faderift | OPEN LOG: A beach party.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ The cold, the rocks, the elemental power of the water— her hands stop moving for a moment as she thinks of it. Thinks of a young Byerly, thin, doubtlessly. Counting brave determined breaths alone with the sea. Not to tell anyone, only to know.

She doesn't know if it is true, but in her heart it is, and it provokes such awful tenderness that she rinses her hands in the pail and walks on her knees to where she can sit beside him and comfortably settle her hands on his shoulders, press the pads of her thumbs with gentle firmness at the base of his neck to rub small circles there. ]

And how many breaths in the sea had you?

Many.

[ Her imagining isn't far off. Often, it hadn't been alone, but rather with his sister in tow, a fire started on the beach to warm his clammy skin and trembling limbs after, the exercise continuing long into fall and starting far too early in spring. He'd been proud of his self-control. ]

It hurt terribly, but it was rather satisfying to endure it. I guess I was a bit masochistic even then. - Oh, yes, right there - [ He purrs with delight as she presses into a knot in his shoulder. ]

[ Another low chuckle for the sound he makes, and she takes his words as tacit invitation to dig her thumbs harder into the knot of muscle there. She's stronger than she used to be, before the war. ]

I cannot imagine the sea took the time to be kind to you, afterwards.

The sea is not kind to anyone.

[ He sighs very contentedly. He loves a woman with strong hands. All the better, considering who those hands are connected to. ]

She is cruel and dangerous. Everyone was terrified of the sea.

Who should not be? She is only herself, and does only as she wishes, and she is too strong for anyone to make her cease.

[ She sounds distant, her thoughts in her hands as they seek out the next spot of tension once the first has released a little. ]

We have learned some ways to tame the land. The sea is wild and has only herself to answer to.

[ He closes his eyes contentedly. ]

Are you wishing you were the sea?

[ She pitches her voice low; velvety and self-satisfied. ]

I am the sea.

I am cruel, and kind, and lovely, and terrible, [ she leans over, murmurs, ] and men count the breaths they dare to be inside me.

[ And then, for immediate contrast, she drops a light innocent peck of a kiss at the base of his neck and laughs a little puff of air through her nose as she straightens. ]

Mais non. I am only a woman.

[ He laughs as well. Ah, he does love it when she gets filthy. ]

And that is all you ever wish to be?

I cannot truly be else, and I do not mind— I enjoy it quite well.

[ It's light and unconcerned as she walks her fingers up his back and into his hair to run her nails slowly through his hair, a languorous scratch. ]

But if we are making wishes, I would like to be a bird and know what it is to catch the wind. A flower, so I might know what it is to bloom. I would be a man for a little, I think, [ a chuckle, ] but not too long.

Not for too long - good. Men are unbearable creatures.

[ He may or may not be able to see the eyelash flutter, but it’s in her voice nevertheless, ]

I have sometime found it enjoyable to bear them.

[ ayyyy ]

[ In mock-shock: ]

What - have you borne children? Boys?

I suppose my meaning often leads to yours.

[ His hair being very convenient for pulling retributively at the moment, she does. ]

I have heard it is less enjoyable, however.

Maker, I can only imagine.

[ He pulls a face. ]

And for what reward? A squalling, ungrateful little demon who grows up into a squalling, ungrateful large demon.

[ She chuckles, but pauses after, and when she speaks it is hesitantly delicate. ]

The reward of an heirloom shard of a beloved smile, I think. Of another heart to give this world another chance.

[ Hm. He tilts his gaze up at her, a little guarded. ]

You're thinking of it, then?

[ The breeze feels a little cooler, perhaps, or a cloud appears from a cloudless sky to pass across the sun. Or it is only her, stumbling into the space. She looks a little guarded too. ]

I have thought of it sometimes, but said nothing.

[ Because her husband is missing, and her husband is a Vashoth, and her husband may very well be chary of the idea even if she could carry such a child. Because there is the matter of the risk of such carrying, and of such a birth, for both her and child (and father and his general surroundings should something go very wrong); never mind the difficulties life might bring for such a one— even loved beyond reckoning— because of skin, or horn, or magic, or its lack.

Still, sometimes, she thinks.

But she can say nothing of any of this to anyone. It is full of a secret that she helps hold, but is not hers, and so she can only look, for a moment, forlorn... and then shrug a shoulder and smile a little crookedly. ]

Despite the fine day, we are at war.

OPEN LOG: A beach party.

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