Dread Isle, Outside the Rose
A little ways out into the water, with the lights of the Rose fading behind them, Niccolette leaned forward, opening the glass pane of the lantern she had brought with her. A tall, single white candle sat inside. She struck a match, and reached inside. The wick glowed, briefly, and caught, a small yellow flame wavering upwards. Niccolette drew back, and shook the match out as the fire crept close to her fingertips; she closed the glass pane and sat back.
There was no sign of Dread Isle, not yet, not at night; not in the distance, with the stars glowing through the clear sky overhead. Benea was half-lit, just barely beyond a crescent, hanging over the horizon; Ossa was entirely dark. Niccolette fixed her gaze on the flame, and began to breathe. There was a rhythm to it; she counted the spaces between her breaths, in and out. She put aside all the rest; there had never been fear, not really. Even the anger, she knew to set aside; even the fury. It would not help her here, not when she needed to call on the mona.
Niccolette had sat during the day with a grimoire written by Gharabarghi, a well known living sorcerer who had made his fortune, and his name, fighting for Hesse. He had written a grimoire which compiled the best of his spells, or so he had claimed. He had lived hundreds of years ago; it was a rare book, these days. Niccolette had found a copy in the black markets of the Turtle, the quiet places underground where – with money – one could go. Gharabarghi was not strictly forbidden; his spells hovered in the quiet in between, waiting to be discovered by the right authority.
In time, Niccolette’s gaze lifted from the flame. It knew her, by knew; it leaned towards her with every inhale and swelled brighter with every exhale, a glowing beacon at the edge of the boat. The island was a dark lump on the horizon now, rising up out of the waves, as if it would swell up, crest and overtake them.
“Yer sure ye don’t wan’ me t’ wait?” The human sitting behind her asked.
“No,” Niccolette said, coolly, the syllable tucked effortlessly between the rhythms of her breath. “Come back in an hour, and I shall pay you double, as promised.”
He grumbled something that sounded like moony beneath his breath. Niccolette considered the word, carefully, and then set it aside to. It was Hurte she thought of now, not Alioe. If it is beauty you care for, she demanded, thinking of the goddess, then I swear to you: this vengeance shall be it.
Niccolette breathed in deeper. She had read through Gharabarghi’s protection spells, one by one, careful, until she had found what she was looking for. He had several which were meant for a caster sitting with nothing to do but the upkeep, protecting themselves or some other fighter; they were interesting, but useless to her, tonight. Finally, she had found a spell which did what she wanted, which thickened the spell against swords and arrows, and which could be upkept, Gharabarghi had written, a long time with little cost to a superior caster; which could be upkept, Gharabarghi had written, even through a variety of other spells.
Niccolette began to cast. The monite whispered through the air through the lapping of the waves, the distant creaking of a small wooden dock. Her field flexed etheric around her; she felt the hazy energy that clouded the air against her skin sink into her, slowly. It hurt; it ached, as if her skin were suddenly too tight all against her. She did not flinch; she bore it, with her chin raised, and let the spell settle inside her. She curled it, and held; the pain held, too, and then lessened, until only the faintest lingering discomfort remained.
The bright note in her mind was like the candle flame; Niccolette fed it, just a little of her strength, and held the upkeep.
The front of the boat bumped the dock; the candle flame flickered.
Niccolette picked up the handle of the lantern and rose, her other hand steadying herself against the pier. She climbed up, and stood, pushing back the hood of her cloak; the dress she wore beneath was dark black, with gleaming ribbons crossing the front in an intricate pattern; it caught the light, and glistened. She breathed in deep, and stood on the edge of the pier as the boat began to pull back; it turned in the water behind her, and within a few moments, there wasn’t even the splash of oars to hear.
Niccolette began to walk forward then, her boots clicking steadily against the hard wood of the pier.
“I am here,” she called into the darkness, her eyes glowing green in the candlelight. She felt the weight of her gun strapped to her hip, hidden beneath the cloak; she felt the strength of the mona all around her, her etheric ramscott sharp and ready. “Show yourselves.”