[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

[armd]

"You're on," Abby says, her brief grin a flash of teeth, and to be a good sport she waits patiently until they've both rid themselves of clothes before she yells in one breath, "Readysetgo—"

Imagine what this could have been like: hot sand out at Santa Barbara, down on West Beach where they came in and moored the ship. She thinks about it for seconds, how stinking fucking hot it was, the endlessly blue sky, that afternoon spent trying to dig a massive hole while the tide was coming in and Lev laughing like crazy while he bailed the water out of it.

Racing Clarisse down to the water's edge while trying not to slip on rock? It's just as good as that.

[laruetheday]

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.

[armd]

So stupid. So fun. She laughs hard the moment Clarisse swears — in Ancient Greek, do you ever forget that your friend can do that? — and charges right in after her despite the clear warning, so that exact same wave slaps her in the stomach. The skin there feels so tender suddenly, so thin, the water so damn cold.

Abby screeches, no words, only pure offense. Then she gasps and goes, "Oh my god —" as another wave smacks into her. Isn't it supposed to be summer, or near enough to it that the ocean shouldn't be like this? The vision of sunny Santa Barbara is so, so far away from her now.

"This sucks!"

What the hell! She's still going in, though.

[laruetheday]

"It was your idea!"

But in a weird way it's actually kind of nice, how shocking the cold water is.

It's like the sheer surprise of it has switched off the morose, anxious, overthinking part of her brain and left her only with the part that can process what's happening in the immediate moment: the waves rolling into them one after the other, the pebbly sand under her feet, Abby beside her, and the way they're both laughing over how dumb they're acting.

"Bet I can swim out further than you before it gets too cold," she dares Abby. Then, for added insult, she swats some more frigid water at her.