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

[bouchonne]

I was being sarcastic, dear boy.

[ A noise of annoyance from deep in his throat. ]

I don't give a shit what people think of me. And frankly, the fact that you do is utterly inexplicable.

[altusimperius]

Sorry.

[With his joking manner already replaced by a more serious one, both have now dropped into that personification of bottomless despair he exhibits sometimes, the image of a young man who has jumped naked into a deep well with no clue how to get back out.]

...I know.

[He tugs at a strand of his hair and looks into his drink.]

[bouchonne]

[ How obnoxious. ]

You ransomed your honor to do what you think is right. Isn't that true?

[altusimperius]

[Defeatedly,] yes.

[bouchonne]

So stop acting so ashamed. Sacrifice is an act of courage.

[altusimperius]

[He purses his lips in thought, tries to justify all of it.

It's not enough.]

What's wrong with caring what people think of you?

[bouchonne]

You end up like this.

[ He does a passable imitation of Benedict's dark-and-broody face. ]

[altusimperius]

[It's almost funny.]

Counterpoint, [said still seriously, but Trying,]

you end up like this by not caring.

[bouchonne]

Counterpoint: I'm the one who doesn't care, and I'm bloody jolly, dear boy, and have friends in every place I visit.

[ Well, friendly acquaintances, but - still counts. ]

[altusimperius]

I used to not care.

Or maybe, [he gets that Look on his face again, like he doesn't know which way is up.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, and shakes his head. He's embarrassed by the whole course of this conversation, and tries to cover it by taking another drink.]

[bouchonne]

Maybe...?

[altusimperius]

[Ugh.]

...maybe I cared too much, about the wrong person's opinion.

[How does small talk always end up like this?]

[bouchonne]

[ A click of the tongue - ]

There it is.

[altusimperius]

[A tight-lipped nod, gaze hard and pensive.]

[bouchonne]

[ A moment, and then a sigh. ]

Do you know anything of my background, dear boy? I'm rather infamous in the South, but I know that you have your own gossip up in Tevinter.

[altusimperius]

[Still smarting, but receptive:]

I don't think I do.

[A pause.]

Will you tell me?

[bouchonne]

Since you asked so nicely.

[ A moment, then: ]

I left my family behind when I was seventeen. I was a frilly little fop with a smart mouth who got caught with my fingers in all the wrong places a few too many times, and so my father and I never got along so well. But when he took a vile rumor about me to be the whole and earnest truth, I was fed up, done, finished, and so I departed without a copper in my pocket or a crumb of food in a bindle.

I was an idiot.

[ Clearly. ]

It's not the same story, of course: you, my boy, have tossed aside your pride with your family, whereas my stomping away was largely motivated by my stiff neck. But there is no shame in having been vulnerable to them, and there is no shame in casting them away.

[altusimperius]

[Listening silently, Bene gives the occasional nod of understanding, which turns into a longer one when Byerly has finished. It's food for thought.]

How did you come back from it?

[bouchonne]

Why, I suppose that depends on what you mean by come back. Are you asking how I found food? How I recovered my reputation? How I found the strength to believe wholeheartedly that my father could go fuck himself?

[altusimperius]

[He thinks, then shrugs.]

All of them.

[bouchonne]

Hm. Well, food, I ended up finding a nice lady in a little town who was willing to put me up for a few nights in return for a few favors. Farmwork, at first, till she discovered just how hopeless I was at that. Other work afterwards. My belief about my father came from falling in with a group of other louts, similarly rejected by their families, and finding how classic my tale was. And as for my reputation - well. Still searching for that one.

[altusimperius]

[It's refreshing, in a way: being able to imagine Byerly not on his high horse, struggling similarly to the way Benedict has been, taking odd unpleasant jobs, making the occasional poor choice.

Still listening intently, Benedict's expression grows more pleasant, intrigued.]

Your reputation as a noble? Or just as a person?

[bouchonne]

Oh, the reputation as a noble is never coming back. Once it became clear I was never coming back, my father cut me off quite thoroughly. Why, that's perhaps two gold coins I could have inherited, and so much rotting wood, and some infertile land. Nor shall the reputation as a person come back, either, being as I spent many years of my life burning things down in those real parties I mentioned earlier.

[altusimperius]

[A sympathetic smirk and a little laugh-- rotting wood and infertile land indeed, certainly much more literal in Byerly's case.]

I can imagine that would put you off them for life. [The parties, that is.]

[bouchonne]

Don't be absurd. I love parties.

[ A sip. It's impossible to tell whether or not he's being sincere. ]