lifeaftr | TiK Tok

Entry tags:

TiK Tok

Who: Lup (

ohnehalfte), and possibly you!
What: Drunken party of drunkenness and shenanigans
When: Nov 17th, mid-day until everyone passes tf out
Where: Islet #2 aka Trash Island, somewhere out in front of cottage 1 and along the beach
Warnings: Drunk people, swearing, ill-advised people hitting each other with sticks, questionable food, drunken cuddles and crying, etc, etc tbc when there's more

Welcome to Islet 2! There are many reasons for you to be here right now. Maybe you live here. Maybe you're visiting someone who lives here. Maybe you've been invited to this sick party by one of the above idiots. Maybe you were just passing by and got dragged into the festivities. Who cares, really? You're here now!

Out in front of Cottage 1 there's the beautiful banner that you see above hanging on the outside, lovingly crafted by one of the twins. The twins have also lovingly crafted some vodka using magic and potatoes. Potato magic. And hey! There's also stuff that the twins cooked! Like potato tornadoes, fried shark genitals and Fantasy Kentucky Fried Pterax! And other food! And there's a fire! And activities! And drinking!

Mainly drinking. In fact, there is a large cooking pot that, at the moment, is full of the most moonshine-iest vodka you have ever had. There are empty halves of coconut shells to serve as cups, as well as some clay cups that may or may not have come from an interesting source. So help yourself! Who knows how long it'll last, considering the amount of guests. Heck! It might even be repurposed later, after all the vodka is gone! So drink up.

Anyway, feel free to join in on the festivities! There will be several threads for activities where people can mingle, or you can start your own. Have a party, chill out, and/or imbibe ill-advised substances to try and forget that you died. Wheeeee!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Unfortunately, alcohol often makes for bad decisions. In Newt's case, this means deciding that some sort of drunken Fight Club is required. As such, he's drawn a very uneven, very messy circle on the beach and proclaimed it the fighting ring. Very loudly. And has been encouraging anyone who has an interest to step into the ring and fight. Except no weapons, because no one is allowed to die. And just slaps. This is a chill Fight Club, okay????

However, once he does get a couple people doing some (preferably drunken) hand-to-hand combat, he's also going to start taking bets, like some sort of awful drunken bookie. He'll probably find a random bystander and prod them, and ask, with a rather pronounced slur and a smirk that is not nearly as sly as he thinks it is: "Hey--heeeey. You wanna make a bet 'r somethin'?"

((be a fighter, be an observer, be really drunk, whatever you want my dudes))

There isn't a lot that Ed misses about Ryslig. His friends, certainly, but along with that came the opportunity to let off steam in the form of a good old-fashioned monster brawl. Seeing as the only monster around is Ginko, Ed hasn't really had a whole lot of chance to get roughed up or do the roughing up, and it's been bothering him more than he wants to admit.

But now there is booze, there is a circle in the sand, and there are poor decisions to be made. Ed stomps confidently right into the middle, only swaying a bit on his hooves and grinning wide with ears perked and tail lashing eagerly.

"Come at me, ya fucks! I'll take alla ya on, I ain't no coward!"

((ooc: COME AT HIM SCRUBLORDS, HE'S RIPPED! Tagjacking is encouraged, feel free to dogpile this moron and remind him that humans can in fact kick his ass!))

So this is all just some kind of makeshift Arena like back home. Only there's drink involved and there isn't a pair of soldiers waiting to be fought in the middle. It's... Well, Keaton is still trying to figure that out.

But sure, he's had a drink or two and he's down to take on whatever the heck this beast is as he enters the sand ring. The wolfskin blinks a few times, either from what he's already drunk or from still not being sure what he's looking at before he points at Ed.

"You are the weirdest, buffest looking bull with wings I have ever seen!" ... "Or you know, whatever you are."

And he has to laugh at his own words there because really, what kind of fight is this, some bull/goat guy against a wolf guy? This is going to be great.

Ed cackles as well, hardly put off by it. It's not like outlandish looks were uncommon back on the peninsula--hell, Greed had gone above and beyond with all those damn piercings of his. "Yeah? And what kinda mutt are you supposed to be, huh?"

Normally he would bite back at being called a mutt, but he will absolutely take it if it means getting off the line that suddenly comes to him out of the blue. "The kinda mutt that's gonna kick your butt, that's what!" ... "That sounded pretty cool in my head!"

That said, Keaton decides to rush in with his arms out to try and tackle Ed to the ground. Which might end up being a pretty poor tackle when he's worried about tripping over his own feet thanks to the drink, but hey, he's trying here.

They've not done this sort of recreational sport for some time, and now? Now, it will be nice to be able to fight something that will not kill them once it is through with them, for once. A fair and sporting chance at a victory or a defeat, where the only stakes are one's own pride is, in the Drifter's mind, a worthy endeavor. They've not had the opportunity to make much of that, of late. Following the failure of their sprite, mercifully brief as it was, they've been a bit out of sorts as they gradually readjusted.

But readjusted they have. Fragile they may be, their agility and speed and deft precision makes up for their poor constitution. One or two solid hits will well and truly trounce them utterly, but that does not mean they are not confident in their swordwork.

The Drifter twirls their cyan blade and thrusts it confidently into the sand in a clear challenge. Who wants to take them up on it?

Severs-the-Threads, being Severs-the-Threads, was perfectly content to stick to betting. Good profit to be made in that, if you're crafty about it. That said, though, it'd be a lie to pretend that she's above getting rowdy, especially when there's drink all around. Some variety of... dunmer(?) shows off a clearly very enchanted blade, and between that and the obvious light armor, it's just familiar enough to get her longing for the tavern brawls of Skyrim.

"Put your septims on me, buddy, this'll be a good one," she hollers to Newt as she steps into the shoddily-drawn circle.

"However you want it, I'll rise to meet you! I'll take you on with claws or blades, dryskin - uh... but, perhaps, the blunt side of my sword, not the sharp one? Don't know much Restoration, and a brawl isn't a brawl if we're hauled off in stretchers," she declares, the usual Nord boasting sort of... tapering off into a less-impressive bit of precaution. Bloodied snouts and black eyes are just a part of the Nord lifestyle, but the real, raw stuff? A barely-civilized survival-situation place like this one isn't really the kind of place one wants to get unnecessarily wounded.

Dryskin. That's a new word for one such as them. They lack the context to know if it is meant as an insult or a more playful moniker, but the lizard woman's tone is friendly. At least she looks much more similar to the folk of their world than any of these bald-faced, featherless, furless, scaleless humans tend to be.

She may yet be startled, however, when their response comes via text, issued from the curious thing bobbing at their side.

equipped with: sword, guns, bombs
will relinquish all but blade

precision
will not cut

Floating words? Well, that's new. Good thing Sev knows how to read! This one must be some variety of mage, then, if they can do enchantments like that.

"Xuth, that's awful cocky of you!" Severs laughs, more focused on the audacious claim that a person can wield a sword like they mean it and not cut at all than on asking what a gun or a bomb is. Odds are, she probably doesn't want to find out firsthand. She's already putting her tail on the line by agreeing to "oh yeah, I insist on using my blade, but it totally won't slice your shit in half, probably, honest."

"Remember that I'm the one who's going to pay if you can't live up to that boast. I expect some compensation if you make me blow the only magicka I'm capable of on keeping my guts where they belong." She, true to her word, draws her sword, but rotates her grip so the curved edge faces inward, away from the Drifter. (The writhing tentacles playing across its surface get no comment or explanation from her.) The dagger usually accompanying it stays sheathed, however - if they're only waving one sword around, she might as well be sportsmanlike.

For now, anyway.

"Sure you can keep this relatively bloodless, land-strider? A sword's not a toy."

They'd be offended by the implication that they would not know that, but it's a valid complaint. The Drifter taps the tip of their hard light blade against the edge of one worn boot thoughtfully. They'd employed the blade for a simple game of soccer, true, and never once hit the child that dodged and wove skillfully around their feet. But then, a game of soccer is not a sparring match.

no alternative weaponry
unless someone would lend something less dangerous

They could just as easily do the dual with sticks, if that would be safer. The heft and weight to that object would take getting used to, but no one here seems to make use of hard light weaponry the way drifters do. Even this woman's blade, intricate as it is, is obviously made of some sort of skillfully worked metal.

"We'll be here all night if we go hunting for sticks," Severs decides. "Just... try to smack me with the flat of the blade, not the business end. Not like I've never been stabbed before, I guess." Skyrim is a hard land, and nobody lives there without accumulating a few scars. Why should this place be any different, right? You live, you risk a sword or axe or two poking you every so often.

But that said... quietly, she makes up her mind: they cut her, she cuts back. Mama didn't raise no fool.

Severs shifts into a combat stance, knees flexed and tail swaying. "I came here for a brawl, so let's get a brawl going before we all sober up. Come at me, dryskin! Let's have some fun!"

you have my oath

The bow of their head is solemn and polite as ever, but they do mean it with the utmost sincerity. They did not hurt the child in that long and painful soccer match; they will not hurt this woman now.

They stand at attention, the occasional breeze stirring the salt-stiff fabric of their cloak, poised and ready.

then let us begin

tonight imma fight til we see the sunlight

time 2 fuckign Die

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the drifter | super ota | threadjacking and spectating super welcome!!

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