faderift | [open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

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[open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

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]

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Redvers hasn't wandered by on accident, but neither has he wandered by intending to join. Not exactly. If uninterrupted, his trajectory would take him from wall-enclosed walkway to wall-enclosed walkway with only a brief interlude here along the collapsed wall and the newly acquired 'beach.' But he slows down along that path, eventually stops entirely, and considers the set-up. The current participants. More specifically the number of them, currently not many, which leaves plenty of space for posting up without joining anyone in particular. The fact that someone's brought a bowl of relatively fresh berries.

The berries decide it.

He eats them one at a time while he walks along the water's edge. Several minutes pass without clouds hiding the sun, and he considers removing his shirt, but it's still on when he finds a craggy rock to sit against. When ships cut through the harbor to the Kirkwall docks, waves knock up against it and spray over the edge. Further out in the water, rocks like it jut out of the water like rows of crooked teeth.

Altogether it leaves him in a good enough mood to mention, when someone passes close enough, "We could swim out to that rock from here."

No one likes a show off.

But whatever anyone who grew up north of the Kocari Wilds and/or has seen the sun for more than a few months out of the last eight years might think, this is in fact a warm, sunny day, and the water is perfect, and it'd be unfair to ask him not to take off his shirt. He rolls his trousers up to his calves, too, and he lies out on a flat expanse of rock close enough to the sea for the waves to lap at his feet, and he's pleased enough to stay put there for five or ten entire minutes.

"I can see," he says to a neighbor during one of those minutes, when he's been staring at the sky long enough to feel something akin to vertigo, "why some of the dwarves think they might fall into it."

And later—

He's gone. The transition from man to bogfisher is matter of fact and free of flourish. He trundles into the water until only a bristly back, eyes, and nostrils are visible above the waves, paddling with inhuman ease. He's out there quite a while. When he swims back to shore, wet leathery paws slapping on the stone until he's fully out of the water. His long toothy jaw hinges open and drops a live frog onto the ground at some lucky partygoer's feet.

The bogfisher's grunt and groan transitions into "—let it get away," as he reacquires the pieces necessary for words.

"- And then a skeleton," His hands splay into claws, crooked at the side of his face. Flames cast twisting shadows. It's all very frightening, if you're six years old, "Popped out."

Cue applause. Applause? No applause? A glance about, a faux scowl. Passing over the wineskin he must have touched at some point (hard to say in the dark):

"Well, you do one, then."

The wineskin is accepted and drunk from by someone who is decidedly not applauding, and who isn't entirely playing along either, because to do so would suggest to Isaac that he is Here For His Bullshit at any given moment; but Barrow is nonetheless present, lounging half-propped on his back and smoking a cigarette, which he removes just long enough to drink and pass the skin to the next person.

If he has a story, he doesn't offer it. He seems content to lie about like a lazy bear and look at the sky, listening to the group's chatter and enjoying the buzz he's managed to cultivate.

Edited 2024-06-15 03:53 (UTC)

"Do or don't?" is what Evelyn asks out loud. Her eyebrows and posture and the half-turn and tilt of her head—as if not sure whether to recoil or lean in to peer at Siorus closer—ask a couple others. She shuffles her feet to the side in an uncertain, half-hearted attempt to keep the frog corralled, bending now to peer at it as if it might offer some sort of answer (it at least can't complain that staring is rude).

"Is it a special kind of frog?"

Edited 2024-06-16 20:48 (UTC)

Yseult is not, as a rule, a party person. But she is a beach person, and while this isn't precisely a beach in the usual sense, it's much closer than anybody has previously been able to get without leaving the Gallows. One of the low-slung canvas chairs that's been stationed in the 'front yard' of her tent this past month has been set up alongside a block of upended masonry just the size and shape of an end table.

She's got all the necessary trappings for a pleasant afternoon: a glass of wine somehow dripping condensation in the heat, a hat with a brim wide enough to shade her face, a pair of tortoise shell-rimmed sunglasses from a long-ago rift haul, and a file of reports weighed down by another handy chunk of stone. If the way she occasionally glances over the edge of a page to see what everyone's getting up to beyond it has a chaperone-esque air, perhaps it's balanced by her apparent intent to get as much sun as possible without actually stripping down (again, not a party person), sleeveless dress unbuttoned low and skirt twitched up and over to bare crossed legs that could stand to be a few shades darker, or by the fact that at some point she sets the reports aside, tugs the hat brim lower, and stretches out to nap.

When she isn't reading, she might take a meeting (anybody looking for her would find a note pinned to her tent door directing them here), possibly on a stroll around the water's edge, or take a break to collect more wine—empty glass revealing a pair of dark stone cubes sat at the bottom that give off an icy crackle when poured over—or collect a plate of fruit and the least-sweaty cheese. She'll stick around until sunset, and then return after dinner when the bonfires are lit with a shawl and a bottle of rum to add to the table.

At some point, she might pause along the water's edge, lower her sunglasses to squint and ask whoever is nearest— "Do you see that?"

Or look up from making notes on a report with a stub of pencil to ask, with only a hint of the skepticism the words imply, "Are you going in the water in that?"

Or maybe warn, with a tone of last-second urgency: "Watch your step!" (She's really truly not here to chaperone.)

Or note, idly: "This would be a good day for sailing."

[ OOC: trying sort of a hybrid all in one open post/banter meme here since they're both Beach — feel free to respond to anything in here in whatever style, or wildcard me. ]

Edited 2024-06-17 00:21 (UTC)

The water’s cold, but it’s nothing against frigid lakes in the mountains, so Astrid takes her first opportunity to plunge into it at noon and go swimming: doing stubborn laps for exercise, daring someone to race her out to a rocky promontory jutting out of the water. After reaching the rock, she hauls herself up and then sprawls in the warmth, resting her wobbly legs, an arm flung over her face to block out the sun.

As the late afternoon wears on, she hauls one of the griffons down to the beach, doing some bonding exercises with Potato: a click of the tongue, harness training, throwing things for her to fetch. When Astrid sits down to take a break, Potato forgets how big she is and crawls onto the woman’s lap, practically pinning her to the ground (“Oof!”). Help pass Astrid some of the canapes, or maybe help her with training the griffon.

She donates some akvavit for taste-testing — she’s been steeping some liquor with the intent to help stock the Gallows tavern — and will offer eye-watering shots around the bonfire, asking, “So what sort of hobbies do you have here?”

( feel free to wildcard, or hmu @ quadrille on discord if you wanna brainstorm; happy to do bespoke starters! )

The Head Healer is a perpetual workaholic and multi-tasker, so he spends a chunk of the day practicing magic in this new open space, where he won’t get in the way of reconstruction. Corralling other mages to practice with him, sparring with spells or flinging ever larger rocks back and forth like honing a muscle, or sending fire exploding harmlessly out into the water; at one point he does have to summon assistance to put out some of the small flames catching on one of the tents, ah fuck, sorry Benedict, someone come help —

Eventually exhausted by slinging spells, Strange takes refuge to read in the shade, brushing up on a particularly dense magical text. The sorcerer likely looks more casual than you’ve ever seen him, sprawled out on a blanket in a sleeveless shirt with trousers rolled up to the knee, trying to look relaxed and failing a little.

Throughout the day he descends on people with little jars of medieval sunscreen, golden paste mixed from some sort of tree-sap. “No, I’m not pranking you, this is real,” he explains, wearily. He has the pale look of someone who spends most of his time indoors, so there’s also smudges of lotion on his cheeks and nose. It’s not very dignified.

You can also find him enjoying some wine in the afternoon and paying keen attention to the musicians, at one point muttering to himself, “That fiddle’s a little out-of-tune.”

( feel free to wildcard, or hmu @ quadrille on discord if you wanna brainstorm; happy to do bespoke starters! )

All things told, they’re sort-of-better circumstances than the last time Strange sat down for a drink with Yseult. Today he joins her while hauling his own stack of work-related reading to do; some things never changed, and it was hard to turn off that perpetually-ticking part of his brain which rarely relaxed fully, and was almost always thinking about the next task, and the next, and the next.

He hauls up his own folding chair and settles in, glancing at the magical cold steaming off the Scoutmaster’s glass with barely-disguised envy. He does flip through his books and waits, however, for the woman to eventually stir and readjust her hat and straighten to reach for her drink again.

“How do I get some of those?” he asks, voice arch as always. “What are they, frost runes embedded in whiskey stones? My god, I should’ve gone into boutique enchantment instead of all this.”

"No." Lia says simply with a smile on her face.

"No, we could not." She motions to the complicated braid her hair is currently in explanation. "But, I harbor no doubts that you could."

She peers at the berries. "Exactly how many of those have you eaten and how long ago was the first one?"

Vega is of the flinging large rocks persuasion and is now testing her force magic out in relation to boulder size. She glances across at Strange and calls, "Let's see how far we can take it."

He'll have seen her around the Gallows several times before and always straight-backed, haughty in the way she lifts her chin to look down at people as best she can. Now, she looks excited, an eager grin splitting her face. Her hair is coming loose from its tight wind at the nape of her neck and she's pushed the sleeves of her dress up to her elbows, given herself room to move.

Pointing at an incredibly large, jagged bit of stone she declares, "Whoever can move this furthest wins."

"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.

No no, some people like a show off —

"Hmm?" Gela now has to pretend she heard what he said at all, and that she wasn't leaning back on her hands simply to enjoy the extremely good view of him stretched out, shirtless, on the rock. A smile and a nod never goes awry. "Oh, yes."

Gesturing out to water now, "So much of Nevarra is landlocked! I'm glad I grew up by the sea."

"Okay."

Abby's been sitting near the bonfire and staring into it in moody silence for quite a while. She's been nursing a glass of barely-touched red wine for even longer but now she brings it to her lips to finish it off in one go, smacking her lips, nose wrinkling. Then, she starts to unlace her boots. "I'm going in."

To the ocean, that is. It is very decidedly nighttime and it has become chilly now that the sun has gone down, but still Abby stands, shrugging off her vest, folding it over her arm. "Dare you to come with me."

Earlier in the day, Gwenaëlle had been negligibly dressed for the express intention of sunbathing; not noted for her frequent participation in morale boosting enterprises or (more specifically and pressingly) large social gatherings, laying in the sun and occasionally humouring Stephen's little golden paste had been about the extent of her joining in. Her presence at Abby's side is motivated twofold: to be a presence, not pressing, in case that's what she needs. Also—

Abby has very large muscles and an expression that suggests not approaching her. It's not not a perk of sitting here, drinking red wine a little faster. That having been said,

it is easy enough to shrug off the bear slanket she's wrapped around herself for the evening, nearly stripped enough to run to the water in one move (she is also pulling her chemise off over her head), the roadmap of her scars long since become too ordinary to her to hesitate at public semi-nudity,

“I'm in.”

Although Gwenaëlle had been willing to remove the hated bear slanket from their bed, so as to avoid making unexpected eye contact with it in the night, it had not actually gone far. Most of the time, it lives in the gallery's conversation pit, where Small Yngvi has continued to embrace it as one of the cosiest places he can be that isn't Stephen's bath. Presently,

it is what Gwenaëlle is stretched out on in her smallclothes and a thin chemise nearby but not in his shade, sunbathing. This is sort of like participating in the social gathering, except it mostly involves having her eyes closed and not talking to anyone, which is (she is pretty certain of this) the best way to do that. Guilfoyle had shown up briefly with several bottles from the de Coucy collection (with l'jeune seigneur's compliments) and a water bucket for Hardie; she isn't sure if he actually left or lurked, and has decided it is not immediately her business.

“Are you sure I need that?” is a bit doubtful, when menaced with paste, and she doesn't actually say the words only one of us is the pastiest motherfucker in Thedas but the way she glances between her arm and his is illustrative, nevertheless. What's a skin cancer.

Clarisse is at the party. That much can be said.

And, honestly, it's not like she's moping around. She seems mostly pretty normal, has been carrying a drink around and refilling it from time to time, nodding her head to the music. She is even laughing at things that are funny, and smiling when it's appropriate, and talking to people. But as soon as she's not actively engaged with something, she gets this look on her face, like she's not sure why she's here or what she should be doing. Sort of lost.

At one point she starts wandering down the beach, not for any particular reason, just to walk. And to kick rocks. When she comes upon Potato (and Astrid, underneath her), she pauses to watch for a minute, taking in the harness and the fetch items scattered around.

"Are you working or messing around right now?" No judgment. She's just curious.

Clarisse's glass of wine: not barely-touched. In fact, she's been refilling it semi-regularly since she got here. She's been watching the bonfire, too, and thinking about fireworks. The fourth of July. It'd be coming up soon back home, and the Hephaestus cabin would be prepping the show. Probably pointless to wonder what they'd have chosen for this year, but she's wondering anyway.

She turns to look as Abby unties her boots and stands up. The Gallows isn't exactly warm at night, even this time of year, and Clarisse knows the water's going to be fucking freezing. Still, she starts pulling off her own boots even before Abby's finished daring her.

"Wanna race?" Because Clarisse always has to make it a competition.

(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.)

Clarisse wouldn't have ever thought to throw a beach party here, so she has to give Benedict credit where credit is due. The beach is mostly just rocks, and the water's pretty cold, but there's music, drinks, and a bonfire—what else could they possibly need?

While the sun is out, Clarisse ventures into the water and pretends she's not freezing her ass off. She seems intent on finding someone to race with her, either in the sea or on the rocky shore, or if that doesn't seem appealing, to spar with her. Either way. Please do something with her, she might implode if she stops moving and lets her thoughts catch up with her.

"Come on, don't be a pussy."

Later, she's at the bonfire, glass of wine in hand. She's gotten quiet, but doesn't look particularly sad, just sort of blank as she gazes into the fire. It's anybody's guess what (who) she's thinking about, but after a minute she turns and says,

"Tell me a story."

Strange has mostly sensed Benedict’s presence throughout the day as an ambient nervous buzzing in the background, the younger mage vibrating with the neurotic energy of a host orbiting all his guests and determinedly making sure that they are having A Good Time. (It’s a side of him the doctor’s never seen before. When he thinks of Benedict Artemaeus, mostly he remembers him half-drunk and languid and Cheshire cat-esque, slouching into the Sanctum kitchen at a too-late hour. A formative first impression.)

Tonight, though, it’s Strange’s turn to finally cut through some of his own highly-strung workaholicism and try to learn how to relax; so he’s by the bonfire, enjoying some wine, when he waves Benedict over. Sit down, join him. Enjoy your own party, just for a bit.

“So it’s not the Nocen Sea,” he says, “but I think you’ve done all right, all things considered.”

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.

"Every frog is a special frog," is not entirely sincere, tongue partway in cheek as he ducks down onto one knee and corrals it from the other side. More sincerely: "Most frogs can't tolerate sea water."

Not that he, a lifelong inlander, would have had much opportunity to see them. But to the shock of dozens of Fereldans, he reads.

He catches the frog mid-hop in cupped hands and holds it up to her, fingers forming a little cage through which the frog is visible. Brown, grouchy-looking. Alive.

"They common in the harbor here? Or is this one suicidal?"

"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.

Siorus twists and lifts his head a little to look at her, smiles, and lies back down flat. Sure, they can talk about that.

"This is the first I've ever seen it," he admits. "I thought it'd be bigger."

It is bigger, of course, than the narrow strip of the Waking Sea he crossed to reach Kirkwall from West Hill. But that's the strip he crossed, and now, in Kirkwall's harbor, the city looks near enough to make a swim for it, if he had to.

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[open] beach episode volume 2: gallows edition

party :|

party :)

BONFIRE | OTA, threadjacking encouraged

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live frog

Yseult | OTA | log/banter

astrid runasdotten | ota

stephen strange | ota

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practicing magic

shots

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campfire

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griffons

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driveby —

party ota

@ benedict; party party

irl laughter

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