shocking art supply and craft | OTA

[wythersake]

WHO: Isaac, Byerly, Leander, Javel, Yngvi + Open if ya wouldn't snitch
WHAT: Breaking stuff FOR THE DIVINE
WHEN: This monthish
WHERE: Kirkwall, Tantervale
NOTES: the butt's on the front. ooc planning/info here

Comments

[bouchonne]

"Do you want to risk your neck for them?" Byerly feels as though he ought to have a drink in hand to watch all this - but, alas, playing the role of a fun-hater means fully committing to the act of hating fun. So here he is, dead sober. Ah, well.

"Don't get squeamish now, dear fellow. What burns, burns."

[sarcophage]

"Well said."

Visible above the bunching of a light scarf: a peculiar nose, the corners of a smile, eyes the smile can barely reach. (The scarf's tone sways them grey-blue; an important consideration, even in disguise.)

"Let her be; she's on her way to the Maker now." It's only Lea, folding his arms as he stops on the other side of Byerly, incongruously looking down to see what the tall fellow's shoes are like, then tilting up to see his face, and finally leaning just past him to cast a more feline look Isaac's way. "Again."

That done, he settles with his attention upon neither man. "Look at them all. They're hungry for it, aren't they."

[wythersake]

"Hungry or —" A man in spectacularly tangled beard elbows Isaac into the pair. If he finds Leander's gaze, he doesn't hold it; though whether that's for the motion or not it's tough to say. "— I mean to say,"

To habitually say far too much to be heard above a mob. Beard's yelling, too, but he's thrown himself in front of one of the paintings (Andraste and the wyvern: Ever an apocryphal favourite, though this copy's shit) to wrestle off a fellow devotee.

"This could get out of hand."

That doesn't necessarily hurt their cause, but it could make getting out of here a trick. Beard and Burner have begun throwing punches.

[bouchonne]

"So it could," By says, looking utterly tranquil in the midst of the chaos. Someone jostles him from behind; he steps forward, turns, and proclaims, "Andraste's grace upon you."

Then he looks back to the other two with a cheerful wink.

"Shall we go?" he suggests. "I've seen a man torn apart by a mob before. On stage, admittedly, not in person - But it's not something I fancy a reenactment of."

[sarcophage]

The clumsy commentary, the wink, the immolation of the irreplaceable and replaceable alike, the electric tang of aggression filling everyone's nostrils—it's all quite lovely. He's almost sorry to leave.

"The play was probably more exciting—" Lea barely shrugs his arm and shoulder away from an overexcited woman in time to avoid becoming the third casualty of indiscriminate mob jostling. Alas, she strikes again immediately. "Why don't— oh— dear. Well, that was friendly! Let's leave them to it."

(In the growing number of collisions, with the persistence of a gnat, an idea's come buzzing at him: to unfold his humble peasant knife and quietly stick a body or two in the confusion, simply to see if he could do it and walk away unclocked. Just a boyish whim; he dutifully ignores it.)