Kate Kelly (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lastofthekellys) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-11-24 02:05 pm
lastofthekellys) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-11-24 02:05 pm
Entry tags:
- asoiaf: margaery tyrell,
- asoiaf: sansa stark,
- cinder spires: benny sorellin-lancaster,
- fall: stella gibson,
- fullmetal alchemist: riza hawkeye,
- great library: jess brightwell,
- heathers: veronica sawyer,
- hunger games: annie cresta,
- hunger games: finnick odair,
- izombie: ravi chakrabarti,
- kate kelly: kate kelly,
- losers: cougar alvarez,
- martian: mark watney,
- marvel: peggy carter,
- marvel: sam wilson,
- spn: jo harvelle,
- star trek: kira nerys,
- tvd: kol mikaelson,
- vinland: thorfinn thorsson
Let us eat quickly-- let us fill ourselves up. {Harvest Feast}
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 24th November
OPEN TO: E V E R Y O N E
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: OPEN
Aside from the days when she'd been too drunk or too hungover to get up, Kate's kept a farmer's hours all her life. Even in winter, when the bitterly cold winds that'd come up from the south and make its way through the cracks and holes in her ma's hut, she'd get up, get dressed, do her chores. But lately, it's been harder to extract herself from her bed. Benedict's been sharing her bed more often than not lately, and the chasteness of their interactions does nothing to change how warm and safe she feels. How little she wants to get up, get dressed, go out into the colder spaces of the Inn and do her work.
So, today, she's late getting out of bed - at least, by her standards. She's late getting down the stairs. She's late, so she's hurrying; she lazed in bed, and now she needs to start the fire in the main room. Start the fire, open the shutters, show that the Inn is standing and warm. And welcome, so she moves the -
No, Kate doesn't move the chairs stacked precariously at the front door as a rudimentary alarm of someone, something, coming through, because the chairs are gone. She neither dismisses it as one of the residents not getting the message, nor panics. Instead, she just opens the shutters to let in the dawn light and see if there are footprints, except, no, the snow has mostly cleared. The day is sunny. As welcome as it is, that doesn't help at all. Miss Hoppity jumps down from the foyer's desk to rub her face against Kate's skirt, apparently entirely unconcerned.
Kate eyes the cat for a moment, then approaches the closed doors leading to the main room. Closed, but with light coming through the cracks between door and floor, door and door frame. Cautiously, Kate opens one of the doors and peers in.
Then, she gapes.
The fire is blazing - hot, cheery - but so are the candles. The candles: candles on the unused candlesticks, candles clustered on tables, light up sideboards. Candles bobbing in bowls of water and apples. Candles white, yellow and red, when the village had none. Boughs of wheat, corn, decorate tables and the mantle over the fire, apples and pumpkins and collections of yellow, orange, red flowers seem to be everywhere.
And the food.
Each table is piled high with food. Roasted, baked, cooked on stoves and Kate knows how to cook, she knows how long this would all take, how many people, and it's impossible. What she's seeing is impossible to have done with the resources on hand: even an attempt would have woken up the whole building.
Disbelieving, Kate walks in. For a moment, she's entirely dumbfounded. Miss Hoppity, however, is nothing of the sort. The cat has leapt up onto the sideboard next to Kate and - well, Kate isn't sure what happens next. Just that suddenly there's movement and something large seems to lunge at her. Miss Hoppity yowls and speeds off: Kate screams as she battles something, falling backwards and hitting the floor along with a broken bowl of water, spilled apples and some tiny candles, and her attacker.
Pushing the food-turkey off her, Kate sits up and is, for once, entirely lost for words.
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 24th November
OPEN TO: E V E R Y O N E
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: OPEN
Aside from the days when she'd been too drunk or too hungover to get up, Kate's kept a farmer's hours all her life. Even in winter, when the bitterly cold winds that'd come up from the south and make its way through the cracks and holes in her ma's hut, she'd get up, get dressed, do her chores. But lately, it's been harder to extract herself from her bed. Benedict's been sharing her bed more often than not lately, and the chasteness of their interactions does nothing to change how warm and safe she feels. How little she wants to get up, get dressed, go out into the colder spaces of the Inn and do her work.
So, today, she's late getting out of bed - at least, by her standards. She's late getting down the stairs. She's late, so she's hurrying; she lazed in bed, and now she needs to start the fire in the main room. Start the fire, open the shutters, show that the Inn is standing and warm. And welcome, so she moves the -
No, Kate doesn't move the chairs stacked precariously at the front door as a rudimentary alarm of someone, something, coming through, because the chairs are gone. She neither dismisses it as one of the residents not getting the message, nor panics. Instead, she just opens the shutters to let in the dawn light and see if there are footprints, except, no, the snow has mostly cleared. The day is sunny. As welcome as it is, that doesn't help at all. Miss Hoppity jumps down from the foyer's desk to rub her face against Kate's skirt, apparently entirely unconcerned.
Kate eyes the cat for a moment, then approaches the closed doors leading to the main room. Closed, but with light coming through the cracks between door and floor, door and door frame. Cautiously, Kate opens one of the doors and peers in.
Then, she gapes.
The fire is blazing - hot, cheery - but so are the candles. The candles: candles on the unused candlesticks, candles clustered on tables, light up sideboards. Candles bobbing in bowls of water and apples. Candles white, yellow and red, when the village had none. Boughs of wheat, corn, decorate tables and the mantle over the fire, apples and pumpkins and collections of yellow, orange, red flowers seem to be everywhere.
And the food.
Each table is piled high with food. Roasted, baked, cooked on stoves and Kate knows how to cook, she knows how long this would all take, how many people, and it's impossible. What she's seeing is impossible to have done with the resources on hand: even an attempt would have woken up the whole building.
Disbelieving, Kate walks in. For a moment, she's entirely dumbfounded. Miss Hoppity, however, is nothing of the sort. The cat has leapt up onto the sideboard next to Kate and - well, Kate isn't sure what happens next. Just that suddenly there's movement and something large seems to lunge at her. Miss Hoppity yowls and speeds off: Kate screams as she battles something, falling backwards and hitting the floor along with a broken bowl of water, spilled apples and some tiny candles, and her attacker.
Pushing the food-turkey off her, Kate sits up and is, for once, entirely lost for words.
no subject
Not even Jess, who could write a thesis on the many kinds of strings attached to "free" gifts, wants to be the black sheep today, not when there's a full belly to be had. He throws himself down in a chair next to Kate, tossing her a smile a few degrees lighter and looser than normal.
The good moods of everyone around are infectious--it's difficult to keep them from softening those rigid inner boundaries that keep his focus sharp day in and day out. "You look like you're having fun," he observes. He'd gone for a bit of the bourbon over the wine and currently holds a glass of it in his hand.
He shouldn't be drinking, not with what had happened the last time he'd gotten tipsy, watching Dario hide himself at the bottom of a bottle, but he is. Consequences can wait for a little while.
no subject
"So I'm determined to make the most of it."
Except then she leans back in her chair, watching him. Her eyes might be sparkling now, but she's not so far gone down the bottom of her glass that she's lost her observation skills.
"And I'd say you're somewhat on the way to join' me, Mr Brightwell."
no subject
"Nothing wrong with that," is what he says at first. He tips his glass at her mock-toast, lowering it to rest on his stomach. "I'm pretty sure I've already eaten enough for three of me."
The price for this extravagant gift will be high, of that he's sure, but having a bit of normalcy is humanizing. That's a tough thing to resist, and they need it as much as they need the calories the food offers.
"Me?" Tilting his head, he feigns surprise like this is the first time he's noticing his involvement. "I suppose I might be."
no subject
The relief of not having to organise this, not have to supervise anything, not have to scrub cooking dishes (although they'll have to clean the plates, the cutlery, the dishes that the food is resting on-) is overwhelming. Too overwhelming not to give in.
So here she is, so very tipsy.
"Willin' to take a bet on when the first singing will start?"
no subject
It's a dangerous thing, tempting a Brightwell into a betting match when they're in a good mood--gambling is in his blood, and right now so is the alcohol, and a combination of the two brings a slow, sportive smile to his face.
"Just waiting to see how long it takes you to break out in a rendition of some Ben Hall song," he says. His knowledge of Australian folk songs is shaky, but he assumes Ben Hall is in there somewhere, the way tea and crumpets and crickets feature in everything remotely British.
no subject
"Oh, please. I'm Irish. Like I ever really need an excuse to sing. But, as you've requested..."
She straightens up in her chair, clears her throat, and then starts to sing in her slightly rough, but very sweet soprano:
"Come all you young Australians and everyone besides
I'll sing to you a ditty that will fill you with surprise
Concerning of a ranger bold whose name it was Ben Hall
But cruelly murdered was this day which proved his downfall
An outcast from society he was forced to take the road
All through his false and treacherous wife who sold off his abode
He was hunted like a native dog from bush to hill and dale
Till he turned upon his enemies and they could not find his trail
All out with his companions men's blood he scorned to shed
He oft-times stayed their lifted hands with vengeance on their heads
No petty mean or pilfering act he ever stooped to do
But robbed the rich and hearty man and scorned to rob the poor
One night as he in ambush lay all on the Lachlan Plain
When thinking everthing secure to ease himself had lain
When to his consternation and to his great surprise
And without one moment's warning a bullet past him flies
And it was soon succeeded by a volley sharp and loud
With twelve revolving rifles all pointed at his head
Where are you Gilbert? where is Dunn? he loudly did call
It was all in vain they were not there to witness his downfall
They riddled all his body as if they were afraid
But in his dying moment he breathed curses on their heads
That cowardly hearted Condel the sergeant of police
He crept and fired with fiendish glee till death did him release
Although he had a lions heart more braver than the brave
Those cowards shot him like a dog no word of challenge gave
Though many friends had poor Ben Hall his enemies were few
Like the emblems of his native land his days were numbered too
It's through Australia's sunny climb Ben Hall will roam no more
His name is spread both near and far to every distant shore
For generations after this parents will to their children call
And rehearse for them the daring deeds comitted by Ben Hall."
no subject
Much to his impressed and amused surprise, out comes a tune about Ben Hall as suggested. Jess sets his glass down and leans on the table, unable to help smiling throughout her performance.
Now that deserves a round of applause.
"You're just full of surprises," he teases, clapping for effect. "Do you take requests?"