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]

Whatever the ruse is, it's worked well enough for him; it's fair to say Barrow is somewhat blinded, jealous fury having slammed its way into his consciousness like a bull through a red cloth.

But he would never raise a hand to her, nor to anyone else without either orders or good reason. So he nods, clenching his teeth, raising his arm to her and glancing back to Richard as if to ask if he's coming.

It might be the truth, or not. He wants to believe it is, but his stomach turns at the thought he's being had, and with this weaselly little man to boot.

[nonvenomous]

Untangling comes easily -- Dick steps to yield her the space, to march out of it as she sees fit. What Barrow will see when he glances back to Richard is a rustled mongoose of a man in the shadows reeling in an oversized knife to conceal it behind his lapel, timed with cutscene precision, for his eyes only.

“If we can bypass the beachfront,” he hazards, politely, in spite of his self state -- which he has made no effort to resolve -- and the miasma of displeasure around Barrow: “I’m terribly allergic to sand.”

Just seems like a weird thing a Richard Dickerson would say. Would Fitcher really willfully be making money moves in a dank crevice with a balding accountant with a sand allergy?

[unshut]

"One of these tunnels must lead away from it."

She slithers past him, downright serpentine in her escape. With some very minor straightening of seams, and then she is falling in beside Barrow - or close enough to count, leading the way from this little niche with all due haste.

It would be most convenient at this stage to run into her aggrieved acquaintance so they all might agree on the nature of the incident. So naturally, her would-be debt collector makes no immediate appearance whatsoever as they slip through the tangle of caverns all spotted with indiscreet liaisons, giggling pairs of embarrassed girls fleeing from one cavern to the next with their amorous suitors in pursuit, and so on and so forth. This whole business is better sport for younger people.

Though she makes some show of it - pausing at various intervals and curves in the tunnels so she might peer around the corner in an effort to least appear to be avoiding running directly into a metaphorically ready knife.

[thereneverwas]

He would have gone on walking and faced the roiling sea of displeasure within alone, but instead here he is, like a schmuck, escorting them out from their little tryst while Fitcher pretends to look for someone else, while Dick--

--well okay, what was with the knife? He'll come back to that when he's calmed down--

--Dick did whatever he was doing, is doing. Maybe there are no creditors at all, maybe he just escorted her to a tavern and made nice with the innkeeper while she made her way down another man's throat, practically right in front of him, but he was too stupid--

--since when has he cared about faithfulness anyway, in these matters, when isn't it all fun and games anyway? But if he gets slapped for it, it's not like he's going to slap her, but the hypocrisy is there--

he might as well be a golem for how mechanically he's making his way along beside her, not even bothering to check when she does. If someone actually does take a chance, they might find themselves punched through a wall before he even realizes what's happening.

[nonvenomous]

Richard trails along in their wake, quickening his step off beat every now and again to keep pace. He’s less concerned about the creditors, but they aren’t his creditors, and he has plenty to keep himself busy with, just getting his shirt tail tucked in and his collar(s) straight.

Barrow didn’t seem as large before as he does now.

He secrets Fitcher’s dagger more deeply away on his person given pause to do so while she’s peering around a corner, and marks again Barrow’s size, the tension bulled in his big shoulders, clenched moody in his ass. He has the look of a man operating on a hair trigger.

Dick approaches silently, from the opposite flank he was on previously, and reaches to clap a hand on Barrow’s shoulder from behind -- surprise touch from a surprise direction.

Ostensibly, he could be reaching to thank him for his understanding. In practice, he expects he might be about to take an unscheduled nap.

[thereneverwas]

The jolt Barrow gives will be alarming, to be sure-- he turns quickly, fists balled, but stays his hand when he sees who it is.

"What," he growls, shame flickering over his face, perhaps for how close he was to decking someone.

[unshut]

The resounding depth of the growl prompts Fitcher, two steps ahead of them (literally and figuratively, would be the preference) to pause in a pool of light from one of the silly colored torches lighting the various winding pathways out of the caverns. It does very little to illuminate her - dark eyes and dark hair, shadow pitched deep under her cheek -, but has a way of highlighting her raised eyebrows and the ribbon of exasperation that plays briefly in her face.

Honestly.

"Jumpy, are we? Come along lads; time is money."

With a tip of the head and a certain eagerness to escape whatever might be brewing behind Barrow's sullen look, Fitcher proceeds boldly around the next bend.

[nonvenomous]

Richard quails back from Barrow rounding on him, and shrinks further still at his growl, drawing into himself with both hands raised. Wary. Unnerved.

“It’s not important,” he decides, after Fitcher has spoken.

“I’ll find my own way out.”

[thereneverwas]

It makes no difference to Barrow whether Dick joins them or not-- the sooner he goes away, the sooner the question of what the fuck can properly arise.

He continues to follow Fitcher, putting the other man out of his mind for now.

[unshut]

There is an urge to see that Richard stay with them. He has her knife, for one; the longer he is in their company, the longer she can avoid the very obvious confrontation waiting for Barrow's teeth to unclench. But logically speaking—

She pauses, hesitating for a split second in which her attention skirts to the knife then back to Richard's face before making the simple assertion that, "Best you do. My friend won't have any reason to recognize you."

With a look to Barrow to confirm he means to follow regardless, she sweeps down one leg of a the branching passage. The knife can be fetched at some later hour when the need for explanation is rather less thick on the ground.

[nonvenomous]

Watchful as he is of Barrow’s turned back, Dick is fleet enough to skirt an inscrutable glance past him to Fitcher at her blessing. He probably doesn’t intend to gamble her knife away the instant he’s free of their scrutiny, but for just that one brief moment, it’s very difficult to tell.

“I’m counting on it,” he agrees, by way of farewell.

And he’s off, receding a ways down the passage from whence they came before he picks up into a more business-like clip in search of said friend.

[thereneverwas]

They're alone, or at least Dickless [sorry], not that that means any clarity is going to be provided in the meantime. Casting a meaningful glance Fitcher's way as they traipse along, Barrow has no intention of leaving her behind-- even if there weren't previous involvement, it's the right thing to do, making sure she's safe-- but even if his anger is beginning to calm, it's being replaced by a stern and uncharacteristic coolness.

[unshut]

The chill, she decides, is a pleasant surprise (never mind that she isn't dressed for the cold). It affords her the ability to say very little as they wind their way through a series of the cavern's back passageways, interrupted only here and there by giggling passers by or by taking a wrong turn into alcoves where their presence as interlopers is evidently unwelcome.

It's only after a few minutes of less than comfortable non-conversation, with whatever prickle of uneasiness that had once lived between her shoulder blades long faded, that Fitcher affords him, "The Ambassador certainly knows how to throw a party. I'll give him that much."

[thereneverwas]

She gets little but a grunt in return. It was a good party, wasn't it? And then this happened, which renders the rest of it a worthless waste of time, as far as Barrow's concerned.

It occurs to him that he's quite afraid he won't know what to say if he opens his mouth, or that he'll say far too much of anything and none of it will be kind, so he chooses instead to be silent and stony as they both bide their time.

He deserves an apology, doesn't he? Doesn't he? Perhaps there's still time for Fitcher to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

[unshut]

And maybe had they been left to their lonesome as they wound their way out of the caverns, she would have. However, for better or worse it takes only a few sedate turns before the chilly silence is broken by a rather less apologetic—

"You."

Standing in the crossroads before them, breathing hard and very red in the face, is a pale haired man about yea wearing a green vest.

Fitcher freezes mid-stride like a woman caught in a comedy act.

"You are admirably persistent, Arvil." Which would be a very good line were it delivered with a knife to back it up. Alas.

Perhaps unaware of the sizeable backup she's picked up (this being a somewhat dark section of tunnel), the man lunges toward her.

[thereneverwas]

Too much happens in a short span of time, and suddenly a man is lurching at Fitcher, and instinct takes over.
The creditor finds himself face-to-face with Barrow's chest instead of his target, a tree trunk of an arm gripping his lapels and however much of the shirt beneath gets bunched into the substantial fist.

Holding his arm steady, fury in his eyes, Barrow keeps the man lifted just high enough that he can't rest his heels on the ground.

https://pa1.narvii.com/6947/4620aaff763e6c5831043e4e74ecae02dd3fafc5r1-400-225_hq.gif

[nonvenomous]

[unshut]

Were there not advantages to traveling along with a Barrow shaped shadow in her wake, this business would all be rather less fraught. She pat him on the cheek, sigh, and say You stupid man and be done with the whole charade. Certainly he would be the better off for it, and she would be in possession of at least one less spinning plates in need of fussing over.

But case in point.

Occasionally it is helpful to have someone lifted right off their feet. There is something pleasantly nauseated about the look that overcomes Avril's very red face as his coloring shifts from fury to fear as he scrabbles fist at Barrow's hands and then at his belt after something sharp to stick him with--

Fitcher is just narrow enough to duck under Barrow's arm and fish the belt knife free before he can get to it. In summation, it is an altogether more preferable state of affairs.

"Now then. It seems obvious to me that we'd all rather see cooler heads prevail this evening. Would you care to negotiate, Arvil?"

The gentleman in question squirms, the toes of his boots scrubbing the floor of the passage. He makes a sullen croaking noise that might be a concession.

[thereneverwas]

Once again, the rage leaves Barrow quickly, but when Fitcher ducks down so quickly to snatch the man's knife belt, it occurs to him exactly what the stakes have become.
With a new clarity, he jerks Avril a little higher, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes?" he prompts, sharply inquisitive. "That was a yes, wasn't it mate?"

[unshut]

For an unbelievable moment, it seems as if Arvil might continue to hem and haw over the prospect. But eventually-- "Yes, yes! All right! I'll deal."

From behind Barrow's elbow, Fitcher tosses the knife down the passage in their wake. The sound of it skittering away over stone is briefly very loud.

"You heard the man, darling."

[thereneverwas]

Having spent the last however many years as a mercenary, this sort of thing isn't foreign to Barrow, but there's something different now-- a little barb in his heart that he never noticed before, the tiniest notion that perhaps this was the plan all along with her: dumb muscle, kept at arm's length so he'll keep doing as she asks.

He shrugs it off. It's not useful to either of them.

He releases Arvil, proceeding to watch him darkly, suddenly exhausted, the need to be intimidating fighting for dominance over the adrenaline leaving his body.

[unshut]

Behind him, Fitcher smooths her skirts and clears her throat. "Now then," she says, as if this is a pleasant evening and they're having this discussion over drinks. "Arvil, I realize I owe you a not insignificant amount of coin--"

This prompts a snapped back protest referring to exactly how much and it is indeed a significant sum, but it's almost midnight and you'll force me to make sense of fantasy money over my own dead body.

"But I fully intend to pay you back. Would you consider a payment plan that doesn't involve carving pieces out of me and would have you paid back, say, by Wintersend?"

And so on so forth, Barrow kept carefully between them all the while until at last the two of them settle on a resolution and rates of interest with only minimal threats until at last Fitcher proclaims, "Done. And if I fail to meet the terms, then you're most welcome to my kneecaps. Shake on it?"

Her hand extends past Barrow, where it is rebuffed with a glare. One can't have everything.

[thereneverwas]

He's tired, terribly so. But this is a job, suddenly, for the sake of a woman for whom he, infuriatingly, has developed feelings beyond the usual flings, which is made all the clearer by the sheer heights and depths of the emotions Barrow has felt in what ultimately amounts to about half an hour, perhaps a little more.

"Shake," he growls, and manages to put feeling into it, perhaps out of sheer frustration. He wants this over, he wants a drink.

[unshut]

Arvil resists, something heated flashing in his face. Fitcher's hand shifts from being ready to shake to Barrow's elbow - a brief touch.

"It's fine." And to her creditor— "Goodnight, dear. It's been lovely to see you."

And, with a pinched expression and a flush of embarrassment, the pale haired gentleman about yea high makes his exit. Fitcher accordingly withdraws her hand from Barrow's arm.

[thereneverwas]

Watching the man disappear into the darkness, Barrow holds his silence for a beat. He almost isn't sure he wants to speak again at all, dreading what may or may not come next, but in the end, impatience wins out.

"Is that it?" It's a tone he's never used with Fitcher before. All business.