TiK Tok

[ohnehalfte]

Who: Lup (hellawrath), Taako (ohshitsweetflips), Newt (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!

Comments

[stoleyoursweetroll]

"Flatterer," she teases, laughing. "I'm nothing special. I'm just used to watching my back."

If they were willing to play with underhanded tricks, too, then they must understand that. There's the combat style of real heroes - of Companions, Dawnguard warriors, those trained warriors fitted in full, custom armor. There's the style inherent to nobles who get tutored in swordplay purely because they're bored nobles. There's the simultaneously slipshod and regimented, regulated methodology of Stormcloaks and Imperials, crews of farmer's sons and fishmonger's daughters thrust onto the field of honourable warfare. All of them diverse and distinct, but all of them built on the idea that combat is something with a set time, place, and purpose. All of them naively believing violence is something that should have rules.

The way this one fights, however, is the way bandits in the wilderness fight. The way the Thieves Guild fights. The way Severs fights.

"You're cut from the same cloth, ain't you? You didn't have any fancy, proper teacher show you the blade, I'd bet." She asks, sharp teeth showing in a bright grin. Maybe that looks threatening. Dryskins always seem to find Argonian smiles threatening. "No, I'd bet septims to sweetrolls that you did what I did. Scavenged a weapon off a dead body because it was the first thing in arm's reach that might keep you alive. You picked a sword up because you had to, and you haven't had the luxury of putting it down since."

[hyperlit]

They don't necessarily glean every word and every specific to what she rattles off, but they can parse the context nonetheless.

It is not correct in its entirety, but the general notion...

Perhaps she can recognize a kindred spirit, of sorts. Eventually, they nod in solemn acknowledgment. She is not wrong.

drifters do not always drift because they wish it
they carry another's story
or seek to prolong their own

One hand creeps up over to their mantle to tug at it in a small, short, unconscious gesture, adjusting the cloth wrap over their head.

[stoleyoursweetroll]

Drifters. They mean that in a general sense, like a bandit is a thief, or as a defining title, as in how the Thieves' Guild calls themselves thieves? Some people look on an occupation as a temporary means of surviving, some understand an undertaking as a way of life.

"Makes it sound awful poetic when you put it like that," she observes. Real way with words, for someone who writes(?) in such short sentence fragments.

"Not everyone I've met wanders just to stay alive, though." Severs scratches at her plumes, nictitating membranes rising to glaze her eyes over thoughtfully. "Someone gets arrested for crossing a border illegally. This land they've walked into tries to take their head. Even so, they don't go home. They explore each corner of that place, from south to north to east to west. Khajiit traders are spat upon and denied entrance into every city, called liars and drug peddlers and thieves. Even so, they keep up their routes through this place that despises them, peddling to the few willing to buy from them. Nonsensical, isn't it? Foolish, even. Makes you wonder what they're thinking."

[hyperlit]

Her words draw their attention to a strange degree. Perhaps they ought not to focus as they do, but they do. It is fortunate she talks enough for the both of them, as if to make up for their silence. She speaks of traders who are derided, who are dismissed and mistreated simply for being what they are.

perhaps that they will meet someone who will understand

...the Drifter, for their part...

They stopped actively searching a long time ago, to the point where encountering that sort of break in their reality still catches them off guard.