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

[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—]

[bouchonne]

I suppose you have a point.

[ And with that, he starts picking his nose. ]

[heirring]

Yes, thank you. I thought as—

[She pauses, squinting at him. And then tosses a glance back toward her compatriots.

—Which rolls her ankle.]

[bouchonne]

[ Oh, shit - He drops his drink and lunges forward, trying to catch her before she falls. He is a little drunk, and the sand is quite soft, so it's in the hands of the Maker whether he makes it in time. ]

[heirring]

[Her indignant squawk - carrying loud down the length of the beach - is interrupted as she's caught, her fingers tangling in Byerly's open shirt or catching his forearm, or both. But she's hardly the lightest young lady in the world even while not blasted on spirits drunk out of fruit, and the sand is soft, so it's in the hands of the Maker whether she drags him down with her.]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie is grinning merrily away, laughing and shushing Barrow when he whispers... and then Wysteria totters, and topples, and merriment morphs into a cry of alarm (lost in the squawk) and she's attempting to unsteadily get her own feet under her whilst Byerly lunges and Wysteria grabs for him. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly does go down. He manages to twist around, somehow, so that he lands face down, and then Wysteria thumps on top of him, driving him further into the sand. It hurts dreadfully. Truly, he has no one to blame but himself. ]

[thereneverwas]

[Hopping to his feet, Barrow holds up a hand to stay Alexandrie as he goes over to them.]

Everyone all right? Sorry about that. Sorry.

[He holds out a hand for Wysteria, and then one to Byerly, should he accept.]

[muckspout]

[Edgard steps over to Alexandrie, observing the chaos.]

Is this some kind of game or are they just drunk?

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie's gaze flits to Edgard somewhat distractedly; she offers a brief smile and an even briefer answer— ] Yes. [ —before looking back toward the people-pile, waiting fretfully for some sort of visual confirmation that everyone involved is all right. And then remembers she doesn't have to stand to call over to them. ]

Ambassador, Wysteria— are you all right? [ And then to Barrow, or maybe Edgard, or maybe anyone listening, ] Are they all right?

[heirring]

[In answer from the pile of humanity, Wysteria's hand emerges to grasp Barrow's offered arm up and a great peal of poorly smothered laughter follows it (and her, as she is hoisted to her feet) up.

The first thing she does once upright is use both hands to straighten her hat. And then she chokes down another guffaw of laughter.]

You see. Much better to be dangerous than an embarrassment.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly's response is a miserable groan. It seems she has a point.

He pushes himself up from where he's flat on his face. Sand clings to his beard, mustache, and eyebrows. ]

Perfectly well, thank you.

[ He climbs to his feet, waving away the proffered hand. ]

[thereneverwas]

All's well, [he calls back to Alexandrie, then grins at the pair.]

Well, you're welcome to join us for some juvenile hijinks, should you wish to get your revenge.

[This to Byerly, though he's grinning at the laughing Wysteria.]

[bouchonne]

Oh, I'm always in the market for unleashing my wrath.

[ He straightens his shirt, and gives a little sigh, and makes his way over to the circle. ]

[muckspout]

[A little suspicious, a little curious]

What sort of game is this?

[coquettish_trees]

[ Banished worry, prolonged consumption of rum, Wysteria's raucous laughter, and the fact that Byerly's facial hair is now sand (and the fact that he bothered to straighten his shirt but not brush any of it off) combine to cause Alexandrie to dissolve into the sort of helpless laughter that is like to go hand in hand with tears in a few moments. ]

It is—

[ —she tries, half a gasp, but can't manage any more than that, and pulls up her knees to bury her face in them and laugh. Someone else tell him. ]

[heirring]

[She takes advantage of Barrow's arm, more or leas clinging to it through the dregs of her laughter as they wobble back toward the circle until she can collapse back to the blanket beside Alexandrie.

As with most games, it is best explained by demonstration. So as to allow both herself and her indisposed friend time to recover, Wysteria offers the metaphorical peace offering to Byerly—]

Truth or dare, Ambassador?

[thereneverwas]

You'll see, [to Edgard, as he helps Wysteria down and then follows. Is he still a bit tetchy about the bucket of water earlier?

...yes, but it'll be fine.]