[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

[brennvin]

“—Oh, fuck. I’m sorry.”

The words come blurting out, kneejerk instinctive condolence, and then they’re just sitting there with it.

What a weird thing. At least with death, there’s a concrete feeling, a measurable grief; you know they’re gone, you can bury them and eventually move on. Astrid’s heard rifters come and go, so presumably there’s that infinitesimal thread of hope that they’ll come back someday, but she hasn’t really encountered it much herself. Loki was a friend, briefly, but that’s not much. Clarisse is the first rifter she’s really gotten to know.

Clarisse, too, could up and vanish someday.

“Are you the ‘talk about your feelings’ kind of person or, like, ‘punch things about it’ kind or ‘let’s just avoid it please’? Because I can go with whichever.”

[laruetheday]

"Yeah."

Clarisse has known plenty of people who've died. This is different, and it makes her grief feel fake and overblown. Ellie isn't dead, but she doesn't exist anymore all the same. She's been erased, and there's no closure, not even the shitty kind that comes from setting fire to a funeral shroud and watching it go up in smoke.

Astrid's question is kind of nice, letting her go with whatever's going to be least uncomfortable. Clarisse clears her throat. "Uh, the punching things about it kind, usually."

Seems rude to do that at the party Benedict organized, but it's not like she's ever let that stop her from doing something.

[brennvin]

“Oh, well, in that case—”

Astrid shoves the rest of Potato’s haunches off her, and the griffon gamely shifts her weight in order to go flop a few feet away instead. “Stay,” she commands, stern; and after a moment’s consideration, tosses the griffon some jerky to keep her busy while she stands up and squares off opposite Clarisse. She has to tilt her chin up a little; the demi-god’s tall.

“You must be good at fighting, right? Y’could teach me. I get by, but I’m in Scouting not Forces, so I’ve actually been thinking— I need some more practice in hand-to-hand, more knifework, stuff like that. For when we get into scraps.” Which is more often than her old life, where she could skulk away from most trouble, or the worst she had to face were wild animals or the occasional bandit. “Used to spar with my brother, but I don’t really have anyone to kick my ass anymore.”

[laruetheday]

Clarisse laughs out her nose at the sight of Potato snapping her beak at the jerky, and Astrid standing nearby with her chin tilted, all squared up like she's waiting for a punch. It's kind of a fucking relief, actually. Both that Astrid isn't going to try and make her talk about her feelings and that she seems like she wants to fight, which has always been one of Clarisse's favorite things.

"Yeah," she says, "I could teach you. Melee weapons and wrestling are my specialties."

She shifts, digging her boots into the sand for purchase and watching Astrid, looking for an opening. To be clear, Clarisse's method of teaching things is very much the "throw your kid in the deep end and let them figure it out" kind.

[brennvin]

There is simply no time like the present, and this is how she learns best too—

Astrid sees that familiar shift of weight on the sand, a newfound tension in Clarisse’s limbs and the sense of waiting, and her own balance shifts in response: the way a dog might dip into a play-bow, or a cat wiggles ready to pounce. There’s a gleeful grin growing on her face, sizing up the other woman,

and rather than wait and gauge and suss out careful angles of approach, Astrid goes ahead and seizes the opportunity and launches herself at Clarisse, a single indelicate charge to try to tackle her on the sands.