( 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

[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.