[mission: hyrypia] big, but not coarse - merely on another scale

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: Everyone
WHERE: The Red Coast
WHEN: DAY :036 - DAY :037
SUMMARY: A multiverse away, new hatches wake on the Station. On Hyrypia, the Garstall hunt begins in earnest - and wraps up with terrible consequences.
WARNINGS: Animal hunting and slaughter, death, Bad Times at Ridgemont High. Need something added? PM the mod account!

STATION 72
DAY :036

THE HATCH - NEW HOSTS
YOU WAKE UP and the universe and you in it are altered. --No. That's not right. You're you, the universe is as it's always been, and there's no 'suddenly' about it. But it's been a while, hasn't it? It feels like waking from a very deep sleep or coming up from the darkness of some wine colored sea. Nothing is different and yet everything is.

You find yourself lying in a small, hexagonal chamber with a gentle light emanating from its walls. If you were injured during your escape, you're now healed. If you were anxious or frightened or distraught, those feelings have been calmed. There's something peaceful about waking up here - like you belong. That feeling persists until you disconnect the IV running from the base of your neck to the chamber wall.

Then things get loud. A wave of emotion fills that peaceful void - fear, uncertainty, relief, a sense of purpose or loneliness or anxiety. A matching dread. An easy comfort. Some of these emotions might be yours, but they can't all be.

Eventually you find your way out of the pod, having found whatever belongings you brought with you and a change of crisp white clothes in a cubby near your feet. Once you descend to the Nesting Deck, you’ll find you’re not alone. There are a handful others very like you here, all of them somehow intimately familiar.

Welcome to Station 72. Beyond this room, the vast Station is quiet and still. It feels for all the world like a shell for some vast dark thing.

EXPLORE the strange environment you've found yourself in. The Station seems to be both infinitely vast and strangely small. It's possible to wander along halls and through chambers for hours, only to turn a corner and find yourself in a place you've already been because your mind happened to think of it.

PREPARE for what's to come. Not long after your arrival, a pair of aliens arrive in a dark ship bearings mission kits for everyone. Get changed into your disguises, brush up on your mission briefing, and ask what questions you have while you can. It isn't long before you're loaded onto the ship and leave the Station behind.

HYRYPIA - THE RED COAST
DAY :036

A CALLING
A FAMILIAR FEELING to those that know it is sign enough that the elder hosts must depart to fetch whoever it is remains on the station. But this time, it's not just two of them that strike out under the cover of night. Instead, all four of them make their way from Whalsome House.

( We will not be gone long. ) Collector’s voice is a cheerful lilt in their minds as she gathers a book in hand. ( Try to have only pleasant stories for me, when we return. )

And with that Rhan, The Collector, Siva'co and Lyr are gone. They take with them the comatose Hosts and leave the rest to their own devices.



HYRYPIA - THE RED COAST
DAY :037

THE HUNT
DAWN BREAKS over a coastline already bustling with activity. The day has finally come to take those long boats out beyond the shallows and hunt the massive serpent-like Garstall in earnest. A familiar horn is blown and anyone who wishes to participate files down onto the beach and is divided into groups, a dozen or two people for each boat. There's a celebratory air to the whole affair, a true pleasure in taking the boats out into the sea. For all that the Barithian Hunt was anxious and quiet and tense, this is is a day of laughter and shouting and singing rowing songs as the boats slash their way through the open water toward the massive creatures roiling through the deeper water off the coast.

SHORT HANDED might not be the first thought that comes to mind on the bustling ships, but at some point during the hunt it becomes clear that Keya isn't present despite the fact that she's been attending every training session. Should anyone ask, one of the Descendants confesses that Keya skipped the hunt because Shee Naraxa secured a meeting between her and the heads of House Tyrisson concerning "her peace talk idea." The news seems to surprise one of the other Descendants; while it’s difficult to read her expression, it’s clear this is not what she expected to hear. She remains tense for the remainder of the voyage.

FINDING THE GARSTALL is simple enough for the experienced sailors of the Red Coast. They look for signs where the water’s color is more pronounced and where the waves seem to stir in unusual directions. They direct those who have less to do with controlling the fickle vessels to keeping a weather eye out for these signs, and to let out a cry when they spot them. Once a Garstall is spotted, all the nearby boats must rally together to take it.

ONCE SPOTTED what had been a pleasant but almost routine sail becomes something far different. Orders and directions are shouted down the lengths of the vessels. Hunters are armed and those in charge of ballast set to their stations.

The boats maneuver incredibly well for their size, their narrowness slashing through the sea to close on the Garstall that has risen near the surface. The beast is huge - larger than any single boat. It's like a great tree come to life, a twisting trunk of a body in the waves. The ships cut in separate directions, and when the signal horn sounds then the hunt truly begins. Hunters begin to hurl harpoons into the waves, aiming for the Garstall's sinuous body.

When the harpoons find their target, the whole boat shudders and tips. There's shouting and some laughter, the eager deck hands compensating for the drag of the beast by sliding weight across the deck to the opposite side of the boat. On one of the boats, a line snaps and sends the ship springing back the opposite direction - several of the sailors thrown into the water even as the hunters lose their footing. On another boat they fail to slide the ballast quickly enough and the Garstall wrenches them forward as it attempts to dive, leaving the other two boats attached to the beast attempting to compensate. On still another boat, they subdue a smaller beast much more easily. Sailors line the boat's side as one of the crewmen slides down the harpoon line, knife in hand to finish the job.

It’s a chaotic experience - but a successful one.

RAISE A BLADE, RAISE A GLASS
IN THE AFTERMATH of the successful hunt, the Garstall's massive carcasses are dredged up into the shallows. It's hot work to beach the massive animal. Once it's in the foaming purple surf, the most delicate parts of it must be stripped from the carcass before they can rot. The harvesting of the fat under the Garstall's heavy plates can wait, but the exposed flesh must be stripped promptly to avoid rot. Luckily, this work is done under the guise of celebration and the result is half slaughter and half bonfire beach party as night falls over the Red Coast.

BUTCHERY might not be the right work for everyone, but the locals leading the task are good natured and encouraging.

FEASTING on the sweet meat of the Garstall is a given. Huge slabs of meat are roasted over equally massive fires as the work is completed. Drinks are passed around. Music is played. Fashionably late, the heads of Tyrisson House come down for their manor (for a split second in the company of Shee Naraxa before she peels away to join the rest of the Descendants) to give another cheerful speech. The work is hard but rewarding, and for a moment the tenor of this place is so very good.

A DREADFUL DISCOVERY
BUT A MONSTER IS HUNTING and just after the speech, a horrifying sense of dread grips the Hosts. It's sickening - a vomiting, visceral wrongness that reaches out of the universe and finds the symbiote and the Host mind and sinks its hooks there exactly as it did that night on the road from Naerstone. Should anyone follow that dreadful sensation, they'll find themselves in the twisted orchard near Tyrisson House, mist clinging low to the ground in the chilling evening, lit only by a pale moon. What waits for them there is a pitch black circle scorched into the loamy earth - so exact and so precisely like the one discovered so many days earlier. And near this perfect circle: the broken body of Keya, her throat split open and blood still wet on the ground.


NEW FRIENDS (OF ALL SHAPES AND SIZES)
NEWS OF THE MURDER SPREADS and all the envoys are encouraged to return to their quarters for their safety while those in the employ of Tyrisson house secure the area-- encouragement which turns to insistence until all the members of the Envoys have returned their respective housing. Lights are lit in every courtyard and at every corner. Tension runs high. During this time, as the Hosts wait in their own row of Whalsome House's low stone buildings, company arrives:

A VISITOR arrives with a special request. An older Descendant wrapped in a heavy cloak with a deep hood comes knocking. When she reveals her face, Lakshmi might recognize her as Keya's aunt. "My name is Casiria," she says. "I believe you knew my niece."

It’s clear from her demeanor that she has far more to say before she goes.

FAMILIAR FRIENDS in the shape of newly hatched hosts and your senior chaperones arrive not long after Casiria's departure. They find their way to Whalsome House in a hush, having apparently faced some difficulty in dodging the added security. Better catch everyone up quickly.

---

((OOC Notes: This log serves as a general catch-all for events from DAY :036 through DAY :037. Please feel free to create your logs outside of this one, though we strongly recommend not forward-dating to the following morning. Please be aware that in the context of this log, new Hosts won't be present on Hyrypia until after Casiria has left. If you have any questions, please hit up either the mission's question thread, the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages!))

NAVIGATION • GAME CALENDAR • MISSION: HYRYPIA • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

Gildor

[perroquet]

❚❚❚❚❚ POST HUNT (ota)

[ With Shinji gone, brood Mirfac is faced with what many hosts already know - that sudden and endless feeling of loss that stems from a comatose broodmate. Gildor isn't one for burying his emotions away, and despite the artificial taste of symbiote-induced grief, it hurts, and he allows himself to acknowledge that pain. It hurts like the day he awoke to find Kagolin gone, and suddenly the pain is compounding with drudged up memories of the past.

After attempting and failing to call the boy back with music and magic, he's grown desperate to find something to fill the void, and quickly. Music has already failed, and half the nest is out to hunt, (including his queen, and what if she were to fall the same way as Lavellan?). So he does what he hasn't allowed himself to do on this pilgrimage, or anywhere else he's been in over a decade-

Gildor steals a bottle of that grassy Hyrypian drink, uncorks it, and finds a spot on the beach to lay with it in private. After a while he stumbles back towards the festivities thoroughly drunk, with less than a quarter of the liquor left in the bottle. ]

One should always be drunk! But with what? With music, with poetry, with love, with virtue, with roasted whale-meat! That is for all of us to choose. Tonight, I choose wine!

[ With that, he ungracefully clamors through the sand and appears to collapse on his back. But he sways right back up, all the while holding the neck of the bottle expertly so as not to spill a drop.

A couple of Tyrisson locals wander past, unable to keep themselves from staring as they dart around him. One whispers to the other- ]

What’s a whale?

❚❚❚❚❚ POST MURDER (closed to Rust)

[ Gildor is mostly quiet during Casiria's visitation, save for the two-second play he puts on. A quick-thinking excuse that should erase one of their more conspicuous comatose hosts, (and potentially cause gossip, though harmless in nature). Even the orchestra in his head goes quiet as he sits back and listens to the mental conversations happening below the surface of the collective, and observes those observing.

No host presides over the meeting more intensely than Rust - his focus sharp enough to draw blood from Casiria over something worn round the Descendent's neck. For a moment Gildor idly and openly wonders if the detective notices he's being mentally watched right back. When no response comes, he guesses not, and goes back to listening. But once the aunt of the murdered girl leaves them again, he rises - moving gingerly because the symptoms of symbiote backlash and hangover are not yet fully cured - and approaches Rust. ]

What was that about?

[ He holds the image of the necklace in his thoughts, though it's Rust's own intensity surrounding the necklace he recalls. The rest are abstract colors he has no names for, the symbol that's not quite right in his mind, and the impression he has a greater reason than curiosity alone for asking. ]

❚❚❚❚❚ WILDCARD

You know what to do.

[aluminumandash]

[ He's almost on top of Rust before his presence goes acknowledged—Rust's off somewhere in his own head, inscribing details into memory. Casiria's glance over her shoulder, the way she'd brought her hand to the pendant at her neck. The flow and substance of her gestures.

And then it shifts. He listens, for once—tries to catch whatever strain of music accompanies the refracted imagery, the hall-of-mirrors feel of his own preoccupations filtered through Gildor. Automatically tweaks the distorted impression of the necklace.

He stops himself from thinking about the bead in his pocket. For now. ] ( Where were you, when it happened? ) [ Not an accusation—a kind of confidence, the feeling of being drawn in.

And aloud, for the benefit of any listening ears: ] Fuck if I know.

[perroquet]

[ Not an accusation, though Gildor finds some wry humor as if it were. A detective detectiving. Really, he's glad for it. Though he tries not to radiate too much faith in Rust, lest he becomes frustrated with the idea of someone believing in him. ]

I was asleep when it happened.

[ He answers out loud, though his tone remains casual, as though he weren't really answering but making idle gossip. A pause before he makes one reluctant correction - a quiet admission laced with guilt and trace amounts of grief. ] ( I was hung over. )

Still dragged my arse up to follow the rest out there like an idiot sheep. Or gryer, as it were. [ He quickly continues, dismissing the previous thought with a clear of his throat. ] ( Though it was a good thing. Our healers required healing after attempting to raise the dead. )

[aluminumandash]

( What? ) [ His thoughts constrict, grief—voiceless, senseless—taking hold. Grief, the question he can't stop asking. His fingers, Sophia's hair. Lavellan, emptied of life and taxidermied with magic.

Rust steps back, a precise recoil. It's suffocating inside his head. ] What a shitshow. [ He takes an unsteady breath, thinks at once of the pulse at his neck, Keya's slashed throat. Thoughts still sharp with agitation: ] ( Could you feel anything, you know, as it was going down. Vibrations. )

[perroquet]

[ Gildor can't help but note the sudden, acute grief that slips through the connection. Notes it, and turns from it just as quickly. Not quickly enough to keep it from infecting his own memories - the recent grief Shinji left in his absence. Artificial grief that threatened to opened old wounds he desperately tried to fill with drink the previous evening.

Rust takes a physical step back, and Gildor mentally moves to the very edges of his suffocating consciousness. The music in his mind fades. He says nothing in response to the first, clipped question. ]

( Nothing but scrambling movement around her still body, and a fading heartbeat in Mr. Wilson. ) [ He sighs, just barely suppressing a punctuating thought- ] ( Idiot.

Elena and I patched him up. I had to remove a glove to do so, and then... well, it's unrelated, but that was when I discovered what my symbiote can do, if you care to know. )

[aluminumandash]

[ Rust's walls flash up as Gildor scurries away, glass panes that bring with them a sense of remove. Containment. He doesn't need this, especially not now. Shinji, Gildor drinking himself sick, Sam pissing on the laws of nature—none of it has anything to do with Keya. He doesn't need this shriek under his skin at the idea of wresting someone away from death, depositing them back in a pool of their own cold blood.

Singling Keya out like that.

His only lasting thought is of the scene, what state Sam Wilson and his good—if that's what they were—intentions left it in. Matted grass, extraneous blood, whatever the fuck else. ] ( Well. ) [ Anger clenched tight in the word. ] ( I'm glad I beat him to her. )

[ At the offer—the intimation, the reminder that Gildor sought him out—he carefully drops the shielding. Kaji's question to Casiria still gnaws at him, the notion that the symbiote could latch onto truth like anything else. ] ( Yeah, I think I do. ) [ His eyes are on Gildor's hands. ]

[perroquet]

( Well, after Sam was healed up and carried off, I felt something hit the ground and went to retrieve it. A necklace Shiro had picked off the poor girl's- )

[ He has to pause there to keep his emotions in check, as a rare moment of anger washes over him. A bit off-topic, but he has strong opinions on taking from the dead. Looting for valuables and supplies out in the Wylds had been grim but necessary business, but here where things are civilized it hardly seems necessary - and to take from a young murdered girl! It leaves a bad taste in Gildor's mouth, even if the gesture was meant to be sentimental. His lips tighten as he moves past it and continues- ]

( The moment I touched it I knew everything about it within seconds. It was as if time stood still and the history of that necklace, from it's creation to the moment it was dropped, had been poured into my mind. She picked out the pieces of it herself from the tide pools, and brought them to a jeweler here. Wore it for most of her... short stay. )

[ He didn't know Keya as some of the other hosts did, but the brief moments he managed to glean from her last moments are enough to sober his temper again. ]

[raw]

[ Maybe it's the Baudelaire that catches his attention — or maybe not, Elliot is halfway to totally culture neutral, saved solely by his love of films. Maybe it's the drunkenness that calls to him. It's not his particular vice, but he still understands it, how easy it is to crave an escape. Or maybe it's the way loss echoes through their little group. He arrived to a funeral, and it feels like ever since then the primary emotion pinging back and forth between their offshoot branches of the Nest has been grief, as others slip away, fall into a coma and are taken.

Just as at the wake, Elliot is an awkward partygoer, too picky to really partake in the fruits of the hunt, too awkward for casual conversation without some secondary motive to guide him, and for once stone cold sober. So he comes close to Gildor, tries to leech a little of that buzz, unshielded but careful. ]

( Yo. Let's not be too weird around the locals, man. )

[ Though "don't mind that guy, he's drunk" is a perfectly workable excuse for talk about whales, or whatever else comes out of Gildor's mouth. ]

[perroquet]

[ The footsteps are difficult to discern in the loose sand as they come closer, but Gildor is aware of that leech on his buzz immediately. For once he tries to close off his mind, though the attempt is as sloppy in lack of practice as it is in drunkenness. His consciousness seems to swat at the intruder as one might a fly, and when that does nothing he rolls over in the sand to face where he thinks they stand.

He's only off by about a meter. ]

I have refrained enough! Let me be weird. Let me be drunk!

[ A memory swims forward, as vivid as a vision though it is only a song. A whale song, projected as loudly as if he could make the surrounding locals hear it too. But his attempt at amplified weirdness backfires, as whale songs are inherently lonely sounds, and he falls back again to the cushion of the sand to lie in drunken anguish. ]

[raw]

[ The loud sad mournful sound is sudden, and it takes Elliot a moment of startled looking around to realize it's a mind thing and not — not actually coming from the ocean. At least that meant no-one except their little group of Hosts was likely to have heard. He chuckles, low and nervous. ]

Drunk, sure.

[ Because boy was that obvious. Despite how he's like a moth to a flame with it (an eminently swattable moth, apparently, and yet not particularly deterred) he isn't actively trying to take it away or anything. ]

But let's keep the weird shit intimate.

[ As if to emphasize his point, he takes the last few steps and takes a seat in the sand beside Gildor's morosely splayed form, the skirts of his robes pooling around him. ]

Was that a whale noise?

[perroquet]

Weird shit... intimate? Please... I don't even know your name.

[ The words re-arrange themselves in his thoughts, which go straight into the gutter - but not without a sense of consensual propriety behind them. At least introduce yourself before suggesting they get into their weird intimate shit, sir.

The volume tones down after that, and music enters his thoughts to blend with the whale song - a symphony kept somewhere in the dark depths of subconscious, made more free-flowing and emotional by the drunk conductor at the head of the podium. ]

Yes. I used to hear them at night in... in my childhood.

[ He lifts the bottle and drinks, tipping it back quite far. ]

[raw]

[ Elliot watches Gildor drink with some empathy, since he usually wants to do the same thing if he's saying the words "my childhood". The music is nice, though — Elliot's taste is pretty broad, and the sweet melancholy isn't Trent Reznor but it still appeals. ]

Elliot.

[ Even though he didn't mean to come onto the other man like, at all. ]

I'm Elliot.

[ He doesn't ask, are you sure you should keep drinking, because what is he, the substance abuse police? And he doesn't make small talk because he finds it deeply distasteful. Just listens, quietly. Fishes out a battered packet of cigarettes without opening it or lighting one, just thumbing the edge of the plastic back and forth, unconsciously in time with the music. ]

Hey, what instrument is that.

[perroquet]

[ He laughs, very much late to his own joke. No, neither of them had meant to come on to the other, and he had made a joke of it. The humor dies as the laugh turns to a garbled cough, a drop of the drink catching in his throat. When he clears it again, he croaks- ]

Elliot, then. Gildor.

[ He's in no mood for his usual formality. Simply Gildor is better than the unnecessary mouthful of Mr. Helyanwe tonight.

The bottle is planted in the sand, and suddenly his hands are free to conduct. They wave in sloppy but practiced motions in the air above him to the sounds only he- or they- can hear. There's an added thrumming he notes. The tapping of fingers that might annoy someone else is a welcome addition, as long as Elliot maintains that time. ]

Violin. Or violins, rather.

[ Because there's hardly ever just one playing in his head. There's a deeper sound too, which then comes to the forefront. An instrument he hasn't been able to get out of his head since his last meeting with Misato, playing the one song Shinji knew over and over and over. ]

And cello.

he's so drunk i love him but im also sad

[justttkidding]

[ Although it hadn't been the safest option, November had gladly joined in on the hunt. He's told a few people here that a contractor isn't entirely emotionless, just normally unaffected. However, days and days of waiting had finally gotten him itching enough to go out and do something. Restless energy. Not all of it strictly his own, since he can't remember the last time he'd lost his patience.

Still, something about the thrill of a hunt and a job well done settles him all the way to the bone.

In the aftermath, he helps cut up the meat and then nicks some of the cooked parts once people start the celebrations. He has a fan of skewers in one hand, which he takes with him on his trek away from the bigger crowd.

There he finds Gildor, singing loudly about being drunk on many things one logically can't get drunk on, including whale-meat. Which there technically isn't any, since they don't call them whales. Unrushed but focused, he joins Gildor in his flop on the sand. Any onlookers wondering about the whales will get waved off with an explanation that he's clearly quite drunk.

It works. For now. ]

Here, if you're going to drink that much, at least eat something. ( And mind the talk of whales. People were staring. )

[perroquet]

[ Gildor doesn't make an effort to remember every new voice he hears, even for other Hosts. This one he identifies as new. There's a thud in the sand, and the smell of that roast meat wafts near his nose. Here on the ground he thought he might be free of it, but a stranger has kindly brought it down to him. He repays the effort with a long, dramatic sigh. ]

Alas... the only meatless option on the menu tonight is... is wine. Or whatever this is... was.

[ He lifts the mostly empty bottle an inch, then lets his hand fall back down. Something undoubtedly stronger. It prevents him from blocking the added mental sentence out, and there's a distinct delay in reaction to it. It isn't a welcome one, which is uncharacteristic. Normally his mind is quite welcoming. Dark, but open and supportive, especially to newer hosts. Now he mentally swipes at the intrusion - and physically. An arm waves around his head as if he were shooing away a gnat. Not now. Go away. ]

crashes in here

[detestable]

[ At first, Seth thinks the creeping sense of intoxication is because he'd misjudged the strength of his drink. He likes to tell himself he's blocked out the rest of his brood securely enough not to feel these secondhand sensations. But one drink, alien or not, isn't the root of these feelings. Seth figures it's hivemind bullshit before Gildor stumbles his way though the crowd. Technically not his problem, but he can't find it in him to just turn his back. ]

Shit.

[ The acknowledgement is colored with equal parts exasperation and confusion as he crouches beside Gildor. ]

I thought you were off the bottle.

[ Or was this going to be Seth's fault too? Lakshmi isn't present, but Seth doubts this is going to escape her notice. ]

Let me give you a hand up. We can take this back to the barracks.

[perroquet]

[ He hears the curse before he's aware there is someone standing over him. The recognition of that someone being brood comes second. Sand is all around him and booze flowing in his veins. Gildor dislikes the beach about as much as alcohol, but there's one thing both do exceptionally well for him.

Dull the senses. ]

I am. This is... for Shinji.

[ It's a lie, but it's easy to lie and easier still to leave it uncovered. This is for him, because loss is loss, and Gildor isn't one for blocking out his emotions - even the ones he recognizes as artificially produced by the symbiote. He requires the aid of a drink or three to do that - or so he's allowed himself to slip back into believing.

He rolls to the side facing away from Seth, grains of sand clinging to and trailing down his heavy black robes. ]

Fine here... thanks. Doesn't smell like... like smoke and meat down here.

[detestable]

We both know Shinji wouldn't want it.

[ Not that Seth had known Shinji well, but he knew Shinji hadn't liked the closeness of other minds against his own. He wouldn't have appreciated the fuss over him, even if Seth knows Misato had been raising holy hell in his absence. ]

You pass out here, Lakshmi's going to have to come get you.

[ Not exactly true. Seth isn't planning on abandoning Gildor to his fate anytime soon. ]

And you're stirring up the locals.

[perroquet]

[ Of course Shinji wouldn't want this. He barely wanted or cared for anything - and so Gildor concludes that he wouldn't care if he were drinking either. He keeps one hand on the bottle wedged in the sand, and the other waves in the air as if he were swatting away Seth's words. ]

Others may fear her majesty's wrath, but not I!

[ Famous last words. ]

Please, I... I used to live in a village such as this. The locals can use some stirring! This... pilgrimage is probably the most in'tresting thing to happen here in ages. If it's... a show they want... I can certainly give them one.

[ He keeps his hand in the air, fingers straining skyward - and in his mind, he fully intends to summon his violin to his very spot. Pull it from thin air, out in the open. His thoughts are just a few, precious seconds delayed from his intentions, and he's having difficulty pulling the energy necessary to call his instrument forward. ]

[detestable]

[ Without hesitation, Seth grabs Gildor's hand before he can manage it. ]

Alright, okay. That's enough.

[ Assuming magic is going to blow their cover, Seth gives a short tug on Gildor's arm. Time to move the party before Gildor's idea of excitement gets them all killed. ]

If I have to lift you I'm dropping you off the docks, Gildor.

[ It's harder to express concern like this. He's uncomfortably aware of how close Gildor's actions are to his own, and Seth doesn't like considering it. Brusquely trying to sober him up is the best Seth can do. ]

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ Sometime in the middle of helping to cook the feast of the festivities, Rogue excuses herself for a short break, heading out along the beach and unconsciously wandering toward one of the minds she can feel connected to her own. One that feels unsteady, it turns out, and she frowns as she comes across a splayed figure quite noticeably working his way through a bottle of alcohol.

She thinks for half a moment before crouching down a few feet from her Nestmate, keeping her concern pulled back behind her shields but making sure her southern drawl is warm and conversational. ]

Are you alright, sugar?

[perroquet]

[ Gildor misses being approached altogether, the loose sand dulling any vibration in the ground to the point of nothingness. Blessed nothingness, like the drink clouding his every thought. So much that he misses the mental approach as well, unaware if he's being spoken to by host or Rabadocean. The accent is thick and sweet like honey to his ears, and foreign enough to be from anywhere. Whether host or not, his mind is as open and musical as it is dark and teetering on drunken misery. ]

No, not at all! I seem to... to be running a bit low.

[ He lifts the bottle in his hand and the remaining drink sloshes merrily near the bottom. He won't ask for more to be fetched - he can do that himself. As soon as he figures out which way is up again. ]

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ Well, she can certainly see how that might be of concern to someone in his state. That darkness in his mind tells of things weighing heavily on him, and while she doesn't know the particulars, she certainly understands how something might seem bad enough to drive a person to this form of coping. Alcoholic therapy, as it were.

Rogue glances down the beach at the next nearest occupants before lowering herself further so she can sit properly on the sand beside him. ]

Don't tell me you drank that whole bottle by yourself. I hope you at least ate something with it.

[perroquet]

I did... not.

[ Not yet, anyway. He takes that as cue to sit up and slide the bottle under the veils and tip the rest back into his mouth. He drinks and drinks and drinks without a breath until the bottle is at last entirely empty. ]

There! Now I... I have!

[ Where they not connected, that jolly declaration might have covered the inner disgust that wells up within him. Ignoring it, he flops backward on the sand again and allows the bottle to slip from his hand. ]

Alas, there is nothing but... but meat from the hunt. I am left to grapes... fermented grapes, or grass, or whatever this is... was.

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ This performance does absolutely nothing but increase Rogue's concern for this man she's only just meeting. It's her true curse, perhaps — caring too much about other people. There was never a time in her life on Earth when she made a choice that was purely for herself, every decision influenced by the gravitational pull of others. So far, little has changed since her arrival on Hyrypia. ]

I'm sure we could scrounge up something for you to eat, even if it means walking back up to the village.

[ She'd do it without hesitation, but she has a strong inclination that he wouldn't accept the offer. ]