[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

shots

[succise]

"I — Maker's breath,"

That's strong! She only sipped it and now she's holding the rest of the glass at arm's length, nose scrunched up. She coughs into her shoulder to muffle the sound. "What is this?"

It burns on her tongue; Vega, of course, is accustomed to good wine, usually red, served with dinner. Not... this, while seated around a fire.

[brennvin]

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?”

[succise]

"If it is drunk in the Frostbacks, maybe it should stay there." It seems so crude to make your own alcohol instead of buying it when people who know how to make it very well make a lot of it, and sell it, but what would Vega know. It must be an inane hobby of Astrid's. She cautiously brings the glass back toward herself, taking a sniff.

"Have you tried it yourself? It is quite... overpowering."

She can still taste it on her tongue, the dill and caraway. Lemon, a bright, sour tang at the back of her throat. She sips a very small amount and holds it on her tongue to try and really taste it, but coughs and ruins it, getting it down her chin.

"I think—" hoarsely, "You must mix it with something. Water. Anything."

[brennvin]

“Well, if you’re gonna be a pussy about it,” Astrid says cheerfully, “then sure, yeah. You could water it down. Maybe cranberry juice or elderflower cordial or something could work if you needed a juice.”

She pours herself a thimbleful, and then looks ruminatively into the slightly cloudy liquid. “The first boy I ever hooked up with, we were drunk on akvavit, and he taught me to take it all down in one go.” A beat, and something sheepish flickers across her face. “Erm. The akvavit, I mean.”

[succise]

"I—"

Vega doesn't even get the chance to say excuse me, she simply snaps her mouth shut and instantly goes tomato-red in the face. Horrified admiration leads her to silently down the rest of her shot in one go, as intended. She thunks her empty cup down loudly to prove it and cups her hand delicately across her mouth, just in case.

It seems fine.

She rasps, "You're awful," but it's clear she doesn't actually mean it, said with such little bite and a shifting of weight in front of the fire, a delicate shudder. "If I ever spoke like that, at home, they would have thrown me out."

[brennvin]

That tracks, probably, from Astrid’s admittedly very limited idea of what noble life might’ve been like. All she knows is that Vega’s got a Lady in front of her name and that implies some things; at least based on those bodice-ripper books her best friend had summarised for her.

“Is it all, like,” she waves an airy hand, trying to encompass upper-class Tevinter society in a gesture, “use the right fruit spoon for scooping out the fruit and the right knife for buttering bread and use very nice language and go on polite walks around the room?”

[succise]

"Yes," she says, unsure of whether or not to be offended. Astrid does seem to be asking out of curiousity though and Vega has had the rest of the akvavit; perhaps, because she has tasted Astrid's culture, Vega now must describe the flavour of her own upbringing to make it fair.

She dabs at an invisible something near her mouth with fingertips. Whenever the bonfire tries to blow smoke in her direction she has to lean her body around the plume.

"But worse. Because you're only doing it for something in return and sometimes you don't get anything. It wastes your time."

[brennvin]

It truly doesn’t sound good, and Astrid’s nose crinkles in distaste. Vega’s words are withering enough, too, that it seems the other woman isn’t exactly homesick.

“So why’d you leave?” she asks, impulsive. They’ve been out in the woods together, Vega has suffered Astrid’s cheerful chattering on the road, they’ve bunked together in the rubble, but she can’t remember ever actually asking this before. “Tired of ’em wasting your time with fruit spoons?”

There’s such variety in what brings people to Riftwatch: some under duress, some of their own volition, and she’s suddenly very interested to figure out which one Lady Arany is.

[succise]

Vega hiccoughs.

"They were going to marry me off." She doesn't puff up for once. Usually this would make her terribly angry to the point of shouting but right now, staring into the fire, it doesn't come on. The unfairness of it is biting at her hard instead and all she feels is unhappy, too warm in the face. She sniffs, "I was supposed to be a magister."

She could use some more of that terrible drink, actually. "And then after I had already bothered to run away I got this thing in my hand," the shard, obviously, "So I had to come here instead. And now I don't know what I'm supposed to do about any of it."

[brennvin]

Astrid tilts her head; a curious sparrow. “Least you already chose to go,” she offers. “It’s not like you caught the shard and that forced your hand; that’d probably feel even shittier, something else choosing for you on top of them tryin’ to choose for you.”

Following the universal instincts of a bartender, that delicate sense for when someone could do with more of a terrible drink, she reaches out the bottle and pours a little more into both their cups.

“Can’t magisters marry?”

[succise]

Vega notes mutely. This is true; it was very good that she had already chosen to leave. Not only would it have forced her hand but it would have been embarrassing to be sent away gladly instead of leaving herself before they could tell her to go.

She sniffs the cup before she sips which is a mistake. A tiny sound of displeasure escapes her but she still drinks.

"They can. But they get to choose it, don't they, because people come to them with their best offers. That's what I would prefer. I don't expect you to understand."

[brennvin]

It might be a snippy little dig, but Astrid lets it roll off her like water off a duck’s back, simply agreeing: “I don’t, nah. I mean, we’ve got some arranged marriages between holds — it’s important to get fresh blood in, so everybody’s not just fucking their cousins — but any suitor’s got to get permission from the clan elders and then they try to kidnap you?”

This sounds kinda fucked up when she says it out loud.

“But it’s like, understood what they’re gonna be doing, and usually the girl’s in on it? When I kidnapped my wife, we’d agreed beforehand. If you don’t want to be kidnapped to another hold you just kick their ass. Probably some holds out there are dicks about it and might still enforce it against their will, but at least it’s not gonna change what you’re able to do. And every marriage’s got an expiry date if you need to get out of it.”

She tilts her cup, scrutinises it; not all of the herbs got strained out, so a sprig escaped and made it into her drink.

“If you were s’posed to be a magister, why didn’t you get a best offer?”

[succise]

Vega makes a little squeak at the term fucking their cousins but aside from that tiny outburst she's silent, thoughtful, making her way through this next bit of drink which she dislikes more and more and more as she sips. In a way it is good because it is so terrible. There is a sour taste in her mouth that suits the conversation.

"That is barbaric," she comments, into the cup. And yet they're talking about the same thing and using different words. We agree to be kidnapped; we agree to be betrothed. She glowers for a moment at nothing and then sits up straight again, placing her cup on the ground away from herself where it can't hurt her (liquid still inside).

"Because they never intended for me to actually be a magister." She has never been told this but she figured it out herself. "The second my brother was born it was to be him and so they weren't looking for any good offers. They were going to pawn me off on anybody, anyone who would take me."

[brennvin]

“Oh,” Astrid says, and in that mellow haze of the akvavit making her contemplative, her brow furrows. Trying to wrap her mind around the rank and duty and obligations of being a capital-L Lady beyond the fruit spoons; things she hasn’t ever had to worry about, herself.

“When my little brother was born, there wasn’t anything he could take from me, besides all my toys which I didn’t want anymore by then, anyway. He could be annoying but, like, in a way that didn’t change my life much.” She picks out the sprig of green from her drink, flicks it off into the sands. She has a suspicion that if her voice goes too soft and sympathetic, Vega might bite her hand off, so she keeps it straightforward and matter-of-fact:

“Sorry your parents were shitbags about it.”

[succise]

"That is the problem," Vega argues, stung. "He is not the one who took it from me. Everyone conspired to take it from me because of him." So it isn't personal failing or something she couldn't stop from happening. This was decided from the moment he was born, kept from her. What could Vega have done? You can't place a magisterial position up on a top shelf to keep your younger brother from reaching it like you would a favourite toy.

The anger fizzles out before it can really take.

She says, sullenly, "Thank you."

It does help to hear her say that.

possible wrap? while i go bother her inbox

[brennvin]

How do you fix that sorta situation or make it better? There’s no real answer for it besides get rid of the brother, and that’s not really Astrid’s go-to solution in this scenario. Annoyingly, you can’t even offer to punch him, because at the end of the day it is the parents’ fault —

“At least you’re here instead now,” she offers, weakly, although she knows it’s feeble consolation. Riftwatch isn’t a magisterdom. Magistership? Whichever.

yes good *places dusty little bow*

[succise]

"Yes," Vega grumbles, dropping her eyes to her cup. She wants to say something scathing in response to that but some sharp reply curdles instantly on her tongue; the akvavit tasted better.

That's because, for all intents and purposes, Astrid is right. She would very much rather be here instead of in Tevinter under the current circumstances, just that she can't bring herself to admit to that even while tipsy. She sniffs instead and slowly pushes herself upright. The world hangs in place for a moment and she has to take a small step first before really moving, adjusting her weight with care (if she stumbled in front of Astrid she will have to throw herself into the fire).

"I'm going to get water," she states, important and too-loud. "For us both. Stay here."

And then she's gone, holding her skirts carefully in one hand to keep from stepping on them.