OPEN ↠ HARING EVENT

[faderifting]

WHO: All
WHAT: WINTER IS HERE
WHEN: Haring 15-Wintermarch 1
WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall
NOTES: You can use this post as an event-style mingle log, or just use it as background information for your RP elsewhere!

It's been a chilly month already, but in mid-Haring the temperature suddenly plummets. One day it's merely cold, and the next morning the Inquisition wakes to frost on the inside of the window panes and an icy draft whistling through every crack in the tower's masonry. Downstairs, the pipes that feed the bathing chambers and the kitchens creak in the walls, loud enough to be heard even out in the courtyard, where they run beneath the stones, and around midday, when the sun has failed to raise the temperature above freezing, a blocked pipe finally gives, cracking open to spill water across the central court and send it running down side passages. The whole area floods several inches deep and almost immediately begins to freeze, presenting at first a gigantic, treacherous slush puddle and, after a few hours, a sheet of sheer ice.

Melting a safe path from door to door and laying down sand or wood to keep it from becoming slick again is a simple enough undertaking, but before the entire courtyard can be thawed, someone appears with ice skates—and that’s a better idea, surely, for at least a few days. Anyone who complains about the frivolity can be assured it’s good exercise, not to mention good training for a force that may have to travel or fight on ice in the future.

Temperatures remain cold enough that even some parts of the harbor begin to freeze, first just at the calmest edges of the shoreline, and then the more protected nooks and crannies of the bay, inlets and the spaces between piers and beneath docks. It snows most days--not real storms, just a couple inches here and there--little enough for the window to blow most of it off the icy plain of the courtyard and other wide open, paved spaces, accumulating on branches and in alleyways, and creating growing drifts in corners and against walls.

After a week or so actual chunks of floating ice begin to fill the narrow channels of the harbor, threatening smaller and less-sturdy vessels, and the situation in the poorer parts of the city begins to grow dire. With the Viscount's blessing, Inquisition teams (particularly mages) are called in to help. Some are assigned to the docks, to clear ice that makes landing and unloading treacherous, others to help escort ships into harbor by melting a path ahead. Others are sent into Lowtown to clear ice and snow and to provide warmth and medical attention where needed. At least one mage is sent with each team, and while many neighborhoods are pleasantly surprised and grateful for the quick work fire glyphs make of cold hearths and frozen streets, a few are unable to overcome their distrust, and refuse the teams entry, determined to take care of their own without the help of dangerous outsiders.

In the last week of the year, a true blizzard strikes, snow falling steadily for more than a day, blanketing the city at least three feet deep. Digging out the Gallows will be a group effort, and most non-essential trips outside the base will be cancelled for a few days until travel is less difficult, while those who reside in the city or elsewhere may be encouraged to stay a night or two in the fortress so they might continue to work without traveling through the storm. But on the first day of Wintermarch the First Day feast goes on as planned, with modest but plentiful food and ale served in the Gallows' dining hall for anyone who wishes to celebrate the new year.

Comments

[paladingus]

He does have a way of finding Myr through a crowded room even when he hasn't been longing to see him, and he's let that laughter die down to a quiet rueful huff by the time Myr makes his way over. He hasn't stopped it altogether. It's partly his gently-eroded inhibitions at the moment, and partly because he trusts Myr not to mind.

It's a bit of embarrassing self-pity to which he would rather not admit, even so. He shakes his head. "Nothing's funny, but--well. You know how it is." Laughter as therapeutic alternative to far less manageable feelings about what can't be changed. It's a good thing to practice.

"I wouldn't mind your company even if you were actually covered in bees right now. C'mon and sit." He shifts aside, tilting his head at the package.

[faithlikeaseed]

"Too well." Something faintly sad lurks behind his usual smile, there and gone again; he doesn't know of a certainty that Simon's nothing's funny has anything to do with the date, but he's got his guesses. And since he'd been intending to bring a little something along anyway...

Myr's got to laugh himself, quiet, at the mention of the bees. "Fortunately for you and them, they're buttoned up safely against the cold right now," he replies. "Though after that little adventure you and Cade had," he'd heard, of course, and laughed helplessly for a solid minute before apologizing, "I'm glad you're not traumatized for life."

At the invitation he leans in to find the table with practiced ease and set the package upon it, before taking a seat beside Simon--too close, but then he's blind, so that's forgivable, isn't it? "This is for you, by the by." He taps the package--the gift--by way of indication, then adds, soft and affectionate: "Happy birthday, Simon."

[paladingus]

And if Simon lets him sit too close, doesn't move away even a hair, even as his knee brushes warm against Myr's under the too-low table--well, an excuse can surely be found for that, too, after the fact.

"You heard about that, did you?" There's nothing rueful about the laughter that goes along with that. "I hate to disappoint you in me, but I would not have handled that a fraction so well as he did. Maker grant me the patience of Cade covered in bees."

Making him forget his worries just like that, with his presence alone, and making Simon laugh in earnest into the bargain, would truly have been birthday present enough--but it seems that Myr will not be contented with that, and the back of Simon's neck flushes faintly pink at the tone of his friend's voice. (And the sound of his name, still a novelty, still foreign and lovely on Myr's tongue.) The way it lingers in his ears nearly distracts him from the offered package, but he reaches for that too, after a moment's little brain hitch.

"You didn't have to," he says, in that way that can only mean but I'm damned glad you did, quiet and surprised and almost embarrassingly flattered. "Should I open it here? Or later?"

[faithlikeaseed]

Oh, no. Something about how Simon says that strikes Myr exactly wrong--or exactly right--and he makes a helpless strangled noise in the back of his throat before giving in to a full-on laugh. It will draw attention they don't need, sitting here knee to knee in full view of the mess hall, and he ought to care about that enough to control himself-- But it's been a long and uncertain month after a long and uncertain year. That's excuse enough for a little stray hilarity, though he's wit enough to rein it in after that first delighted moment. "Maker grant us that all for the new year; we'll need it."

Sobering, he tips his face toward Simon as if making a serious study of the other man. (He would--oh, he would. Though it would be harder than it is now to keep his expression from softening to something fond and foolish.) "I'd not miss the chance and have to wait another year," he replies, warmly. "Here; it will be better fresh--and I hope you don't mind the taste of bay."

It'd've been better to check first, but there would go all the spontaneity of the gift. (He'll have to find a suitable replacement if Simon does. Sweet-talking Van into attempting a fish-and-egg pie might require more explanation than he was willing to give, but it might be done...)

[paladingus]

No matter how ill-advised it might be at any given time, there are few things so pleasing as making Myr laugh. Let people look, let them demand excuses--there's nothing wrong with anything they're doing or anything they've done, or anything they yet will do, regardless of how transparently tender his answering gaze might be.

"No, not at all," he says happily. There's almost nothing Simon minds the taste of, but good and well-seasoned food of the kind that doesn't need to be adapted to feed an army is a rare luxury for him, not something he'd treat himself to without prompting, even if he sometimes longs for it.

He has never seen anything quite like the little cheesecake he unwraps, exotic in this corner of the Marches and any other he's been to, with its scent of herbs and honey. He is positively delighted by it.

"I don't know what it is, but I know I want to eat it all in a sitting. It's lovely, Myr, thank you." Impulsive, slightly overcome, he reaches for Myr's hand under cover of the table and gives it a firm, tight squeeze. "D'you want a bit too? We'll share some."

[faithlikeaseed]

"Savillum," Myr pronounces it, the Tevinter word rolling off his tongue. "Not the most traditional but we always liked it better than bready stuff. You're more than welcome."

His hand tightens on Simon's beneath the table; how much he'd like to lean in, bump shoulders, show affection in ways as obvious as shouting-- But they're still (mostly) on Circle rules, with Circle instincts to back them up, and that means acting like everyone's watching. So keep your spine straight, Myrobalan (twine fingers with his, briefly, before letting go) and remember this can't be more than a friendship, so far as anyone else is concerned.

Though even that reminder's not enough to keep him from perking up at the offer to share. It's not a plate of calves' eyes--though shemlen never seemed to get that one--but food is love and the sentiment behind the offer plain as daylight. "Absolutely. It's been too long since I've had any." Three years, in fact, from this particular cook; it's well past time, and keeps his assumed reason for begging one of Van intact.