OPEN LOG: A beach party.

[bouchonne]

WHO: Everyone.
WHAT: A beach party.
WHEN: On a very hot day. At some point during the month.
WHERE: A beach just outside of Kirkwall.
NOTES: It is a beach party.

During a particularly hot and oppressive week in Kingsway, the Diplomacy division announces it will be diverting some of its funds to organize a party on a nearby beach. Kirkwallers are invited as well - a relationship-building sort of effort - but the party is mostly intended for morale boosting for Riftwatch itself.

The party features the following:

• Transportation to this lovely beach from the Gallows and from Kirkwall.


• Sunbathing and swimming in skimpy (or non-skimpy, if you're a fuckin square) bathing suits.


• Live music and dancing.


• Delectable grilled meats (and some vegetables, if you're a fuckin square).


• Rum drinks served in hollowed-out fruits.


• A sandcastle-building competition.


• A swim race.


• A few fun little sailboats bobbing around out on the water.

Does all that sound too wholesome? Great! There's also a cave system in the cliffs next to the beach. These little grottos are full of nooks and crannies and are perfect for a bit of sinful action after dark; in one cavern, there'll be some gambling games where some of Kirkwall's citizens are losing money; in another, you're likely to run into people making out.

Have fun! Soak up sun! Don't get in trouble! Or do, whatever, it's a beach party.

Comments

[thereneverwas]

[Since it seems he might be here a while, Barrow carefully lowers himself to the sand with a little grunt as he settles.]

Let's see, [he muses,] ...well, not my proudest moment, but it was here in Riftwatch. I punched a jar with a skull in it.

[heirring]

It can be rather offensive.

[This from Wysteria where she is reclined on the blanket guarding them from the sand. The quality of the light somewhat lessens the brilliance of her extremely red face, being somewhat closer to pleasantly hammered than pleasantly tipsy.]

But you must not crack the casing, Serah. I have my suspicions the spirit would vacate the host entirely. The skull, I mean. The jar is merely the binding agent.

[Some vague gesture is made above her prone form to emphasize this bit of semantics.]

[thereneverwas]

[Grumbled and at least 10% joking,]

what a pity that would be.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie, absorbed in ruminating upon the idea that skulls might be able to die, nearly allows Barrow to break her arbitrarily established rule.

But then he stops talking, and sifting through her recent memory she can’t find anything that sounds like him saying why he punched a glass jar with a skull in it, so rolls her head to look at him again. ]

Did you punch it because it was being rather offensive?

[thereneverwas]

As a matter of fact, yes.

[He's almost snooty about it-- he'll never back down from the unfairness presented by that particular fight.]

Broke my fucking hand.

[But that's enough of that.]

Are you playing, Miss Poppell?

[heirring]

[Her hands flop bonelessly back out of the air, fingers knitting genially across her (very clothed, thank you) middle.]

Of course. It is the height of discourtesy to simply observe a game like this one.

[thereneverwas]

Very well. Truth or dare?

[heirring]

Dare. [—is quite prompt, Barrow hardly allowed the time to fully pose the question.]

[thereneverwas]

[With the sudden realization that he is a man in his late 40's playing a teenager's game with two significantly younger women, Barrow immediately looks to Lexie for assistance.]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Wysteria’s choice is greeted by a cheer from the spectator section (read: Lexie)

And an innocent “well, go on then,” look with eyebrows raised for Barrow. ]

[thereneverwas]

[It has been a long time since he played this, and it was back in the abbey so they couldn't get too rowdy or explicit, and suddenly Barrow has the deep and crawling feeling that he has been profoundly uncool his entire life.

He takes a big gulp of his drink and sets it back down again, settling that.]

I dare you, [he says decisively,] to engage in conversation with someone nearby, who's unaware of the game, and mimic everything they do until they leave or we tell you to stop.

[heirring]

[Wysteria lurches upright from where she lies, pausing to right (or correct slightly too far in the right direction) her broad brimmed hat. She makes to tie the hat's ribbon on her chin, for its grows rather loose and is doing a poor job of keeping it on her head.]

Merely everything they do, or must I also repeat everything they say? The second would make, I think, for very poor conversation but—oops. [She trips as she gets to her feet, but manages to right herself with a smothered giggle.

(She's fine.)]

[thereneverwas]

No, just converse with them normally.

[heirring]

[She listens as she scans the beach immediately accessible to her. Evidently satisfied with what she finds there, Wysteria turns to shoot Alexandrie a long sidelong look before she bends in a very shallow curtsy to Barrow and makes her way (only slightly zigging and zagging) to her victim of choice—]

Ambassador! [She calls, her voice carrying back up toward the game's players.] Might I have a word with you?

[bouchonne]

Hm?

[ Byerly is, thank the Maker, mostly clothed by this point in the evening: breeches covering his indecent swimsuit, draped in a open linen shirt. He also seems largely, if not entirely, sober (though he does have a drink in hand). ]

Ah, Miss Poppell. Of course.

[ He casts a look towards the circle she's come from. What's this about? ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ What's that look for Wysteri—oh.

Alexandrie's laugh is such a profoundly complex mix of feelings that it can't actually hold them all and issues forth as more of a snort, which she immediately covers with her hand and then laughs again. That one is just self-conscious mirth about the snort.

She quickly turns back to Barrow... and then doesn't want to miss the show and so watches Byerly and Wysteria over her shoulder with a badly smothered grin. ]

[thereneverwas]

[Unaware of any specific emotional baggage, Barrow just watches and grins. The ambassador seems a playful sort, this should be fine.]

[heirring]

[Her first thought is that she regrets not bringing her drink along. Regardless she sets her hand more or less level with Byerly's as if she is holding one, and soldiers on—]

Yes, of course. Me. [Who is emphatically not sober.] Now Ambassador, I recently found myself in conversation with Athessa and Miss Van Klerk regarding the subject of Riftwatch's reputation. And while in theory I agree entirely with any effort to repair it, I wonder if we might take a more decisive approach to the matter. Aggressive, perhaps. Thorough.

[bouchonne]

I would be interested to hear your thoughts.

[ He takes a sip of his drink. Who knows; perhaps Soused Miss Poppell will actually have some interesting thoughts. ]

[heirring]

[And, in accordance with the obligations of the game, her hand rises and falls with his.]

We were observing that it would benefit Riftwatch if we were rather more similar to the Antivan Crows. Or Wardens. To be Warden Crows.

[bouchonne]

[ His eyes narrow very slightly as she does that. And then, very deliberately, with no change in expression, he lifts one leg so he's only standing on one foot. ]

Go on.

[thereneverwas]

[whispered,] Shit, he's onto her.

[heirring]

Merely that it seems there is no hope of reforming our behavior. [Her leg rises, and then touches back down for the sake of balance, then floating back up and wobbles—] And that it would be more appropriate for us to instead become very secret and mysterious. So that outsiders are intrigued rather than— [Her hand not engaged with an invisible drink drifts faintly toward him to steady herself, but wanders away before finding any point of contact.] —suspicious that we are all deranged exhibitionists.

[bouchonne]

Mmhm.

[ Leg still raised, he lifts one hand to start methodically stroking his beard. ]

And you don't think that will make them afraid of us? It can be dangerous to be feared.

[heirring]

Better feared than laughing stocks, Ambassador. [An attempt is being made to manage all these disparate parts, footing wobbling dangerously in the sand—]