sixthiterationlogs | mingle post

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WHO: Jess Brightwell and everyone!
WHERE: The inn.
WHEN: Sept. 28th to Oct. 11th.
OPEN TO: Everyone who lives at or would visit the inn during the non-stop rain. If you don't feel like making a log for the inn but want a place to tag around, this is the mingle post for you!
WARNINGS: Will update if necessary.
STATUS: Open. Mingle away, comrades.

There's nothing quite like the sky opening up and releasing a torrential downpour to bring people together. With water coming down in buckets and the streets turning into waterways, it would be wise to seek shelter until this lets up...

If it ever lets up.

For those needing a place to warm up, the inn has a roaring fire and hot tea waiting. Pass the time watching the rain at the window, or telling stories around the main room's fireplace, or enjoying friendly company in the pub. You're even welcome to stay the night in one of the inn's spare rooms, just don't mind the leaks. It's an old building. Luckily there are plenty of buckets to go around.

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He walks into the inn covered in mud. The scrubs that used to be a nice, cool black are currently caked brown and while it might be fine if it were drying and caking off, it's the sludgy awful stuff because it hasn't stopped raining and he really thought that he was done with Seattle-type constant rain that basically sucked your soul out. Worse than the dirty scrubs and boots, though, is the fact that there's mud all over his face and in his hair.

This is not the mud facial he ordered. In fact, if he's thinking about spa treatments he wants, then he'd order a deep tissue massage before working out to maybe a seaweed wrap.

He hasn't even made it home to his own home because a part of him sort of wants to get another person's tub dirty and leave his own pristine, because the last thing he wanted to do was survive the mudslide he'd found himself in (which was more of a tripping situation) and have to then scrub out his tub for hours and hours. Yes, he does it for work, but he's not usually the monster from the mud lagoon there.

Squinting, he stares at the mess he's making on the floor. "Is there a bucket I can stand in?" he asks. "I'll feel like an idiot, but at least I won't ruin the floors."

It's been two days since Finnick and Annie were forced to leave their campsite in the woods, and the rain hasn't abated. The careers may have taken care of the immediate problems of shelter and warmth, problems they'd initially ignored because they'd been trained to consider the strategy of the fight first of all, but worse problems had replaced those.

The river's too swollen to safely fish in, and the rain seems to have driven much of the game into hiding so that the traps Finnick and Annie have set have been left empty. Early in the rainstorm, Finnick had tried to go out gathering, looking for the fruits, seeds, and grasses that he recognizes as being edible, but it's barely possible to see where he's going through the deluge, and in the end, it comes down to getting lost in the woods to find a little food.

They'd been running low on food before they'd had to move, and they haven't dared try foraging again. He's been worried about Annie, because she'd felt the cold and the wet so deeply, and with so little food, he doesn't want her to get sick. He's seen too many times what lack of food does to someone long before they starve.

He hasn't told Annie what he's doing this morning. He's emptied out his backpack and filled it up with jars and dishes out of the kitchen in the house he and Annie have taken refuge in, and he's slipped out this morning under the pretense of checking about what's been going on in the village during the storm. That's not what he really has in mind, though.

He's got his hat pulled on low, so the visor cuts a little of the rain out of his face, but he's already drenched through by the time he gets to the inn. He'd timed his visit carefully and he's there very early, well before people usually arrive for the midday meal that's such a part of the village routine.

He doesn't knock, though: he doesn't want to risk that potential threat. He keeps himself fairly well-hidden in the scrub that's everywhere around the village, watching the back door to see if Kate Kelly's around.

It doesn't really matter how many days pass since the rain begins and never ends, Raven Reyes can always be found drenched and looking very much like a sewer rat.

It'd rained on the ground, poured even harder than it does in this town, but she hadn't been able to enjoy it. Trying to keep herself and the kids around her alive, she'd remained indoors, in her little corner full of electronics, and had her head down and her mind whirring as she got to work. Thereafter, she'd remained inside, not daring to go out into the slick and deep mud of Arkadia with her bum leg.

It's different now.

She stands out in the rain, sometimes squinting up at the sky, sometimes simply looking ahead as though she's searching for something in the distance. She doesn't know how long she stands out there, but she comes back into the inn dripping wet, grey scrubs soaked and sticking to her skin like it's merely another layer of flesh. Her hair's knotted and a mess, but Raven doesn't particularly care.

She always goes out, even though it's the same view every day. She's looking for something, but she doesn't know what.

Kate, in the middle of scrubbing the floor, looks up and then sits up. For a long moment, the girl just contemplates him. Then, deciding that tossing her bucket of warm, soapy water over him will probably just make some more mess, her full mouth quirks into a quick smile and she stands up.

"One moment," she says, holding up a hand. Wiping her hands on her apron (a tablecloth pressed into the cause of Kate's Victorian Cleaning Habits), she walks off into the kitchen.

A couple minutes pass, punctuated by the occasional clutter.

Then she re-emerges, tub in hand, and, putting it on the floor, she gently kicks it over to him as precise as any soccer player.

"That suitable?"

Kate's morning start early, the moment the sky is light enough to see. She washes, dresses, comes down to the kitchen to clean and start the range. With the addition of the chicks and her kitten, though, there's some added complications. Namely, Miss Hoppity throwing temper tantrums that she's not allowed to eat the tiny fluffy things.

It started yesterday, with the chicks' arrival, and now, Day Two, Kate's not looking for this to be a habit.

Which is one reason why she opens the door, cradling the kitten.

"Look," she's in the process of saying, "you don't want to go outside, missy girl. It's made of rain."

So much rain. Still. Days of it, now, and Kate peers out into the grey gloom with a sigh.

She's had three boxes from their captors so far, all outside the Inn's front door with Catherine Ada Kelly printed on the lid, and nor is she the only Inn resident to have a gift. So, maybe she shouldn't be surprised when, while opening the shutters on the windows today to try and let some light in, she spies a box, and yet, she is. It's only because of the roof on the verandah, and the angle of the rain this morning, that the cardboard isn't completely saturated.

Except, when Kate goes out to retrieve the box before ruination, she hears cheeping.

Swallowing a curse, she hurries the box carefully to the kitchen - carefully, carefully, not spilling a drop if it'd been water, hopefully not scaring the occupants. Pulling a chair over in front of the slowly warming up kitchen range, she puts the box on it, gently pries Miss Hoppity off the chair leg, and opens it.

Seven fuzzy chicks look up at her. They are huddled together, which means they are cold, the poor things, and much like with Miss Hoppity, Kate feels a wave of rage wash through her, leaving her sick and cold and hot all at once.

What in God's good name are their captors doing? Putting little things like this out in here?

At least they seem to have some soft woodchippings and sawdust at the bottom of their box.

But Kate can immediately see their value, beyond just kindness, and chickens can grow up, make eggs, feed everyone. Seven chickens, if they are all female, is a valuable asset. And they are cold. This time she does swear, but she's taking off her blouse as she does it.

"Here, darlins," she murmurs as she carefully tucks the body-warm garment around them. "Here, hopefully this'll keep you warm until we work something else out, yes?"

It means she's standing there in her skirts with that tiny chemise the captors gave her over her corset and proper chemise, but... But nothing can be done about that. She'll just have to fix this. Putting the lid back on the box and an iron skillet on the lid to hopefully thwart the now very, very intrigued kitten, she leaves the kitchen at a run. Up the stairs, over to Miss Raven's door, where she knocks.

Loudly.

"Miss Raven? Are you awake? I need your assistance."

When the rains had first started, Tauriel had been determined to wait them out as deep in the forest as she could. For a time, she had hunkered down beneath a fir tree, using its lush green branches to shield her from the rain as best as they could. When that didn't work as well as she had hoped it would — the trees here are not the same as the trees of her beloved Greenwood, much to her disappointment — she had attempted to wait out the rains in the abandoned buildings by the river, hiding in the mill and the storehouse, hunkering in a corner and debating whether or not she should risk lighting a fire to keep warm. She's not concerned about the fire spreading, she knows how to keep that from happening, but she is concerned about giving away her position.

There are approximately two dozen people living in this settlement. Tauriel does not trust them all to be friendly.

But, after a few days of torrential downpours, Tauriel's firm resolve begins to waver.

The people she has spoken to seemed friendly enough. Would it really be so bad to throw her cap into ring, to lend her talents where they might be needed in order to reap the benefits of communal living? There is nothing to say she cannot slink back out to the forest should she not be welcomed, but she would never know unless she tried.

The eternal deluge of water overnight strengthens her resolve, and after five solid days of rain, Tauriel eventually gives in and slinks along the pathway up towards the Inn, silently stepping over the threshold and lingering awkwardly in the doorway.

Should she introduce herself? Say hello? Stand there silently in a paroxysm of nerves as she drips water all over the floor?

Once again the sound of rain greeted Riza as she awoke. Normally the sound would be pleasant, but after days of it Riza was starting to grow weary. She pushed her hair back, frowning at the small window streaked with rain, "I'm starting to understand why the Colonel hates rain so much." She swung her feet off the bed and started to get up, but paused when she noticed something by her door. It hadn't been there when she'd gone to sleep and she slept lightly enough that anyone entering her room would have been heard. She scowled and crossed over to it to investigate further.

It was a set of two boxes, one larger than the other. Riza knelt down in front of them and plucked the tag off of the larger one. She read, in neat print, her own name. Right. The others had mentioned gifts like this before. They didn't to vary from person to person. Supplies, tools, and sometimes even animals tended to lurk inside. There was some dispute about the reason behind them or if they should be used. Riza had been wondering when or if she would ever receive one for herself and now here she was with two. She sat in front of the packages for a few minutes, just studying them and waiting for an answer to come to her.

A debate whirled in her mind, all of the reasons to leave the boxes alone and all the reasons to open and use them flashed through her mind. At the end of the day though, Riza knew that there were ways of turning a game around. Of using your opponents efforts against them. These boxes could hold something like that and their usefulness, in her opinion, might mean the difference between getting out or not. Besides, it was another clue to add to the table and Riza wasn't going to pass that up.

Still, she didn't want to be on her own while opening them. Riza turned away, got dressed in her scrubs, and then scooped up the boxes on her way out. She carried them to one of the table's in the inns main area and placed them gently on the tabletop. She probably wouldn't have to wait long for someone to join her, usually the rest of the inn started to wake up around this time as well -- if they weren't up already.

As soon as someone appeared, she looked up from her position of studying the boxes and asked, "Can I borrow you for a moment?"

[OOC: If one person is there to open the box with her, but other people still want some Riza CR, you can feel free to tag in asking Riza about the open boxes she's sitting with and maybe get a cup of tea out of it. That way it doesn't get confusing if everyone is there for the first opening of the box.]

Edited 2016-10-03 01:18 (UTC)

After several days of rain, Riza had stopped letting it bother her that people were coming in soaking wet. It was unavoidable really, especially since they didn't exactly have umbrellas here. Riza was actually looking forward to people stumbling into the inn now because it meant a change of pace from the monotony of the rain. Riza was currently working on getting the fire going. This place was wet constantly now, so they were lucky they had a good stash of dry wood before all of this started.

When the door to the inn opened, Riza looked up from her spot at the fire place. She jabs the logs one more time, embers bursting and causing the flames to spring higher, before standing up. "While I appreciate you trying not to get the floors muddy, it's pretty unavoidable. We've started keeping towels over there if you want to grab one and dry off with," Riza said as a way of greeting. She looked back to the fire, "The fire might help too."

Benedict has fallen into something of a routine, living at the Inn. A routine that has been completely fucked over thanks to all this endless rain; all he can do is putter around the Inn, helping when he's needed and finding things to do when he isn't. Being one of the tallest people currently living at the Inn, he often winds up clearing cobwebs from the rafters, using the same twig-and-leaf broom that he uses to sweep the floor to brush above the windows and high up under the stairs.

If, six or seven months ago, he'd ever considered that he'd spend most of his day sweeping the floors or helping chop vegetables, he'd have laughed. Such boring, menial labor was something he thought he'd escaped when he left the Order. And yet here he is, happily doing tasks he hasn't done in years just because a petite brunette asked him to.

If Miss Kelly is still unaware of his regard for her, Benedict is not entirely sure what he can do to convince her.

Today, he's hauling the heavy kettle from the sink, where he had just filled it with water, over to the stove so it can be put to boil so that tea can be brewed for anyone who wishes to have a cup while they wait out the seemingly-endless rain. Humming absently to himself, he lifts the kettle up onto the stove and pushes it into place so the water will heat as efficiently as possible, then bends down to check the flames beneath — they burn wood here; he can still hardly believe it, how wasteful — before poking at them with the iron prong-stick-thing.

Finnick's been waiting for some time when he hears, or thinks he hears, the sound of a heavy door moving as it opens. He creeps a little further forward, pressing at a branch of the bush he's in so it parts enough to let him see better. He only hears the voice faintly, but even through the shrouding rain, he recognizes Kate Kelly.

"Miss Kelly."

He calls out her name as he emerges from the bush, water shivering from the leaves at the touch of his body. He's been drenched through since before he arrived outside the inn, and he's beginning to shiver. His backpack lets out a dull clanking sound as he steps towards the inn door.

He doesn't want to do this, but they're running desperately low on food, and without knowing how long the rain will continue, he's not sure what other choice they have.

Raven often naps at odd hours through the day, rarely sleeping unless she's tired enough to be knocked out for a good portion of time. When Kate raps at her door, she's dozed off at her workstation, fist pressing hard into her cheek.

She wakes with a start and wipes a hand hard over her face. Wondering whether she'd been hearing things, Raven almost doesn't get up to investigate. Pulling herself from her seat at her little table, she walks to her door and opens it wide.

Dressed in her grey scrubs, Raven wears a red jacket slipping off her shoulders. Her room isn't particularly warm, but it's not necessarily cold, either. Ever since she received her tools and the jacket she wears from a mysterious box with her name on it, she hasn't wanted to let at least the comfortable present off her form.

"What's up?"

I can't deny it: I'm worried. The last three days, I've been out in monsoon weather, fortifying the drainage on the field in whatever ways I can, but the truth is that if the onslaught doesn't start to slack off soon, we're going to lose a good portion of our harvest. Most of the plants just aren't mature enough to withstand being waterlogged for so long.

And the worst part, of course, is that there's just not much else I can do but wait and see.

The inn's already playing host to at least half a dozen people looking to escape the weather when I bang through the front door looking like a drowned rat. Someone was nice enough to leave a stack of towels on a nearby table, and I do my best to keep from leaving a massive puddle on the floor.

Towel still draped over my head, I take a seat by the fireplace and tug off my boots, steam rising with a hiss when I pour them out into the embers edging the hearth.

"I'm too old for this," I mutter under my breath, already knowing that doesn't make a damn bit of difference.

After being stuck inside for two days, Margaery had braved the storm and hurried towards the inn, desperate for company and a change of location. It was only after it became clear that the rains would not let up that Margaery disrupted her usual routine. She had been obstinate, going out into the forests in the morning, ignoring the cold and the torrential downpour, which left her unable to see anything past her hand. Never mind that she returned to the Stark residence damp and chilled.

It was only after she was reprimanded sharply that she finally gave up on the matter entirely. The only other time she left the house was to move her livestock to the townhall, newly changed into a barn. The animals were as miserable as she was, but at least had no sense of stir craziness.

Finding a project for herself, Margaery settled at one of the tables at the inn, sewing by the fire as she tried to fight the continuing chill that seemed to be rooted in her bones. She focused instead on the leather pieces she was stitching together, only to accidentally stab her finger with the needle.

"Seven hells!" She whispered, sucking on her finger. As though the day couldn't be even more miserable.

"Lunch will almost be ready," Margaery offered from her place by the fire, leather gathered in her lap. "There will be broth, which should help warm you." It was something to look forward to at least, considering how little the weather offered them. How many days would this go one?

She regarded Mark thoughtfully, remembering him from the town meeting and when everyone tended the fields. They had exchanged words briefly, but nothing substantial and hardly enough to get to know each other. She at least knew that he was resourceful, given the way he organized things before.

"Is it still a downpour?" She asked, pausing in her work to speak with him fully.

Kate startles, turning to face the suddenly emerging young man. But she doesn't stay still, oh no. As she turns, she also moves back, her hand on the door suddenly tense. If need be, she could slam that door shut before he got much closer.

She has, the gesture suggests, had to do something like that in the past.

"Mornin'," she says, evenly, as if her small cat isn't protesting that sudden, unintentional squeeze by slashing her with her tiny, but sharp, claws. Kate takes a deep breath, curls her kitten close with a reassuring, shushing sound.

"We've got rooms spare, if you and your lady friend needed some shelter."

He steps, without much dignity, into the tub that she's given to him. He wrings out the little he can from his scrubs, but it only does so much and he's left feeling gritty and sticky. "I'd ask for a change of clothes, too, but I think there's approximately a full person difference between us," is his wry remark, thinking he'll settle for this. That said, he eyes the water in her bucket speculatively and thinks that maybe he could at least negotiate himself some of the cleaner water. "Maybe, just possibly throwing this out there, you wouldn't be averse to giving me a splash of that?"

With his best pleading eyes, he tries to wheedle as much as he can. "I'll work for it," he promises. "I'll offer you the services of a very soppy medical examiner in return."

Soaked from the rain, but not intending to be rude, Cougar finds himself standing behind the tall woman in front of him, clearing his throat as he shakes a hand through his hair to loosen the water from it. His cap is currently holding the eggs he's brought for trade and use, because no matter how much it rains, people still need to eat and he wants to provide (especially now that the chicklings have grown into hens). "Come inside," is what Cougar says, guessing at the look on her face.

"It is warm. Dry," he provides. Lifting the cap, he gives her an encouraging nod. "And there will be food."

Like most people, Tony arrives at the inn in some degree of 'soaked' and a bit muddy. He supposes he wound up there because of the food potential, since he doesn't have any yet, as he has yet to level his survival skills that high yet. Or perhaps the element of teamwork that might help figure out what to do about all the rain, but honestly it's mostly that he didn't feel like being by himself. While he does appreciate a certain amount of alone time, if he doesn't have anything to do during it then it's just the worst. Being stuck with people is better than being stuck alone. Especially if there might be food.

Anyway, he's seen everyone around here and there, but he's still not over the whole ~team colors thing. Why is everyone dressed like nurses? Why do they have overalls? Why - his litany of questions just keeps growing faster and faster and it is frankly pathetic how few of them are being answered. He's not used to not being able to answer his own questions.

He shucks his coat by the door and moves closer to the fire, being somewhat less conscientious apparently than some others who have recently come in from the rain. "I didn't realise this season of Survivor: Bruges was actually taking place in the rainforest," he says to no one in particular on the way there. "I mean, I like a nice shower - cleans out the air, alleviates allergies, you can use 'petrichor' in a sentence to impress that girl you like, it's great. But at this point if we'd just dug a big hole a couple days ago we'd have a pool."

The man has the look about him that makes Ravi wonder if there's a factory somewhere in the world that outputs men who are too handsome and dignified for their own good. Sure, he's got the Seattle version of the model back home, but apparently there's also a village one right here and he's probably not even aware of it (or maybe he is, maybe there's a self-awareness setting on the Handsome Line 2.0, inspired by Major Lilywhite's supreme confidence in his own body).

Ravi, for his part, is not at his handsome best. His clothes are currently draped near the fire in order to dry after a quick wash. Whilst still in his boxers, Ravi's also adapted some of the upstairs linens into a very fashionable toga that he's currently sporting as he sits by the fire like a very colourful version of Plato, eyeing the Handsome Man and his claims of being old.

"Is this meant to garner sympathy?" he wonders, wishing he had something to swill. He feels like he needs something for swilling. "You certainly don't look old enough for anything to be creaking and cracking."

Natasha sees him come in from her place by the fire, where she's got a pile of fabric in her lap and a needle and thread in her hand. Rain isn't going to hamper the mending, even if it puts a damper on the laundry; it's hard to dry clothes outside when it's not, well, dry. She glances up briefly at his entrance but turns her attention back to her sewing, pulling the needle through as she speaks without looking up at him.

"No one uses petrichor, Tony, it's too pretentious, even for Portland hipsters."

She ties the knot, grabs the small knife she's using in lieu of scissors and finally looks up at him with a raised eyebrow, jerking her chin towards the stairs.

"There's towels in the bathroom upstairs, if you want to dry off."

Draping his coat on the back of a chair he's dragged over from nearby, he slumps into it, glances at what she's working on with mild interest until he sees it's not actually interesting, and then looks at the fire, because that's what you do when you're near a fire. "Not Gallifreyan ones." Her movement attracts his attention long enough to catch her look and nod, and then he looks at the stairs. They look so far away but he is chilly, but there's a fire here. Isn't that what the fire is for?

"Kinda, but I just sat down, so."

Natasha stares at him for a moment, dripping wet and looking not unlike a soaked cat, and her empathy wins out over her own comfort. She sets the mended shirt down on the pile of finished clothing, and stands up without a word, trotting up the stairs.

She's back in less than a minute, dropping a pair of linen towels onto his lap before taking up her seat once more, grabbing one of the shirts to be mended and starting her task over.

"Fictional characters don't count," she says finally, like she hadn't just gotten up to grab him some towels. "I'm talking about actual Portland hipsters, not ones made up in the United Kingdom."

Tony's a little confused when she abruptly leaves, and he follows her movement until he can't see her anymore. Then he blinks, because he's almost positive he couldn't have said anything that would actually make her leave without saying anything. Almost.

Then there are towels in his lap and she's not saying anything about doing that so he's thinking maybe he shouldn't either? But he's happy about it, taking one and wrapping it around his shoulders and then using the other one on his head. "Fictional characters count when they teach an entire generation about a word that more or less died out ages ago. Now fourteen year olds around the world know shit like 'petrichor' and 'meretricious'."

He finally emerges from the second towel and lets it fall into his lap, adjusting the one around his shoulders. "SAT proctors must be thrilled."

She had taken a spot by the fire after arriving earlier in the morning, content to listen to the rain as she continued her sewing project. Several figures had come and gone, most of them faces that she recognized from around the village. It was Tony's that she couldn't remember seeing before.

Most of his complaints went over her head, the terms likely coming from his world (like 'Survivor: Burges'). However, she could at least follow his annoyances, given that they were shared by everyone in the village. The storms had gone on too long.

"When you find a way to control the rains, I imagine you shall be a hero to us all." She remarked with a sly smile. "Perhaps you could use this time to begin constructing something that will chase away the storms?"

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