faderift | [open] picnic at hanging rock

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[open] picnic at hanging rock

WHO: Wysteria, EVERYBODY, a bunch of demons, and I guess some guy named Tony Stark
WHAT: A picnic to celebrate a Riftversary goes terribly wrong. No, it has nothing to do with the rift that opens in the middle of it and everything to do with Wysteria forcing everyone to speed date.
WHEN: Mid-Kingsway
WHERE: The Scenic Vimmark Foothills in September
NOTES: Some light demon fighting and rift closing violence, will update if necessary.

PICNICKING
With the weather having only just recently cleared of its end of summer storms, taking the worst of the miserable humidity with it, it's almost a pleasant time accept an invitation to a picnic in the foothills East of Kirkwall. Posted on the Gallows notice board and distributed personally to a few close friends and enemies, the invite had read:

You are Cordially Invited to attend a Celebration acknowledging the completion of a year since Miss Wysteria Poppell arrived in Thedas. Please follow the Map on the facing page. Refreshments Provided. Games Obligatory. Gifts Optional.

And so roughly twenty blankets of varying sizes and patterns have been requisitioned (unofficially, with written apologies to the Seneschal slipped under his office oor) from the Gallows and laid in rough rows on a slightly less miserable than usual hill overlooking dark line of the Waking Sea. The refreshments? Meager. They're largely Gallows-typical fare packed in baskets, end of summer fruit and what is sure to be the last of cheaply had honey cakes before the shortage of sugar causes the market value of honey to skyrocket. But at least the wine on hand is excellent.

PARTY GAMES
--Which is a good thing, because the party games require a certain level of inebriation to be truly enjoyable. For those who'd like to preserve some sense of dignity, there are various card games and croquet (get your practice in now, Riftwatch Leaguers!); for the brave and daring, there is Snapdragon - a game in which participants snatch raisins from a shallow bowl of burning brandy.

But the main event, dubbed Tête-à-Tête, requires all partygoers to be numbered off intos ones and twos and then break up into pairs. Each pairing has three minutes to have whatever conversation they like together. At the end of three minutes, Wysteria rings a bell and Number Twos rotate to the next Number One waiting on their blankets of choice. And so on. No exceptions.

IT'S ALL FUN AND GAMES UNTIL--
The warmth of the day, the scorched fingertips, the limping conversation, and the dry Gallows rations all conspire to indulge in a not insignificant liquoring up. Which means the rift tearing open over the party is potentially more disastrous than normal. Good luck; don't get slashed by a Terror demon, and don't get caught under under new Rifters falling through from out of the fade.

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i. croquet
CRACK! The yellow ball goes bouncing through the end of summer high grass, barreling on to strike an opposing ball from a strategic lineup with a waiting hoop. Somehow it has just enough momentum afterward to continue on, rolling slowly onward and finally coming to a halt just through the hoop.

Wysteria triumphantly raises her mallet upward like a champion might some shining sword and laughs in delight.

"Now this," she declares, meaning of course the weather and the company and not the fact that she is absolutely obliterating her competition. "Is a lovely way to spend an afternoon."

ii. speed ~~dating~~ it's not dating, it's short conversation with friends
For her part, Wysteria has artfully arranged the fall of her blue skirts on a compimentary colored blanket. On a flat stone beside her, there sits a minute sand glass and a large brass bell. It's all desperately official.

What is not desperate whatsoever (no, really), is the cheery smile Wysteria dons as her new conversation partner arrives. She is having a very nice day actually and no one, not even the most loathsome members of Riftwatch who may or may not have deigned to show their faces, will spoil it.

"Are you having a pleasant time?" Is the first question out of her mouth, followed without pause by, "Is there anything you would have done differently?"

iii. the rift
With a piercing crackle of energy, a flash of sickly green light, and an agonizing pulse of the shard buried in her left hand, the rift opens above the picnic. From her blanket at the edge of the festivities, Wysteria objects with a loud: "Oh, of all the places--!"

She hucks a hard boiled egg at the first wraith which manifests.

[snapdragon]

She takes the notice at its word and arrives with neither a gift nor any idea whom Miss Wysteria Poppell is. Refreshments and the promise of fresh air outside the bounds of Kirkwall are reason enough to venture out. Already the place smells sweet and boozy and like grass, a pleasant change from dirty water and city streets.

And since Games are Obligatory, she finds herself drawn--perhaps inevitably--to a ring of people determinedly sticking their hands into a bowl of fire. For a minute or so, she watches, figuring out the expectations in silence. When she thinks she has it, she reaches out, pops a lyrium claw, and stabs at one of the raisins.

[tête-à-tête]

How she ended up in this particular game, she still isn't clear, but she is a Number Two wandering from blanket to blanket. And when she is sent to any particular One, she sits down, cross-legged, and waits for conversation to happen.

She is not very good at this game. But she's great at last-minute staring contests.

[green light]

Something smells wrong before it looks wrong, but in a way she couldn't possibly explain to someone else. And then the sky cracks open and she makes a startled noise at the sight of something that looks more plant than person dragging itself up from a ghastly green hole in the earth.

This is her first rift, and she is at least a little tipsy. The claws come out, she dives at the hideous, long-limbed creature, but her reflexes aren't as sharp as usual. Unfortunately, the claws are, so if she nicks your arm...oops?

[otherwise]

[She's mostly here for lunch and good smells, but lbr, she doesn't back down from a challenge, whether it's a Terror demon or a drinking contest. So we can do w/e, and please feel free to PM, plurk, or disco me to plan things out!]

IT'S ALL FUN AND GAMES UNTIL;

A seam in reality pulses, ripples, opens, in the midst of ~~awkward~~ merrymaking. You're welcome.

There is no time for the man that comes plummeting out of it to yell something quippy like look out below. He isn't even screaming, on account of the immense confusion he is experiencing in the split second between sailing through the air, his vision bright green-- and slamming down onto dirt, grass, the corner of a picnic blanket with the force of having been thrown down by, like. God, more than gravity.

Shiny pieces of metal, gold and red, not even sparking, break off and go spinning in all directions from the force of impact.

Tony Stark lies there for a hot second, blinking, dazed. A human man -- Rifter, no doubt about it -- in closely fitting athleisure-wear, dark hair, wild eyes, and an odd blue glow outlined through the fabric on his chest. Still partially outfitted in something that looks like armor, gaudy reds and golds, and beaten to shit well before he ever hit the ground. One arm is still covered with a fine gauntlet, strangely complicated. Anyone who touches any of the metal on him or scattered around will know that it is almost painfully cold to the touch.

He wheezes something that sounds like what the hell, and twists around to try to take in what feels like to him an overly sunny day, eyes glazing initially over the chaos of humanoid shapes to try in a panicky effort to assess the what of the situation.

Which is when a Terror demon appears, and screams at him.

AFTERWARDS;

Call it after, when any medical necessities have been seen to, and the demons are dead, and Tony Stark has at least indicated some level of willing (inasmuch as anyone could interpret) that he might go back with the crowd, and has otherwise shaken any immediate attention. A window to himself.

He occupies it by doing two things, on which you can intrude: 1.) staring at the glowing green emanating from one hand, and 2.) gathering his stuff.

This second thing is a longer process, and what constitutes to be his stuff appears to be the shattered remains of armor, which he is collecting into a pile. He's divested himself of the broken remains that were still clinging to his body, and only given them a cursory once over, knowing he will need more time with the mess to assess what can be salvaged. Because some corner of his mind is already on board with that instinct: that what he has is all he has, and he couldn't really identify exactly the thought process behind that instinct, because he absolutely does not know what's happening right this minute.

It's probably bad.

One thing at a time.

On the upside, he's found a pair of shades just randomly lying in the grass, so he is wearing them. He has both hands up to adjust their sit when he sees something else lying in the mess, and quickly darts down to collect it. For anyone looking on, it appears to be a golden mask.

Laura has figured out that this is Miss Wysteria Poppell, by this point, but beyond that, she hasn't learned much about her. Which, she supposes, means they will very easily win this game--there will be no concern that their conversation is somehow lacking.

"Yes." And then, realizing there are two questions, pauses. Yes only applies to the first. The second is distressingly general; she isn't entirely sure whether she's supposed to comment on the party or something more amorphous. "Why would I want to do things differently?"

"I do not think that will be helpful."

Ashen's voice is quiet as he slips up to stand near Wysteria, his hands slipping down to the daggers that hang around his belt, eyes set. He might look the part of a softer, gentler spirit - and deep down he feels it in his blood, mixed up there with the taint - but he is more than prepared for his chance to protect people. The sigil of the Wardens that hangs around his neck is another whisper of what his reasons may be.

His eyes flick to her hand, almost nervous; he's never seen one up close before.

"You may stand behind me, if you wish."

Wysteria shifts slightly forward where she sits, ruining the delicate lay of her skirts in her eagerness to be correct. "Perhaps you would have preferred a different menu. Or other games? I would have liked to have something nicer packed along for eating, of course, but the prices in the Hightown market are largely above me, I'm afraid. But a deal was had on the wine. I have a friend in the merchant guild these days, you see. One who works with the customs officers in the docks. So the case was had quite cheap. --Well, not cheap, but it was certainly a bargain."

All of this tumbles out of her as if in one breath, and then pivots hastily in an entirely different direction seemingly without realizing that her earlier question was never actually properly answered.

"I don't believe we've met officially."

She's not upright yet; she's had one too many (two too many?) glasses of wine to be quick about scrambling to her feet, and candidly the novelty of being frightened of demons as they vomit out of rifts has somewhat lost it's edge. Maybe that is why she seems so briefly flummoxed by the statement. She isn't standing anywhere, thank you.

(Also the egg might have been helpful. Has anyone proven that spirits have no weakness to them?)

"I can't very well close the rift from behind you," she huffs, holding her hand up (the right one, not the one pulsing and crackling with Fade touched energy). "Help me up."

He bends down. The thrown hard boiled egg hits him hard in the buttocks.

"You!"

In the wake of the assault charges a young woman, her blonde hair coming all unpinned and a frankly uncouth amount of leg bared by a magnificent slash in her skirts. Her face is very red. A jagged green mark pulses in her free hand. She has two more eggs and is covering ground at a remarkable clip.

"What exactly is it that you think you're doing?"

"Ya!" is the phonetics of Tony's exclamation, where the assault in itself is more surprising than painful but enough of the latter to have him stand bolt right up again and grip his ass with a free hand, pivoting to confront--

This, happening. To him, right now. "What does it look like?" is mostly exasperated, but a little shoutier than is standard for him. "I dropped some things, Bo Peep." One of those things is in his hand, but he's taking care not to flail around with it -- his fingers spidered over the shiny golden face of the mask, arm held stiffly at his side.

His other hand points. Accuse. "What did you just throw at me?" Important information.

She slings another egg at him.

"What are you doing here? Could you not have picked twenty paces in any other direction?"

Aaaahh-- Tony lifts an arm, egg breaking apart against his wrist.

Well, that answers that.

"Okay, seriously, I had a sensitivity to mayonnaise when I was six-years-old. But also-- what are you talking about?" And that arm goes out as he looks around, taking in his surroundings-- not for the first time, but this time considering it as a site of possible intrusion.

Blankets. Pic-a-nic baskets. Costumes. "I didn't pick a place. What was this, Shakespeare in the park?" Please be Shakespeare in the park.

Edited 2019-09-07 02:13 (UTC)

"What am I talking about-- What are you talking about! No it wasn't anything in a park. Does this look like a park to you?!" There aren't even any geese or swans and no one has trimmed that hedge over there at any point in its exceptionally bushy life.

And now she is on him. Or, you know, not on him, but swarming up into his space with her face all flush with rage and accusatory pointing finger and remaining hard boiled egg.

"We are not allowed to share this Riftday. I don't care who you are. This one is mine, so you may as well just crawl right back where you came from." Wysteria, that's not how any of this works and you know it. You've had too much wine.

Tony's chin retracts into his neck ever so as she gets all up on him, and the faint familiar whiff of wine-breath only registers dimly in the sensory overload he's enduring. His brain feels overcooked. It really could just take one day-drunk blonde girl to tip him over the edge into nonresponsive.

Instead, he knows -- while being barely conscious to it -- some delight in distraction. He imagines this is what it's like to yell at someone about a road accident when you're too poor to not care.

"Okay, sweetheart," he says, the veering into sarcasm no less aggravated, as he extends his arm past her head to point at roughly where that green glowing nonsense had been hanging in the air, "why don't you go ahead and open the sky back up again, and I'll be on my merry goddamn way." He thinks he saw her, anyway, hand glowing green like his is glowing green, but with some kind of connecting point, a flow of energy between her and it. Maybe? His mind is racing again.

His arm drops. Eyes bright. "Betcha can't. Right? Or can you?"

Ashen almost sighs, but his good nature stops him; he knows better than to sigh menacingly at gentlewomen, especially when he is here in full regalia - even if his armour might not be present. Pursing his lips, he hesitates for only a brief second before he carefully steps over, reaching down to offer his hand to take hers.

He's never touched anyone with a shard before. It's somewhat concerning.

"I feared demons," he admits quietly, "and the threat they might pose to you and your guests."

Laura is content to listen to Wysteria's rambling explanation, imagining in very vague terms all the other ways this gathering could have occurred. With fish instead of eggs, or playing yet more games she has never heard of before. It sounds as though there could be dozens of possibilities that did not occur. She had no idea.

"No," she agrees. And then, after an awkward pause, she realizes this is an invitation for her to say her name. People sometimes do this, ask for things without asking them out loud; she is not especially fond of it. But the goal is conversation, and so: "Laura Kint."

Julius is easy enough to coax into croquet; after all, she's already coaxed him into dueling so she could take notes and involving her in his project to magically expel dust from various crevices of the Gallows. A lawn game is hardly a major ask.

Good-naturedly, he says, "There are too many ways to fault. One is afraid to breathe very hard in the direction of the field of play. But at least it's fine weather to lose soundly at a game from another world." If one wanted to blame him later for saying the equivalent of it could be worse, they could.

—and shortly thereafter takes a flung bottle to the side of its grotesquely elongated head with a pronounced thud. A solid hit; given the amount of liquid now gurgling out into the grass from its resting place, the bottle had been nearly full.

The point of origin is a nearby woman in an elaborate summer gown of lace-covered white (now with a few wine colored accents) in the process of rising to her feet with some alacrity, her painstakingly painted face filled with a mixture of tight fear and determined irritation, preparing to throw the glass she'd been filling as a follow-up, an attempt to attract the demon's attention away from the man prostrate at its feet.

She darts him a quick evaluating glance and then launches it. Unfortunately the demon twists away and the crystalline projectile misses its mark. Fortunately, it's because she has indeed gained the gaunt creature's attention. It shrieks again, tearing and unearthly, and dives into the green-glowing ground beneath its feet as easily as it might water. The glow fades with its disappearance.

"Watch the ground!" she calls out urgently, the lilt of her words almost French. Her body tenses as she follows her own command. "If it brightens, move!"

Here is someone you have to share your rift day with. Although Anna won't be staying long, she's simply brought a present. A bundle of something wrapped in pretty fabric and a pair of very tall boots dangling from her fingertips. If you can't guess it's a set of leather adventuring gear...

She doesn't even stay to watch Wysteria unwrap it, and all the little card says is: Take care.

Tony gets to his feet.

It is a clumsy process. One foot and half is leg is encased in cold metal, shattering into fragments and breaking with each movement but not quickly enough for him to not stumble in his retreat backwards. He's dreamed enough to tell the difference between the soft hazy ignorance of imagination and absolute certain reality, heart pounding, almost more incoherent than the narrative of memories that his brain simmers in every night.

He tears his attention away from where the alien dived back into the ground as though it were liquid, towards a blur of frills and red hair, shouting at him. Information lodging like barbs despite himself.

Enough that by the time the grassy knoll starts to shimmer with radioactive green beneath her feet, he has the presence of mind enough to brace, needlessly shout, "hey!", just as the long-limbed creature launches itself through rippling green light where the woman was -- presumably -- formerly standing. Tony moves, then, a limping and lunging run, reaching down to tear off one particular mechanism that finally frees his foot of the damaged armor.

He stops at the alien's six. Raises his gauntletted hand, ragged metal terminating just below his elbow.

Nothing happens.

"Come on."

A chunk of armor he definitely just freed himself from goes sailing past the new rifter's shoulder and tonk!s off of the demon's head. It isn't until after the projectile has already hit its mark that someone behind him says "Heads up."

Athessa ambles up to stand alongside the newcomer, surprisingly unperturbed by a tear in the fabric of reality spitting out a man in weird armor and a demon in as many minutes. The demon, in contrast, is quite perturbed at having weird metal hurled at its head.

"I hate these guys, they're always crashing our parties."

"Yes," Salvio agrees, "it is."

And despite his subdued tone, he actually means it. Given Salvio's reluctance to leave his office and the Gallows, and attend to any sort of remote mission or function, one might assume he is not an outdoorsy type--but one would assume incorrectly. There are, actually, certain occasions where Salvio enjoys being outdoors. Neatly-kept gardens, for example, are marvelously relaxing. A manicured lawn or trim forest, where he might seek and capture insects, or flowers--bucolic. And he does, actually, enjoy the sport of croquet. It is calming, mathematical, and genteel. It does not require roughness, no matter the way that Poppell is waving her mallet about. And there is an end time to it. When the game is complete, he can make his excuses and return to the Gallows, and his office, and recover from a day spent in the open sun.

He is still wearing his robes, of course. And he has rescued his staff from the obscurity of the coat-rack, but only because he likes to have it for a long walk. (Later, he will be grateful that he took it along. Or something like grateful.) A staff has no place on the croquet field, of course, so it has been carefully stowed elsewhere for now, and he is armed only with a mallet of his own. He looks down at it now, considering his next move.

"You are quite skilled, Poppell," he says. Which is a meager gift to give to Wysteria, along with the present of his presence, but he means it, too.

"What a pleasure it is to meet you, Serah Kint. I'm Wysteria Poppell. You may of course call me whatever you most prefer - I'm getting more acquainted with the use of my first name and have nearly grown to like the sound of it." Here, she laughs. In Kalvad, it would be quite a witty thing to say.

She goes as far as to offer her hand. "You're Nevarran, is that right? I feel I've finally begin to sort the difference between its accent and Antiva's."

The hand is a hand. Her grip is sure in his. She weighs more or less what one might expect her to. There is no strange heat, nor unnatural cold, or crackling sense of energy bristling through her fingertips. Not through the hand in his anyway; the other one is pulsing, something like Fade touched tongues of fire lapping from between her fingers.

"Yes, that's all very prudent and you're very sweet, but--"

But what exactly will remain a mystery. No sooner is she on her feet and saying it than one of the wraiths comes flick, flick, flickering out toward them in grotesque curving shapes. At which point Wysteria promptly ignores her own bullheadedness and steps in behind the blond gentleman with his daggers. On second thought--

"You must get me in close. I may be able to close it."

"Oh pish posh, Enchanter. What kind of attitude is that? It sounds to be as if you are merely avoiding your turn. Come now, this is the beauty of the game - it could turn at any minute, you see. And so you musn't give up simply because my score is so far ahead of yours."

She's being a cheeky shitheel, but the flashing smile and cheerful temperament suggest she both knows and is mostly joking. Wysteria hooks her mallet jauntily over one shoulder.

"The Lady Asgard ne de la Fontaine and I have been experimenting with variations on the rules, you know. Discussing the legality of certain methods of sabotage and that sort of thing and whether it might be applicable to leverage one's particular talents to affect play. After all, an individual who has spent their whole life training with a mace will certainly have an advantage with striking a ball farther than, say for example, myself. We had contemplated what an all mage match up game might look like and I wouldn't mind some practical experimentation to test the theory if you feel it might lend you an edge in the field today."

Wysteria, in the process of getting her fingerprints scorched off in a game of snapdragon, hardly sees the shade-like woman's arrival much less her departure. But be sure that later - well after the demons are dealt with, the rifts closed, and all stolen blankets returned to the Gallows, she at some point tracks her benefactor down. Or runs into her on a stair well. Or sits down across from her during some evening meal. Or trips over her in the communal baths (seeing as some people are meant to be taking care of their hair these days).

Regardless, Wysteria clutches Anna's hands and emphatically admits: "The boots are lovely and just nearly the perfect size, but I must admit that I haven't the slightest idea how to even begin wearing the rest of it."

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[open] picnic at hanging rock

wysteria, ota

laura kint / ota

tony stark. ota.

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fun and games~

iii dooo whaaat Iiii waaananananant

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