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

2b

[unshut]

[His collapse lands him, one would hope, straight down onto the sand rather than on her extremely narrow shoulder. One is something like welcoming and the other is probably pointy enough to wound by accident.

Fitcher, wrapped from throat to thigh in some delicate, breezy thing, offers him her hollowed out orange. Presumably there is something worth drinking left in it.]

Will you survive, or should I call for a healer?

[cozen]

Healer.

[ He doesn't need a healer. He rolls onto his side and props his head up in his hand, with pantomimed effort, so he can accept the orange with the other. ]

Or we could skip to the end and start building the pyre.

[unshut]

[She squints down at him, as if for a moment extremely critical of his condition—]

I think there are plans for a bonfire. I'll consult the Ambassador and see if we can't just toss you on it.

[cozen]

I think that is what I love most about Antivans, [ he says, before drinking from the orange—deeply—and offering it back as he swallows, in case it wasn't meant to be a permanent hand-off. ] Efficiency.

[unshut]

When we're born, we're all wrapped in baby blankets with the phrase [—here, something pleasantly mysterious in Antivan as she accepts the orange—] embroidered into it.

[She takes a drink before translating for his benefit.]

Better to be clever than overworked.

[cozen]

Ah ouais?

[ With choking no longer a danger, he lies flat. ]

We have something similar in Orlais, but it is mieux être beau—to be beautiful. So of course I have worked very hard all of my life.

[ Said with a lightness that means he's perfectly aware that his looks are more than adequate for his purposes and he doesn't actually want or need to be told he's pretty. ]

You are lucky I did not see you before I was dying. I would have asked you dance and made you disappoint me.

[unshut]

[Which earns a sidelong look and a raised eyebrow that is clearly the put-on imitation of beautifully and archly offended, involving slightly too much sardonic eyebrow waggling to be a serious attempt.]

Are you suggesting that I'm a poor dancer, Monsieur?