[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

[dissolving]

Cedric watches her wince, and it's a little funny, it is; seen that face from half a dozen Orlesians. Shame the Chantry doesn't do masks.

"'S fine. Just do the neck first," A finger lifts above empty cup, draws a line across his throat. Shkt. "Only need my head. S'pose the rest could go to the birds,"

But reckon the others would have something to say for that — and whatever Astrid's lady is, it's not his own. A special spirit, punted from Fade. Long have they turned to idols, away from My Light,

"Or burn it. Bury it under an oak. Wish I could tell y'more, but Mortalitasi... they don't talk on it much. Keep their secrets, even from us."

A shade bitter, a shade too drunk to hide it. But,

"Promise you. If we can't get a Sky Watcher," Maybe the Inquisition would've managed it. "Find the highest spot we can. See 's done right."

[brennvin]

Warmth in her chest, bright behind her ribcage; it’s mostly from the alcohol but also partially not. It’s funny. She never expected to feel quite so relieved and grateful about a mutual dismemberment pact.

Astrid moves her glass over to her other fingers, spits into her right palm, and then holds it out expectantly to him.

“Thank you. You’ve a pact, mate,” she says, and there’s perhaps a little unexpected honour and weight and import laced laced into the words, considering her usual carefree manner. “I promise to cut off your head if I have to.”

[dissolving]

A mark of the moment — or an absence of germ theory — that sees him spit in his own. Cedric juggles an elbow to clasp palms.

"Thanks," Shake on it. "Find a good gate."

potential 🎀

[brennvin]

There’s blank non-comprehension on Astrid’s face at first, all wobbly and tipsy and What gate? before she remembers what she’d said earlier, and it shakes loose a small laugh.

“You’re a good sport, Cedric,” she says, and rolls back onto her knees closer by the fire; back to the warmth of the flames against the chilly night air, the warmth of the homegrown liquor, the warmth of someone’s company beside her, the awkward uneven patches papered over for now.