deercountry | closedish to cool guys having chill day

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closedish to cool guys having chill day

Who: a bunch of funky friends invited by Viktor and Palamedes*
What: Having a Party in a field with Fireworks
When: the second week-ish in May
Where: (the field outside of) Pal and Viktor's bunker in Gaze

Content Warnings: alcohol and teens drinking it, irresponsible use of explosives, see threads for anything else that comes up

*If you have friendly CR with Palamedes please feel free to handwave that he mentioned this happening, also if your character has CR with a Pal Friend (a pal^2) who would invite them along, he's broadly allowing this. It's not a formal affair in the slightest lmaooo

--

afternoon/evening.

Earlier in the morning on the day of The Fireworks Field Party (tm), Palamedes makes sure to send a quick location ping to anyone who's never been to the Sixth bunker (also tm) before, because it is, indeed, just in a field somewhere in Gaze. The treeline is comfortably distant from the door to said bunker, which is the only real indication anything is out here besides a few "big rocks" that he names, in his message, as landmarks.

As an afterthought, he has set up a little trail of mason jars containing glowing mushrooms to lead the way to The Field, helpfully. The Field is what it sounds like: a dang field, just slightly ominous in the Gaze fashion, although besides the usual somebody's-watching feeling, it's grassy and spacious for kitschy lawn games. Among the things Palamedes has provided (upon recommendation of a shopkeeper, so like, do not perceive his choices, they were made for him) include:

1. Just a load of blankets, big cozy ones dutifully spread out for chilling on, on the ground.

2. Throwing game Crossbones, definitely chosen because of the bones (they are wooden sticks), and just kind of left sitting there waiting because your host does not know how to play physical games.

3. beanbag horseshoes because it rocks

4. Just, like, a specific blanket that has pencils and blank paper sitting on it... This is a free station, no one will question what art happens here.

Harrow has also provided bone chairs for alternate seating, which are precisely what they sound like.

Eventually, the field will also feature a snack table, which is a community effort, and a booze table, which is slightly supervised in the way that your esteemed host(s) will not permit booze and cherry bombs at the same time.

And, because it's an open field in Trench, there is also a table where emergency incense is waiting. Wandering too far from the space immediately around the bunker (which, it's a big space, you'd have to go far) will eventually lead you to blood wards on the ground, on the trunks of a few trees, etc. Don't touch these. Don't be gross.

the fucken fireworks.

It's fireworks. Once it's dark, there are even more glowing mushroom jars and homemade alchemy glowsticks from Waver to be passed around, somehow, and at least some of the little beanbags glow in the dark, ooh!! Viktor has provided cherry bombs to be used with at least a little caution, for god's sake. There are also some slightly larger fireworks in much shorter supply, from a shop, that will be closely guarded until someone with pyrotechnics talent convinces Palamedes they deserve one. Godspeed.

Broadly: this is a fireworks party (tm) for individual wee ones you can throw around on your own, with only a brief smattering of the big ones that light up the whole sky above the field. It's a chill time for cool buds, fire safety is encouraged, so is vibing on the blankets and enjoying a nice evening.

At various times, local dope musician Anna Amarande will be providing some light musical entertainment, for vibes.

the bunker i guess.

The party is not in here, but for reference:
-it's locked via numpad and neither of these stickbug nerds are giving out the code but they'll open the door if asked... you don't have to leave the place to go to the bathroom lmf
-it's a bunker. it's one room and a bathroom in the back. it's full of disorganized nerd stuff and an oversized moon orb and pal's mean omen, rocky the cool rat (harpy eagle), who will aggressively flap at anyone with sticky fingers until they leave
-the code is 69420 so if you're super funny like gideon you COULD guess it

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[in true, reassuring fashion viktor offers a hum then,] Oh, they are very much not safe, in a general sense. If they are used properly they are harmless.

[cool. not even on the truth juice, but as far as he's concerned the danger is part of what makes them enjoyable. maybe it's the undercity in him, maybe the vaguely mad scientist. either way he does offer some reassurance, because he is very glad ortus decided to come and also to wallfungi with him.]

You would have to be holding one while it exploded for it to do any real damage, and I made sure the fuse is plenty long. Would you like to try one? I warn you, they are loud.

[As fretful as Ortus is, his barometer for appropriate risk is calibrated to his upbringing. The young of the Ninth, even ones as coddled as himself, are exposed to the concept of acceptable levels of risk at an early age. How could they not be, raised on the foundations of an apocalypse? So Viktor's reassurance actually does Ortus some good, settling him back in the chair with a slight sigh.

He will, of course, demur the offer to try one of the cherry bombs. He doubts he would enjoy it, and besides, it would be a lapse in decorum.]

I would like to try.

[And yet: here he is, extending his hand palm up, much to his own surprise. He blinks ponderously at himself, but does not retract his hand.]

We had no such things on the Ninth. I fear they would have devastated the congregation with the shock of them.

[viktor is pleased he'll give it a try, he thought it was a fifty-fifty there on if he'd even want to. so he picks out one he knows he put a little more effort than 'flash powder + fuse' to, offering it to ortus' palm.]

Ha, what did Palamedes tell me once... something about his mother calling shocking behavior in the Sixth 'frightening the wildlife.' [it's odd to him their world can be full of necromancers and magic but still find certain things he found so basic in his own upbringing startling. ah, cultural differences when you live in that apocalypse foundation.

he pulls out a lighter next, flicking the flame on and offering,] You can just toss it a few feet away. You know part of this was to let Palamedes experience these. I am glad you can too.

[Ortus has had limited experience with wildlife of any kind, a commonality between the Houses of the Sixth and the Ninth. He considers a comparison of the congregation of the Ninth to the wildlife he has encountered here, and, uncharitably, thinks first of the teaming many-legged creatures he discovered when prying loose a board in his shed.

And so it came to pass that Ortus Nigenad imagined a horde of black robed scuttling penitents as he dips the fuse of the bomb into the offered flame, a slight satisfaction apparent in his darkly gleaming eyes.]

My mother called it 'rattling the bones'.

[He tosses the lit bomb a fair distance, following the rise and fall of its arc with a return of some of his prior concern, but he is eased when it seems unlikely to strike anyone or anything else.]

But she was of the Eighth, and- ah!

[The cherry bomb bursts in a startling conflagration of color and sound, bright shades of green and pink licking the dark night in such vivacity that they leave afterimages in his blinking vision. He is rapt, leaning forward with his juice in hand as they fade.]

Remarkable.

[what a wonderfully goth way to imagine it. viktor thinks of the rats that scattered from alleyways, so maybe also not really hitting the intended mark. close enough, right?

he watches the bomb go, considers what he knows of the eight- wasn't that the judgmental one? or at least he thinks that's the one that necromancer who called palamedes inbred was from. he really needs a chart for all this.

still, ortus' reaction to the cherry bomb has him smiling, properly distracted.] Where I am from children would sometimes play with these, though usually to cause a little trouble, I'll admit. Would you like more?

[the bag gets placed between them- go nuts, bud, he's already very satisfied with having introduced these to the necromancer world people.] Were you born in the Eighth then?

[Ortus extends his hand again, a touch more restrained this time around, with a definitive nod.]

Yes, if it is no trouble. [He would not want to take more than his share.] I am past the age of wishing for such, although even then, I was not often possessed by the urge to disrupt other children seemed to be transfixed by.

[It has been longer than Ortus can recall since he spoke of his childhood, even in passing. It would have been superfluous on the Ninth, and he finds that the memories, when he reaches for them, come more easily than he expects.]

I was not. My mother made the journey as a penitent before my birth. It was on the Ninth she met my father, and the Ninth where I was born. [He sighs, faintly wistful.] Perhaps that was why I was a more circumspect child than most. What of yourself?

[have a couple new bombs, there are plenty to spare. viktor lets out a soft, understanding breath at that.]

Neither was I, in truth. Then again the childish distractions of the undercity were odd ones to most. Climbing buildings, fights, things of that nature.

[he wonders if ortus was a serious little boy the same way he seems to be a serious young man, the image both amusing and a touch sad when he pictures it.]

A penitent? [he asks, wondering if that meant a prisoner of some sort. it certainly had a grim connotation, and from what he understands travel between the houses was not typical.] Oh, I was born to immigrants, neither of which I remember particularly well. The undercity is the part of Piltover that grew around the mines and fissures, that is where I was born. It's eh... a complicated place to explain, I suppose. Lots of interconnected politics and history.

[So Viktor also grew up surrounded by earth, the product of transplantation from one place to another. Ortus must wonder if that explains some of their affinity, even as he weighs the bombs in his hand and chooses between them.]

Much the same is true of our Houses, the Ninth perhaps most of all. Another place which grew, more than was built.

[And grew poorly, to his mind, a once clean culture of cells that turned to festering contamination for lack of correction. Too heavy a subject, even compared to the inflected question at hand.]

I do not know what led her to chose to seek repentance in the Ninth. She never spoke of it to me. I did not ask often as a child, and not at all as a man. It vexed her gravely, and I could not...I did not wish to cause her greater suffering. [He looks at Viktor sidelong, then faces outward to toss another lit cherry bomb. In the moments before it goes off, he says, softly:] You were not raised by your parents?

Edited 2022-05-25 19:16 (UTC)

Palamedes has told me the poem, once, and some eh... interesting stories about the Third and the Eighth. The Ninth's verse to do with a tomb. [sounds friendly, the kind of place you want a kid to grow up. in truth he thinks something similar, that he wonders if perhaps the ninth and it's odd morbidity aren't terribly unlike growing up in zaun, or as close to that world's version.]

That is kind of you, in truth. It is difficult not to pry in matters that feel somehow connected to us. [her story is the beginning of ortus' after all. if it were him? he would have asked, regardless of the damage.

in fact in some ways he hopes the trench will find a way to reveal that secret to ortus, as it sometimes does with odd matters. does he not have the right to know that distant part of his history if he's to be stuck here?]

No. That isn't uncommon in the undercity. Most families are made up of people who find each other in some way, rather than blood. [it's a bit odd, to be speaking of his family at all. he's never spoken to jayce about it, or pal, yet it feels a proper place to speak idly of it. he's come to find ortus is someone surprisingly easy to talk to in matters he usually avoids.

he watches the sparks then glances over, smile crooked.] I admit it may be why I find the concept of cavaliers and necromancer pairs particularly intriguing. To have someone by your side for so long, that is a profound thing, is it not?

[Ortus rolls the cherry bombs about his palm again like strung knucklebones, one of the oldest habits of the Ninth. The hushed click of smooth objects was one of the most pervasive sounds of his life, and somehow, in spite of everything, there are times he wishes to hear the muted chorus of solemn contemplation once more.]

I pray the tomb is shut forever. I pray the rock is never rolled away.

[Unmistakably words of ritual, set to a steady cadence and delivered with utmost gravity. Reverence for the Emperor is one matter. Devotion to the Tomb is another. (But he still does not finish the prayer, all the same.)]

We are sworn to a grave duty. [The wordplay spoken as seriously as the rote words.] Guardians of a thing that, once buried, may never be disinterred. It has much shaped us. The Warden might well have told interesting tales of our House.

[And it was a kindness of him to not. Ortus' estimation of the young man is elevated further, which is a solace he welcomes as his thoughts turn to the other matter. He thinks, as he often does, of the Fifth, and of the Fourth.]

It is at times profound. [He says, softly, and there is a looseness in his tongue he cannot credit.] It is meant to be. Yet, as many things, the enactment in reality at times falls short of the ideal.

But at the truest expression, the heights of realized purpose... [He stares into the distant night.] I have borne witness to miracles wrought of devotion.

I think he is too fond of those he knows of your house to be particularly critical. [that much is very true. he does need to take a moment over 'grave duty,' regardless, though curiosity- well, as he said, he's not as kind as ortus. the urge to ask and beg forgiveness usually came before leaving well enough alone.]

What is in this tomb you guard? I admit it sounds rather like a religious duty of a sort. I eh, I apologies if it is disrespectful to ask.

[he'll be more sorry when he realizes about the truth juice!

but he does not yet, so he simply sits with those solemn words, considering them and the weight behind them. the snap of a cherry bomb has him wait a moment, answering in the silence that follows,] I suppose it may be florid but I have grown to believe the heart of progress is in collaboration. It does not shock me to imagine the kind of miracles that come when two people devote themselves to the same path, and in turn each other.

[ah, a flicker of emotion about jayce he puts in his box.] The subject of your poem, is he who you mean about witnessing miracles?

[The young Warden's fondness for those he knows of their House persists as a mystery to Ortus. The learned, friendly young man would not seem to share much in common with either his bitterly learned, unfriendly Lady, or with her unlearned, too friendly cavalier.

But much the same could be said of Ortus, as unlike either as a snail is unlike a sword, or a poem, and he is fond of both. Perhaps it is the stimulating effect of the sugared, tart drink (much more pleasant than beer), but Ortus finds a trace of reciprocal fondness for him in turn, by association if naught else.]

There is no disrespect in the question. We are more forgotten than we are forbidden. [He sips his juice with a small hum.] I do not blame the other Houses for such turning away. We guard the beast that God cast down to never more rise, dreadful and calamitous, as a scourge upon the Nine Houses.

[He says this calmly, without dismay or fear, but also without pride. It is a fact, one so wholly woven into the world it has not borne question. The Tomb is the axis the Ninth truly revolves on, so distant from their natal sun.]

Nonius. [He savours the name even more so than the drink, sweeter and more pure.] Yes. He and the ritual which brought him forth, at the hand of the greatest spirit magician the Fifth House was e'er privileged to bring forth, the Lady Abigail Pent. All of those who banded together, arm in arm, to exorcise our great threat, all in the name of one they owed no debt of allegiance nor gratitude.

Collaboration. Perhaps that is the miracle itself. That in spite of ourselves, we seek each other, fumbling in the dark - and in this we find our light, however brief its candle.

[yes, that does sound largely religious to the viktor of now. in time he'll understand more about 'god,' that he walks this world and is not the impossible figure viktor would have expected from his brief understanding. maybe if it were he would be more careful, or maybe more pointed in his curiosity.

for now? it is simply a way to know ortus and his world better, as the man seems inclined to share what apparently is largely forgotten.]

Eh, that does not seem the sort of matter that should be so easily forgotten by the rest. [then again, planets apart. it still brings him a level of awe imagining.] If it is a tomb is this 'beast' not already dead? [... a pause.] Hm, I suppose that is a more complicated matter for necromancers.

[but that aside ortus speaks like he is writing the legend of it on the spot, making viktor's lips quirk faintly. he cannot help but say,] You should perform your poetry, perhaps in Cellar Door. You have an good energy for it.

[Between the dark and his paint, Ortus knows that his blush will be imperceptible. He rolls the cherry bombs in his palm again, then considers the possibility of accident, and sets them gingerly on his lap instead. It would not do to meet the same fate twice. There would be too much of the cheaply ironic in it.]

I have thought about it.

[He closes both of his hands around the near-empty cup, dwarfing it, the admission unexpected and shy. He has thought about it, but he has submerged that thought so deeply that he does not understand how readily it comes to him now. He clears his throat, briskly, as if to knock the past words aside.]

It is a more complicated matter, and one whose workings I am not privy to. It is a sacred mystery. [This, once more, is less fraught a topic.] I do not judge those who would avert their eyes from an unfathomable end. The shadow of the Tomb has little comfort to offer, save duty, and silence. Such things do not serve as balm for most.

I would come to hear it. [said simply enough. he's never been very good at this sort of encouraging talk, charisma, things that jayce had in spades thank gods. what he does have is the simplicity of honesty- he would come, he is intrigued by what ortus would perform rather than just offering support. it makes the words come out frankly, like the tail end of a shrug.

of course he can also recognize a little bashfulness there, so he'll let it settle at that and focus on... well, a far more complicated matter it seems.] I admit there is something odd to it for me, the idea that there are those born into guarding something they have never seen the contents of. It feels like a recipe for disaster, those tales of boxes never meant to be open but the curious always fails and unleashes disaster.

Gods know I would be too curious to resist. [said with a soft snort, like a flaw he is aware is indeed a flaw but doesn't always see it as such.]

[Ortus ducks his head at Viktor's plain statement, shoulders curling in a hunch that bears all the marks of a habitual one. He does not know how to answer to such frank interest, offered without pity or mollification.

Viktor, he is coming to realize, knows he is Ortus, but he does not know that he is Ortus, with all that is attendant upon him. He sees only a man from a peculiar world. Ortus wonders if it is as odd a thing for Viktor to be unrecognized (however ingloriously) as it is for him.]

Those with such curiosity rarely keep it overlong in the Ninth. [He does shrug, a wide, spreading gesture that pulls him back upright.] It would be heresy and damnation to even approach the threshold.

[He smiles, a slight, disused expression, replete with dry and dusty warmth.]

So of course, we all would talk about it, save for the most pious children. I confess I did not number among them. One of my first poems was a catalogue of the ways I imagined that the Tomb might bleed, mangle, disintegrate, and otherwise lay waste to a trespasser.

Perhaps not so suitable for performance here, given our company. Or perhaps not. With some revision, of course, as I have much matured as a poet since.

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closedish to cool guys having chill day

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