[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

driveby —

[portalling]

(Somewhere in the background, Stephen Strange is in the middle of renewing some inferno magic exercises, the occasional blast of flame visible against the darkening sky since he doesn’t have to squint against the sun anymore. And he happens to slide an innocent glance over to where the two women have been hanging out, what are they up to,

whereupon he realises that Gwenaëlle is now half-naked and running to the water like some slow-motion Baywatch model and he makes a strangled noise, huargh! and his aim goes completely askew and the fireball goes sailing off too far to the left, and this is what leads to accidentally setting the beachside tent on fire.

He hurries off to fix the problem.)

irl laughter

[armd]

Abby is not getting naked, only near enough, trousers and shirt off and left folded near the fire so they'll be warm when she comes, shivering, back to them. She finds she doesn't care if anybody else thinks they're being weird, she just — needs to move and do something rather than sitting and stewing in her own thoughts, making herself angry for no reason. It's stupid. This whole thing is stupid.

She follows Gigi down to the water, sans slow-mo Baywatch running, more watching where she steps because there are bits of rock everywhere and —

"Holy shit," yep, it's cold, but she drives her legs hard through the surf anyway, wading in without reprieve. But not without yelping, which she does once, when a wave smacks her hard below the belt.

perfect no notes

[elegiaque]

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.

[armd]

"It's fucking freezing," she shouts, as if they both didn't know this before they went charging in at all, and crosses her arms tightly across her chest. This does not really help. It's like they're doing a winter swim or something — "Why is it so cold!"

Doesn't make any sense.

Gwenaëlle is grabbing her elbow and Abby turns toward her instantly, body curled inward like a leaf in an attempt to converse any body heat that might be left. Maybe if she goes under the water it'll all... even out?

She needs a minute, first.