Credits & Style Info

lastofthekellys: (our sunshine)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn & Pub
WHEN: 3rd August
OPEN TO: E V E R Y O N E
WARNINGS: N/A
STATUS: OTA



It's been a couple weeks since Kate woke up and nearly drowned in that cursed fountain. She hasn't slept much, truth be told, and she's no closer to feeling like she's wearing proper clothes so she's still wearing her overalls instead of the given trousers, under that flimsy red blouse. Her curly hair is being combed with a fork and fixed as best she can. However, she has been paying attention. To the group and to the food situation. The group isn't exactly a community, but Miss Jo and her curtains of maps and skills have given Kate an idea.

(That, and honestly? The quietness of the inn's kitchen and main room is driving her to distraction.)

It takes time and it takes effort, Kate's idea of a communal lunch. She walks around, knocking on doors, and she asks, begs, flirts, lures-with-promise-of-hot-food people to arrive at midday. The hunters get asked if bring their game nice and early, those more inclined to gather or cook get asked to do that, and others... Well, she'd just like it if people turned up.

After so long being sulky, being this social again makes her sparkle.

With the help of some volunteers in the kitchen, by midday, the meal is ready. Really truly nothing fancy: rabbit stew with dandelions (flowers and plant both) and thistle (stems, leaves, roots and the young flowers) and some other wild herbs to flavour.

But it is food, and it is hot.

[ooc: Party-style post! Post starters in under the subheadings or make your own, volunteer your character to cook or clean or neither, and have fun!]
sixthiteration: (Default)
[personal profile] sixthiteration
WHO: Arrivals
WHERE: The fountain park
WHEN: July 1, 12:00 PM
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: N/A
STATUS: CLOSED


In the snug circle of an old park, a fountain sits burbling beneath a broad, midday sky.

Once-neat paving stones have buckled and cracked from the slow nudge of wayward roots. Benches stand covered in lichen and rust. Three paths push into the underbrush like the spokes on a wheel, the encroaching forest creating lush tunnels through the dark.

But the fountain stands singular and pristine, brightly splashing in open rebellion of the deep, muffled sounds of a place long ago gone to seed. A vibration hums through the ground, there and quickly gone, and the water in the fountain trembles, lapping against the high walls of its cool, pale reservoir.

It is the first of July.

It is precisely twelve o'clock in the afternoon.