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]

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.

[unshut]

From her half step behind him, all the put on charm has evaporated along with Arvil. She's rather more no nonsense as her attention shifts from the direction in which her creditor has fled to Barrow, her hands settling matter of fact on her hips.

"Isn't it? I get the sense that we have some difference of opinion."

Look, Ma. She can be direct too.

[thereneverwas]

Struck by the harshness of her direct reply, Barrow blinks a few times, as though he can't quite sort out whether or not he should be the one apologizing. Then, he remembers why they're here, and his temper gives another little fare.

"I-- have I been wasting my time?" he demands, "or should I pretend there's no hypocrisy in finding you with your tongue halfway down another man's throat?"

[unshut]

For a woman who was a moment ago doing a very good job of using him as a a buffer between herself and a man of considerably less sturdy proportions, she is remarkably blasé in the face of his temper - measured for sensibility when she says,

"Really, Barrow. My tongue isn't that long."

[thereneverwas]

If nothing else, though his posture is tense, Barrow gives no indication that he's about to commit any further violence against her or anyone else.

Unlike some certainly have, in the face of similar jealousy-- or at least something that resembled it.

"What am I supposed to think?" he asks, holding out his hands, then dropping them to his sides. "What do you want me to think?"

[unshut]

She'd be surprised if he did - give so much as the indication. After all, he's already come up short of taking a swing at Richard and between the two of them he's far more punchable.

"I would prefer you believe the truth. That Richard was doing me a kindness by helping me to avoid Arvil exacting a debt from my hide. We ducked into that alcove to hide and wanted to make certain no one looked too closely while they passed. Simple as." Her eyebrows rise by a marginal degree, hands yet firmly planted. "But you can think what you like."

[thereneverwas]

There are ways to pretend at such things without actually doing them, he wants to point out, but with Fitcher there's always a feeling that if one pulls the line too taut, she'll simply snap it and swim away.

"So you're not..." It feels very silly suddenly, to ask this way: a schoolboy tracing the end of a stick in the dirt, the older girl looking pityingly down her nose at him. "...involved?"

[unshut]

She might be quite brisk with him here. What difference would it make, or perhaps the more pointed and cutting I'm not involved with anyone. Snip that thread with all due expediency and simply expect that he manage the result. Instead, by some half turn, the brusque set of her expression softens. She allows herself to marginally warm.

A little truth, judiciously used, might be good for all of them.

"No. I'm not." A pause. Some flickering hesitation. Then, with just the barest edge of apology: "I haven't been involved with anyone for some time. I don't know that I would recommend anyone hope otherwise."

[thereneverwas]

Then why is my own exclusivity so important, Barrow might snap back if he had the mind for it, but by now the wind has all but entirely left his sails. His expression once more colored by his characteristic softness, he nods at Fitcher, feeling rather a fool but nonetheless unable to make himself leave her side.

"...hope is for Chantry sisters and children," he sighs, "I suppose the rest of us can manage with happenstance."

Glancing in the dimly-lit direction of the cave opening, from which the sounds of revelry have dwindled but still remain in some capacity, he nudges his head toward it.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," he mutters, "I need a drink."

[unshut]

"Happily," she confirms, and at last lets her hands slip from her hips. She straightens her skirts - absently shifting the empty knife sheath as it lies at the small of her back under some sweeping drape of fabric -, and with a leading tip of the head she moves beyond him.

A brief glance is cast in the direction of her creditor's retreat as she does so, but it's a quickly satisfied kind of curiosity. And way they go.