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

[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.