Some Kind of History [Memory, PM to Join]

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711
Back Ways to Blessings of Hulali's, The Stacks

Niccolette shrieked with laughter at Jean’s suggestions, doubled over, laughing so hard that moisture trickled from the edges of her eyes, gasping for breath, hardly even able to stay upright. “Yes!” Niccolette giggled. “Yes! Quite right, I am sure she would –“ She lost the thread of the sentence there, laughing so hard she could not speak.

The laughter trickled off with the last of the adrenaline, leaving Niccolette dizzier than before, but smiling, too, soft golden joy seeping from her into the air for a few moments. When Jean came close, Niccolette knew, he would be able to feel it, the living mona of her field mingling comfortably and easily with the mona of his. She laughed one last time, and straightened herself a little, brushing at her cobwebbed skirts with a little sulking pout, although it did not last.

“Yes, you may, Mr. De Silver,” Niccolette lifted her chin, and settled her arm through Jean’s, for all the world as if she did not have a crown of cobwebs and a smear of dirt across her cheek, a line like a dab of fire along the high curve of her cheekbone. Her field settled back down, the golden shift flickering softly away, leaving her indectal once more, but that sense of friendly mingling never faded, Niccolette’s field comfortably and companionably intertwined with Jean’s own.

It was almost harder to walk with her arm threaded through Jean’s, but Niccolette thought she managed quite admirably. They made their way back through the narrow twisting streets, weaving from side to side, stumbling each of them more than once, but never quite falling. Niccolette did not mind letting Jean lead; she had long since left behind the streets she knew, and even when they returned to a familiar, bustling area, Niccolette did not force it.

The only time she hesitated was at the door of the shop, looking up at the flowing script above the door. Niccolette looked down, fixed her gaze on Jean. She grimaced, and brushed the cobwebs from herself with a flick of her hands, pushed her hand back up, and off her shoulders, straightened her back, setting her chin. Then she made her way into the shop.

“Sana’hulali, Niccolette!” The man behind the counter was a Mugrobi galdor, short and slender, and he leaned forward against it, grinning at her, soft clairvoyant mona thrumming through his field. “Dom’bali?”

“Sana’hulali, Erhue,” Niccolette said, cheerfully. She added something in Mugrobi, pleasant and lilting, a snatch of a phrase like a bit of music.

Erhue responded in the same language, gesturing to the door behind her, the name ‘Uzoji’ tucked amidst the syllables that flowed from his tongue.

“No,” Niccolette said, switching abruptly to Estuan, and glancing back over her shoulder at Jean. “No, he is flying this weekend,” she shrugged. “This is a friend of mine, Jean De Silver,” Niccolette gestured at him with one hand. “Jean, this is Erhue pez Eserove.”

“Ma’ralio, Jean,” Erhue grinned at Jean as well, revealing slightly small white teeth, gleaming in his dark face. His head, like that of so many Mugrobi, was shaved bare; Niccolette thought it was not so handsome a shape as Uzoji’s. “Pleased to meet you, that is,” he explained, cheerfully. “Kofi, then?”

“Ea, domea domea,” Niccolette grinned at him. "For two."

Erhue chuckled and grinned back, affectionately.

Niccolette went to a seat at the side window, not thinking to let Jean lead; she tucked herself back against the wall, settling into a cushion, her eyes closing for a long moment. It was a table half-hidden from the counter and the rest of the shop, set distant enough to be comfortably, private; it was almost more like a ledge against a window into the alley with a table between than a table itself, with space for either occupant to sit cross-legged – if, of course, they were not in skirts.

Niccolette settled now faintly-dirty hands onto the table, and sighed, looking back at Jean with the faintest hint of a challenge on her face. “You may ask, if you like,” she said, drumming her fingers against the table. She still felt rather drunk, but some of the pleasantness had worn off, and her field had withdrawn a little from his – not disengaged totally, still maintaining a gentle caprision between them, but not quite so friendly as it had been. She did not look at him long, turning instead to study the window – the reflect of their faces and the warm lights of the coffee shop in the glass, the faint glimmer of life streaming past beyond.

[Genevieve De Silver]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711

As they entered the warm welcoming interior of the coffee shop Genevieve smiled, that and the cheerful proprietor quiet banished any lingering discomfort from Wrath’s Palace.

She recognized to language and the man behind the counter as Mugrobi.

“Ma’ralio, Erhue, you have lovely establishment here. Thank you for the warm welcome.”

Genevieve followed Niccolette to the low table surrounded by cushions, she gratefully lowered herself down them and sighed contentedly.

She raised an eyebrow at Niccolette’s challenging look, for a moment wondering what she was talking about, then it occurred to her. The name she had mentioned a number of times.

“I assume you are a regular here? It is a lovely place., a tonic for weary souls”

She took a drag on her cigar and exhaled slowly.

“The name you mentioned, Uzoji. I assume he is the gentleman you alluded to earlier?”

Geneivie’s tone was neutral and a warm smile was on her face, her expression read that if Niccolette did not wish to speak she would not press. Though she pondered if this man was the reason her young companion had been so distracted at the university.

It was then that the proprietor bought over a tray of steaming mugs.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711
Blessings of Hulali's, The Stacks

Niccolette shrugged; they had drunk a lot, and she could not quite remember when she might have mentioned Uzoji. She was sure she had; she had caught herself doing it even in Florne, speaking of him when he had not otherwise arisen in the conversation. Yes, Uzoji says… it was terribly dull, she was afraid, but she did not quite know how to stop. She was aware of his absence even now; it was not that she thought he should be where Jean was sitting, but she thought he should have been with them. She thought he would have enjoyed Wrath’s Palace; she knew he would not have quailed at the dashing escape down the filthy staircase, out into that wretched alley. He would have been laughing with them – wouldn’t he?

Or would he have been afraid, or upset, at her boldness? Would he have shuddered to see her smoking a cigar through the streets of Brunnhold? He had given her a drag of his before, yes, but did he see that as different?

Had he never offered her a cigar because he thought she would not want one? Or because it was important to him that she not want one? Was he thinking of her, soaring high over Anaxas and the countryside around it? Or had she already lost him? She had not doubted him, in the time they had been together; he had never let her down. Why was she so afraid?

Niccolette was abruptly aware of tears in the corner of her eyes. She blinked them away before Erhue could see, and nodded to him, her hands tight together in her lap, off the table once more.

“Kofi and kofi,” Erhue said with a smile, lowering the mugs. They were sturdy, comfortable Anaxi style mugs, with a friendly chip here and there – suitable for drunk hands, much more suitable than the delicate cups he brought out on occasion, the ones more traditional for Mugrobi kofi. Erhue did serve other drinks, but Niccolette had ordered without thinking what Uzoji always got, plain, black Mugrobi kofi. She knew it was the fashion in Brunnhold to take it other ways, but she never had.

Erhue left a bit of sugar on the table, and milk as well, and left. Niccolette did not take either – Uzoji liked a bit of sugar. “It is good with the sugar,” Niccolette said, quietly. She took a small sip of the bitter, fragrant liquid, feeling the warmth and the caffeine.

“Uzoji is my –“ Niccolette stalled there, struggling with the word. She hated boyfriend; it did not feel nearly enough to cover all that he meant to her. She could not call him her lover to Jean; it was not nearly serious enough, and it was a bit too intimate, even for the night they had had, whether or not it was true. The Bastian shrugged, and kept her hands curled tightly around the mug. She knew she did not have to speak; if Jean had pressed the issue, she thought perhaps she would not. But she was drunk, and she was tired, and it did not seem so hard.

“He is mine,” Niccolette said, finally. “And I am his,” her lips pressed together for a long moment; only the faintest traces of lip color still clung to them, the natural pale pink long since bled through. “Or, I – I wish to be,” she shivered.

“We have been together a year and some months,” Niccolette said, softly. “He is in his last term as well, and I – since we returned from the break, he has been distant, worried,” she blinked again, feeling a telltale heat behind her eyes, though even drunk she was careful to keep it from her field, not to let it seep out into the air around them. She withdrew a little more from Jean, her field her own once more, letting there be some indectal separation between them as she spoke on such things. "He leaves, and when he is here - it is not as it was."

“It is my fault,” Niccolette said, slender shoulders trembling, turquoise fabric gleaming in the light. “I told him – I told him my parents mean to make a marriage for me,” she grimaced, and let go of the mug, her hands pressing flat into the table. The sadness fled, receded, replaced by a sharp, hot, pleasant burst of anger, enough to bring hot color to her cheeks, and vibrancy to her eyes once more. “I shall not go through with it,” Niccolette promised, shaking, her jaw clenching, her hands too, making tight little fists. A faint snap of red shot through her field, faded. “It is not to them to decide my life! How can he think I would ever – “

But the anger and the sadness were not so far apart, and tears spilled from the corner of Niccolette’s eyes. She cursed, angrily, and turned back to the widow, wiping furiously at herself.

[Genevieve De Silver]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711

When Genevieve saw the shine of tears Niccolettee’s eyes she leant forward and took a silk handkerchief from inside her frock coat, it was white with J C D S in blue in one corner. She was about to pass it to her, concern on her face, when their drinks arrived. Genevive picked up the homely mug of the dark liquid and inhaled the rich aroma, she blew across it and took a slight sip. She then added a spoon of sugar to it and sip again, excellent.

She looked back to Niccolette, so this man was the cause of Niccolette’s distress.
Genevieve had had very few dealings with men, and certainly none since she started living her double life. The sadness coming off the young woman across from her was palpable and all she wanted to do was comfort her but she didn’t know how. She held out the handkerchief and listened. However as Niccolette spoke an anger rose in Genevieve, its was an example of what she hated about Anaxans society.
The fact that this strong intelligent and gifted woman felt that her worth had to be measured by some man, who apparently loved her and yet ran away and left her alone.
Genevive kept her anger in check and listen, but when Niccolette spoke of her parents would force her into a marriage, ignore the fact she had a love already. Niccolette’s own anger fuel Genevive until she could hold her tongue no longer.

She slammed an elegant fist into the table top setting the cups rattling.

"Nore should you Niccolette. You are blameless in this, it is the fault of this society, so small and petty minded that it can not contemplate that a woman is equal and right enough in her own mind to speak and choose how to coven her own affairs. If this man loves you, then he should clocking well show it, and you should confront him and demand his answer. And IF he does not answer you my dear Niccolette you are better without him!"

Tirade done Genevive saged back into the cushions spend, she raised her mug to her lips with a shaking hand and raised the other to Niccolette in apology. It was not like her to be overtaken by her passions in such away, she smoothed her hair back into place and let out a slow breath.

“I am sorry Niccolette, I am not angry with you. Far from it, I have seen too many women in a similar situation. You are better than any might think of you, do not let the petty minds of others hold you down.”

She smiled then warmly and held out the handkerchief again.

“I am privileged that you would confide in me, we have had quite the adventure tonight have we not. “

with her other hand she held up her mug and toasted her.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711
Blessings of Hulali's, The Stacks

Niccolette hated crying. These tears, right now, the ones leaking steadily from the corners of her eyes - she hated them, loathed them, with an intensity that was almost sufficient to stop them. But not quite - not quite, because she could not go back, and she was afraid, terribly afraid, that she had already ruined her relationship with the one man she wanted to be with - the only man she had ever loved, and now that she had, she did not think she could have less.

Niccolette pressed her fingers against her eyes, wiping at the tears, as if the gesture might be enough.

Jean slammed his fist into the table. Niccolette did not jump precisely, but she turned to look at him, wide-eyed, a flicker of something more like ready heat than sadness flitting through her field and vanishing.

Niccolette straightened up a little as Jean spoke. Better without him? She wanted to shake her head; she wanted to defend him. She could not, not quite, for all that she still did not know what to say. Confront him, and demand his answer.

Jean’s anger licked through her, striking bright something inside her. Yes, Niccolette thought. Yes. She was who she was; she did not fit, and she had learned this long ago. She did not know how to gentle her healing; she did not know how to gentle herself. She would not try. Sitting there more than half-guttered in the coffee shop, looking wide-eyed at Jean De Silver, it felt like an easy decision to make. Uzoji could take her or leave her; she would not be less for him.

“Yes,” Niccolette took the handkerchief. She smiled at Jean, and lifted her mug with her other hand, taking a sip of the fragrant coffee, and settled it back down. She patted her eyes dry; she had not wept hard enough to ruin her eyeliner and mascara, and nor was she such a fool to wear the sort which dropped at the first bit of moisture. All the same, black would smear on Jean’s delicate handkerchief, and Niccolette made no effort to avoid it.

Niccolette left the handkerchief in a crumpled ball on the table, and picked up her coffee again, taking another sip.

“I have enjoyed it,” Niccolette said, confidently.

Niccolette did not wish to speak of Uzoji anymore; she did not think she needed to say to Jean that his words had touched her, or tell him of the plans beginning to take shape in her heart, still new enough that to speak then might be to shape them.

Naturally, she would prefer Uzoji; she would choose him first. She could not do otherwise, not if he was the sort of man to choose her too. To choose all of her, because she thought he had seen it; she thought he would not be upset that she had smoked a cigar and gone to an underground fighting ring - and if he were, Niccolette promised herself, she would not submit to him.

She would not submit to anyone. If he wanted to have her, ever again, he would have all of her. If he was the man she thought he was, if he was the man he had shown her, then he would be glad of her, and not afraid. And if not - then she had lost only her own foolish imaginings, no matter how her heart ached at the thought.

Niccolette giggled, the black mood receding as quickly as it had swept over her. Her mind was made up; she would find her time, she promised herself. She grinned at Jean over the rim of the cup, at this odd companion who she was very glad had offered her a light not too many hours ago. And to think she had ever worried her night might be dull. “Are all your eights like this?” Niccolette asked, smiling.

[Genevieve De Silver]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711

She had been surprised by her outburst, possibly as much as Niccolette had been. However the words had come from her heart, the feelings were always there, they drove her. Though she never spoke of them in public, or even out loud, not even to Cadoc.

Genevive hoped that her words had helped, though it seemed they had. This had indeed been a most eventful evening to say the least. Not what she had been expecting when she left the apartment earlier that evening. Was it only a few hours ago?

A warm smile spread across her face answering Niccolette’s giggle with a chuckle. At Niccolete’s question she blew out her cheeks and held a pale hand to her forehead in mock horror.


“Thankfully not, I do not believe my nerves would take it.”

She laughed then, took a sip of coffee and put the mug down.

“However, I am very glad that tonight was. It has been a most unexpected and entertaining, with excellent company.”

She put the cigar back between her teeth and took a long drag and blew smoke up at the rafters. She ashed the cigar into the tray on the table, and tilted her head slightly and grinned at Niccolette.

“Niccolette, would you like the address of my tobacconist? He is most skilled at his trade.”

The grin spread into as warm smile.

“And you may keep the cigar holder, it rather suits you and it would be my great pleasure if you would keep it. A gift and a memento of our shared adventure.”