nasty

Avalia

Time: 10:00 AM!!
Location: Leaving Roshmi City Alleyway ---> The Nest Exterior
Interactions: Orias @helo, Sivaros @GingerBoi123, Kuroi @hide on mana, Mika @Tae, Yuka @princess, Aiko @CitrusArms
Equipment: Sidesword, dagger, billhook, and armour. A pouch with 132 amas in, down to 127 after the post. A long-sleeved cloak and a cat mask.

---

The tap-tapping on Nabarra’s mask made her flinch. A step back to keep her balance. She glowered at the man with a fierce scowl, intent on showing her discontent. That is, before she remembered that the mask and veil would cover it all. This just made her slightly more pissed at herself.

A scream shot through the air. Nabarra whirled. Gripped her billhook tighter. A hard thud.

A demihuman woman stood atop a building, having kicked someone into a hay cart in the street below. A small crowd gathered, looking up, jaws slack. She began an exposition of some sort. King Kasai was mentioned at some point, riling up the crowd. Frankly, Nabarra only cared a little. It all looked like a lot of pretension and parading, with fuck knows what backing it up. If only to add to her contempt, some other fox demi began another exposition.

Fuckssake. These fuckin’ demis and their shite speeches. We’re all fucken’ doomed... she thought, her eyes rolling so hard that she had a moment of genuine worry. Can eyes roll out of a skull? Just as she thought she’d borne the brunt of it, yet another demihuman started an exposition, talking some shit about being a princess.

The fox seemed to believe that it was all that easy to “remember empathy” in a situation where your entire livelihood was under threat. He was also actively working against Nabarra’s goal. ”Fuck up, ya jerk-off! Shit, yeh cannae just “remember empathy” if yer entire fuckin’ way of life is at risk. This is the bloody twin-fucken’-’eaded dragon,” she snarled through gritted teeth. ”But you… you do fucken’ you. I’m sure that the cunts’ll ”remember empathy” when they order the princess there to feast on yer fucken’ entrails. Just fucken’ sayin’.”

And the crowd just lapped it up? she thought, looking through the crowd with vague disgust. It was situations like this that really got under her skin. Serving in the Dark Elf army gave her a hands-on experience of exactly what vile cruelty the soldiers had done. Could do. Will do. The way she saw it, it was horribly irresponsible to merely discard all that pain and suffering. And for what? An eternally fucked conscious which ultimately makes you kill more. Dis-fucking-gusting

Nabarra turned to walk away when Koldar caught up to her, echoing her disappointment. With a sigh, she decided that he had a good head on his shoulders, and she would listen to him more often. ”Fuck knows what I thought would work,” she spat back. Generalised anger had a funny way of finding itself in one’s words. She heaved a visible sigh which gradually escalated into a growl. A hint of calm infringed on the edge of her emotions from… somewhere. Ironically, this only agitated her more. She turned and began to storm off. Now was not the time to fucking calm down.

Before she got too far, her attention was brought back to the rooftop demi by Koldar’s comment. He was right. ”She’s lookin’ for a fucken’ fight, alright. That poor fucker she kicked ain’t gonna be bloody ‘appy,” she started. When she continued, her voice was a lot less hostile. ”But, I get yer point. She ‘as a way of riling that lot up.” She gestured out to the crowd. With what felt like the hundredth sigh that morning, she beckoned Koldar to follow her as she began to push through the crowd towards the building. ”Follow my path,” she said. She leant her billhook against the wall, gave a nearby commoner 5 amas to look after it for a few minutes, and launched herself at said wall. Where normally she would climb with reckless abandon, she deliberately slowed herself to check each handhold, ensuring Koldar could follow if he so chose.

After making it to the top, she walked up to the preachy lioness. She attempted to take a non-combative approach, but he anger sloughed off her in waves. Her fists were clenched, and her gait rigid. She was still limping from the earlier fight. When she got to a respectable distance with the lioness, she kept that distance and crossed her arms. ”Hi. Few things. One - the fuck did that poor cunt do to you? Or did ya jus’ kick ‘im to get some bloody attention? Two - I agree with you. Kings are fucken’ catastrophes waitin’ to ‘appen, and this one’s fucked bad. How ‘bout we help each other out? I help you with the royals, and you help me with the Dark fucken’ Elves.”

Wounds of the Soul

Catarina's eyes met Aïtana's as she reached through the bars to take the address. "Oh why thank you, that was very helpful of you, darling," she said absentmindedly, stashing the parchment in a fold in her clothes. Her mind was on how Aïtana's tone had shifted, even in just those two words. There was mutual ground here, and she felt some satisfaction from that. She was closer to her goal, after all. But there was something else there. They had just interacted as people for the first time since they met, so many years ago. It was odd. She was used to having had that already. She would have to pay the shop a visit the next day.

She listened to Aïtana's requests, nodding to confirm when Aïtana assumed her intention to supply food. The requests were more than fair, those she didn't plan on would be easy enough to fulfill. The only one that could be an issue is the newspaper. If there's anything being published about Aïtana being missing, it could prove an issue. But that's a bridge that could be crossed later.

Then, Aïtana requested water. Catarina let out a heavy sigh and rubbed her forehead. "Fuck, it's always the basics I forget..." she groaned, under her breath. She took a second before speaking clearly again, "But of course, Aïtana. These are all just common courtesy. I did intend to have a basin here for you, refilled daily. Unfortunately, I must have forgot while choosing the books. It will be here tomorrow when you wake. Until then..." she said, trailing off as she saw Aïtana running out of bread. She prepared her some more and passed it through the bars. "Until then, I'll bring you a pitcher, some cups, and the newspaper after we finish this conversation."

Her eyes briefly narrowed as she studied Aïtana. She rubbed her chin and bit her lip, grimacing slightly. "What are your measurements, darling? You may fit into some of my clothes." she said. She was never going to go and retrieve Aïtana's clothes from her lodgings. This would be a terrible idea, as surely someone would know Aïtana was missing by now. Her room would be closely monitored, and pulling any strings to change that would look far too suspicious, even high ranking as she is. "When I visit the shop tomorrow I'll get some spare undergarments, too. Would you like more of the same, or a different style?"

Aïtana's next words made Catarina look at her as if she had just burst through the door shouting nonsense. And, in a sense, that's just what Catarina thought about her words. She blinked a few times. A careful cadence took hold of her voice as she spoke next. "Of all the things you have ever said to me, Miss du'Vall... That is the most shocking. How- wh- uh... How? Please do explain."

Crownless King

Okayy here is a WIP. All the bones are there. Just gotta write out backstory as a cohesive thing. Posting this slightly unfinished because I'd like others' input.

Please let me know if you want to flesh out an existing relationship with Isylt! This will likely influence how I write the proper write up for backstory, so I wanna do this first.

And finally please let me know if you have any cool ideas on mundane or magical healing. I kinda have the very basics here, such as limits and stuff. But yeah, any flavour would be neat.

Doctor Isylt Drottaak of Pharazon

Concept: An esteemed doctor who performs magic through her practice, speeding up healing processes. For the efficacy with which she works, she is often labeled a "thaumaturge", though she vocally distances herself from such "crass" practice.

---

What's on the Surface?

Names:

- Doctor Isylt Drottaak of Pharazon
- Professionally known as Dr. Drottaak
- Isylt to acquaintances
- Friends call her Isy

Age:

- Somewhere between 25 and 32. She lost count.

Appearance:

Isylt's face is defined by sharp and contrasting features. Messy waves of black hair hang over a gaunt face. Shadows gather under each bone, and her eyes are dragged down by heavy bags. Her frame is short and wiry, almost petite. Only, without the implied grace, she's all skin and bones. Her arms are often crossed over her gut, holding her elbows and shielding her from prying eyes. Her skin is pale and clammy from a lack of sunlight.

Notable Achievements, Laurels, and Skills:

Isylt is a widely respected physician and Doctor within her field. She considers herself a scientist first and foremost, and a mage second. She's published works in the fields of medicine, astrology, and alchemy. Most of these have been well received but relatively minor in terms of discoveries.

Her most major work to date was one which presented a high-quality analysis of the skeletal system, and compared it to the geometry found in astronomical and astrological formations, a study known as "syndéology". The paper found strong correlations between such formations and skeletons, and speculated on the usage of such correlations in the field of medicine. Prior to this, syndéology had only been used to examine arcane phenomena, so this extension to the mundane was considered revolutionary.

Her greatest skill lies in medicine. She can use purely mundane means to treat all kinds of wounds, provided she has the correct salves and tools. Unless the injury is life threatening, her first option is usually to use mundane methods. This is because reckless use of magic can bring unforseen complications into the mix and make a situation worse. Most commonly, it can cause "false flesh", a condition where the surface of the injury heals more quickly than the inside, leaving a painless cavity under the skin. This can trap spirits of disease inside, and frequently causes internal necrosis. If this necrosis can be seen at skin level, this condition has become advanced and is very difficult to treat. Amputation, serious injury, and death are common.

That being said, she is not opposed to using magic. It's just that when she does, she opts for long-form rituals with low rates of failure. She is rigourous in her application of proper technique, and ensures she has correctly studied appropriate factors. She will consider the day's horoscope while implementing finely tuned arcane tools, such as specially cut nodal gems and soapstone sigils. While fast healing magic does exist, Isylt turns her nose up at it. She cites its dramatically increased chance of false flesh, stating that it's "imprecise and clumsy". She is capable of such spells in a pinch, but will always perform follow-up examinations which reopen the wound for proper healing.

If her mundane healing was impressive, her magical healing is nigh miraculous. She's been known to heal split skulls, burst eyes, and mangled arms. There is a limitation to this, however. Magical healing, and by extension Isylt, cannot reverse anything that has become permanent, nor can it heal magical wounds. This means that magic cannot reverse death, grow back severed limbs, treat false flesh, or close wounds caused by a curse. If magic is used to treat a magical injury, the spell will simply fail. No scholars know why yet, though there are several who are studying the phenomenon.

It is important to note that the threshold of "permanent" injuries is one that is still hotly debated in the medical community. There are many edge cases of this that might fall one way or another. For example, an eye that has been plucked out cannot be treated, but an eye that has burst in its socket can be. In OOC terms, cases like this that pop up during play would likely be worked out on a narrative level. What would keep the story interesting?

Notable Shortcomings:

Isylt has led a very scholarly life, and has faced nearly no physical adversity of her own. As such, she is about as physically robust as a sack of grain. She cannot fight, is not stealthy, and could barely run 50 meters without stopping for a break.

Her scholarly nature also causes her to question things to no end. This works wonderfully when she's studying, but can be a huge source of tension with authority. It can also cause her to question things that simply do not need questioning in a given moment, causing her to ask tactless questions and/or hesitate at the worst of times.

---

What's Under it All?

History/BS:

Dot point version until I feel like i have the mental capacity to flesh it out

- Born to a Darkwatch mage who died in this recent attack (father, Gaston), and an apothecary who lived on a border town (mother, Monika)
- Lived in an apartment above her Mum's old practice in the city
- Apprenticed first to her mother at age 7, mostly just watching and learning literacy at this point
- Lots of books, lots of new people to heal. etc.
- Dad was often out doing things, but wasn't completely absent. The three were close
- Isylt became an assistant apothecary about 14, doing proper lab work and shit
- Monika's old master visited and it was like woah, big reunion
- Dude's old as fuck because magic or whatever. May or may not be part of the Synod
- The old master met Isylt and saw her lab work, offered to take her on like he took Monika on
- And so... apprenticeship 2: electric boogaloo.
- Isylt was in this one for another like 7 years
- Turns out she was capable of magic where her mum wasn't, so she learned that from old master man
- She graduated apprenticeship, got a license, became a member of the National Physician's Society of Azon, and started her own practice
- Treated clients by day, experimented by night.
- Eventually released something which caught the eye of the Society
- Society was like "yes, it's grant time, take our money"
- She started writing the skeleton space book
- An undefined timeskip later, a perfect storm happened!
- The former royal physician died
- Isylt finished the skeleton space book just a few days prior
- the Crown decided they wanted a young new physician (due to the controversies, many speculated this was because they wanted to cut costs with hiring a third time)
- The Society decided to sponsor her and a few others for the role, but Isylt had the more impressive resume
- Bam, hired, been in this job for four years.
- Before all this current day murder, she was working on a sequel to her last big paper. This time it will be on blood.
- Now she's either running away with the king, or sticking with the uncle. This entirely depends on the PCs involved.

Drive:
(this describes her reason to go do anything of her own volition)

- Discovery.

Beliefs:
(this describes her morality, and how she views the world and its inhabitants)

"Lives are precious gems that need preservation, no matter what. Bodies are simply vessels, and need to be treated like the tools they are."
"Knowledge is not power. Anyone who says otherwise deserves to have neither."

Instincts:
(this outlines her automatic thought process and reactions to external stimuli. each action can be beneficial, but also has potential to become a flaw.)

"Always do it properly."
"Always keep my physician's kit stocked and close at hand."
"Never possess dull tools."
"If I don't know, I must find out"

---

Relationships

hmu. Can't fill this out without others.

mental list of things that need to be fleshed out

- Alchemy
- Consequences of magical healing
- The National Physician's Society of Azon

Sample Post

Atmosphere
More atmosphere. Go on, do it.

Image

Some days ago

It wasn't the jewels that she found valuable in the dirt-covered caskets. Corpses had a certain significance when dug up under a full moon. It was a well-studied fact.

The caskets were carried down the stairs into her laboratory one-by one. The servants took care to lay them in the moonshine beneath the skylight, surrounding the centerpiece. Strips of shadow laced each casket, twisting around corners, representing a distorted version of the window she knew quite intimately. Pungent smoke clogged the air, writhing its way out of censers and into noses. Anatomical figures and star charts painted on canvas lined the walls where shelves full of vessels and glassware and books did not. Racks of apparatus hedged a maze on the main floor. Scissors, scalpels, saws, hooks, thread, cloth.

The centerpiece was a cold stone slab. There was a body on it. Clammy and blue. Just resting. A slanted lip rose from the main surface, breaking only to create a small funnel, for pouring.

Isylt sat on a velvet-cushioned stool in front of a dark wooden writing desk off to the side. Codices and scrolls sat in neat stacks to her left, inks and pens in small divots to her right. In front of her was her new codex. Or, rather, the cheap parchment on which she scribed relevant data. It was to be about blood. Why, how.... what?

She set down her blunt pen and picked up a wicked sharp scalpel. It was always the fine tools in medicine, the ones that blunt quickly and need repair. She plucked the latest page from the stack and hosted herself up to walk over to the slab. Scalpel met skin, connecting hand to body, tracing intricate and precise lines along limbs and flesh. It was not blood that sprung from the cuts, but stench of putrid air. The incense smothered those demons which crawled out, but that made the air no less unpleasant.

She peeled skin and severed veins all night long, laying them out side by side and drawing the results. For this, she used a brush on vellum - pens on parchment were not delicate enough. After she was done with each corpse, she sealed it back in its casket and sent it off for re-burial and moved onto the next one. She repeated this until the sun rose. Then, she went to bed.

Crownless King

oh i like this. this all really tickles me, christ on a bike. fuck it, time to get back into advanced. i'm out of uni in a few days anyway.

It's 3:44 AM (fuck, 5:20 AM now) in my timezone at the moment so I don't have time to um... flesh out my ideas. But here's some vibe material.

The Royal Physician

Atmosphere
More atmosphere. Go on, do it.

Image

Some days ago

It wasn't the jewels that she found valuable in the dirt-covered caskets. Corpses had a certain significance when dug up under a full moon. It was a well-studied fact.

The caskets were carried down the stairs into her laboratory one-by one. The servants took care to lay them in the moonshine beneath the skylight, surrounding the centerpiece. Strips of shadow laced each casket, twisting around corners, representing a distorted version of the window she knew quite intimately. Pungent smoke clogged the air, writhing its way out of censers and into noses. Anatomical figures and star charts painted on canvas lined the walls where shelves full of vessels and glassware and books did not. Racks of apparatus hedged a maze on the main floor. Scissors, scalpels, saws, hooks, thread, cloth.

The centerpiece was a cold stone slab. There was a body on it. Clammy and blue. Just resting. A slanted lip rose from the main surface, breaking only to create a small funnel, for pouring.

Isylt sat on a velvet-cushioned stool in front of a dark wooden writing desk off to the side. Codices and scrolls sat in neat stacks to her left, inks and pens in small divots to her right. In front of her was her new codex. Or, rather, the cheap parchment on which she scribed relevant data. It was to be about blood. Why, how.... what?

She set down her blunt pen and picked up a wicked sharp scalpel. It was always the fine tools in medicine, the ones that blunt quickly and need repair. She plucked the latest page from the stack and hosted herself up to walk over to the slab. Scalpel met skin, connecting hand to body, tracing intricate and precise lines along limbs and flesh. It was not blood that sprung from the cuts, but stench of putrid air. The incense smothered those demons which crawled out, but that made the air no less unpleasant.

She peeled skin and severed veins all night long, laying them out side by side and drawing the results. For this, she used a brush on vellum - pens on parchment were not delicate enough. After she was done with each corpse, she sealed it back in its casket and sent it off for re-burial and moved onto the next one. She repeated this until the sun rose. Then, she went to bed.

To clear up some possible confusion I'm not spotting because I'm drinking dumb bitch juice and being awake this early.... The basic idea I'm going for is that Isylt is an esteemed physician who does dubiously legal work with bodies to advance both scientific and magical knowledge. I'm angling for a more morbid take on the "cleric healer" trope. I want to draw on historical theories about alchemy and medicine, and combine them with a folk-tale-esque take on healing magic. I'll write herbs, minerals, and explicit magic into a full character sheet when I (eventually) wake up.

Wounds of the Soul

Catarina's eyebrows rose ever so slightly at Aïtana's offer to give her the address of the lingerie shop. Genuine surprise was not something she felt often. She blinked a few times, furrowed her brow slightly. Then, from her seat on the ground, she looked up at Aïtana and spoke. Her voice was softer than Aïtana had heard it before. "Yes, actually. I would love the address. Hold on, let me-" she patted down her dress, hoping to find some long-lost slip of paper. Nothing."It seems I don't have anything to write it on, and I am sure I'll forget if you just tell me... Would you do me a favour? I've put some parchment in the top drawer in your lectern over there. There should be ink and pens in the drawer below it. Be a dear and pass them through so I can write the address down."

While Aïtana next spoke, Catarina sliced more bread. She spread a healthy portion of cheese on it and slowly brought it towards her mouth, but forgot to take a bite. Regardless, the bread lingered. Yet again, her brows furrowed. Her lips parted a little and she tapped on the bread crust. Aïtana was certainly giving her a lot to think about. In time, through a fog of thought, she spoke. "I think... yes. You are right. Be... as angry as you will. After all, if this situation were reversed..." she trailed off, snapping out of her thoughts and looking Aïtana up and down. Her captive would surely notice that she was studying her face and body language, drinking in the detail and swirling it around her brain like a fine wine. "I would definitely be a lot more aggressive than you are being now. I suppose it's a luxury for me. Not wanting to hurt you, I mean."

Catarina took a small and disinterested bite from the bread. She chewed slowly, eyes staring down into the loaf. Somewhere deep down, for a short moment, she allowed herself to feel satisfaction. Aïtana was noticably less wilful today. Maybe from the previous night, maybe from the repetitive pain, and maybe from Cata's actions. Maybe even for an internal reason. It would have been nice to know which of these it was, but that was not knowledge she was privy to. Whichever way, she had something to work with now. She had leverage. These suggestions of Aïtana's... they told Catarina what she wanted, far beyond the obvious "escape" and "justice". Whatever value that held. They gave an inkling as to what she thought she could gain. Respect.

Was this about to become easier? She swallowed her mouthful. Only one way to find out.

"I think I should start showing you respect, Aïtana. I acknowledge that I have been less than kind so far, and honestly I have no interest in continuing that. The only issue is... well I don't really know how you would want me to show that. As someone who's more experienced in this than I... how would you do it? And... as someone who's in a less advantageous situation, how could I show you?" She cleared her throat. Short, sharp, polite. "How could I show respect in such a position, I mean... Having you in a cage and all. I obviously cannot let you out, that would destroy me. Even though that's clearly what you want," she said, looking Aïtana in the eyes, pouring earnestness into her voice. Her own eyes glittered with emotion. Maybe she was laying it on a bit thick. But then again, maybe it was just enough. What Catarina found odd was that some of this was genuine. She wasn't saying this just to manipulate - there was some drowned and long-dead emotion below it. Did she really- Let's not think about that right now.

She stood. The old iron key rested heavy in one palm, the light and cheesy bread in the other. Her eyes rested on the second chair at the table. Maybe that quick glance, the appearance of a subconscious acknowledgement, would be enough to get Aïtana to wonder why it was there. Even if only briefly, the seeds could be sown.

But now Aïtana spoke of the book. Perfect! Catarina's face lit up with a smirk. Her previous playful demeanour edged its way back onto her face as she looked at Aïtana under hooded eyes. "Well now, you wouldn't want me to spoil the story for you, would you darling? That would take the fun out of it. Wouldn't want you to miss out on the surprises. Though... I could give you a synopsis if you like. Only if you want to hear, of course. I would loathe to bore..."

Wounds of the Soul

In a mirror image of Aïtana, Catarina woke peacefully in her own bed. She was relaxed, spread-eagle across the bed, her mind at ease. Her eyes slid open, pupils shrinking and shying from the first grey sunlight that crept in from an open window. She laid there for a minute. Curling herself into the blankets to appreciate the warmth.

The world was waiting.

More specifically, Aïtana was waiting.

Catarina's thoughts drifted over to her captive. She'd proven difficult last night. Unexpectedly so. With her constant pressing into her deflections. But then again - had it ever been any different in court? Of course not. People never change in one night, Cata. She got under your skin. Don't let it get to you. The affirmation rung in her head as she slowly hoisted herself up and out of bed.

Her bare legs dangled from the bed and grazed the floorboards. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and scratched the life out of her scalp. It was improper etiquette, but, as she was wont to say: fuck the ettiquitte. She slept in the nude. It was comfier. The blankets felt comforting against her skin and her body heat got around more quickly. Her thoughts slid back to Aïta- No. Deal with that later. Go get dressed.

She got up, and donned a long dress made of rich purple material, high top wedge-heeled boots, an amethyst-jeweled silver hairpin, and a short black cloak. Nothing fancy - not by her standards - but enough that looking in the mirror gave her a surge of confidence. So much for throwing up, she thought with a giggle.

She made her way out of her bedroom and onto the mezzanine level in the main room. On the mezzanine level there were books and documents and files lining every available surface, seemingly meticulously ordered despite the sheer quantity of them. A shelf full to the brim of various inks, quills, waxes, penknives, and parchments, was positioned behind a polished wooden desk. On the floor below, there were the other general amenities one might need in a household, such as a kitchen, dining area, and a small fireplace. Several smaller bookshelves were built into the walls on this floor, and a cellar entrance sat in one corner.

Catarina collected her mail from the front door and sat in her dining area to read them. Such began a short morning of chores. Cleaning, cooking, reading, writing. She preferred not to keep servants due to their tendency to get curious. Soon, all that was left to tend to was her prisoner. She gathered some bread and cheese in a cloth bag and made her way downstairs through the secret door behind the false bookshelf.

Soon enough, she was unlocking the door and walking in.

Only to see Aïtana in her underclothes for the second time that week. She raised one eyebrow and smirked a little. Her eyes may have wandered for a second, or maybe she was just amused that Aïtana still hadn't got dressed. "Good morning Aïtana. For all you vex me, I must say you have a delightfully comfortable taste in underwear! Where might I find some? Help a lady ou-" an abrupt stop as Aïtana flushed red. Catarina giggled a slow, low giggle. She began to talk again, her tone light, playful, and dismissive. "Oh darling don't worry about me, there's no need to be embarrassed. There's nothing you have that I don't. Besides, I saw the same last night I am seeing now. I took your clothes and washed them - they should stink less now."

The door clicked shut behind her, and she placed the key on a table to her right. She rubbed her forehead. "You're confused about the lodgings, no? You expected a dungeon with chains and rusty bars?" she inquired, raising her eyebrows. She spread her arms wide. "I like to keep my guests comfortable. Pay it no mind. I've put the book I recommended last night over there-" she gestured to the lectern, "It's really quite nice, you should read it if you find the ti- wait. You have all the time in the world! How I envy you, Aïtana."

She paced over to the cell bars and raised the small bag of food. "I've had a long morning of writing and need a break. Join me for breakfast?"

She pulled out the bag's contents and sat on the floor, laying the bag out as a small picnic cloth and placing the food atop it. She picked up a loaf of bread, sliced it, and spread some cheese on it, passing it to Aïtana through the bars.

"Oh, and... please, for the love of all that is good, lighten up this morning. I am in the mood for jest and if you're anything like you were last night, you're going to ruin that."

Wounds of the Soul

Catarina's shoulders slumped and her eyes rolled miles. Her face soured into a scowl, and she crossed her arms and stood upright. "Ugh, you take yourself far too seriously. Lighten up, sheesh. Maybe I was right about you being dull," she sighed, voice full of exasperation. The facade slipped a little here and her face betrayed genuine emotion. Her eyes gleamed more than usual, her shoulders were tense, her intonation a little too disappointed. Almost as fast as the emotion showed, she pivoted away, hiding it. "You have no sense of fun. You really should let loose. We can agree on two things though," she said, turning to look Aïtana in the eyes, "One: I'm not a monster, and two: you should stop wasting your breath."

She paced back to Aïtana. How to do this? A million possibilities flashed through her mind. In the end, her eyes settled on the scar on Aïtana's cheek. Her hand reached up, hovering, teasing. She could feel the warmth of her cheek. Pure magic flowed into Cata's fingertips, setting off wild tingles and spreading nervous static.

With less than the brush of a fingertip, Catarina released the magic to tear at the nerves in Aïtana's head, overloading her with pain. Forcing her to pass out.

---

Next Morning

The new cell had been finished on time, much to Catarina's relief. The particularly weak-willed bound servants had been ordered to refurnish the once cruel chamber into something more hospitable. After all, cruelty and torture is what's expected, and breaking people requires subverting expectations.

The cell had been transformed into a comfortable study. Several heavy wood bookshelves sat by a lectern, packed full of books by famous philosophers. Discerning viewers would recognise several names among them - Markus Jakober, Renfry Bucholtz, and Estibaliz Gizikis to name a few. Well-read viewers would understand that all of these thinkers were known for their advocacy of decentralised government and rejection of current ideas in the field of ethics. The lectern nursed the most interesting book of all - a red leather bound volume which bore a signature on the flyleaf.

A comfortable feather bed with strong wooden posts sat beside another wall. The candlelight shimmered off the fabric of the silken sheets, interrupted only by Aïtana, who was laid out on top. A dark wooden table stood regally in the center of the cell, attended by two chairs and a candlestick.

There were no shackles or chains. No cruel iron spikes. In fact, the only indication that this was a cell at all was the row of steel bars thick enough to mock the very idea of escape looming in the center of the room. Cata was quite proud of the whole assembly, if she did say so herself.

Avalia

Time: 10:00 AM!!
Location: Leaving Roshmi City Alleyway ---> The Nest Exterior
Interactions: Orias @helo, Sivaros @GingerBoi123, Kuroi @hide on mana, Mika @Tae
Equipment: Sidesword, dagger, billhook, and armour. A pouch with 112 amas in. A long-sleeved cloak and a cat mask.

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Nabarra's eyebrow shot up at Koldar's statement. She did not consider that he'd be unable to see this under the mask. "Your kingdom? Yer king won't be fuckin' happy with tha' choice of words. But whatever, this fuckin' Kasai chap sounds like a right cunt. He ought to 'ave a bloody responsibility. When we get this goin', if he's not fuckin' with us, he's fuckin' against us," she said, adjusting her cloak.

Nabarra watched Koldar leave the alley, and all she could think was Thank fuck. She had no idea where this "nest" was, and the thought of both leading and finding the way was not one she treasured. But as she stepped out of the alley and began tailing Koldar, all traces of that vanished. She kept close. Never letting him get out of sight. The crowd clamped around her. It squeezed into her consciousness. But this time she had Koldar to tail, and he seemed to cope well with this. Cope better at least. There was no real way for her to gauge how he felt about it. The noise bludgeoned her ears, but at least nobody stared. Not this time. She focused on her feet. One in front of the other. Left, right, left...

And before she knew it they had arrived. The din was unbearable here, but what could she expect? It was a pub. Koldar began talking, but was cut off by the doors crashing open and several patrons spilling out. Nabarra looked over to Koldar, catching his eye with a twinkle in hers. "You were gonna say as foolish as you?" she asked with a chuckle. "I think we found our motherfuckers. Kicked out of a bar notorious fer fuck off fights, for what bloody well sounds like a fight? Yeah."

She turned to Koldar and said "Righto, let's fucken' do this," before ducking through the crowd towards the entrance to the bar. Unlike before, she was deftly weaving through the people, pushing some aside and darting out of the way of others. She had a goal, and she would get it. She tapped the closest of the group on the shoulder, saying "Oi fucker. Do you hate Dark Elves too? How do ya feel about helpin' my friend and I bloody well kill some?"

She hated being so forward, but what else can you do with drunk people? Either way, this approach tended to work. More often than not anyway. If they happened to love Dark Elves, the rest of the crowd would back her.

Wounds of the Soul

That apathy in Aïtana's eyes made Catarina smirk. She had played this game before. She knew people with a will this strong could never break this early. It was a fake apathy, one constructed to throw her off, to make her think she's breaking no ground.

Delicious.

She'd seen many like this in the past. Both within Castrolibero and without. There was a shimmer of defiance in the ones who hadn't truly broken. Oh how lovely to watch it turn. She swept a strand of hair from her face and looked down her nose into Aïtana's eyes. "Miss Du'Vall... darling, no... you know better than this, surely?" she drawled, mocking the other woman with everything, all the way down to the rhythm of her words. "Or... maybe not? Okay, let me explain. Sometimes when you say certain things, like say... I recommend taking a long look into the mirror. You might throw up from the very view you find in it or... just to blame it on me once you start your torture, I'd suggest you cut to the act, it implies certain things. That means you might not say it, but the words still carry the meaning! Exciting, right? For example, those words imply that you think of me as a monster."

Throughout the entire explanation she kept a mockingly sincere expression on her face, complete with a furrowed brow and pouty lips. She put deliberate effort into mocking Aïtana's tone while she was quoting her. Unwilling to stop there, she continued, saying "Another example might be that this entire time I have been implying that you're a fucking idiot. Didn't you pick up on that, darling?"

Her mouth split into a wide smile, lighting up her eyes. This really was too easy. She briefly reconsidered picking on such low-hanging fruit. Surely it couldn't be this easy? But... no. Instead, she giggled a low and flirtatious giggle. "Oh you're too much fun darling. Maybe I will let you one day. You know, let you uhh... 'save' me - deep, deep inside," she booped Aïtana on the nose and winked, "Maybe."

With a swirl and a swish, Catarina stood. She walked behind the chair once more, this time lifting it back up so Aïtana was once again seated properly. Guests should never be made to feel uncomfortable. The chair creaked as it pivoted. A long, high whine. A thud as it connected with the carpet. Cata circled around to position herself in front of Aïtana. She crouched slightly, coming down to eye level with her captive.

"But after all this you say I'm responsible for my actions? Go on then. Hold me responsible, and I'll hold you responsible," she said, slowly, deliberately. Dangerously. "I won't if you won't, darling."

She winked.

Wounds of the Soul

A grin spread over Catarina's face, only widening further as Aïtana continued her tirade. The last few sentences sent her into a shaking, cackling fit. It took her a moment to fully recover. Her next words were spoken through deep breaths and more than a few giggles. "I... Oh, aren't you something. I knew you were a principled woman, but I never knew you had such wit. It certainly hasn't shown in court before. Usually you're such... She paused to stand, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "Well, usually you're such a bore."

She slid the book back onto the shelf and began to make her way behind the chair, caressing Aïtana's cheek on the way around. It was warm to her touch. Excellent. Her hand slipped just below the ear and she pressed slightly. A fast pulse. Even better. Catarina smirked as she thought of just how easy Aïtana would be to piss off. People with tempers were always her favourites. They were so rewarding. Lowering herself to her knees, Catarina placed her chin on Aïtana's shoulder, reaching around the other side of her neck with an arm.

"Oh, I truly am sorry darling. I did not mean to upset you. But, um... how to say?" she said. She took a moment to make a show of considering her next words, hand grazing her cheek. "But we are not equals. Not really. Think about it: if we were equal, how could I do this?"

Her hand slipped away, words hanging in the air for a moment, wafting around Aïtana's head like a threatening, musky perfume. All the better to allow her captive's mind to race. This was the fun bit. Her hand gripped the back of the chair. She pivoted on her knee. Yanked down with one arm, unbalancing the chair and driving it into the ground. She sat back onto her knees. Her eyes sparkled with a smug smile as she looked down at her captive and placed her hands in her lap. "Aïtana darling... this is not an act. I don't know how else to break the news to you, but I'm not whatever exaggerated caricature you've constructed of me. Although... you got one thing right. I am fond of novels. One runs out of treatises and philosophical dialogues, as I'm sure you know. But then again, you do seem to read only Varka, so I could be wrong."

Catarina turned and began surveying her bookshelves. "Here -" she said, pointing at a thick, red leather bound book. "I can recommend this one! A thrilling romance between a poet and a painter, written with a lovely impressionist influence. I know the man who wrote it, as a matter of fact. He signed it for me."

Aïtana would be a difficult one. Cata had always known her to be headstrong. Most start showing signs of beginning to crack by now, but this resistance and refusal to engage would make things difficult. That just meant it'd be fun though, right? They all crack under enough pressure. And diversion of the pressure just meant she had to apply it elsewhere. Catarina let out a low giggle. "Oh again! I keep digressing. You are good at getting me off topic, darling. But anyway. The world is so much more complicated than you think it. Yes, I have done regrettable things. Everyone has, after all. But that hardly means I am a monster," she said. Her next words were to be a gamble. If there was anyone who hadn't faltered in their morals, it was Aïtana. But she was confident, and right or wrong, she would learn something. "And likewise, you've made some commendable choices, but you are no perfect being. You've made some horrible decisions in the past, no? Does that make you a monster?"