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[mingle log] from down the length of the long table
CHARACTERS: OTA
WHERE: The Station
WHEN: DAY :040
SUMMARY: A dinner party.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!
THE LONG TABLE seems to have grown itself from out of the Station itself at the center of the Circular Gardens. It's made of the same mottled gray and white material as the Station's corridors and light scattered floors and on it has been set a parade of dishes. They are hot and cool, familiar and unfamiliar, alien and nostalgic. The dishware is mismatched -
a slew of fine china, a handful of delicately painted ceramic bowls, brass and glass cups and an assortment of fluted metal champagne stems. Pitchers of sweet teas and spiced juices and thick, syrupy wines dot the long banquet table and strings of small, glittering lights have been stitched through the surrounding greenery.
It's pleasant, or it should be. Certainly some considerable effort has been made in the preparation and execution of the meal. And perhaps parts of this meeting must be sad, but surely some of them are as intended. Certainly Cathaway seems intent on being bright and friendly from her seat toward the middle of the table as she passes dishes and instructs how certain alien foods are to be eaten, with Prince stationed beside her. This is meant to be nice: an excuse to see one another's faces, to make idle conversation, to marvel at little victories. The egg stolen from The Fair Heart is a centerpiece of the table (though swathed in a silvery luminescent fabric and clearly for decoration, not eating). Prince, clothed in something besides his typical uniform, seems occasionally distracted by it.
But there's no denying that this might be a quieter affair than intended - less populated than is ideal. Still, the food is good and surely the company must be somewhat tolerable.
((OOC Notes: This is the mingle log for the dinner party on Day :040. The dinner itself lasts a few hours unless the Hosts drag it out deep into what constitutes as evening on the station. Come and go as you please and feel free to get creative with the prompts - they're inspiration more than they are strict guidelines.))
WHERE: The Station
WHEN: DAY :040
SUMMARY: A dinner party.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!
THE LONG TABLE seems to have grown itself from out of the Station itself at the center of the Circular Gardens. It's made of the same mottled gray and white material as the Station's corridors and light scattered floors and on it has been set a parade of dishes. They are hot and cool, familiar and unfamiliar, alien and nostalgic. The dishware is mismatched -
a slew of fine china, a handful of delicately painted ceramic bowls, brass and glass cups and an assortment of fluted metal champagne stems. Pitchers of sweet teas and spiced juices and thick, syrupy wines dot the long banquet table and strings of small, glittering lights have been stitched through the surrounding greenery.
It's pleasant, or it should be. Certainly some considerable effort has been made in the preparation and execution of the meal. And perhaps parts of this meeting must be sad, but surely some of them are as intended. Certainly Cathaway seems intent on being bright and friendly from her seat toward the middle of the table as she passes dishes and instructs how certain alien foods are to be eaten, with Prince stationed beside her. This is meant to be nice: an excuse to see one another's faces, to make idle conversation, to marvel at little victories. The egg stolen from The Fair Heart is a centerpiece of the table (though swathed in a silvery luminescent fabric and clearly for decoration, not eating). Prince, clothed in something besides his typical uniform, seems occasionally distracted by it.
But there's no denying that this might be a quieter affair than intended - less populated than is ideal. Still, the food is good and surely the company must be somewhat tolerable.
I. A TOAST To your success on Waypoint Shril and to every newly hatched Host. To old friends. To new ones. To the beings we miss and the ones we don't. To what's to come. There's plenty of beverages (alcoholic or non-) available to guzzle.
II. SCINTILLATING CONVERSATION There's enough room for everyone at the table, but absolutely no assigned seating. Hopefully you don't hate the person you're sitting next to.
III. CUISINE FROM A DISTANT LAND How exactly are you supposed to eat that?
IV. A PRIVATE CORNER The nice thing about garden party dinners is it's really easy to slip away, and the garden almost seems to be designed for it. There are, among the plants and trees and shrubs, small clusters of chairs rising from the floor, lit by the twinkling strands of lights.
V. WILDCARD Drink too much. Arm wrestle on the table. Play a nice rowdy game of spoons. Say something nice. Say something mean. Awkwardly chew food that's way, way too squishy.
((OOC Notes: This is the mingle log for the dinner party on Day :040. The dinner itself lasts a few hours unless the Hosts drag it out deep into what constitutes as evening on the station. Come and go as you please and feel free to get creative with the prompts - they're inspiration more than they are strict guidelines.))
no subject
[ More like a conjuring. It registers as magic, and Bellamy isn't sure how to begin untangling it. Was Noctis carrying around a whole armory?
It would be useful if that were the case. Bellamy had almost assumed his access to weapons began and ended with what he'd given Annie as they'd fled. The flicker of curiosity grows pointed, nudges at the edge of Noctis' mind before Bellamy's attention turns to the sharp blades. ]
Yes.
[ But this isn't an axe, or any knife Bellamy had ever seen. He eyes it warily before thumbing at the sharp, upward-facing edge. He doesn't particularly want to ask how he's even meant to hold it. He can sense Noctis is waiting for that, and Bellamy doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. ]
Where's our target?
no subject
(And a fishing pole. But certainly there’s no need to use that any time soon, not out here on the station.)
But he won’t argue the point. To an outsider, it isn’t just carrying — it’s summoning in a flurry of crystal magic. It’s a flashy display, whereas Noctis has done it so much that he finds it rather mundane instead.]
Over there. [He glances a way off, where outside of the general banquet area but still visible sits a small group of chairs. Noctis makes a vague gesture at the leftmost one, even though it might be a moot point at this distance.] Just… the chair. See if you can hit it.
[He yanks the weapon out of the surface of the table — using its center as a grip — and glances at Bellamy again.]
Or do you want me to show you how, first?
no subject
You might as well, [ Bellamy admits. ] It sounds like a demonstration might lower my chances of slicing my hand open.
[ Which Bellamy would prefer not to do, but he isn't worried enough to back down. ]
no subject
[And so, Royal Arm in hand, Noctis makes leads him away from the banquet table. The large shuriken-like object, all sharp edges, hangs at his side like it's nothing. It may as well be an extension of himself -- and in some ways, it is.
They're a fair distance from their target, and Noctis shifts his weight a more proper throwing stance, the bulk of his weight on the foot that'll lead the throw.]
Ready?
no subject
Show me.
[ The challenge implicit in those words is obvious, even without a mental connection. ]
Hit your target.
[ And hopefully Bellamy would pick up enough from watching him to be able to duplicate the feat. ]
no subject
A hand clenched around its middle, an arm back -- thrown horizontally, like a giant frisbee -- and he lurches forward. It flies, surprisingly, in a straight enough line, only curving to the right near the end of its trajectory.
It lands and sticks to the leg of the chair, having flown a bit low, as well. His target falls backwards, landing in grass, from the force.]
Got it. [A thrum of self-satisfaction, usually kept hidden to himself.] See? Not that hard.
[NOT THAT HARD lol]
no subject
no subject
no subject
But as with most major decisions in Bellamy's life, that's not really a reason to back down. ]
Not that hard, [ he repeats dryly. ] Well, now that I've seen you do it, of course.
[ It still looks impossible. Or impossible without practice. Bellamy's experience with throwing items is limited to axes and knives. It isn't much preparation for strange, possibly magical items. He knows he can't hope to replicate the way Noctis had moved with it. It was so fluid it looked as if Noctis was barely thinking about it as he did it.
Bellamy walks over to the chair, grasps a single blade and yanks it out of the wood. Or what Bellamy thinks is wood. It's hard to tell with the Station. He sets the chair upright. ]
So I hit where you did, or better, to get bragging rights?
no subject
(That's right.) [He opts for mental communication when Bellamy wanders off towards the chair, waiting for him to come back before speaking normally.]
Bragging rights. Plus you get to impress anyone else watching.
no subject
[ There's a floating elf that Bellamy feels might be more worthy of scrutiny, but Noctis probably isn't wrong. The Hive likes what it likes, and knives often rate some collective attention.
Bellamy still hasn't quite mastered the position of his hand on the blade when he reaches Noctis. It feels a bit futile. Noctis had handled the weapon with the kind of ease that suggested years of practice. Bellamy is unlikely to master it on the fly, especially not with half the Nest bleeding intoxication down the bonds. ]
Alright. Watch this.
[ More like watch Bellamy slice his palm open as he throws the weapon. To his credit, it still sticks in the chair leg. To his detriment, he's now bleeding. Not exactly the easy victory Bellamy had been hoping for. ]
no subject
The crimson cut is difficult to miss, the contrast of color enough to bring Noctis' attentions to it. Immediately, he's frowning, and turning to grasp at Bellamy's wrist, palm-up, inspecting the wound to see how much it's bleeding.
Concern and alarm and a bit of guilt ping in the air. Noctis furrows his brow.]
Geez... that's definitely not how you're supposed to do it. [Thanks, Noct.] We need to get this fixed up ASAP.
no subject
Just needs a bandage. It'll heal.
[ His memories skew dizzyingly to Clarke, tying a bandage over split knuckles while Bellamy choked on his own guilt. ]
It's my own fault. My grip slipped.
[ Or wasn't properly position from the start. It's hard to say. ]
no subject
(In the distance, the throwing giant star dissolves in fractured blue and disappears completely, returning to its "home".)]
It's not your fault... I shouldn't have-
[He bites at his inside lip, feeling a little disappointed with himself. Sobriety comes to him in a wave, washing over any sense of reckless fun he had been indulding himself in prior.]
I shouldn't have been so reckless. Where can we get bandages?
[He'll help tend to it; it's his fault.]
no subject
There are napkins. They'll be good enough for now until we figure out something better.
[ Though Bellamy isn't sure about the bandages. He'd spoken with Lexa in what had looked like a medical bay, but he hadn't taken stock. They'd argued. It had taken up all of his attention. ]
It'll heal. It's not deep, Noctis.
[ Bellamy has no idea of any of that is true. Whoops. ]
no subject
[Not that he's a medical expert, either, but it doesn't look good to him.]
Come on, don't be stubborn.
[A mental tug in Bellamy's direction, like a child pulling at a sleeve. He wants to find him bandages proper, and if it takes a trip to the medical bay, then so be it.]
no subject
But not on the Station. Bellamy's expression is puzzled, and it doesn't abate when Noctis sinks a hook into his head and pulls. But he acquiesces anyway. He recognizes guilt. He can chalk all of this up to that singular emotion more easily than he can consider it being so necessary to attend to what registers to Bellamy as a small wound. ]
It's not going to kill me, [ Bellamy tells him, clearly in an attempt to ease Noctis' worries. ] But the medical wing is...not far. I think.
[ Everything on the Station seemed relative. There was no part of it that truly felt out of the way. And it's a relief to leave the party behind. The haze of inebriation and dizzying crashes of emotions wasn't making this any easier. ]