Some Kind of History [Memory, PM to Join]

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711
Hama’s Hands, The Stacks

Niccolette was not quite sure how to answer Jean’s question, and in fact the arrival of the drinks had been something of a relief. She was not a healer, and she knew it. A year or two ago, that had been a secret hurt that she had troubled to name. Now it was a hurt that sat a little closer to the surface; Niccolette could put her finger on it, yes, there – that is where it hurts. But… she did not yet know the spell to heal this trouble.

Niccolette had the talent for living conversation. Niccolette was forever being told that she had the talent for living conversation. She had known this for years; and, too, she had worked hard for years, and it had not yet disappointed her, not in the sickbay nor on the dueling field. Of course she had failed; of course she had backlashed. These things did not trouble her, nor did they touch upon her sense of her own talent. Backlash happened; it happened when a galdor pushed themselves, when they strove to become better. It came from attempting a spell which was too hard, or casting in anger, or a thousand other mistakes; but to make mistakes was to learn from them.

And so – it was not that Niccolette did not have the skill.

But…

Even at the hospital, Niccolette had found, she was missing something. She liked the work very much, but what appealed to her was that it was interesting. There were so many ways in which the body could be injured; one had to work very hard indeed to discern the right problem, and even harder to find the right spell – let alone to cast it properly!

But somehow that interest did not seem to translate into Niccolette being able to cast in the way expected of healers. Niccolette’s spells worked, yes – but they hurt. Sometimes, she had been told, they hurt worse than the injury themselves, for all that it was fixed afterwards. She had not understood it, just a few years ago, and it had been a tangled mess inside of her, like a knot in her chest. And... now, she did not know what to do for it, but at least she could diagnose it. The first step, Niccolette thought.

But –

Uzoji did not mind.

There was a secret warmth in her chest when she thought of it; Niccolette did not know it, but she smiled to think of it – of him – smiled, a soft, silly, happy little smile, her eyes distant, a faint redness creeping into her cheeks that was not just from the heady whiskey. She had healed him, and Uzoji had laughed. In the worst moments with her professors, with those who came for healing, she could think of that – of his laughter, of the look in his eyes, and she could know…

Niccolette took a slightly longer drink. She was not sure, precisely, what she knew, but she was sure that it was something she needed. It ached to think of this, just now, and the little smile left her face, faded slowly away.

Jean was back on the subject of healing.

Niccolette shrugged. She took another drag from her cigarette. “I have studied healing,” she said, with all the casualness she could manage. “We heal at the hospital, of course, but I would not say I am a healer.” They were strangers, were they not? Niccolette decided she did not care what Jean thought of her; she did not care to keep herself secret and small and hidden. She would say the truth, at least this once.

“In fact, I prefer dueling,” Niccolette straightened up a little, stuck out her chin, and stared at Jean, lips pressed together, as if daring him. She was not quite sure what she was daring him to do; she did not know. But she held, waiting a long moment, her eyes steadily on the self-professed wastrel.

[Genevieve De Silver]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711

Watching Niccollete's face Genevieve was suddenly concerned she'd said the wrong thing and the young woman would close up. However, she kept silent and waited, a complex range of emotions seemed to play over her table mates face in a short time.

When Nixcolette did speak it caught her of guard, dueling? Genevieve wasn't a stranger to magical dueling, thouth her particular conversation didn't lend itself to it. Well, not as far as she was concerned.

She had watched duels of course, or rather Jean had. She found them exhilarating, as she found the prize fights she sometimes watched, and made a small amount of money on.

She looked at Niccolette in a new light, she took swig from her glass and a grin spread across her face and she leant forward. A new light danced in her eyes and she put the cigar holder between even white teeth and said her voice made husky by the drink and cigar smoke.

"Now that, I would very much like to hear about."

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711
Hama’s Hands, The Stacks

Jean grinned, and Niccolette relaxed again. She did not sit back, this time, but leaned forward instead, resting her arms against the table. She grinned right back at Jean, the tension easing from her small face once more, replaced by a sparkle in her eyes, and a bright, vivid look, a perfect match to the sharp, vital energy of her field.

Niccolette giggled again, aware of a faint quickening in her chest, an odd sense of pleasure. She settled the silver cigarette holder between her lips again, taking another drag, and titled her head up slightly – even without leaning back, she could manage to blow the smoke up into the air between them, rather than into Jean’s eyes.

Niccolette felt much improved; she would have attributed it to the alcohol and the tobacco, the strong whiskey and the fragrant herb, but whatever the source, there was a comfortable ease that spread through her once more.

“It is something of a sport at Brunnhold, of course,” she grinned at Jean, taking another sip of her drink – a small one again, this time, although she had made solid progress on this third drink of the night. Niccolette’s voice became a little dreamy as she spoke, her eyes glittering green in the pale yellow light of the bar. “Organized, naturally,” Niccolette made an idle little face, lips pursing, the hand with her cigarette holding waving gently through the air, trailing lazy smoke behind it.

“Even so – there is nothing like it! To pit oneself against another, with nothing but your wits and the mona,” Niccolette shivered. “The only trouble is the rules. One can fight properly on the streets of the Stacks, of course, or on the Lawn,” There was a wicked little edge to her grin now. “But even there you must agree – like in a duel – ah, we will not harm each other beyond this,” she drew a line on the table with her finger, lips pursing gently. “This far and not further,” she drew her finger back, and raced it forward over the table – and stopped it, abruptly, at the spot where she had drawn the line. "They have so many rules," she said, quietly, staring down at her hand for a long moment, a drunken little wistfulness creeping into her voice.

Niccolette gave her head a little shake, and looked back up at Jean, drawing her focus back to the question of dueling. She drew her hand back off the table, and curled it in her lap, as if hiding it. “But,” Niccolette grinned once more, “to duel is quite entertaining. One can never know just what the opponent will do. It hurts, naturally, but that is part of it! If you do not have the strength to call on the mona when you are suffering, then you are no duelist.” Again, there was that wicked edge to her smile – again, something like a challenge in her eye when she looked at Jean, sitting opposite him in her pretty turquoise dress, thick dark hair curling over her shoulders, her eyes rimmed with kohl and her lips painted red.

“You do not duel, do you?” The Bastian asked, curiously. There were plenty of quantitative conversationalists at Brunnhold, naturally. Niccolette could, of course, herself cast certain quantitative spells; the studying of them was a requirement for a Brunnholder with a focus in living conversation. One needed to be able to ask the mona about the body one was healing, and so Niccolette was comfortable – fluent, even – in the specialized language of quantitative conversation cast in support of living.

But she had never met a quantitative duelist. Niccolette would have said it was not possible, but she supposed she had been wrong before.

[Genevieve De Silver]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711

Both lent forward as they were Genevive could really see Niccolette’s face, though she found her gaze drawn to her eyes. The light that danced there as she spoke of dueling reminded her of the energy amongst the spectators around a prize ring, The Lawns, or a street brawl and it stoked that same feeling in her.
She broke the contact first and picked up her drink took a swig and realized she had finished it, she knew she should slow down and yet, strong drink demands company.
Before she spoke she caught Max’s eye.

“I know exactly what you mean, I have seen some most excellent duels on The Lawns, but they lack a certain.. Raw quality, if that makes sense?”


She took another drag on her cigar and held the smoke for a time and then blew it to the side. While she had tried dueling in the past her own arts did not lend themselves to it, though should could work out the likelihood of what an opponent might do, that was slightly academic if you couldn’t follow it up with an attack.

“Ah alas no, however my arts do give me a somewhat unfair advantage when it comes to gambling.”

She grinned and chuckled before holding up her cigar and looking at the glowing tip and saying.

“Tell me Niccolette, have you ever been to see a prize fight?”


At that point Max returned to their table, looking expectant and waited for their order.
Genevieve glanced at Max and then looked back to Niccoelett.

"Same again, or shall we have something different?"

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711
Hama’s Hands, The Stacks

"Yes,” Niccolette said, understanding Jean perfectly. “Naturally, there are first tier duels, of course,” The galdor grinned. “No holds barred, but – of course, these are uncommon among students,” Niccolette made a face, as if disappointed. “One cannot…” She shrugged, and took another, longer drink from her glass. “It is not done. Even, I am told, when one fights a duel for honor… well. It is more common to propose the second tier, unless the insult is truly serious.”

Niccolette tapped her fingernails aagainst the glass again, shifting. “To win the duel by violating the rules – it is even worse than losing,” Niccolette made a face. “There is no conquest to be found there. But one feels – one feels so – so – trapped.” Something throbbed in her chest at the words, and she swallowed it, along with another drink of her cocktail.

Niccolette giggled at Jean’s response to her question, eyebrows lifting. She tried to imagine her stuffy history professor – also a quantitative conversationalist, if Niccolette remembered correctly – saying such a thing, and utterly could not. It was almost impossible to believe that these two were related. Gambling with quantitative conversation! It was – brilliant, Niccolette thought, quite happily.

“A prize fight?” Niccolette’s eyes widened slightly, and she leaned forward again.

Max’s interruption was odd – almost jarring – but when Niccolette glanced at her drink, to her surprise, she had nearly finished it. She drank the last of the sunset, and set the glass down again. This one was not quite so steady; it was hard to get the bottom to line up properly with the table, and instead one side landed first, then the other, with a little clunk.

“The same again,” Niccolette said, decisively. She held, waiting, visibly impatient, until Jean had confirmed the order and sent Max away.

Niccolette leaned forward against the table, her cigarette still dribbling smoke into the air off to the side, her eyes wide and bright. “A prize fight? You mean as – with fists?” She grinned, excitement fizzing through her veins. “No, I have never – naturally, I have seen fist fights, of course,” she thought of a year and almost a half ago – thought of Uzoji, blood trickling from his nose, his eye swollen, smiling at her as if Rhys had not just nearly had his face pounded in – as if he had won the fight, in all the ways that truly mattered -

And Niccolette pushed the thought aside; she pushed all of it aside. She could not think of it, not just now; she could not seem to handle thinking of Uzoji. It felt like a fire somewhere deep inside her chest, but instead of warming her it was burning her, and she feared what would happen if she fed it further. Prize fights; prize fights sounded simply wonderful.

“Do you attend these… prize fights?” Niccolette giggled again; her voice was careful and precise, even if the alcohol had thickened them. “What is it like?” Excitement throbbed beneath her heavy Bastian accent, lighting her eyes and thrumming through her, hot and electric in her veins. The galdor took another drag from her cigarette, watching Jean intently.

[Genevieve De Silver]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711

Genevieve met and held Niccolette's gaze, and this time did not look away. When she spoke her voice was low, almost breathless. The heady mix of strong spirits, rich tobacco and talk of violence made had her blood up and a flush was on her pale cheeks.

"Oh yes, there is nothing quite like it. To be in the crowd, to be so close to the ring you could almost touch the fighters."


It was true, she avidly attended the various rings and pits around the Stacks and the Capital, or rather Jean did. He was well known, and had a reputation for a shrew eye and deep pockets.

"The fights have an energy about them, a smell even. I can't describe it, you'd have to experience it for yourself…"

She trailed off, an idea had just came to her. Max appeared dropped off the drinks and left again un noticed.

"Nicollette, if I was to tell you I knew of a prize ring here in the Stacks."

She leant forward slightly more, and said her voice an excited hush.

"An underground unregulated place.. a place of rough drink, rough customers and savage fights. Not far from here, in fact. If I were to suggest we finish these fine drinks and perhaps relocate there. What would you say?"

Genevieve held Niccolette's gaze as she took up her glass and downed half of it and set it down, almost spilling what was left.

"Speaking hypothetically of course."

The wild grin was back on her face, the fire back in her eyes as she waited for Niccolette's answer.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711
Hama’s Hands, The Stacks

Niccolette’s eyes were wide and bright, her gaze fixed solidly on Jean. There was an answering flush in her own cheeks, and she teased her lip softly between her teeth, working it for a long moment before remembering herself, and switching to another drag of her cigarette inside, feeling the cool silver against her lips and tongue.

Niccolette was utterly unaware of Max; she hardly even noticed the drinks coming to the table, her curiosity alight. Her breath caught, and when Jean’s voice trailed off, Niccolette was conscious of a faint feeling of – disappointment. It was a moment before she could identify it through the cloud of whiskey that seemed to have seeped into her head when she wasn’t paying attention.

Disappointment. Would Uzoji take her to such a place? He would, Niccolette thought. Or – or she would go alone, if need be. Niccolette straightened up in her chair, one hand dropping to her lap, and fisting in the expensive turquoise fabric of her dress. Yes, by Her fearful symmetry, Niccolette promised herself. In Vienda, perhaps; surely there would be such a place in Vienda. She would find it; she would go. Be damned the consequences; in this moment, Niccolette did not even let herself think of them.

The Bastian looked up at Jean again when he spoke once more. She inhaled, sharply, and leaned forward again, mirroring the body language of the man across the table. “Yes,” Niccolette did not hesitate, not even a fraction of a moment; she did not even let Jean get out his attempt to walk back the offer, to turn it into something like a joke.

The Bastian’s grin was every bit as wild as Jean’s. Niccolette paused, something tickling in the back of her mind. She spotted the drink, lifted it to her lips, and took a long drink, then set it back down only a little more than half full, about as successfully as Jean had. She straightened up, ashed her cigarette again, and smoked the last of it with a deep inhale, blowing the smoke out into the room. She pressed the finished end of it into the ashtray, and eased it from the silver holder with experienced fingers, dropping the tiny butt against the rest of the ash.

“But,” Niccolette said, very clearly. “But,” she squinted for a moment at Jean, tucked the silver cigarette holder back into her purse, and crossed slender, turquoise-clad arms against her chest. “To accept this does not mean I am open to other invitations,” she lifted her chin, finding her own line in this strange encounter. This far and no further; Niccolette swore it on Her deadly terrors. The faint pulse of energy through her field, crackling sharp and bright in the air around them, sealed it. “It is clear?” She raised an eyebrow at Jean, staring down the self-professed rake.

[Genevieve De Silver]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711

A shock went through Genevieve internally, she was wrong footed by Niccolett’s words, the thought hadn’t occurred to her. Yes she could appreciate her attractiveness but that, for her was a very complicated line.
Genevieve had not pursued romantic relations, for a very long time. Her life was too complicated, how could she explain it to someone else.

She rallied quickly and was thankful for her skill at hiding her thoughts and grinned broadly and inclined her head in a bow.

“Heard understood and clear as crystal.”

She held up her glass in a toast, to show all was well, which it was. She could not imagine how terribly complicated things would have got had Niccolette been interested in her, in that way.

“Here’s to what I believe will be a lasting friendship.”

She drained her glass in one go and plonked the glass down on the table stuck the cigar holder firmly in the corner of her mouth and said.

“Now, what's say we go watch some wonderful and bloody violence?”

She stood, swayed on her feet and laughed, yes indeed this was shaping up to be a very interesting evening. The light of devilry danced in her eyes.

"Niccolette, may I offer you a cigar?"

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711
Hama’s Hands, The Stacks

Niccolette grinned back at Jean, and lifted her glass as well, returning his toast, clinking her glass against his a little harder than she’d meant – it was surprisingly hard, all of a sudden, to sort out how far away his glass was, and how hard she was meant to move hers. She did not feel the need to say anything else; Niccolette was sure that she had been quite clear, and she was sure too that she would – she would sense it, Niccolette decided, if Jean had not meant what he said. There was a way men had about them, a sort of –

Niccolette could not put it into words, but she recognized it when she saw it. Patronizing, Niccolette decided. That was the word. A patronizing-ness that men had, sometimes, when they thought that they should know your own desires better than you did. Sometimes it was followed by anger, when you did not yield to their idea of you. Not always, of course, not all of them. Not Uzoji, of course. She could not have loved him half so much if he had been like that.

But, of course, many men had the way of the patronizing, and Niccolette felt she was quite good at recognizing it, after so very many years – three or four, at least, of putting up with such things. She did not see it in Jean. She squinted at him, briefly, and decided that she was quite sure that it was not there. She was sure that even if she had not been quite so drunk, she would not have seen it. All the same, Niccolette promised herself, she would be careful. Naturally, she would be careful.

Jean had finished his drink, though, so Niccolette had to finish hers as well, naturally, to honor the toast and their new friendship. “To friendship,” The Bastian giggled, titled her head back, and finished the cocktail, shivering. Warmth blossomed through her, and she closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the room swirl briefly around her. It settled back down, and Niccolette grinned broadly at Jean.

“Yes!” The Bastian said, enthusiastically, excitement and too much whiskey humming through her, life burning vibrant and wonderful in her chest. She rose as well and settled her purse against her arm, swaying slightly from side to side; there was a faint, warm gold-shift to her field now, a brief flicker of soft happiness that spread from her, far enough to brush against Jean, before the normally controlled Bastian tamped her field back down, leaving her field indectal once more.

Niccolette giggled yet again at the offer of a cigar. She clasped hard to the back of the chair, then straightened up. “You may,” She pronounced, then paused, “but only if you shall offer me as well a cigar holder,” she giggled again, preferring to avoid cigar ash all over her lovely turquoise dress. “I do not think it shall fit in mine!”

Whether it was with a cigar or not, Niccolette would follow Jean from the small bar, out onto the street beyond. The steps seemed terribly far up, much further than they had been going down, and Niccolette clung to the narrow, slender railing. Her dress too – it was much warmer than she had remembered it being, even though it had gotten later outside, and usually that meant it got colder.

“I think,” Niccolette said, grinning at Jean’s back, “I think that I am – perhaps – a little bit guttered.” She giggled again. “Let us go see some – some wonderful, bloody violence,” even drunk, Niccolette did not shout, not on the street, but Jean would have had to be blind to miss the excitement fizzing through her, the brightness on her face, the vibrant energy that seemed to seep from her and fill the very air.

[Genevieve De Silver]

Late Evening, 28th Yaris, 2711

Excellent! Then let us be off."

Genevieve paused grinned, took the cigar holder from her mouth shook the mostly spent cigar from it and handed it to Niccolette.

"Hold that a moment, if you please."

Then she took the cigar case from her frock coat pocket, took out two, returned the case and with a small silver spike on her watch chain pierced the ends of the cigars.
One she stuck between her teeth, feeling even more bold for the sheer commonness of it, smoking like some Old Rose dock hand!

The other she placed in the cigar holder, she struck a match and lit both.

Once that was done, she led the way down the street, a little unsteady on her legs.

A thought niggled at the back of her mind, something wrong, she ignored it as it didn't seem like a thought for now. This was a time for freedom, whatever the thought was, it could wait

Jean led the way down the winding streets and levels of the Stacks, for even drunk he knew these ways well, almost on instinct.

After a time the streets got narrower and darker, then they came to an old wooden wall, with a single door. Genevieve grinned at Niccolette and knocked a rhythm onto the plain door. After a moment it was opened by a scarred human armed with a heavy looking staff. She studied them briefly before nodding and letting them past.

The short alleyway beyond open onto a torch lit yard across from it stood a building.
It was clearly once very grand, a theatre or an opera house perhaps? Now however its white stucco has long since turned grey brown and peeling. The pillars of its colonnade have been wrapped with faded red fabric, like huge barbers poles. Two more well built toughs flank it's double doors.

Genevieve turned to Niccolette and bowed theatrically and said.


"Welcome to Wrath's Palace, one of the best kept secrets of the Stacks."

Through the doors in what had once been a grand foyer was a small crowd, mostly humans and wicks, but there where a few galdori.
One of the galdor gentlemen spotted them and walked over smiling, his face flushed with drink. He briefly looked shocked to see Niccolette, there were very few women present and no other galdori women at all. The man dismissed it, with a sly knowing look at Genevieve, which, in her drunken state, missed entirely.

"Why De Silver you rogue, I hope you bought your money old boy."

Genevieve made a hurried introductions.
Then a hush fell over the room when a woman stepped through the curtains at the far end of the room. She had an air of command, tanned skin and intricate indigo tattoos from her knuckles to her neck and black hair cut very short.
She wore a dress the colour of fresh blood, in broad Old Rose accent she announced.
This was was Lady Wrath, owner and one time prize fighter.

"The next fight is about to begin."

Genevieve led Niccolette through the curtains and out to what had been the auditorium. The seats where gone now, and what had been the orchestra pit was now empty with sand scattered on the floor. The crowd gathered around the bit, the air filled with an electric tension as the first fighters entered and jumped into the pit.