have no idea how difficult it is to penetrate all that Hoxian…” she waved her hand in the air. “I think I’ll give him the lipstick test.”

Niccolette began to giggle. Marsden was grinning too, although Niccolette did not think it was Francoise’s comment that made him smile. Francoise was laughing as well, and Aletheia glanced between them, hurriedly, and then began to giggle as well, with a slight look of confusion on her face.

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Last edited by Niccolette Ibutatu on Tue Oct 29, 2019 3:25 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Nauleth Siordanti
Posts: 189
Joined: Sun Apr 01, 2018 12:19 am
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Race: Galdor
Location: Brunnhold, Anaxas
: Magus in the Making
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Fri Oct 11, 2019 4:37 pm

30th of Vortas, 2709
THE CAFETERIA | LUNCH HOUR
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"What's your focus again, Mister Siordanti?" The taller boy felt an elbow in his ribs as he stood in line, frowning at the back of Henry Oliver Sander's head. Behind him, some other fifth form was chortling and it had been his offending limb that had purposefully nudged him. It was rare for others to speak up so boldly in his company, for the eldest Siordanti's reputation on the Field of Practical Application was not one to ignore, nor was his temper.

But anyone who was anyone in his form and lower had certainly heard just what a ridiculous fool he'd made of himself in League a few days ago.

And now he was paying for it.

"Does it matter to you?" An eyebrow arched and yet Nauleth did not turn to look at the boys behind him, choosing to follow the flow of students with their trays as the passives in their pale uniforms dished out today's selection of lunch foods.

"I heard it was Internal Medicine." Came some girl's voice a few bodies back. More giggling ensued despite how intellectually she'd tried to deliver the words.

"Nah. I heard his new focus is just going to be cobbling—" Someone else chimed in, followed by Henry Oliver turning around to grin wickedly, far too brave for his own clocking good:

"—since all he ever does is puke on his shoes? Did Incumbent Daddy replace those for you already? Aw, how sweet—"

The taller fifth form's field bristled, Naul pulsed the powerful but frayed—no, slanted—weight of it with a sneer, the flash of red-shifted color in it so bright that surely half the line had to blink their eyes to wipe the sensation from their inner vision, "Shut your head. Your focus is surely nothing more than—"

"That's enough, children." Snapped a professor, the woman frowning at all of them disapprovingly, "You can settle your differences on the Lawn. Let's keep the line moving a little quieter."

Damn it.

"Yes, Mrs. Aphasia." Chimed everyone in turn.

Everyone except the eldest Siordanti, who just shrugged and turned to watch his tray be filled with a simmering anger so tangible that the poor passive barely put anything in the right place. There were some whispers instead, whispers that were so very hard for the tall fifth form to ignore, and it didn't help that Henry kept looking over his shoulder, edging him on to finish his insult. Truth be told, Nauleth didn't have much of a witty comeback, so tired of vomit jokes that all he really wanted to do was crush all of them at once under a gravity spell until they couldn't breathe anymore. That would have solved just about everything—

Almost.

Turning with his lunch, he roughly shouldered past two of the other boys who'd been so bold to taunt him, tripping one by stepping wide and muttering the quick Monite for push to upset the tray of the other, sending food and limbs flying behind him. He smirked, hearing the squeals of accusation and feeling a twinge of objection at such a selfish use of magic by a brief ringing in his ears.

They deserved it, whether or not the mona agreed.

There were a few students behind him who seemed to agree, and, judging by the lack of retaliation, they far outnumbered those who didn't.

Naul would have made his way to the back of the Cafeteria and sat alone.

Naul would have simply eaten his lunch and worked on his Religion homework for Everus Corda's class, but no.

Gods, no.

Of course not. Brunnhold life was never so clocking simple, especially once you'd somehow managed to socially or magically embarrass yourself through failure. Or worse.

He heard more laughter, though none of it was directed at himself: the ridiculous giggles grinding against the frustration that burned through his entire being and while he shouldn't have even bothered to let his gold-rimmed gaze drift toward the table where all of the effeminate laughter drifted from, he did. Niccolette Villamarzana and a gaggle of blushing, amused friends interrupted his path with their noise and the fifth form frowned again, glaring at the Bastian even before his lanky, still-growing strides took him to the table's edge.

The older student had once been a curious sort of ideal: Miss Villamarzana was a talented duelist, one of the top in her form. She was also pretty and had a sharp wit that had secretly made the eldest Siordanti laugh during practice more than once. Niccolette was now more than just a simple rival: he could have handled a resounding loss against the more advanced student, but their duels had always been close and she'd finally chosen to do more than trounce him, she'd made a fool out of him.

No self-respecting son of Incumbent Hadrian Siordanti ever wanted to be mocked in such a way, and Nauleth was certainly the most concerned with such a standing among his other two equally competitive younger siblings.

His embarrassment had crept through the audience, whispered among peers and professors alike, and here he was—with new shoes, mind you—now hounded by gutsy dumberses who somehow thought he'd lost his edge when he'd lost one godsbedamned duel.

Idiots. All of them.

He didn't have time to take them all to the Lawn.

But surely he had time for one person—

Not that she'd ever say yes.

The boy could have kept walking. He should have simply kept to his plan, field sigiled and strong, eyes darting away from the older girl and her gaggle of friends. He should have, but, unfortunately, he just couldn't.

Slowing his steps, he slammed his tray down hard over hers, making sure the force of impact scattered food everywhere in a mess—toward her uniform, toward her neighbor's, toward the other girl across the table—everywhere! He had the gall to making it all look like he'd tripped or stumbled for a moment with his freckled visage dipped low and a bit of a stagger to his step, one of the girls squealing in indignant surprise,

"Oops."

He lied, looking up and narrowing his blue-green eyes in Niccolette's direction, "What a mess—nothing you're not used to making, though. I'm sure it will be fine."

Naul smirked, not reaching to pick back up his tray. He'd not truly been hungry anyway. Instead, he hovered for a heartbeat or two before he began to turn and walk away without even an apology.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Fri Oct 11, 2019 6:08 pm

Midday, 30th Vortas, 2709
The Cafeteria, Brunnhold
Francoise was giggling. “I mean, really, I don’t know what I was thinking, dating a quantitative conversationalist,” she grinned. "All questions, no answers!”

Niccolette giggled as well. “Surely it is not bad to be asked?” She grinned, leaning forward a little against the table. “It must be better than not knowing,” she glanced, very slightly to the side, at Marsden, and raised her eyebrows faintly.

Marsden grinned, and flexed, slightly, pulsing the hot heat of static mona that hung in the air around him. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for,” he said, casually. “I think a certain heat is – ”

Aletheia was giggling, her face bright red, biting her lip, and she squeaked aloud, cutting Marsden off, her own perceptive field dampening faintly, drawing back away from the other three galdori for a moment.

Niccolette and Francoise both began to laugh again.

"Weren’t you dating that physical conversationalist?” Francoise asked Aletheia, smiling, taking pity on the blonde. “What was his name?"

“Oh!” Aletheia giggled, relaxing a little. “Oh, Gregory? No, not for ages, I broke up with him two weeks ago.”

“What happened?” Niccolette asked, raising her eyebrows. 


“His mother,” Aletheia sighed. “She’s a nightmare! I simply couldn’t,” she giggled.

“So serious!” Niccolette grinned. “Surely you don’t have to, yet,” she shook her head.

“Well,” Aletheia made a face. “I mean, one shouldn’t get too serious, I think! Unless it’s – you know – I mean, she’s really appalling! Plus, he was such a mama’s boy – he was always calling her on his seer stone for advice! Oh, mama, what classes should I take? Oh, mama, what tie should I wear tonight?” Aletheia giggled.

“Really?” Niccolette gasped, Francoise utterly lost to the giggles next to her. “Oh, that is terrible! You were absolutely right to dump him.”

“Yes!” Aletheia sat up a little more. “I thought so too. I – ”

There was nothing to distinguish Nauleth Siordanti from the rest of the green-clad students in the cafeteria as he made his way past the students, nothing at all – not until he stumbled, ever so slightly, and his tray slammed down on Niccolette’s, splattering her half-finished meal all over the table – and the tablemates.

Aletheia shrieked, eyes wide, mashed potatoes dripping from her face. Francoise gasped aloud, glancing down at the green peas flecking her uniform; Marsden’s eyes were wide, and he grimaced, wiping a pea from his cheek. Flickers of shock and surprise, sharp yellow and hints of red, flickered through Aletheia’s, Francoise’s and Marsden’s field – but not through Niccolette’s.

The Bastian glanced slowly down at the front of her uniform, at the mashed potatoes and peas splattered on her, then lifted her gaze coolly to Nauleth, raising an eyebrow at his unconvincing non-apology, lips pressing together as he smirked.

"How dare you!” Francoise spluttered from across the table.

“It seems to me,” Niccolette said, her voice raised a little louder, loud enough to cut through the chatter at nearby tables. Her gaze flicked over the oldest Siordanti, from head to toe, and she made a little disgusted face, “you are the one who cannot but make a mess.” She rose from the bench, swiping her napkin down her front and dropping it onto Nauleth’s tray without so much as looking.

There was a scattered burst of giggles, including from a cluster of Nauleth’s yearmates, a little group of fifth formers watching them.

Nauleth Siordanti was, in Niccolette’s considered opinion, an annoying little gnat of a galdor. He was not such a bad duelist, for a fifth year, but he was very determined to duel outside of his league. He had come close to beating her once, on a bad day, and after that had challenged her again and again and again, as if he might recreate his luck – to the point that Niccolette had hardly been able to get any real practice in at Dueling Club. Finally, sick of it, she had trounced him thoroughly, ending with a perfectly-timed nausea spell that had had Siordanti losing his lunch all over his own shoes.

“You owe us an apology,” Niccolette said, standing now, her arms crossed over her front, chin raised, staring at the taller but much younger student. “Now.”

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Nauleth Siordanti
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: Magus in the Making
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Wed Oct 23, 2019 1:21 pm

30th of Vortas, 2709
THE CAFETERIA | LUNCH HOUR

The eldest of the Siordanti children could have slunk away the moment his fingers left the lip of his lunch tray. His sea-green gaze had met the Bastian's for just a moment longer than necessary, he'd made his bitter, snide remark. He could have been finished, leaving all of the upper forms to the smashed food on their clothes like a bunch of first years, just like their smug selves deserved. Better casters, his freckled erse.

Nauleth looked down and flicked a few scraps from his coat while fields simmered and the table raged, his own field sharp and bright and just as red as his unkempt, teenaged hair. Smirking at the accusation, he blinked slowly as Niccolette attempted (lamely) to insult him, bringing up the stupid vomit again and attempting to compare it to the glorious, disgusting mess he'd just made of all their uniforms.

"Oh yes. That's me. The goney with a bit of puke on his shoes." He huffed, clearly nonplussed while being addressed by the shorter student while she attempted to sop all of her lunch off the front of her uniform. The boy didn't even bother to look at his classmates, already aware of their lack of intelligence when it came to choosing sides.

He'd thought he'd found a comparable rival, someone of comparable magical prowess, but all he'd found was an incorrigible girl who couldn't get past his age to make friends. He thought he'd found a worthy opponent, someone actually of value when held up next to the dismal, pathetic landscape of other fifth forms and younger he was constantly put into dueling matches against as if all the judges couldn't see his superior skill. He knew his potential, and he just couldn't understand why no one else did.

The very idea that he'd been a nuisance while seeking a challenge in all the wrong ways was clearly lost on Hadrian's oldest son, completely unaware that despite the political prowess he had the potential to inherit from the skilled Incumbent he called father, his own social skills were underdeveloped and sorely lacking.

"I don't owe you or your ersehole excuse for an entourage a clocking thing." Naul's voice wavered, breaking in his youthfulness and yet rising in rebellion at her demand, squaring his shoulders and sizing her up. He flexed his field, the crackle of powerful expression tangible with a wash of warmth,

"If you want to hear me apologize about anything, you'll have to earn it. And there's only one place to do that." So much angsty bravado filled his lanky body, rippling like lightning on the horizon through his narrow chest. He quirked a brow, meeting Niccolette's angry glare for a brief moment before sneering at the others who'd begun giggling, then laughing at the table.

He hadn't said anything funny.

He'd been quite clear.

"In the lavatory, obviously." Snorted some fifth form over his shoulder, the snide tone of her voice familiar from his religion class. His lip twitched.

"Shut your head." Naul retorted, resisting the urge to snap the words over his shoulder by actually turning to look at the offending heckler. He kept himself focused, curling his hands into fists and glaring at the indignant Bastian with the same annoying, unfiltered self-righteousness that had kept him coming back for more far too many times already,

"The Field of Practical Application is the only real place for apologies to be earned, but that would require the admission that you're at all clocking deserving. You're not." The freckled Anaxi sneered for emphasis before he took a step back, totally having enough leftover gall in his lanky frame to begin to simply walk away. He didn't entirely turn his back, however, stepping back one more time and flicking a bit of mashed peas from a sleeve in the direction of another student with a challenging curl of his lip, rolling his green-blue, gold-rimmed eyes. Reaching up to adjust the satchel over his shoulder, he aimed the trajectory of his body not toward the back of the cafeteria where he would have sat and eaten the meal he'd just made a mess of all over a bunch of dumbersed upper forms, but toward the way he came—out again.

Everyone was already staring too much already and if they thought they weren't going to get trounced on the Lawn for speaking up again, they all had a second or a third thought coming.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Thu Oct 24, 2019 3:01 am

Midday, 30th Vortas, 2709
The Cafeteria, Brunnhold
Niccolette had made no more than a cursory attempt to get the food scraps off her uniform, although she did raise a hand to her cheek, pluck a pea free, and flick it casually away to the floor. Francoise was making a concerted effort with her napkin and her glass of water; Aletheia was staring down at herself with a look of abject horror, and Marsden – the least affected – had cleaned his face off and was doing his best with his napkin to deal with the mess on his uniform.

But Niccolette did not seem to even notice the remaining smear of mashed potatoes against the green fabric of her uniform, and she had at least gotten most of the peas. She held herself straight and upright and proud, and nothing in her carriage gave the least sign that she was embarrassed.

In truth – she was not. The uniforms were hardly something she enjoyed wearing; they were required, naturally, and one did their best, but they were hardly the sort of clothing to take pride in. Nauleth, in Niccolette’s opinion, was the one who should be embarrassed: for making a fool of himself in dueling club, for tripping and smashing his tray against hers, for his refusal to so much as apologize, for the way he seemed to keep digging himself in deeper – for the way he could not seem to bring himself to leave, lingering with his petty revenge as if he might find some comfort in it.

Pathetic, Niccolette thought. Ironic that a child who so wished to be thought older would behave so – childishly. But, then, in Niccolette’s opinion, that summed up Nauleth Siordanti rather well.

The Bastian raised her eyebrows through Nauleth’s refusal to apologize. It was Marsden who laughed first when Nauleth suggested Niccolette should earn her apology on the Field of Practical Applications – a short, sharp bark of laughter. He snorted, and then laughed again, and Francoise laughed as well, and even Aletheia looked up from gazing mournfully at her uniform to start laughing with the others, unwilling to be left out. The laughter rippled out from the three eighth formers into the crowd – trickling into a comment or two from the others.

Niccolette had not laughed. She simply watched, and the look of anger had almost gone from her face, replaced by something like a smile – or perhaps a smirk. Her arms were still crossed over her chest, and she had met Naul’s field with a flex of her own, powerful and burgeoning on indectal. No heat rose from her field to match his, no color to tangle with the haze of red around him. She was no child, to slant in response to such a pathetic provocation. That was not to say she felt nothing; she could not help a certain excitement, thrilling in her veins. His slight was childish and pathetic, but neither could it be born. It was clear the lesson she had taught him before had not stuck.

Nauleth crept towards a challenge, then veered away, and took a step back, as if he meant to leave.

Niccolette grinned wider now. “I see,” she said, her first response to all his sneering and snide insults. “You are afraid,” the word cracked out over the crowd.

Someone whispered ‘Oooooooooooooh…’ from the audience, and there was a fresh burst of giggles.

“It is all right,” Niccolette said, almost soothingly, although there was nothing nice about the look on her face. “Naturally you were quite embarrassed by what happened. You do not wish to face me again, so you throw some food at me like a first year and pretend that I am humiliated.” Niccolette uncrossed her arms, spread them wide, and shrugged.

“All the same,” the Bastian continued, “you are a galdor, and you had best learn to behave like one. Apologize for your behavior, or else prove that you are no coward,” Niccolette smiled a little wider, and another ripple of gasps echoed through the crowd. She had stopped just shy of challenging him – it was not done, an eighth year to challenge a fifth year. But she did wish that he would challenge her, very much so; Niccolette thought that someone desperately needed to teach Nauleth Siordanti a lesson, and the thought of that conquest sang in her veins.

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Nauleth Siordanti
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: Magus in the Making
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Mon Oct 28, 2019 12:29 pm

30th of Vortas, 2709
THE CAFETERIA | LUNCH HOUR

Truth be told, the young Siordanti had no interest in dueling league when he'd first entered Brunnhold. Having grown up in a competitive enough household, even as the eldest of three children and the first to come of age, he'd spent enough of his short life desperately outshining his two younger siblings that he didn't have any desire to make any kind of hobby out of it, no matter how good he could have been. However, Hadrian always had his own ways of appealing to the boy, offering him the sweet promise of time and attention should his son prove himself to have magical prowess and a steel spine.

Nauleth, being the creature longing for recognition and attention that he had been, rose so perfectly to the occasion ... and promptly spent his first several months as one of the fastest rising duelists in his age group. One could even venture to say the boy rose too fast for his own good, whether it was because he was secretly eager to please a man who no longer had time for the son he'd finally (finally) handed over to Brunnhold's care or because he was simply well-suited for the role of a bully within the structured confines of galdori society.

Whatever the case, the lanky teen had plateaued quickly and found himself without comparable competition—eventually, no one wanted to duel him and even those that did grew tired of losing. He attempted to move on—on the Lawn, outside of the rules of League play as well as within the sport itself, seeking older, more skilled opponents. Most older students, like Niccolette, had no interest in his methods of attempting rivalry and friendship and had even less interest in babysitting or tutoring when their lives were already quite busy already.

Unequipped for such social challenges, Naul's only comfortable outlet was persistence, but unfortunately or not, that indomitable eldest child spirit was tainted by an aggressive hunger he could not satiate. No amount of conquering, no advancement in strategy, and no level of challenge seemed to satisfy the tall, red-headed politician's son who had yet to learn to separate his thirst for knowledge from his galdor-bred desire for power. They felt the same, and his sense of taste was not yet so refined as to understand the difference.

Nor was he, in truth, mature enough to care: arrogance and addiction slanted his powerful but still dasher field, and the laughter and taunting that came from the older Bastian and her cohorts only served to anger the young Siordanti further. No one wanted to be his friend, and he didn't want friends, anyway. Definitely not.

"I'm not afraid of you." Nauleth hissed above the response of the crowd that had slowly begun to gather in the Cafeteria. He could feel their eyes on him—surely there were faculty and staff watching, too. He didn't blush and he didn't stammer, but there was a waver to his teenaged, breaking voice that he had no control over,

"You're nothing more than wet ink on someone's contract back home in Bastia, Miss Villamarzana, pretending you mean something here in Brunnhold before your daddy calls you home to a wedding. It's a pity whatever magical talent you have will be wasted in your home Kingdom, but I have no clocking doubt on the Lawn—without any stupid rules—I'd best you easy enough."

The redhead sneered, having turned back to face her at the accusations, raising to his full height and squaring his shoulders as if something about his lanky, still-growing frame could ever prove he wasn't a coward to anyone. He pulsed his field, completely unintimidated by the knowledge that he'd not even begun his focus, completely unintimidated by the lack of social tact he displayed by speaking so out of turn to an older student,

"You can earn an apology in a duel on the Field of Practical Application, though perhaps it's you who are afraid to show all your friends what it looks like to be beaten soundly by a Lower Form like myself. But, you know, I understand if you refuse—" He mimicked her mockery of concern, his tone of voice hushed and gentle despite the sensation of static excitement in his field, "—I wouldn't want to actually humiliate you. That would be so rude of me."

A few well-time gasps and a couple more giggles followed in the buzzing wake of Naul's challenge, the boy's angry face flushed with bravado, drowning freckles in a hint of red beneath his skin. He was a pillar of self-righteous, immature defiance, used to crushing younger students and peers without regret, but somewhere inside his stomach churned not because it was empty but because he knew just how often he'd been beaten by Niccolette already.

He knew what he was doing, however. He'd lost enough. This time, this time, she'd eat her smug retorts and then throw them up again all over her shoes instead.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Tue Oct 29, 2019 3:36 pm

Midday, 30th Vortas, 2709
The Lawn, Brunnhold
Now there was anger on Niccolette’s face; now there was a ripple of red fury that crackled through her field. It was Francoise who gasped, softly, sitting at the table, staring at Nauleth as he made his taunts.

Niccolette scowled when Nauleth said he could beat her on the Lawn. He pulsed his field, and Niccolette’s pulsed to meet it. She was no unformed mancer; she had delved deep into the study of living conversation even before her fifth year, and there was no mistaking her focus from her field. It surged against his, bright and sharp and powerful, and bore down. Her hands were clenched into tight fists at her side.

And Nauleth took the final step, and issued a challenge, unmistakable. He called her a coward, and Niccolette grinned now, fierce and unafraid, her blood singing in her veins.

“I accept,” Niccolette said, in a clear, loud voice, her chin raised as she looked at the younger student. It was the only answer she made to his taunts; it was the only answer he deserved. He had left her no choice; no galdor could have refused a challenge issued in such a way with their honor intact. She was thoroughly glad of it; he deserved no mercy, and she meant to show him none.

“We shall go now,” Niccolette said, and she pulsed first this time, surging against his field with her own. She glanced him over and made a disapproving little face, although she could no longer keep the anger from it. “I hope you do not humiliate yourself too terribly. I would prefer you last at least a few spells.”

“Oh, how exciting!” Aletheia said, the distress of the mashed potatoes and peas nearly forgotten. Marsden glanced at her, then back at Niccolette, and grinned.

Francoise alone looked worried. “Nicco -“ she half-rose, shooting a quick furious glare at Nauleth then looking back at the Bastian.

Niccolette did not look at her friend; she turned away and pushed into the crowd; she went as if she knew without so much as a word that they would part for her, and they did. She walked with her chin raised, with absolutely no acknowledgement of the food staining her front.

Calm, Niccolette told herself, thinking of duels in which she had been angry. Calm and conquest. The mona cared nothing for anger; they respected the caster who approached them with strength. She put Nauleth’s words aside, and she put the thoughts of her father aside too. Niccolette focused on the blood pumping hot through her veins, on the feeling of the mona bright and sharp around her, and she held onto that as she walked, only half aware of her surroundings.

Onto the lawn then; it was cold, already winter, and there was a light dusting of early snow hidden beneath the trees. The sun was clear and bright, with almost no clouds despite the lateness of the season, and Niccolette felt the warmth of it prickle over her.

She found the field, and she took her position on the dry, cold grass, boots crunching through it. Niccolette turned to face Nauleth, to wait for him to take his place, pushing her hair back out of her face. She held her hands loose and relaxed at her sides, already thibkgin through her strategy, weeding through spells one by one.

Niccolette did not even consider offering Nauleth one last chance to back down. She would not take the risk that he might accept. It was too late for that, much too late; it was conquest that he needed. She would crush him like the child he was; he had driven her to it, and she could do no less.

A crowd had followed them from the cafeteria, gathering in huddled masses, crowded close against the crisp air. Niccolette did not so much as look at them, but she was glad of their presence. It would make Nauleth’s defeat all the better.

“Ready?” It was one of Nauleth’s classmates who called it out, once they were both set; there was a distinctly cruel grin on his face.

Niccolette spared him a disdainful glance. “Yes.” She turned back to Nauleth.

Once the fifth form signaled his readiness, the classmate would yell: “Begin!”

Niccolette did not wait for Nauleth; she did not wait to see what he would do. She began to cast the very second his classmate finished speaking, her field flexing etheric, hazy energy swirling in the air around her and steaming towards Nauleth, flowing in through his mouth and down his throat.

Niccolette had thought carefully about what to cast on the walk there. Of course she had known it would be a nausea spell; of course she had known it would be one of the nausea spells most likely to induce vomiting. It was not the same one she had cast on him before, in case he might have looked up the counterspell - but it was just as powerful, if more obscure, and perhaps just a shade quicker. Niccolette bore down with her full strength on the cast, her gaze locked into Nauleth as she curled the spell.

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Nausea spell: 6
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Nauleth Siordanti
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Joined: Sun Apr 01, 2018 12:19 am
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Race: Galdor
Location: Brunnhold, Anaxas
: Magus in the Making
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Tue Oct 29, 2019 10:22 pm

30th of Vortas, 2709
THE LAWN | THE TIME IS NOW

The redheaded boy inhaled with satisfaction at the gasp of surprise and the grumbled objections to his sharp and pointed insult, taking immature and greedy pleasure at what he viewed as unintentional praise of his sharp wit. Niccolette had accused him of being afraid—as if he had anything to be scared of!—and she deserved to be put back in her place.

Her anger expressed itself with admirable brightness in her field, the pulse of her well-practiced, experienced sorcerous power something Nauleth was not in a place to appreciate, not yet, not now.

His own indectical but growing field was, despite his lack of a declared focus, already a gravitational presence of its own, weighed down by the strangely tangible company of Physical mona that he'd spent more of his electives pursuing than any other conversation. The laws of the universe did not require emotional attachment: they existed and exerted their forces whether you cared about them or not. The eldest of the Siordanti children appreciated this steadfast promise, appreciated the reliability of physics and the kind of inescapable power the manipulation of these forces whispered to the growing sorcerer when studying their intricate balances.

The taller Anaxi stood tense and ready, refusing to back down, prepared already with some snide remark burning like venom against the back of his throat—coursing through his veins along with the rush of adrenaline—should Niccolette refuse him.

She didn't.

He didn't smile. He didn't wilt under the second press of her field, hairs on the back of his freckled neck standing up at the clash of it, his own slanted with defiance and crackling with the energy of his refusal to give her any hint of fear. Whether she was a better sorcerer or not, whether she was more experienced or not—these things mattered little to the son of Hadrian who'd once taken apart all the timepieces in his father's office just to see how different Kingdoms arranged the gears to keep such perfect time.

"Please. The only one of us who will be humiliated is you."

No one bothered to speak up to him in caution the way the Bastian's friends attempted to shame him. No one counseled him against the lack of wisdom in his challenge. In truth, there were probably many of his peers who were far to eager to see him lose—his overbearing presence in some of their shared classes exhausting and his eagerness to drag those he saw as rivals or weaklings to the Lawn so commonplace as of late that everyone would be grateful for the reprieve should he be humiliated as soundly as Niccolette seemed to promise.

Naul let her and her entourage lead the way, making a mockery of proper manners when he stepped back and waved a hand, causing a ripple of giggles from somewhere behind him—he wasn't entirely without any fans.

He kept pace through the cafeteria, staring down a gaggle of first forms who attempted to cross the room at the wrong time near the double doors out into the foyer. One of them sniffled. Another one stuck out their tongue. The other ones cowered, as they should have. He snatched his coat on the way out, tugging it on over the now-stained green of his uniform, half-untucked as it already was. His collection of demerits for improper dress code was something he probably could have been more concerned about had he bothered to be ersed over demerits at all. His academic standing was above par. His magical prowess enviable. What were a couple of sheets of paper over an untucked uniform, anyway?

Nothing.

The cold of late Vortas was harsh against his flush, freckled face and he blinked, glaring at the back of Niccolette's dark-haired head as if the sharpness of his gold-rimmed gaze would allow him to slice through flesh and see what was inside, to see she was just as fallible as he was. Only older. Only better. Only much calmer than he was, as he felt as though ever step toward the Lawn took too long and agitated him further.

Perhaps it was just the brush of other fields—surrounded by a gaggle of gossiping gollies, jostled and stared at.

The scorched, abused, experimentally altered Field of Practical Application was a brisk walk from the Cafeteria, and Naul attempted to sort through his favorite spells while he avoided eye contact with all the erseholes who tailed them, face twisted into a sneer as he mentally replayed all of his defeats at the spellwork of Niccolette in their league matches, one by one without any real regret, as well as wandering through memories of memorable duels against a handful of other older students. He'd been too hesitant here. He'd been too gentle there. He'd been afraid to push the line somewhere else. He'd simply cast too harshly a few times, too, and the mona simply acted as though it didn't hear him at all.

This time he wouldn't need to hold back—

Ready?

Nauleth Siordanti's stomach lurched at the words, some hint of budding common sense, some spark of snuffed out maturity flaring to life as if to begin to object to this stupidity, only to be crushed and smeared into silence by the insatiable, childish animal part fat and content against the base of his skull. He glanced at the boy—Mateo—who grinned at him, but the auburn-haired boy's expression was shockingly merciless. He gathered his field quickly as if the invisible but tangible motion of mona reluctantly shifting around his person was at all an answer, feeling the dead grass and snow crunch beneath his feet as Nicco found her position.

"Yes." He didn't ask for courtesies. He didn't ask for rules. The young Siordanti didn't want them. The young Siordanti didn't feel as though this Bastian—as though most of his peers—deserved a single courtesy anyway.

The redhead made the choice to wait, settling into a stance and listening to the first syllables of Monite that left the young woman's lips without even a heartbeat between permission and casting. He thought some of the words for familiar, and yet he did not know the exact spell at all—it was obscure, especially that phrasing in the convoc—

Oh no.

He knew the sensation: nausea!

That stuck up, sun-dried piece of chroveshi—

—the writhing of invisible serpents crawled down his throat as if he was forced to swallow his own hot, steamy breath, quickly slithering into his stomach at the command of the mona. Muscles cramped and saliva glands sprang to life and his tongue felt too slow to even attempt a counterspell to an obscure, probably outdated piece of work. He'd not eaten since breakfast: Nauleth's lunch was splattered across the cafeteria and across the uniforms of Niccolette and her companions, but it did not matter. The raging opening force of her spell was a fist in the gut, magical fingers extended into softer tissues, finding all the leftover tidbits and dragging them up.

The eldest Siordanti wasn't fast enough to counter, but he glared at the Bastian with a helpless sort of rage and shifted his footing quickly, snatching for the boy who'd made himself referee, Mateo attempting to slip away only for Naul to gurgle and dry heave with a pained groan terrifyingly close to his face,

"Oh gods, stop! Oh. Whew. Well, that wasn't—" Mateo attempted to wriggle free, thinking himself safe as the redhead panted, only to whine in fear once Nicco's spell took root and forced Naul to all but projectile vomit down the front of the poor auburn-haired boy's uniform, dribbling over the green of his pressed trousers, and splattering on his shoes. The redhead heaved hard—so hard—but he had the gall to giggle wetly at the end.

It was gross.

Naul grinned at Mateo tauntingly as if claiming him as his next target of unwarranted aggression, anger flaring in his field while he wiped his lips and chin with the back of his coatsleeve and shoved back from the disgusted Mateo, his peer absolutely horrified. Growling the first few syllables of Monite because his own bile still stung this throat, he turned and made bold eye contact with the girl, stepping toward her instead of keeping his distance. His tone was accusatory, wanting to shame her for using such an unoriginal spell, but perhaps a bit harsh for someone supposedly glorifying the gods in this fools' errand attempt at a selfish conquest just because one freckled boy was such a sore clocking loser.

His field unfurled, crackling with energy, heavy with the gravity of his unfiltered angst, and he reached not toward any part of Niccolette's body with Living magic—not her stomach, not her skin, not her muscles, no!—but into her mind, preferring the subtleties of Perceptive conversation even when he was, in fact, woefully lacking in actual subtlety at fifteen. Using the brief moment of eye contact, no matter how full of stupid anger it was, he attempted to shove a wedge metaphorically into her synapses, to unravel and weaken the connection her nerve endings themselves made with each other along her spine and lower still.

The spell's original intentions as once written were meant to imitate that wobbly, weak-in-the-knees sort of feeling, that fight or flight instability, but this was a Lawn-twisted version Naul had experienced first-hand in Third Form: this particular spell contained a quick change clause that focused not on the nerves that parted toward the lower appendages, no, instead, the spell focused on the particular bundle of nerves responsible for relaxing the muscles of the bladder.

Perceptive Spell RollShow
AvraeBOTToday at 4:36 PM
Muse:
#probablygonnarolla1: 1d6 (5)
Total: 5


Ah, what cruel fun too many young boys dueling even in the cold of winter had once enjoyed with this spell. Steaming piss. Tears. And so much inappropriate laughter.

The Siordanti brat even had the nerve to wink after the breath of his last phrase, feeling the warm tingle of the spell's runoff all the way down to the tips of his fingers, mistaking the sensation for success and uncaring for the irreverent gloating in his magical tone.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Wed Oct 30, 2019 6:01 pm

Midday, 30th Vortas, 2709
The Lawn, Brunnhold
There were things that simply had to be endured. This was true not only in duels, but in the rest of life as well. There were things to was best not to think about; best not to dwell on. Niccolette had not found the counterspell in time – had not even been able to attempt a lessening of the effect. It had been a child’s mistake to meet Nauleth’s gaze, and she knew it; she paid for it now.

At least it was not cool enough for one’s breath – for anything else – to steam the air.

Niccolette could not help the physical response; she could, however, keep from looking down, keep from blushing or crying, and so she did. She kept her chin raised and her face cool, and if a sharp snap of red crackled through her field at Nauleth’s wink, it was gone in moments, all the same. She did not listen to the loud burst of laughter from the crowd; she refused to allow herself to be humiliated by this irritating little gnat of a child. He held no power over her that she did not allow him, Niccolette promised herself.

She did not hesitate to begin casting either; Niccolette did not wait for the laughter to die down, but urged it along with her cast, because she knew well that people would stop to listen.

There were spells – oh, there were so many spells. Niccolette had spent long night after long night in the library, and she had devoured book after book. There were so many she had read and never attempted; so many that she knew she could not cast, not yet. She had not even done her practicum yet, although she had been studying healing these last years. In dueling league, though, one was discouraged from doing anything that did serious damage – that did the sort of damage that would require healing. Weals, yes; maybe even boils or sores or lashes. Even the occasional cut, if you were a living conversationalist, although most of the rest couldn’t manage such a thing. Nausea, and coughing, and even the numbing of an opponent’s face or tongue – control spells, if one dared -

But there was so much else! There were so many spells that Niccolette had read and never had the chance to attempt. Healing - they were so terribly obsessed with healing, here at Brunnhold, with gentling one's spells, with coming to the mona in quiet supplication, begging it for help with good works. No, Niccolette thought, fiercely, and pushed past the shame of her failures.

Nauleth had wanted no rules, and Niccolette did not hesitate. It was not enough to taunt him, to tease him, to make him lose his lunch again; she wanted to hurt him, this time. She wanted him to know what it was he had signed up for, when he had taken the rules away; she wanted him to be sorry for it, long before the end.

Hazy energy rose up in the air around her and streamed forward – sank into Nauleth’s shoulder, flawlessly homed. Niccolette described what she wanted to the mona and bore down on the spell with all her will, her field flaring etheric, bright and lively and fierce in the cool winter air, and she did her best to nudge Nauleth’s shoulder from its socket.

It was not an easy spell; she had never cast it before, but she had read it through enough times to have it memorized, and she cast it as confidently as if it was her thousandth attempt. It was risky; Niccolette had known from the start that it was risky. It was, perhaps, just a bit too advanced for her – but she had taken that chance. Conquest demanded the taking of chances; there was no conquest in sitting around and waiting for one’s victory to come freely. Niccolette had the chance, and she took it – seized it, fiercely, and held on, and bore down through the cast.

The mona listened; she felt them respond in the air around her, and she curled the spell and watched as, opposite from her, Nauleth’s left shoulder bulged unpleasantly beneath his uniform and shifted, ever so slightly, away from where it was meant to be. And Niccolette grinned, wild and fierce and unbowed, and felt the bright glory of her success banish the last of the humiliation Nauleth had meant her to feel.

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Counterspell: SidekickBOTYesterday at 8:10 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (2) = 2
Shoulder dislocation: SidekickBOTYesterday at 8:10 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6
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Nauleth Siordanti
Posts: 189
Joined: Sun Apr 01, 2018 12:19 am
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Race: Galdor
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: Magus in the Making
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Wed Oct 30, 2019 11:39 pm

30th of Vortas, 2709
THE LAWN | THE TIME IS NOW

Niccolette did not grace him with the satisfaction of a wince or of a sob. She did not draw attention to herself even though it was obvious his spell had been quick enough that she hadn't been able to grasp at the counter. Those behind her knew, and a few giggles rose up to her left. Some whispers barely reaching her ears as the Bastian immediately launched into the Monite syllables for a wicked retaliation.

Nauleth did not know the words, unsure of the invocation and totally clueless to the collection of clauses she spoke, and while he felt the surging flare of her red-shifted field, the rush of Living mona as it filtered through the air at her command, he admittedly had no idea what to expect from her here outside of league play, even if he'd fooled himself into thinking he knew anything about her at all after being trounced so many clocking times—

He should have interrupted.

He should have risked the brail.

The lanky Anaxi watched her face draw together in concentration, intelligent enough to discern that whatever she was casting, it was difficult and unfamiliar. There weren't any rules, the boy reminded himself, and so he began to gather his own field, digging his heels into the ground after taking a few more wary steps closer. He inhaled, gold-rimmed gaze catching a glimpse of the expectant faces, more than one of which seemed to know exactly what was happening.

There were a couple of professors now, of course, standing around as if they were clocking interested, but really only there for discipline or protection for when one or both of the dueling students stuffed it. Because, surely, one of them would.

The eldest Siordanti felt some strange, light sensation for a moment, a ringing in his ears, a stone dropping into his stomach. It was all the warning he got at the final curl of Niccolette's vicious attempt to reclaim her dignity after Naul had wrung it out all over the Lawn beneath the skirts of her uniform. He opened his mouth to taunt her, thinking for one stupid heartbeat she'd miscast—

It was the sound that shocked him, really, the disgusting internal whine and pop of ligaments that he only heard for a second anyway because it was just about then when the boy screamed. He'd been harmed in duels on the Lawn before. He'd been harmed in league play. He'd fallen off his bicycle plenty of times to the tune of scraped hands and bruised knees. He was not as frail and genteel as his galdori heritage implied, but he was also just a spoiled boy who got a cheap, greedy thrill from pretending to be powerful and the swift, vehement dislocation of his shoulder from his socket was definitely the most pain he'd felt in his young life thus far.

There was no effort made to maintain decorum, Naul's still-maturing voice breaking between a sob and a shout that faded into some gurgled whimper of genuine, fearful hurt. Tears stung his green-blue, gold-rimmed eyes and as his left hand slumped, his right immediately reached for his shoulder, only to regret touching it at all.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd: a few taunting catcalls, a few righteous cheers, and a couple of boos followed.

"Stop-clocking chroveshit-eating bitch!" The politician's son dredged up all the worst words he could possibly think of, both immaturely unaware and angrily uncaring of the weight of his words as he threw them, sniffling, furiously rubbing at his cheeks with the heel of his working palm, "You must be an only child. What a pity—"

"That's enough. Yield, Mister Siordanti." Professor Clemency Thompson spoke up from behind a gaggle of young, slack-jawed students.

"Pppft. No. Write me up first, Professor Thompson. I've got room for more detention." Nauleth retorted with all the hatcher-may-care attitude he could muster, his voice half a whine, half a growl. Demerits be damned, Niccolette wasn't going to get away with hurting him into losing. Not waiting for more comments from stupid adults who taught math instead of magic, the boy began to cast, sour and angry and resentful that the mona would allow such a thing to happen to him! To him!

Ohhhh it was just so clocking stupid!

"—I bet your parents can't wait for you to change your name with some marriage arrangement just so they can finally say you're not theirs." His words were full of venom and frustration but watered down with tears he couldn't even hide, embarrassed and intimidated. Gathering his field as if one was attempting to reign in buzzing, angry insects, he wiped his face one more time with the hand that didn't hurt.

There were some responses to his words from the crowd, but he didn't hear them.

No rules. No turns. No nothing—

Beginning to cast, Naul felt a surge of fresh pain tingling outward from his crimped nerves and aching ligaments, all the way down to his fingertips in warning, but ignored it, talking louder, attempting to usurp his position in the order of things as master. Monite dripped from his lips, acidic but afraid, and he channeled his anger not into conquest, not into any glorification, not with any hope of proving his prowess, but simply into crushing the older student who'd hurt him in his insolence.

He sought prevent more of that dangerously painful casting from Niccolette all together, and to clocking show the mona he was in charge! His Living spellwork was impatient as he sought tto cover her in lashes, wanting them to cut deep, maybe to ooze and bleed, fiery-toned Monite quickly sneaking in a ley bridge at the end to shift the forces of gravity and push her over as hard as possible, stealing her breath and shoving her to the scorched grass of the Lawn, right onto her soaked backside. The first half of his spell was somewhat complicated, specifying the how he wanted his lashes to just appear on her face, in her mouth, up her nose—wanting to make it hard to cast and breath.

The shove was just to hurt, that tacked-on push spell signed with his hand while he barked out the Monite, stepping closer as if he had every intention of physically shoving her himself.

He didn't reach for her, left arm dangling, shoulder aching, but he growled the last syllables of Push—already a simple, short spell—and as he did so, his stomach lurched with the sheer strength of it, ears ringing loudly above the rush of his pulse and dancing lights at the edges of his vision—more warnings as he displeased the mona with his senseless violence. He wasn't thinking about them at all—only thinking about proving himself better, hoping to stand over Niccolette once she was on the ground, wanting to watch her gasp for breath like she'd watched him scream in pain.

"Clocking Bastians—polluting Brunnhold with their unwanted children."

RollsShow

AvraeBOTToday at 7:23 PM
Muse
Rolling 2 iterations...
1d6 (6) = 6
1d6 (6) = 6

Chance of backlash next turn:AvraeBOTToday at 11:30 PM
Muse :game_die:
Result: 1d2 (1)
Total: 1[

Totally on the edge of it happening next turn. Do something mean with more Living magic. Yeah!

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