[open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

[altusimperius]

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]

Comments

party :)

[wildered]

No one likes a show off.

But whatever anyone who grew up north of the Kocari Wilds and/or has seen the sun for more than a few months out of the last eight years might think, this is in fact a warm, sunny day, and the water is perfect, and it'd be unfair to ask him not to take off his shirt. He rolls his trousers up to his calves, too, and he lies out on a flat expanse of rock close enough to the sea for the waves to lap at his feet, and he's pleased enough to stay put there for five or ten entire minutes.

"I can see," he says to a neighbor during one of those minutes, when he's been staring at the sky long enough to feel something akin to vertigo, "why some of the dwarves think they might fall into it."

And later—

He's gone. The transition from man to bogfisher is matter of fact and free of flourish. He trundles into the water until only a bristly back, eyes, and nostrils are visible above the waves, paddling with inhuman ease. He's out there quite a while. When he swims back to shore, wet leathery paws slapping on the stone until he's fully out of the water. His long toothy jaw hinges open and drops a live frog onto the ground at some lucky partygoer's feet.

The bogfisher's grunt and groan transitions into "—let it get away," as he reacquires the pieces necessary for words.

live frog

[delven]

"Do or don't?" is what Evelyn asks out loud. Her eyebrows and posture and the half-turn and tilt of her head—as if not sure whether to recoil or lean in to peer at Siorus closer—ask a couple others. She shuffles her feet to the side in an uncertain, half-hearted attempt to keep the frog corralled, bending now to peer at it as if it might offer some sort of answer (it at least can't complain that staring is rude).

"Is it a special kind of frog?"

[wildered]

"Every frog is a special frog," is not entirely sincere, tongue partway in cheek as he ducks down onto one knee and corrals it from the other side. More sincerely: "Most frogs can't tolerate sea water."

Not that he, a lifelong inlander, would have had much opportunity to see them. But to the shock of dozens of Fereldans, he reads.

He catches the frog mid-hop in cupped hands and holds it up to her, fingers forming a little cage through which the frog is visible. Brown, grouchy-looking. Alive.

"They common in the harbor here? Or is this one suicidal?"

[sprent]

No no, some people like a show off —

"Hmm?" Gela now has to pretend she heard what he said at all, and that she wasn't leaning back on her hands simply to enjoy the extremely good view of him stretched out, shirtless, on the rock. A smile and a nod never goes awry. "Oh, yes."

Gesturing out to water now, "So much of Nevarra is landlocked! I'm glad I grew up by the sea."

[wildered]

Siorus twists and lifts his head a little to look at her, smiles, and lies back down flat. Sure, they can talk about that.

"This is the first I've ever seen it," he admits. "I thought it'd be bigger."

It is bigger, of course, than the narrow strip of the Waking Sea he crossed to reach Kirkwall from West Hill. But that's the strip he crossed, and now, in Kirkwall's harbor, the city looks near enough to make a swim for it, if he had to.