[Memory, Closed] One of the Rotten Ones

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Field of Practical Application, Brunnhold Campus
Yaris 31, 2714 - Late Afternoon

Cerise's cheeks were two spots of color on her pale, narrow face, starting to grow into a kind of sharpness that cut through the roundness of childhood. Antoinette, gods damn her, laughed. Cerise swallowed, narrowing her eyes at the upperclassman as he sneered at her. He wasn't the first to look at her that way, and she didn't think he would be the last. It burned through her, though, that touch of a politician's look about his eyes and his bearing.

Cerise could hardly back down now, when she'd started it in the first place. She threw her head back, the chaos of her dark hair going with it. Her face was still shining with sweat, and she watched rather enviously as Siordanti rolled up his sleeves. She wanted to do that too, she thought, but she was less allowed. It wasn't fair. Cerise glanced around. There was nobody else there but the three of them, roasting alive out here while they cleaned up the Lawn. With a frown etched as deep as it could go into her face, she unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled up her own sleeves all the way to the elbow.

"That just sounds like you don't think you can win," Cerise spat, her tender ego bruised further by Siordanti's taunt and the grin that followed it. The color wouldn't leave her face, and that ate at her too. She didn't want to be so easy to read; that was the first step to losing. She'd learn, she told herself stubbornly. Eventually, she'd figure out how.

Oh, and the way he talked to her! Antoinette was "Miss Roumanille", but she had suddenly become just "Cerise". That brought the heat in her blood up too. How dare he, just because he was older. That was a confusing sort of anger, she thought, and it didn't make her any less snappish than she had been. Cerise put her hands on her narrow hips and she sneered right back.

"If you're so confident, then what about a wager? If you win—if you 'char the lawn with me'—then I'll clean up all the rest of this alone. And if I win, you have to. With Miss Roumanille." Truthfully, Cerise didn't think she would win. But she was curious, and she was angry, and she was more than anything too clocking stubborn for her own good. She'd gladly take the risk of having to clean up the rest of the equipment by herself if there was even a sliver of an opportunity for victory. "I know the rules," she added, sullen.

Cerise did her best to hold his eyes, even though she had to look up to do it. That galled her, too, but she didn't know if there was much she could do about that. She was taller than the other girls and many of the boys already, but Siordanti was both basically an adult already and tall by anyone's standards. Well, any galdori standards, which were the only ones Cerise really thought counted here. When he agreed, she haughtily insisted that he be the one to flip for who went first—since he clearly didn't trust her to follow even that much of the rules.

(Really, Cerise simply didn't have any coins in her pockets. She had already spent all her pocket money for the month on books, right down to the last hat.)

They called their sides; Cerise, then, got to go first. No matter how much she knew she shouldn't, the younger student couldn't help but grin. Just a little smug to have the potential advantage. Each took their places, and Cerise even bowed at least somewhat respectfully—whatever else could be said about her, she took this seriously. Going first gave her a little opportunity to collect her thoughts; at least as much as she could in this clocking heat anyway.

After a moment, Cerise made up her mind and began to cast. Nothing fancy, nothing clever—she certainly wouldn't win any points for style with this one—but truthfully? She was a little intimidated. She had perhaps made a rather poor decision, with Roumanille there to witness it, if she failed. But she couldn't have stopped herself even if she wanted to. And even more truthful? She hadn't wanted to.

Cerise formed herself what she thought of as a snowball of force, aiming it rather carefully at Siordanti's right shoulder. She must have stumbled somewhere, because it was less solid than she would have liked—but it hung together, all the same, and her aim was more or less true.

Rolls

Who goes first:
#1Cerise2Naul: 1d2 (1)
Total: 1

Cerise's "snowball":
Result: 1d6 (3)
Total: 3

[Nauleth Siordanti]

31st of Yaris, 2714
THE LAWN | LATE AFTERNOON

Nauleth despised the Brunnhold standard of uniformed dress after wearing them for almost an entire decade, especially in the baking heat of Yaris. Wool was a ridiculous choice—this was neither Gior nor Hox—and yet his own kingdom seemed to love melting in sweat all year round in the name of fashion. He didn't envy the limitations of the feminine version of his own dress code, watching without amusement as Cerise attempted to give herself some breathing room by rolling up her sleeves when he'd already shed his coat, untucked his shirt, and rolled the thin wool of his shirtsleeves up past his elbows.

"I don't have any doubts." The eldest Siordanti shrugged, dismissive of her ambitious counter to his impatient taunting. This wasn't really the way to treat younger students, this much he knew, and yet there was something about her angry defiance that was familiar. Perhaps he wanted to see just how familiar it felt, curious about what her spellwork sounded like, what it felt like, and how the mona reacted to such a sharp little politician's daughter when her voice cut through the air in Monite—did it bend to her will like other students cowered under her fists? Or did it bristle like his ego at her attitude.

"If I lose, I'll clean up alone." Nauleth managed a toothy, threatening smile, disinterested in Miss Roumanille's most likely whiny and judgmental assistance should either of the pair of duelists lose against the other. He didn't want to listen to one word.

Still, the third student at least knew what she was doing (as all Junior Varsity students should have by this time in the season), and when he and Cerise called their sides, he supposed he shouldn't have been terribly surprised when he lost his opportunity to go first. Sometimes, he preferred to go last anyway, especially against a new and unfamiliar opponent. He enjoyed studying their spellwork, even if it meant beginning a duel one point behind when he couldn't manage a counter.

Most of the time, it paid off.

When it didn't, at least he knew better for next time.

Not that he expected to lose against this young lower form, no of course not, but at the same time, it wasn't often he expected much of anything except out of himself.

They counted their paces and the tall redhead fumbled for the top two buttons of his shirt collar, finally tugging them free, wanting to breathe in this sweltering dryness. He took his place, the gravity of his belike physical-laden field sigiled and ready.

Gold-rimmed eyes watched Cerise's face, watched the way her body moved while she settled into some kind of stance, and, most importantly, watched her lips while she cast, listening to the first few phrases of Monite. He broke down the syllables quickly, analytical mind taking apart the spell as she spoke it while he gathered all the monic particles and immediately began to cast his counter, unwinding what Miss Vauquelin wove together like tugging on some invisible string.

What reached him was just a flex of the air, a gentle wash of magical energy instead of the punch of force she'd intended but he'd disassembled the monic will of. Unfortunately, he'd spent so much time studying and undoing that he realized he'd left himself no time to riposte, only just enough time to recenter and refocus, prepared to defend himself again,

"No wonder you use your fists instead. Predictable otherwise." He thumbed his nose, shifting his footing and running through his most comfortable list of quicker, simpler favorite spells, ready for her next attempt and hopefully a little faster on the return this time.

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

Rolls

#counter: 1d6 (2)
Total: 2

Countered the spell but no time to riposte with a spell of his own.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Field of Practical Application, Brunnhold Campus
Yaris 31, 2714 - Late Afternoon

Cerise hadn't snickered (much) when Antoinette had made a squeak of irritated protest as Siordanti quickly turned down the idea of having her help should he somehow lose this match. She couldn't deny a private little thrill of petty satsifaction at it anyway. Worth it, even if she lost, just to needle Antoinette that much. It was somehow comforting that Siordanti didn't want the other girl's company any more than Cerise did, not even to make the task go any quicker.

That little thrill of victory faded when she cast her first spell. She should have known a little better. She did know better! It wasn't like Cerise expected to win, she reminded herself. She just felt the need to... to try. To prove something, to someone; she wasn't sure what or to whom. She still felt a tweak of frustration when her punch was unraveled before it even got to Siordanti's shoulder. At least it had taken him too long to cast again. Cerise still had the advantage there, and she intended to keep it.

No matter what he said. Or did. Her young face pulled into a scowl, dark eyebrows snapping together. "Heckling your opponent is for cowards," she shot back, curling her fist. Not that it got to her. She didn't look to the side to see Roumanille, though she knew the redhead was sitting not too far away. Just watching.

She needed to do something else, something... better. The problem was, she didn't know that she'd learned much better yet. She favored the physical even now, even without having truly chosen a focus. But so did Siordanti. Pain was easy, but it lacked any kind of style. Cerise was, it had to be admitted, trying to think of a way to show off. Something that would affect him but not fall outside the rules of damage.

There was always just something embarrassing. Some of Cerise's hair fell into her eyes, and she thought—well she might as well try. It was a silly spell, but all that mattered was that it would work and not violate any rules. Also, she hadn't learned anything terribly dangerous yet. Cerise grinned a little to herself, and began casting a spell that would—ideally—charge as much of the air around Siordanti with static electricity as possible, and do something dreadful to all that stupid red hair. She was really hoping for it to work.

Her grumbling got in her own way; the spell succeeded, but only just barely. She could feel the mona only grudgingly doing as she asked, even before she finished. How hideously, completely embarrassing. The scowl on her face pulled, automatically, into a defensive kind of sneer.

Roll

Cerise trying to make Naul's hair look dumb (god):
Result: 1d6 (2)
Total: 2

[Nauleth Siordanti]

31st of Yaris, 2714
THE LAWN | LATE AFTERNOON

Afrown creased its way further into his sweaty, freckled face when she called him a coward, "Heckling—for whatnow? And what does that make you, Miss Vauquelin?"

Her mouth was a clocking distraction. She couldn't even seem to keep her focus on the casting, and Naul couldn't tell if this was some kind of childish strategy or if it was just that she couldn't help herself, stabbing with words instead of turning all that breath into monite. Gods, it was going to throw him off his own game, too, because he spent too much time wanting to verbally retaliate, too competitive for his own good.

"You'll never get anywhere in your league career if you can't take a godsbedamned critique. Was my counter not informative enough for you?" His sigiled field was practically buzzing already, but when he heard the first phrases of her next spell as a response, the eldest Siordanti had the gall to roll his blue-green eyes. With a wave of his hand to accentuate his quick-worded counterspell almost in emphasis of his snide—but in retrospect, unnecessary—commentary.

Perhaps the mona honestly agreed, perhaps he'd actually let this lower form creature get to him—

If he'd wanted to practice magic while looking in a mirror, he could've just gone home already.

Her spell was easy to unravel: both half-hearted from her sharp tongue and too familiar to the tenth year physical sorcerer. The problem was he'd let something about this whole situation, something about this politician's daughter, crawl under his freckled skin, sweltering beneath the wool of his pale green uniform shirt, and it stuck there, all razor-edged and uncomfortable. Just uncomfortable enough for that once equally-familiar frustration to sizzle to the surface in a way Nauleth had worked so very hard to snuff out over the years.

He wanted to give an example, gold-rimmed gaze flicking toward Antoinette as if making sure the snivveling girl was still paying attention, but when he set about returning the exact same spell back at her, he felt that twinge of anger twist his tone and knew almost instinctually the result that would bring, some flutter of nausea writhing through his insides, some cold touch of fear tickling up his spine.

It fizzled.

His ears rang.

The heat was clocking awful and he needed to calm down.

"Brute force is for shitty casters."

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

Rolls

Avrae
08/24/2020
#counter: 1d6 (4)
Total: 4; countered a 2

#followupspell: 1d6 (1)
Total: 1; fumble on the court

#formybenefit: 1d6 (2)
Total: 2; just a fail, nothing major

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Field of Practical Application, Brunnhold Campus
Yaris 31, 2714 - Late Afternoon

How dare he! Just because he was older didn't mean he could be insulting. Cerise wasn't heckling. She was... She was... Siordanti started it! It didn't count as heckling if he insulted her first. (Truthfully, she wasn't actually sure which one of them had started adding insults to spellcasting, but as he was the upperclassman, she was fairly certain that it was Siordanti. Probably.)

Somewhere nearby, Cerise heard Roumanille snicker. The snot. Acting brave because Cerise was otherwise occupied, and couldn't do anything about it. She was just loud enough that Cerise could hear her. Her voice likely didn't carry far enough to reach Siordanti's ears.

"I can take critique!" she protested, angry. "Maybe if you actually gave any, you'd know that!" Cerise did not, in fact, take critique well. That's what her tutors told her, anyway—she thought they were just no good at offering it. She took critique just fine. Everyone got angry when they made mistakes. And she was angry about everything, lately, all the time. So being criticized had nothing to do with it.

Still. Nobody had ever called it her career before. Mostly, they spent a lot of time trying to make sure she didn't think that was even a possibility. Cerise wasn't stupid; she could see how many fewer girls there were on the varsity team than there were in junior varsity. And on this year's travel team, there had only been one. Last year there were two.

Her spell had been childish, and she had been angry. Maybe that's why it fizzled out as soon as she'd cast it. Roumanille laughed, which improved her mood not at all. Cerise balled her hands into fists, keep her sharp chin lifted and her shoulders straight. Siordanti hadn't been able to counter; good. All she needed to do was calm down, and—

What had he called her?

Cerise clenched her jaw so hard her teeth hurt. She was done. Done! With the heat, with Roumanille, with Siordanti, with this whole clocking day. That was hardly brute force. Just because his own casting failed, that didn't mean she was at fault. Grey eyes locked across the field with green, fury written large on sharp features just beginning to emerge from childhood.

Cerise looked right into his smug, sweaty face, and she began to cast. She didn't like casting for pain, but oh did she ever know how. Everyone knew how. Pain was much, much easier than healing, after all. Even someone as poor with living magic as Cerise was shaping up to be could cast pain.

This felt like the focus she'd needed all along, or maybe just the spell was that familiar. Her field flared etheric, and everything felt so very good. Cerise didn't care about style, and she didn't care about finesse or showing off. In that moment, she quite possibly didn't care about winning. She just wanted him to hurt.

He wanted to see brute force? Cerise would show him brute force.

Roll

Cerise get mad, cast pain
Result: 1d6 (5)
Total: 5

[Nauleth Siordanti]

31st of Yaris, 2714
THE LAWN | LATE AFTERNOON

"Did you want me to actually start offering observations on your technique and pronunciation?" Nauleth smirked, sweating and still nauseated and dizzy, feeling like the shitty caster had anyone wanted his own honest opinion. Not that he was about to clocking say that out loud, not to Cerise Vauquelin. Not in front of Miss Roumanille.

Not in front of anyone.

He'd opened his mouth to riposte something else, to perhaps find something actually critical to say instead of just more vitriol, but he recognized the Monite she spoke and was forced to immediately attempt a counterspell, quite aware of just how such a spell was going to feel even if she'd not already been totally angry casting it.

He'd set his own trap, though. He'd let himself lose focus, getting caught up in more of who he used to be than who he thought that maybe he could become—much to his own sluggish chagrin. Here he was fighting in the exact place he knew he shouldn't be, and as if somehow he'd forgotten exactly the price to be paid for such foolishness, he knew almost mid-counter that he'd been entirely too slow indeed.

Shit.

Panic flooded his freckled chest and he bit his tongue, cutting himself short in a brail as if somehow that would at all lessen the effects of what he knew was coming.

Where Naul had been all posture and confidence just heartbeats before, even if Cerise was angrily focused on driving him down with suffering, it was clear his demeanor shifted into one of unfiltered fear even as she curled her spell, the sensation of pain blossoming along the left side of his face first like someone struck a match against his skin.

"POINT—Cerise!" Miss Roumanille shouted with a very shocking amount of enthusiasm mixed with obvious disbelief just as the tall ninth form hissed and groaned.

His hands moved to cover his face and he waivered on his feet at the powerful wave of forceful magic, damaged nerves literally feeling as though they were on fire, crawling along his left side while he doubled over in a string of very unsavory expletives—

—only to throw up there on the Lawn.

Not the first time, not the last. Gripping his knees and pretending there weren't tears in his shut tight eyes, well, he was quiet for quite some time.

"Mister Siordanti—are you—are you finished? Are we not playing a full match?"

"Give me a minute." Naul wheezed.

"Well, you did say you'd clean up if you lost, and I have a lot of homework for Miss Cressel's geography class—"

"—I said give me a godsbedamned minute." He gurgled wetly, rubbing knuckles against his eyes, swaying on his feet as he drew himself back up to his full height. He rolled his shoulders, still clearly in unusual lingering pain, something other students wouldn't have been. If anyone had really paid attention, the latent movements of his left side were even slower, left corner of his lip turned further downward in a scowl than the rest of his expression and stuck there,

"I can keep going. Unless that's all you're good for? Otherwise, square up again for round two. I don't think we chose a number of points to play to, anyway."

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

Rolls

Avrae
#counter: 1d6 (1)
Point for Cerise! >cry<