faderift | [open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

Entry tags:

[open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

WHO: everybody who wants
WHAT: (lukewarm) BEACH PARTY (on rubble, in harbor)
WHEN: late Justinian
WHERE: the Gallows, amidst its newly-acquired sea view
NOTES: he's trying

I. Prep

He didn't ask for help overtly, but Benedict is clearly working hard setting up the space he's designated for the company to have their beach staycation: drapings taken from his own stash and salvaged from the Gallows' erstwhile guest rooms are drawn across glyphed-in-place poles to create shade. He's hauled out a table, onto which he proceeds to place a variety of whatever canapés he could afford to procure with his own wages-- it's not a feast, all right-- and beside which he rolls two barrels of decent-ish wine.

From the baths come a stack of towels piled high in his arms, hindering his vision to such a degree that he may crash into someone not paying attention; pillows and the like come next, in armloads that take multiple trips, by the end of which he's visibly out of breath.

Lastly, it's his very own water pipe making an appearance, which he arranges amidst comfortable ground seating mimics how his room used to look: in fact, most of the accoutrements here are his personal belongings.
As such, he knows just how to set everything to create an attractive, if minimalist, space for an afternoon's leisure.

II. Party?

It may not be an all-out bash like their excursion to the sandier shores of the Waking Sea some years ago, but this, if nothing else, is an opportunity for work on the Gallows to pause in palatable increments. One can be clearing rubble or cataloguing property for the morning, then pop over for an hour of sunbathing and a glass of wine; they're all within calling out distance of the courtyard, and the party likely bleeds into the day's work in a manner somewhat more comfortable than if it were sequestered.

That said: the early summer sea water is cold, the sun is out but meek behind occasional cloud cover, and the festivities are on clean-swept stone rather than sand. The view across the water is of mainland Kirkwall, and all that that entails.
But it's none of it so bad, for anyone looking to take a break. A few musicians even show up a bit later in the afternoon, and Benedict provides a bonfire in the center of the party space as the sun goes down.

Anything brought to share is met with effusive thanks from Benedict, who ensures its appropriate placement and distribution. He doesn't spend much time relaxing himself, instead making the rounds with the air of a fussy host, where he's quick to offer refills or alternatives in libations, or diversions for unsatisfactory activities.

[make your own starters, do your thing, go hog wild-- if you have logistical questions feel free to ask on plurk or discord]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Once the sun has gone down and the bonfire has been lit, Gwenaëlle has wrapped herself up in her bear slanket, a thing comically large for her frame, large enough that it had once easily accommodate two dwarves (one on the other's shoulders) delivering it to her room in Skyhold with their best impression of a fearsome animal. (They hadn't quite known how to play it off when she'd been delighted instead of terrified.) It is part blanket, part coat (it's hard to immediately tell, but when she shifts it's clear it has sleeves) and part trophy, the enormous bear head resting on her shoulder, glass eyes glinting in the firelight and gazing sightlessly at Clarisse (which makes three out of four eyeballs there false, for those playing at home).

It's cosy. She wonders sometimes at the others of the Inquisiton who Asher had made these for, where they all ended up; she thinks, though she isn't certain, that she might be the only one here. It is an excellent outfit for telling stories in, and it puts her in mind for a moment of the Boneflayers around a campfire, listening to Yngvi read from whatever he'd lately got his hands on.

He isn't even far, in Kirkwall, but absorbed back into the Carta he might as well be a world away. She's said, “Alright,” thinking of him, before she's realised she's decided to.

“Any sort of story in particular?” Is this a good time for a sad story, or a heroic one, or something sweet—

"Nope," Reflex. He didn’t see nothing, mouth shut, all that - but following her eyes - "Shit, is that a coffin?"

Edited (typo) 2024-06-20 08:28 (UTC)

Something lights on fire behind her, but Gwenaëlle — already running — sort of assumes it was meant to. Probably not something she needs to worry about, especially when she is rushing the water at speed. It's not as if she doesn't know it's going to be cold. This is hardly the first time she's got in this water, specifically, and it's never been warm, but at this hour and in this moderate weather,

she is almost certain her nipples have instantly become lethal weapons. She has goosebumps places she didn't realise have hair. There's a little jump, so her feet and her knees hit the water first, and then about seven different parts of her body clench without her say so as it comes to hip-height, and she laughs, reaching for Abby's elbow.

“What the fuck!” is an incoherent question, not requiring an answer.

"Yeah," Reaching into the bowl of berries, thanks - "Could run in fuckin’ circles too, think they’re doing that up-shore."

A yawn. His fingers scratch red pulp over chin.

"Reckon your knees won’t give out?"

Called over his shoulder. He’s already shucking his own shirt, wading toward the waves.

"Right," He’s yanking out a cork with his teeth. It isn’t wine. It smells a lot like paint thinner. "You ever hear of a chicken fight?"

Even though she's the one who asked to race, Clarisse is paying more attention to where her feet are than to who's winning. Not slipping on a rock and eating total shit in front of everybody is the more important thing here, clearly.

Then they've reached the water. Clarisse barrels in, bravely not complaining about how cold it is until a frigid wave smacks into her upper thighs and stomach. The cold feels like it short circuits her brain for a second and the only thing she can yelp is, "Mētrokoítēs!" but she's laughing at the same time, doing a ridiculous jump in the water like that's going to stop the next wave from hitting her in the exact same place.

Stupid and fun. She needed this.

Hmm. The bear head thing is very Gwenaëlle, she has to admit. Intimidating and yet so very weird. And Clarisse has seen people wear much weirder shit, she can't really judge, but now that she's facing Gwen she does keep making awkward eye contact with the bear. So that's uncomfortable.

Anyway, she doesn't need to think about what kind of story she wants. She knows what she's about. "Something exciting." That's the most important thing. "And... not too short."

She's on a mission here. Mission Don't Be Alone With Your Thoughts. Gwen is the best person to help with it, too. She likes to talk and she knows a lot about a lot of people. It's perfect.

"The hell are you drinking?" She sounds intrigued.

"And, yeah, of course I have." The realization that the game of chicken is something that transcends universes is delightful. Sometimes it's the little things.

He’s been drinking already. Propped on his side, tongue loose and brow wrinkled,

"Moving rocks. Moving wood. Moving rocks’n wood." Leisure and reconstruction and a desperate need to seem useful at all times don't go together. Cedric shakes his head, laughs, "Oughta get into sculpture."

Multi-task. He salutes the shot, then tips it back.

"Delltash —" Coughing, clutching the cup. "— Where'd you find this?"

He's reaching for another.

The wheels turning behind her eyes are almost visible as Gwenaëlle leans back, considering, rifling through the stories she has at her disposal and deciding—

not that. Or that. Definitely not that. A distraction shouldn't be depressing, so she's got to find something that doesn't end with of course, they are dead now. Best not to think too hard on how severely that narrows her options. Don't think about it at all, in fact, just settle on,

“My uncle and aunt live in a cottage,” she begins, “in the Free Marches. They've a retired war mabari, a cat,” and very probably a dementia related suicide pact, but frankly, in these trying times the fact they've got to retire of their own volition and have the luxury of probably being in control of how Luwenna Coupe's decline ends— that's plenty romantic, and anyway, she's not going to mention that part, “and if it were pressing, we could probably stash someone in their basement if we needed to hide a person for a week or two.”

This sounds like the end of a story. And it is, but:

“Ten years ago, what I knew about my one paternal uncle was that he was dead. He had been no more than a story for all my life— when he was a boy, he was taken away to the Circle. He and my father,” a kinder thing to call him than my lord, though this story will wind its way through crueller paths for that man in due course, “wrote each other diligently. I had never seen him, nor heard his voice; my father hadn't since he was not even at the beginning of manhood. I couldn't picture him. He was a stranger who sometimes asked after me, in letters that my father would read, and I would mostly tune him out. Sometimes in the letters that he would read to me, Oncle Gervais would speak of la roitelet, the wren, and I thought him a dull man in a tower who watched birds. I didn't think of him often. I would receive Satinalia gifts in his name, to his specification, that my father had paid for and arranged; one of them was a knife. Jeweled. He has its twin, and I don't know what sort of favours, bribes or threats were involved in my father making sure he was allowed that—”

But she is certain that there were threats.

“When I was sent to Skyhold, it was sent with me in its case. I wondered what had happened to the other; we were told that he was dead, after the annulment of his Circle, called the White Spire. There were survivors of that Circle, mostly who'd been elsewhere when it was annulled, but my father was certain and I had no reason to disbelieve him: if his brother lived, he would have word. There had been no word. The knife came with me from Skyhold, then, to Kirkwall, where I first met a woman named Luwenna Coupe.”

"Aqua magus, nicked it in Minrathous." So basically, he's a war hero. "'S got lyrium in it."

And it tastes like absolute dogshit, but that doesn't stop him from a second swig. Water's cold. Gonna need a little belly-fire. He passes it over.

"Between us, that gets t'what, twelve feet?"

Might be more sporting to put a short person on your shoulders. Sounds like a good way to lose.

Benedict is waved over, easily enough, even if he doesn't sit just yet-- he does offer a pleased little smile toward Strange, accepting the compliment in his bearing if not verbally.

"Nor is it, the um," he pauses a moment to remember: "Atlantic?" He'd gone there, in Stark's world-- a laughable assortment of pasty bathers, horrific smells, and inexplicable, towering contraptions filled with what he could only guess were the screaming damned.

Edited 2024-06-22 03:04 (UTC)

"I'm busy," Benedict sniffs, decidedly not going into the frigid water, though he has paused in his hustling around to come and say hello to Clarisse. And may now regret this: didn't they meet with him trying to shove her into an underground lake? He has tried very hard to forget that.

As far as Clarisse knows she's never drank anything with lyrium in it before, and she's wondering if it's entirely safe. But she takes the bottle when he passes it over and, after a shrug, puts it to her lips. Hey, if Lazar's drinking it it's probably not going to kill he—

okay, no, this tastes very, very bad. "Eughh," she manages with a shudder, holding the bottle out to him. Take it back.

After a few seconds, mostly recovered: "We'd pretty much be unstoppable." So obviously they should do it.

Nearby, a spectator smokes contentedly and makes no move to disrupt the proceedings.

And Clarisse hasn't forgotten either, and it's not lost on her that this would be the perfect revenge, but she is at least not attempting to manhandle him into the waves. Not yet, anyway.

"Oh, you're busy? Come on." She does kick water in his direction, but stops short of actually making contact. "Busy being a buzzkill."

"A buzzkill?" is his initial, incredulous response, "I put the buzz here--"

And then he realizes she's joking. Pauses, takes a deep breath, sighs it out, smiles wanly.

"Can you do a handstand underwater?" he asks, as primly as ever, but with a bit of goading mischief.

"Of course I can."

Not that she's ever tried it in the ocean before, specifically. But Clarisse knows she can do a handstand, and she's done handstands in the pool as a kid before, so she's fairly confident.

The last time Yseult looked up and scanned the area, among those subjects would have been Marcus who had gone about a foot into the water and no further, observing Kirkwall or the sky in equal measure. Then, turning and exiting, skin smarted pink in patches by the cold sea.

Later, an approach. He has dried off, and the rolled cuffs of his trousers around the knees are still a little damp from a wayward upswell of water, feet bare on the rocks. His shirt is loosely tucked in, sleeves also rolled in a subconscious attempt at getting some sunlight while the going is good-ish, and though it's a stark difference for someone who is normally quite buttoned up, he doesn't appear to mind.

Certainly not enough to avoid following an impulse, and he has a near-empty wine bottle in hand, stolen off the shared table. When she appears to notice him, his greeting is hefting it up to demonstrate, a slight shake of the liquid within, offering to refill her also near-empty glass.

[ Catch all for closed things because I'm bad, but will happily eat a wild card if you felt inclined. ]

Astrid bites back a full-bridled laugh — it’s never good to seem to be laughing at Vega, she’s learned this by now — and instead just picks up the unlabelled bottle and tilts it back and forth, scrutinising the brew in the firelight. It looks a little distressingly herby.

“Akvavit. Based off the name aqua vitae in Tevene, I’ve heard, although it’s mostly drunk in the Frostbacks so I’ve been trying to make my own.”

The liquor’s a pale straw-gold colour, and she’d strained it through a cheesecloth into their glasses; experimental, still trying to find the right herb-and-spice mixture, the right strength. “S’mainly caraway seeds, star anise, and fennel seeds in vodka, but my uncle’s family recipe had dill and lemon so I used a bit of that. Still trying to get the proportions and strength right, so I’m not sure if it’s been steeping long enough…”

It’s very definitely been steeping long enough.

Hopeful: “What d’you think?”

Edited 2024-06-23 22:29 (UTC)

“Can it be both?” Astrid asks, a little muffled from somewhere beneath the griffon. She levers one of Potato’s wings out of the way, lifting it so she can peer out from a faceful of feathers and look at Clarisse.

She’s seen Clarisse downbeat at a party before, but there’s something else to it now that she can’t quite put her finger on; as if in stepping away from the fire and the music and the bigger group of people, something in the other woman’s face has slipped.

For her part, Astrid tonight seems unruffled and cheerful as ever. This is a day, the same as any other day.

“Since there’s more distractions around, I figured it’d be a good way to train her to be around crowds, like, but I’m startin’ to think someone let her cuddle too much when she was little. She doesn’t get that she’s too big for laps now.” Potato clacks her beak as if in affirmation. “You wanna help me or hang out?”

Or both.

“Foraged the herbs and made it meself,” Astrid says, and there’s a thread of real pride in her voice, even if it’s kind of a horrifying concoction. Meant to be slugged down in a single quick swallow, like a punch to the jaw.

“S’a little too warm out here though. If you serve it cold, like near-freezing, then it mellows out and doesn’t taste so strong. In winter, we’d keep some bottles stored in the snow.”

She pours them another round — this is taste-testing, this is for science — and then considers Cedric’s answer. “Sculpture. You ever tried whittling? Carving.”

“Wins what, precisely? We should make it interesting with some stakes.”

The girl had the impressive talent of looking down her nose at him despite him being so much taller than her, but this eager creature is delightfully different from that suddenly-nervous voice over his crystal, the one who’d been skittish over the prospect of battle magic in the field. See, Arany, blowing stuff up is fun —

Strange is dressed like a civilian today, for the beach: regular trousers and shirt, no mage robes, no cloak. If you squint, he might not even be a rifter if it weren’t for that glow at his bare hand. He flexes his fingers, eyeing the large rock.

It feels like a small victory, having gotten her to come with him to this thing. Stephen thought he was the antisocial one, but it turns out any social gathering is vastly improved with your girlfriend by your side: a chance to close his eyes and try to turn off his brain (to negligible success), relax and listen to the comforting susurrus of the waves, the occasional laughter in the background. It’s not the lush tropical beach he’d taken her to on Earth, but at least there’s some sun, some drinks, and the admittedly beguiling sight of Gwenaëlle stretched out beside him, all long legs and barely-there fabric and bare skin. Listen, he’s only human.

“Okay, you probably need less of it,” Stephen admits with a faux world-weary sigh, grudging, “but you should still apply some protection. Haven’t you ever gotten sun-burned out on a ship or when you’ve been swimming too long? It’s a literal burn, you’re damaging your skin long-term.”

And he deploys the next two words with the tactical precision of an attempted strike, all portentous doom: “Premature wrinkles.”

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 2 of 9

[open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

no subject

banter 1

perfect no notes

no subject

water

no subject

no subject

no subject

shots

no subject

no subject

he did not care for coney island

water

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

marcus rowntree.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject