( open ) liberate your sons and daughters the bush is high but in the hole there's water

[synergismus]

Who: Everyone!
What: Events around the city, any time.
Where: Everywhere in Baedal.
When: Whenever you’d like.
Notes:

• Behold, your all-purpose open game log. There are a couple pre-written starters to help you generate new and open CR, and you may also use this post to start your own group activities or planned threads. GO WILD!
  
• No one is late to this post. You may use it forever.
  
• The companion thread for this post is right here!
  
• DON'T THINK TOO HARD ABOUT IT JUST RP.
  
• Helpful links: Neighbourhoods, City Map.
  
• Lucky Pastry Advice for the Month of Velldaren: A truly rich life contains love and art in abundance.
  

Warnings: Zombie horrors in the appropriately titled ZOMBIES! thread, otherwise TBA. Please put warnings in subject lines of your comments if content warrants one.

Comments

[canker wedge]

[selfmadman]

“It's been doing this.”

The lobby's a shove on your way, drab. Two rain-spattered windows, only one looking out on the street but both offering the same view: gray spilling down.

“You think this is bad, you should see the place when the lights aren't flickering.” Don glances up from his watch. “Jesus,” he says, respect leaking into his voice. He'd been talking, pitching, when it started, a clap of thunder like the sky clearing its throat. Rain drumming the building, the room's mood altered, all of them audience to the cascading water. He's been trying for impatience ever since; it's been out of reach.

Metal shrieks as the door's wrenched open. It flaps in the wind, admitting a couple thousand raindrops and a man still bowed by the weather. He coughs and stamps his feet. His hands are jammed deep in his pockets. Someone snaps at him to shut the door and as he backs away, shrugging helplessly, another sorry piece of human debris blows in. “Shut the door!”

Body caught in a flinch the man frees one hand, shows his palm to the lobby while he fumbles for the door handle. “D-don't--” They spray hissing from his fingers. Blue, pink, washed-out green. Filaments of color leaping for the ceiling, tangling in themselves on the way down. “Please,” he says. It's all over him, webbed and knotted. “Please. I'm sorry. It's harmless?”

Don shoulders past—shakes off the man's grip—and plunges into the rain. The cold's a restorative shock. He's soaked through almost instantly, drenched in the sound of the downpour. He moves hurriedly but with purpose, hat clutched to his head, until he finds an awning and a bench. He sits slumped, head tipped back. It's a minute before he plucks the strand of orange—wild as a scribble, and not the last of them—from his arm.

[thedominatrix]

Irene's shoes send up tiny explosions of water whenever she takes a step, and the wind is apparently jealous of her umbrella. She's got her CiD held to her ear, but the rain steals her words, leaving only fragments of strained sentences audible; "...can't...dear..."

She doesn't look at Don, but she's seen him; he's quietly unmistakable as the only thing on the street not moving. "...then my answer's still--" Her voice doesn't fade out into the rain this time, but is cut short when her umbrella is dragged inside out, looking like a time lapse flower blooming on a television screen. She determinedly doesn't swear, clenching CiD between damp shoulder and powdered cheek as she tries to shake it back into shape, holding it into the wind and letting it reverse its own damage. She holds it up again, for what good it might still do, and moves faster. Her voice is artfully threaded through with the suggestion of things she is forcing herself not to say. It's a tone she's proud of. "I've got to dash. I've got so much on. Tomorrow night? --don't say that. I'm going." And she's gone, to him.

She slips in beside Don, still without looking, removing her CiD from her ear- there's powder smeared across the screen. She lets down her umbrella and lets it rest against the bench, listening to the rain thunder against the awning. And finally she glances across and reaches across, removing a sticky blue string from Don's shoulder and holding it up to where the light would be if the clouds would move.

"What a terrible party you've been to," she remarks, and a drop of water slips from one swirl of her hair down her neck, under her collar and right down her spine, like drops of water always seem to.

[selfmadman]

On the bench Don rolls the string in his fingers before letting it swoon to the ground, knocks some of the rain from his hat. His shirt's pasted to his back. In a minute even the relief at having something over his head'll start to turn soggy. He closes his eyes. Smooths his hair and submits to the rain's patter.

The wind snatches a shred of conversation, splits the darkness in a flash of blue submerged in green, deep but luminous. Answer. Don blinks as if he has something in his eye, tastes honey beading on his tongue. I've—dash—tomorrow. He's sitting up, sitting forward. The words are chipped. Honey puddles in his mouth, sweet and sluggish. He swallows it down; in the corner of his eye an umbrella collapses to a black streak.

“What a terrible party you've been to,” Irene Adler says. He's running a hand along her voice. It flakes at his touch, peels like an aging coat of paint. Oceanic in color and drier than anything in the next five blocks.

Don's fingertips rub together. He's never looked at her like this; he's never seen her like this.

“There's another kind?” he says haltingly, treading a damp patch of sand. Sawdust, green beans off the vine, and something slight and sour opening like a seam between those flavors. His voice is sickly purple—lavender.

He blinks again, then has the sense to turn his head.

[thedominatrix]

"There's another kind," she promises him in a tone of sincere reassurance, lashes lowering for a moment. She starts to roll the string between her fingers into a faded blue ball before flicking it into the rain with a disdainful sort of flourish, like she's attempting to offend the weather as much as it offends her. Another cold droplet snakes down her neck -- around her neck. She avoids a grimace upon finding a sodden tendril of hair sticking to her skin and tries to one-handedly nurse it back into place. Then there's another, spiralling down from her updo and slithering down her neck, leaving a wet trail; she plucks at her hairstyle with affected absent-mindedness. A pin falls, accidental and entirely inaudible, but Irene feels the slight loss of tension -- the first rumblings of an avalanche. She pulls her hand away swiftly so as to not to bring on total collapse. This, she thinks, is what she needed Kate for. (No, it isn't).

"Did you storm off in disgust?" she asks. He's distracted -- no, he's confused. No, he's damp and miserable. She touches his upper arm with just her fingertips, not to pick off any more of the debris of that assumed terrible party but as a quietly pointed reminder that she's here and that she likes to be looked at. A curl unravels and another pin drops.