RP:Worst Party Ever

From HollowWiki

Part of the Two If By Sea Arc

Cenril Beach

Summary: Hudson and Sargaso throws a party at their shack on Cenril beach. At first only men show up, and after deciding that Crisien hot, they decide to get drunk to make up for the lack of chicks. The group of drunk guys near the beach attracts mermaids who sing to lure the men out to sea, but their voices are partially drowned out by a mediocre cover band of bards that Hudson hired. Also some chicks like Eimhir show up and Hudson teaches her how to play beer pong. Eventually Sargaso, Ansel and npc fishermen go to the beach. Aptera lures Sargaso to the sea, but Ansel, Krice and NPCs save him. The mermaids eat an NPC fishermen instead, which Hudson and Krice see. The tragedy puts a downer on the party and it ends.

Characters: Sargaso, Hudson, Ansel, Callamyre, Eimhir, Aptera, Krice, Fairfax

Hudson is drinking and roaming about the shack. To explain the shack, it by appearances does not appear to be one bedroom, or even two bedrooms. It in fact appears to be one room, with a curtain on one side. That curtain is currently drawn back, exposing a bed that appears to have been converted to a couch. There's a closet door near the bed that remains shut. Beyond the curtain, and stacked over against the wall are a barrel and two crates. All of the above suggests that the gents had thought to clear some space. They have also engaged in clever repurposing of their environment. Against the wall is a small sink balancing on stilts - this sink is now filled with ice and bottles of alcohol, having been converted to a cooler. There is also a table, with red paper cups stacked in abundance alongside unmarked bottles of what appears to be wine. The red paper cups are arranged in triangle formations, with beer at the bottom. A game of beer pong is ongoing. The metal stove in the corner of the room currently appears to have a blanket thrown over it (suggesting that it is not for use by drunk people). Somewhat nearer to the middle of the room there is a couch that clearly came from an adult human being's home (Hudson's mum's), for it is a highly well made article of furniture that's only been lightly used. There is some space. Enough. Except people are starting to occupy it, having come in from outside. The door is unlocked, and held open by one of the men's shoes. A bardic group is setting up outside, likely to the chagrin of the neighbors. As parties so oft tend to be early on in the evening, thus far only men are attending. This is a sausage party. Hudson, upon sidling up beside Sargaso, beer in hand, stares ahead at the beer pong matching taking place, and comments on this fact: "I tried to invite girls."

Sargaso is playing beer pong in teams of two when Hudson approaches. It’s his teammate’s turn. His cool mien cracks, anxious hand wiping at his mouth and jaw, as Hudson obliquely calls attention to the lameness of their party. “Yea, me too. This one chick I know, Crisien.” He lifts his beer to sip it out of turn, stops short, and clarifies without meeting Hudson’s eye. “And some others.” There are no others. It’s just Crisien — and he hardly knows her. His gulps a quarter of the bottle. The beer pong trio, sun-beaten seadogs like Sargaso, cheer and slap each other on the back as the ball bounces from rim to rim to rim to rim, teeters precariously, then plop! The beer splashes. “Woooo, what are the chances?!” shouts Sargaso’s beer pong partner. Improbable physics, tonight’s headlining act.

Ansel trudged his way through Cenril to make it to the gathering, he had a simple pair of blue cotton pants that gathered around his lower calf and an almost white cotton shirt from his travels for the day. He realized the warmth that came from Cenril was a big contrast compared to the weather in Frostmaw, so it was a casual attire kind of day. Little clothing, cooler the air would feel. The slightly scruffy man was obviously not clean shaven, nor did he care. The winter wolf would stand in front of the shack where the bardic group had been setting up their musical equipment. This seemed to please him. Eyebrows raised with amusement as he gazed at each instrument they were pulling out to play. He would then inhale a breath before strolling forward near the open shack. “Knock, knock. Eh, there,” the man would lean near the door frame idly with a smirk on his windblown lips. Then he would approach the beer pong table where Sargoso was lingering and with the mention of Crisien’s name, he would follow. Sargaso was the only familiar character, and then there was more unfamiliar men. Yikes. “Aye, Sa—Sargaso, was it?” His speech was slow out of curiosity and calmingly friendly at the same time, after all… he was the only one Ansel knew.

Hudson nods mutely and drinks his beer as Sargaso details his own efforts at securing a female presence at their gathering. "I made all that sparkling wine too," gripes Huds, his gaze following the game. He makes a clicking sound by his molars at the well-scored hit. And even though he's not playing, he drinks from his beer. Because the only way to endure a party that's lacking in female presence is to do so drunkenly. The band members outside are tuning their instruments now, drinking some of the wine Huds had set out for them. The hope is that the racket - er, sweet tunes - will attract some of the fairer sex and break the party doldrums. But for now, another man has joined the party. Hudson turns as Ansel addresses his roommate, and the alchemist fires off a grin that's halfway to a wince. "Welcome," he says, extending his non-beer wielding hand to shake the other man's. "Hudson, Sargaso's roommate. Sorry it's all dudes for the present. There's tons of drinks in and around the sink area."

Sargaso nods a slow commiseration for Hudson’s wasted effort. That’s when Ansel arrives, and though he has only met Ansel once before, the wolfy-boy’s arrival excites him more than did his longtime fishing friends. Along with Ansel comes Sargaso’s dream for the future, a career in treasure hunting with professionals, as he assumes Ansel and Crisien to be. “Yea, man, welcome.” As Hudson introduces himself, Sargaso plows ahead a mile a minute speaking over him with an introduction of his own. “This is my roommate Huds. Huds, this is Ansel, the best in the treasure hunting business.” He backpedals towards the sink-cum-cooler, just as Hudson is pointing it out, and lifts a beer for Ansel to take. Ansel’s VIP status is not corroborated by the fishermen who raise their hands in stiff wave to the newcomer, but, by force of his gender and empty hands, don’t pursue anything further than a greeting. The band starts clumsily with the bassist and drums disagreeing over the tempo.

Ansel smiled slightly at Sargaso’s reaction, mostly because no one was ever as excited to see him except for his children. Oh yeah, this lycan was a father, does that not make the party cooler? An irresponsible father that is. His hazel gaze moved to the side as he was being addressed by another man near Sargaso. The winter wolf squinted to recognize if Hudson was a familiar face, yet no luck. With the rapid speed of which Sargaso was talking compared to Hudson’s casual one, he just snickered and gave a firm handshake towards the man. No hesitation. After all, he trusted Sargaso, even after one meeting. “Right, Hudson,” he then blinked once or twice at Sargaso’s introduction of himself. “Not the best, but eh, you can’t beat adventure,” he would nod. “I would guess you got into contact with Crisien then?” The man then made his way over to the cooler, and as he was handed the beer. “Aye, thanks, lad.” He then would find himself opening the bottle. He would raise the bottle towards the other men in the room before taking a swig.

Hudson completes the handshake as Sargaso basically explodes with greetings and information about Ansel's profession. "Sweet, you know Crisien?" he asks the both of them, belatedly connecting the dots. He seems to follow Ansel's lead and likewise lifts his beer to his mouth, making an obvious dude comment before he does so, "She's cool. Also, rather easy on the eyes if I remember." He rolls a shoulder in a shrug, as if to say one couldn't help but notice. The band has launched into the Hollow version of Gold Digger, a classic party tune that under ordinary circumstances would inspire party attendees to throw shapes but at this juncture really serves to highlight the gender dynamic at issue here. This thought must be etched in Hudson's features, and he looks at both Ansel and Sargaso. "We're summoning the women," he says, trying for a prophetic tone as he gazes toward the open door. "Maybe we'll lure some mermaids here with the band. You know they like songs?"

Sargaso has a delayed moment of self awareness and dons the cool, bro mask again, thinly worn like a cheesecloth veil. Anyone who’s spent time around junior men looking to impress the big men in their fields know how Sargaso straddles the line between chill and not. He takes a sip of his beer when Ansel does, and agrees with Huds’ appraisal of Crisien. “Yea. Cute freckles.” To Ansel he says, “Yep, got the compass. We can go out whenever you got the time, man.” And in case Ansel didn’t quite get it, he tacks on still eagerly cool, “I’m free whenever.” He’s so pleased by this networking opportunity with Ansel, greatest treasure hunter alive, that he doesn’t even think to correct Hudson’s mermaid thirst. “Yea, they sing them too.” The bards seamlessly transition from Gold Digger to the mandolin cover of Ignition (Remixed with pan flutes). The men drink faster and with abandon. The fishermen are already on their third beers on empty stomachs. There’s no chicks, man. Drown the shame in booze. A grouping of tipsy men charting a course for total inebriation along the shore is like a siren call to mermaids, and they return the call with a mating call of their own, shrill and piscine, alluring like a ripple of silver glinting beneath calm waves. “The band’s really good.” Sargaso nods his head to the beat, unable to distinguish the flutes from the mermaid’s voices, and wanders outside under a power he mistakenly thinks is his own.

Ansel nodded towards Hudson. “I’ve known her for a bit. She lured me in to work with her from time to time.” He then smirked and gave a dip of his head in agreement with Hudson. “Not denying that one,” he then would cast his dull hazel gaze toward Sargaso. “Right, well, I’ll be around. Then again, I’ve been busy with practicing my healing. Err… with the war in Frostmaw, I was looking to assist at the clinic,” he shrugged. He then took another swig of the beer before listening to the band, very upbeat, but then again, no women. He would only shake his head with a smile that rested on his drink as he took a few more gulps. “Ah, mermaids. Interesting creatures – beautiful ones, honestly. I’ve only encountered a few. Wish I can spend my days more on the sea, but sadly I’m usually stuck in snow.” He then grinned. “The music is good. What mermaid could deny this?”

Hudson nods in concerted agreement with Sargaso and Ansel, his brows pulling down as if in concentration. The cuteness of freckles being now conclusively established, Hudson takes the opportunity to insert himself into the next beer pong game. Perhaps it's the inescapable party vibe of the tune. Perhaps it's the lack of women to talk to. In any event, he finds himself sucked in to a rather spirited match of beer pong and imbibing further alcohol. "I have a mermaid story for you, when I'm a bit drunker," he promises to Ansel. Truth is Huds is rather rapidly careening toward a feral male state of drunkenness, and so the story is told to Ansel and the beer pong table within minutes: after a night out drinking, Hudson had collapsed on the beach and woken up to find himself staring in the face of a mermaid who had demanded that he sing to her, because apparently he had been drunkenly wailing the night before. The punchline is, "Of course I indulged her, it was an offer I couldn't refuse." It's his turn to toss the beer pong ball again, and the band picks up on Ignition (remixed with pan flutes, as noted). The beer pong players trade dramatic stories that make the tellers seem more impressive than is credible. Lo and behold, a (npc) woman arrives at their party! Huds mistakenly thinks that the tide is turning in their favor - sausagefest this will be no more! Except, just as quickly, a centaur - whom neither he nor Sargaso invited - arrives as a "friend of a friend" of one of their acquaintances. And that centaur promptly engages the woman in conversation, its massive bulk somewhat blocking the door to boot. Hudson and his beer pong partner - and possibly all men in attendance at this party - mentally form a cartel for the purpose of silently hating this centaur. Come on!?!? Who invited that guy!??!? Hudson, who is likewise bobbing in place to the band feat. mermaids, remarks on Sargaso trying to slip out past the centaur. "He's probably taking a piss," Hudson remarks to Ansel. "Bathroom is outside. This place's a dump."

Eimhir entered the shack just behind the centaur, hidden away by his equine rump and overall bulk. After a while of humming and hawing, debating where to go and what to do, the rag wearing girl finally steps away from the centaur’s rump and becomes visible to the rest of the party goers. Not that she’s really paying attention to them. Her big puppy dog eyes are too busy browsing the state of the shack. Or land palace. She’s lived her life at sea, she’s never been on the land until now! Oh, if only Lysander could see it. He’d probably tell her to be cautious, to be careful and wary of these people. But she’s too enraptured by the shack-palace to notice. She wanders around in a daze, a little cup pressed into her hand. She knows this is a liquid the men aboard the ship like. The girl wandered around aimlessly, drawn to shiny objects!

Sargaso makes it a point to take one for the cartel and bump the centaur’s side as he passes him on his way out. His drunkeness clouds his better judgment, and the only thing saving his face from a hoofing is the hypnotic spell the woman’s ample breasts have cast upon the lusty (and, if you’re into pecs and great hair and perfectly symmetrical faces, then fine, whatever, he’s handsome) centaur (who may also be a werewolf, but that’s another story). Just as he exits on the left side of the centaur, Eimhir, the second chick of the evening, enters on the right side of the centaur. Sargaso stumbles towards the outhouse, but doesn’t bother to go inside. With his back to the shack, he relieves himself against the outhouse;s exterior wall. In the midst of this bathroom break, body listing gently towards the call of the mermaids masked by the band’s cover of Get Low, he has an epiphany: Chicks dig the beach. They’d have better luck there. He rejoins the party, cramped now with the beer pong table and centaur taking up most of the floorspace, and sneaks over to Hudson, Sargaso, and his salty mates. He whispers, boxing out the centaur from his plot, “We should move to the beach. Chicks love the beach.” This is when he notices Eimhir. His spine stiffens and straightens, shoulders square, chest puffs just a little. In any other sitting, the girl in rags is slim pickings for the most beta men of the group, but in this setting, she’s the queen of the party. “Hey.” He’s cool as a sea cucumber. “I’m Sargaso. What’s up?”

Ansel finishes his beer rather quickly. The drunker, the better he always thought, so he made his way to the cooler for another beer. Frosted fingertips keeping the drink chill. Just a little magical practice for fun – this faded quickly. He then would move his way next to Huds, cheering the man on, drinking whenever he would have to for support, listening to the story. “What a pleasure to meet her, eh,” he would give a slap on his back, not too hard, only in a playful manner – dude manner. As the woman enters, he was not too much phased because the sausage that was in the room, and yes, the centaur was obnoxious. Overly manly for Ansel. Ansel was plain, a little scruffy because the lack of shave for that day, but lean and plain. As the other girl entered the shack, he would look to Hudson. “Looks like you’re right, music is too good. We may not be luring in mermaids, but… aye,” he would gesture to the woman attracted to shiny objects casually and lifting his drink to his lips before turning his gaze back to the beer pong table. This might be Ansel’s last post, but Ansel is still here (npc). He will just be getting drunk at the beer pong table, outside by the band, or in random corners of the night. The narrator welcomes the other narrators to make Ansel do random drunk things. (ooc- I have to get ready for work. =( Have fun, guys. Hudson, we should RP again because I like your character! And Sargaso, we definitely have to RP soon too. Eimhir, I’m so sorry we didn’t get a chance, and I hope to RP soon! Also, all these posts cracked me up. I dig it. Alright, peace. <3)

Hudson glances over in the direction of the lone party female and the centaur now and then. He tells himself it's to make sure that the centaur doesn't carry her off against her will. Seriously, who invited this joker? Has he got a manbun? Hudson wonders, squinting during one of his prolonged glances in that direction. Yes. That is a manbun. Ugh. Ansel draws his attention by mentioning the presence of the second woman attending their party, and Hudson follows the other man's gaze to Eimhir, who is roaming about in shabby clothing and drinking by herself. Everyone is simultaneously pretending not to notice her presence, but all are aware of her. (Not unlike a silent but deadly fart, except... in a good way.) "I should probably introduce her, as host," he begins to say to Ansel, but before he can pry himself away from his beer pong, he watches Sargaso rock up to the girl to do just that. Well, no sense in robbing his roommate. In a show of roommately support, Huds waves to Sargaso, offering him a rather conspicuously goofy grin. He extricates himself from this round of beer pong and fishes through the alcohol stash. May as well drink some of the sparkling rose he'd made for the ladies (ladies love sparkling rose). He serves himself, glancing intermittently at his roommate's progress. The band strikes up further Party Tunes such as "Get Low" in the meantime. Two of the dudes on the same side of the beer pong table are dancing, not together, but beside each other, and with a certain amount of side eye for the level of drunkenness, Hudson past Sargaso and Eimhir, clamping the former on the shoulder in a supportive manner. He makes his way outside, drawn out by the mermaid song and also the need to piss. Like a wild animal attracted to the scent of urine, basically, he follows Sargaso's lead and pees against the outhouse wall.

Eimhir has seen sea cucumbers. They spurt when distressed. She hopes Sargaso isn’t the same. “Up’s the opposite of down, you tiddlywink,” her voice is quiet and mousy, barely above a whisper without her intending it to be. She was just quietly spoken, but playful like a puppy. Her tiddlywink comment served, the girl looks Sargaso over. “You smell of pee,” she pointed out, “and that gold-drink. Do you like the gold-drink? I’ve never tried it before. Is it nice?”

Sargaso does everything he can to keep his smile from failing. Eimhir’s response slugs him in the groin like an iceberg into the hot engine room of a ship. He should have known the girl in rags isn’t a smart and sexy hobo, but more likely a recent escapee of the Cenril Asylum. Given the slim selection of broads and the 6th empty beer bottle in Sargaso’s wake, he would have contented himself to try his luck with a crazy chick, but then she says he smells like pee and he a man can’t stomach an insult like that. On sober legs, he’s glide out of there on a graceful excuse. Too bad for Eimhir she joined the sausage fest long after the men gave up on women and turned to alcohol for comfort instead. “Yea, and you sound like an idiot.” He keeps his voice low, his grace drowned but not dead to the world — yet. He swaggers over to the three fishermen, completely ignoring the centaur and his date, and announces “Let’s go to the beach. There’s more chicks there.” It takes him a second to figure out which heads are doubles and which are real; they’re one stooge short of a slapstick troupe. “Where’s Huds?” He starts to stagger outside shouting, “Huds! We’re going to the beach!” The band plays a lute laden cover of Fireball, original composition by Pupbull, Mr. Hollow-wide. You adds, cause he forgot again, that if Eimhir looks at the ceiling, she'll see a seal-skin kayak hanging upside down from the ceiling.

Hudson having emptied his bladder against the outhouse wall, takes a moment to blearily stare at his handiwork. Maybe he should have tried to go into the outhouse....... no. That would have been too difficult. And like that, any thought of propriety fizzles pretty abruptly. He drinks from his pink bubbly drink - for he had brought it with him - and staggers back toward the band and the main scene of the party. In time for the band to launch into "Fireball" and for Sargaso and his three friends to stagger past. "Right on!" shouts Hudson to them, even though there's no need to shout at somebody who's only paces away. The centaur and his lady date -- why didn't they just go home together and leave already? -- are still blocking the door, so Hudson finds himself bumping into Eimhir, left alone, on his way back inside. "Hi, I'm Hudson, I also live here," he introduces himself to the shabbily dressed woman. He endeavors to be helpful host: "Do you ah, want to play beer pong? I'm going to play beer pong."

Eimhir didn’t know what beer pong was but she was keen to play. There were no fun and games aboard the Nautilus, save the fun she made with Lysander: piggy back rides, thumb wrestling, silly little games with the most grumpy of krakens. “I want to play,” she nodded eagerly, “but I don’t know how. Will you show me? I’m very good at games. I’m quick,” all was confessed quite proudly. Eimhir was light and quick, an able thief and playful soul. Likely due to her selkie nature; seals being like the dogs of the sea. Not quite man’s best friend, but mischief makers.

Callamyre wandered along the beach, content with listening to the waves slap against the shore; her mind was a million miles away, it seemed, as she replayed recent events over and over again in her head. However, she began to slowly pull herself into her surroundings as she began to hear music up ahead. The woman hesitated, having planned on spending the evening alone with her thoughts, but something about the song ensnared her curiosity, and she found herself approaching the beachside party. A bit of panic welled up in her, and she nearly formed a large roundabout of the hovel if not for the fact that from amongst this very same party, she recognized the scent and heartbeat of at least two of the partygoers; somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind, she thought she recognized Hudson, faintly as she has never actually met the man, but he had, in fact, been present the first time she had been caught up in Seaborn intrigue -- despite that, it was actually Eimhir’s presence which inspired a soft gasp from the woman. It had not occurred to her that she would happen across the selkie shoreside, and a small smile began to spread across her lips. Nevertheless, two familiar souls was not enough to strengthen the woman against her ever present anxiety in gatherings of any size. In the end, the woman stood awkwardly just beyond the scope of the party itself, uncertain of whether to make herself known or to divert her path along a different route.

Sargaso can’t stay in the cramped shack any longer and pushes past the centaur and his lady, trailing Ansel and two of the three fishermen. The third stays behind with Hudson at the mention of beer pong. He’s a bit of a beer pong aficionado, and tries to impress Eimhir by chiming in with pro-tips as Hudson presumably explains the game. Sargaso and his posse carry a crate of warm ale with them as they walk in the sand, swaying and unaware, towards the shore, towards Callamyre. They sit several yards away from the tideline, where a boardwalk would be if they were in a nice neighborhood. Spotting Callamyre, they wave her over, calling once “Open party,” but they don’t insist. They’re too drunk now to insist on anything but more beer. Bottles pop open, and men drink as the bard behind them introduces the next song with a mechanical, deep spoken lyric: Music make you lose control, music make you lose control. Sargaso mouths the second repetition and nods his head forward emphatically as the bass drops. This, apparently, is his jam. Beneath the fast-spoken, punchy lyrics “I got a cute face, chubby waist” is a siren’s counter tempo crooning. Closer to the shore, the men fall under its spell more deeply, and it’s Sargaso who says, “Let’s go for a swim.”

Aptera as it happened was among the gaggle of mermaids trying to lure those poor drunk men to their fate among the crashing waves. It was hard to deny such a tempting invitation, especially when her last attempt at a meal had ended with...less blood than she would have preferred, if she was being honest about the encounter. Slick, red locks were laced with curls and shells, trying to dress the monster of a sea creature up as if she might be a lady of some sort. Certainly her siren's song was doing it's best to draw the drunken fools closer to her grisly claws. And the gods seem to be acknowledging her efforts as some of those aforementioned men wobble down the sandy shore in her direction. "Yoooo hooo!" she calls sweetly with her second part of vocal chords, the first set still cranking out her siren's serenade. "Aren't you boys going to invite me to the party?" When her lips part, a sharp maw of razor teeth flashed in the moon light.

Hudson waves Eimhir toward the beer pong table, where the men eagerly make room for her, seeing as she's one of few women at this embarrassing party. Someone helps team Hudson-Eimhir rack the cups for a fresh round, and Hudson makes an occasion out of it by fetching some sparkling rose, which he uses to fill the cups on their side. "So basically you throw this ball," he nods at the ball resting by their triangle of cups, "into one of the cups over there. If you make it, they drink the cup and it gets taken away. And you get to throw again. You throw until you miss, then it's their go. The side that loses all their cups is the losing side." This explanation comes in the cadence of somebody who's already had a few and expects that the rules of beer pong should be self-evident. But then again, perhaps they are. The men nod at Hudson from across the table, and he begins the match by lobbing the ball a little too roughly over at the other side. Miss. Alas, he is not a wee bit sloshed; his form could stand to improve. It would be Eimhir's turn after that, and presumably she would have the gist of the game after that first round. The band begins to play this "Missus Elliot" tune per Sargaso's post, and the beer pong table becomes a little less wooden and sad. Shapes are thrown after points scored, fists pumped, high fives given, oaths of retribution made, etcetera. In truth, the game would proceed much the same way most beer pong games proceed. (oocly Leaving that open ended for Eimhir's RPer, as she has jetted!) Hudson extracts himself at some point and notices that the centaur and his female companion have bolted. Everyone has a lot of theories about that, and Hudson gets an earful as he rummages about the kitchen and begins snacking on the random stuff he finds in there. Hot sauce with dried seaweed? Yes please. This is happening right now, on the couch. Tiny flakes of seaweed end up in the couch cushions. While he's attempting to clean the mess he's made, Hudson discovers an artbook of erotic mermaid images shoved in there - it's not his - and he promptly returns it to its hiding space, with a mental note to perhaps (when sober) advise Sargaso on better hiding locations.

Krice watched the party from afar, a silhouette against Cenril Proper. Moonlight illuminated his silver hair and glinted off the sheen of his katana scabbard with micro-movements caused by the warrior shifting his weight. Though he was too far away to be considered part of the gathering, and too far to hear details of conversations, the warrior got the basic idea behind the interactions farther down on the beach. As he scanned the shoreline, Krice noted the men drunkenly wobbling their way toward the water, unified in their desire to approach whatever creatures lurked within its depths. Aptera was obscured by the men, disabling the warrior's ability to see her from his vantage point. Rather than intervene on behalf of the drunks, the man continued to observe at a distance, with intermittent glances toward Hudson and his tabletop game, and Sargaso and others.

Sargaso jerks his attention towards the woman’s voice. He was totally right, dude, chicks love the beach. The unlikeliness that a nude woman swims alone under a new moon eludes his drunk logic. Instead, 2 and 2 makes 5 for this sloshed scamp, and he senses in his soul that this is a gift from Selene. A thank you for his years of service. “Lean back, lean back, lean back, lean back” shouts the bard in his competent cover of the Horror Brigade’s one known song; but Sargaso does not heed this warning. In the middle of Ansel’s rambling about snow or kids or some war in Frostmaw or whatever, he rises like a man possessed and staggers a few paces forward. “Hey, miss. Of course you’re invited to the party.” He stoops low to fish out an ale from the crate, almost falling over in the process, and playing off the stumble like some wacky game, then walks alone closer to the shore. His companions, too drunk to figure out this is obviously a mermaid, give Sargaso the space necessary to put his moves on this perfectly-normal sexy swimmer.

Aptera draws as close as she draws to the shore, arms outstretched to receive Sargaso as he brings her a glass bottle of some sort. His stance is staggered, his speech skewed; she grins at the perfect mix of luck and radiant she carried with her to this outting. "Is that a drink for me?" Her voice pitches high, sounding bashful and equally thankful. "Do you have a date to this party handsome? I'd love to be seen on your arm..." The mermaid continues to coo, nails almost able to bite into the male's arm as he nears her...her smile will widen when he is within reach and she'll do her best to draw him under the waves with her.

Hudson is feeling a little worse for wear, and puts his head between his knees as the world rather abruptly lurches around him. "Lean back, lean back" sounds like solid advice right now, except he can't bring himself to follow it. He doesn't even feel like moving to get water, which might have been a prudent course of action. "Uugggghhh," he groans to himself, and slides off the couch onto the floor, which is blissfully...cool, against his cheek? So blissfully cool. It's beastly hot, and he feels nauseated. With a grunt, Huds pulls his shirt off and rolls onto his back. He's somewhat in the middle of the room, spread out like a snow angel. People playing beer pong have to step around him a little. He can see Krice in the distance, and he tries to use Krice as a stable object to stop making the world spin. Someone brings him water, and Huds watches himself stretch an arm toward it, flexing his fingers. So far away. Perhaps he'd better just sleep... a little...

Krice was too far away for regular eyes to detect his expression, especially in the dark, but his casual right-leg lean might have been an indication of noncommittal observer. He didn't judge the people on the beach for their excessive drinking, though neither was he rushing to assist the woozy Hudson, nor to prevent Sargaso and the other drunks from wandering into the ocean. Everyone knew of the danger lurking in the waters between Cenril and Rynvale, and it wasn't his job to police them, nor to protect them from it. Thus, once he had fully grasped the situation with calculative eye-sweeps, the warrior turned to move northward along the wall, seeking an unoccupied space of beach - or returning to the city.

Aptera comes on strong, and this only reinforces Sargaso’s suspicion that this is a divine gift from on high — or better said, from on deep in the ocean. He kicks off his boots just beyond the crashing waves and wades into the water without bracing himself against their strength. The water is at hip length just as he reaches out to give the alluring lady an ale. He is a “1, 2 Step” away from the mermaid, as the by uncannily prescient cover band (and Missus Elliot enthusiasts) shout into the moonless sky, when the first of three atypically large and strong waves send him tumbling back on his dumb, drunk ass. Perhaps this is Selene’s true gift, perhaps it is the unpredictably of nature, or perhaps separating the two is a fool’s errand. Either way, Sargaso flails in the white foam and gritty black of up-churned sand. His friends shout from the beach and rush the shore, but this player won’t assume what Ansel does. His player said we can NPC him, but deciding whether or not Ansel rushes to Sargaso’s aid is a bit too much! So Ansel does whatever Ansel would do, save or not. One of the two fishermen run back to the shack, shouting that the sea sucked out Sargaso. He trips over the passed-out Hudson, shins landing on the alchemist’s stomach, then gets right up with the sure-footedness of a man who spends more hours drunk than sober. He grabs rope from Sargaso’s sailing gear and rushes back to beach, his pace slowed by alcohol, to try and throw a line to the super charmed idiot.

Fairfax is lured to the Cenrilian shore by her sisters' songs, driven to the surface by the thrill of the potential hunt. She doesn't add her voice to the fray; song has never been her strong suit, anyway. She surfaces with a degree of caution, first, breaching the water just past her eyes, which coolly scan the scene in front of her as her hair fans out across the surface of the water. Loud music ... she's loosely calling it music ... drowns out some of her sisters' songs, making them less potent to their potential catches. She dips below and maneuvers closer, fearlessly surfacing near the shoreline to better take in the scene of drunken revelry.

Hudson has a brief dream that he is sleeping in a comfortable but very firm bed (how meta), when one of the fishermen trips over his stomach. Dream-Hudson is ejected from the comfort of his mattress, and real-Hudson wakes with a start, clutching his midsection. He dry-heaves belatedly, as one does, and then promptly clambers to his feet and bolts in a jagged line out of the house, afraid that the next time won't just be a test of the emergency vomit systems. In so doing, he careens into one of the fishermen, and they both faceplant into the sand. Seeing as he is drunk, this does not hurt, and Hudson pulls himself upright to stagger over to the crew that's rescuing Sargaso. "What's going on!" he slurs, wondering if he might vomit inadvertently. Surely not, right? He certainly feels like the risk is there... And he certainly would like to go in the water something awful. His eyes lift, and, spying female bodies swimming about in the (maybe?) nude, he cries out, "You guys let me pass out in the kitchen! Come on!" And promptly curls inwardly to himself, being sick off to the side.

Krice fully intended to depart, but as a scene erupted behind him, he halted and glanced toward the beach. After only a few seconds of contemplation, the man must have deduced that, despite his distance from the party, he could assist the possibly almost-drowning Sargaso more efficiently than his intoxicated pals. During Hudson's recollected consciousness and subsequent complaint of the loss of it, or at least the location in which he passed out, the silver-haired man moved silently through the night, moonlight more effectively announcing his presence by reflecting off his head in a silver halo. He bent, booted feet splashing into the tide as he rushed to Sargaso's aide. How the man had covered such a distance so quickly was a mystery--vampirism, perhaps? Enchanted boots?--but he did it, and as he assisted the fallen man's comrades until they could pull him clear of the water, Krice turned his attention to the females lurking just a little deeper in. " Don't go into the water," he called back to the other men, though whether or not they would listen was another matter. Reaching up, the warrior gripped the hilt of his back-mounted katana but did not withdraw the weapon yet, hoping his preparatory gesture was enough to dissuade the mermaids from attack.

Callamyre had left some time ago, carefully eluding the attentions of the party, but the truth was, she had merely disappeared past the dunes to feed, and now that she was fully-refreshed, she returned to the shore, finding the party had gone quite beyond what she previously expected. Cheeks flushed from her private endeavors, she moved toward the waterline, her boots sinking into the sand with each step. As she arrived nearby, however, it occured to her that things were quite amiss; Eimhir was gone, but new, unfamiliar seaborn creatures were in the water, attempting to lure partygoers into the sea, and her steps hastened. A quick sweep of the area brought Calla to the conclusion that the things had definitely gone astray of their intended gaeity, and a sharp frown took hold of her freckled facade. Although her dress hem was collecting sand and ocean water, the last thing she considered was how her appearance might become mussed as she rushed forward, hazels switching between Hudson and Sargasong, before fixating on the more familiar warrior: Krice. She felt her throat and chest get tight with his presence, but now was not the time for delicate emotions. “Don’t hurt them!” she called out, trudging down the shore until she was sloshing through the waves, briny water seepi up her skirts to her knees and thighs. “Krice--” The urgency of her plea had nothing to do with the wellspring of confliction she experienced near the silver-haired man, and entirely based upon the fragile rapport she held with Seaborn folk. Lysander had told her to keep people away from them, and she now felt it was her duty to uphold such a request. Fairfax may be unfamiliar to her, but the scientist had taken it upon herself to act as diplomatic liaison, her arms outstretched the closer to grew to Krice. The mermaid’s song was giving her a headache, and she swirled about in the water, causing small eddies to form in her wake as she searched for the source of the disastrous song.

Sargaso is grabbed and roped and pulled with ease by the squad of rescue men, only one of whom is actually lending his strength to the task at hand (thanks, Krice). Dead weight + water weight + drunk weight, it isn’t an easy task, but the men manage to put distance between themselves and the mermaids. Sargaso’s feet drag in the wet sand and he coughs up water. As they pass Hudson and the smell of vomit reaches Sargaso, he coughs up some of that too, just like his buddy Huds. Sick house warming party, dude. By now the band has stopped, leaving only the mermaids’ song and the ocean to fill their ears. Some of the drunk men abandon their buddy and start to drift out towards the ocean. Sargaso, thankfully, is too exhausted by his last ‘swim’ to find the legs to obey the sirens.

Fairfax hums under her breath -- no siren's song, just a quiet noise of contemplation as she observes the revelries. The cacophony of the band dissipates. Her sisters' song reaches a fever pitch, resulting in the quick disappearance of a lovesick, seasick party goer. The haunting song ceases. Fairfax looks over her shoulder at the ripples and bubbles emerging from below and her stomach growls. Ah, well. There are others, here. She takes the opportunity of the confusion surrounding Sargaso's rescue to approach closer. She recognizes a few in the fray -- Hudson and Krice, namely. But it is Callamyre that captures her attention, perhaps from her appeal, perhaps because it is so infrequently women who storm the surf upon a mermaid sighting as it is men. She navigates closer, an eye on Callamyre, curiosity in that velvety stare, but it is Hudson whom she nears, approaching him with a silky, "Hi. Here I am at your party." She sniffs, nostrils flaring. There is an unpleasant smell and it is enough to make her contemplate leaving to go feast with her kin.

Hudson wonders if he's just hallucinated the speed at which Krice joined them. It takes him a second to piece together the Trojan horse that's been presented to them. Those were not random ladies skinny dipping in the water. They are definitively mermaids, judging by the defensive stance Krice has taken. Hudson makes like a cat and kicks sand over his vomit, at the same time trying to make protestations that may fall on deaf ears. "Don't hurt them!" he cries unhappily, inadvertently in unison with Callamyre. "They don't know it's wrong!" he adds. Hudson: On The Morality Of Mermaids. And then rather suddenly the maddening song stops and Fairfax addresses him, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, it's so disorienting, especially to a drunk person. "Fairfax! Tell your friends to not--" he looks about to ensure that everyone's accounted for. A little hard to tell, what with the blurring. He thinks... not. However. He looks at Fairfax like she has three heads, which she very well might, at least to him, under the circumstances. It occurs to him that mermaids aren't just random hot babes who hang out on beaches, but that she and her friends may have literally consumed his beer pong partner. He cannot even describe the emotion this conjures out of him. Terror, perhaps? He looks at Fairfax with wide eyes, his expression rather blanched. "Our friend. Your friends... they have... he's...?" Hudson looks frantically to Krice, for confirmation.

Krice shot a glance over his shoulder, toward that familiar voice pleading that he not hurt the mermaids. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword but he still did not draw it. With Hudson's input spoken over Callamyre's, the warrior called a reply to them both, though his eyes were on the latter. " I won't harm them," he insisted, though the hand lingering on his katana suggested that he'd intervene with the mermaids if they tried to attack first. Krice's moon-purpled eyes softened slightly before the weight of the situation took over forethought and he once more shored up his internal walls. He looked over the faces of the gathered sea-creatures, and it wasn't until the party band ceased their music that he was more susceptible to the siren's song. He blinked, squinted, and felt a distant pull in his chest that was difficult to ignore. He fought it - until a violent splash and cessation of that song drew his mind back to reality and he blinked his gaze clear. A moment of uncertainty struck him. Had the mermaids snagged someone in their trap? He looked around, realized by Hudson's terror that they must have, and his jaw tightened as uncertainty slithered up his spine. Callamyre's nearness reminded him that danger was still in the air and he turned, approaching her through the waters with his right hand seeking her left wrist. " Don't. Just--" His directions remained unfinished as he intended to guide the vampire away from the deeper waters, thereafter pausing to watch Fairfax's advance toward another party. She wouldn't be able to reach Hudson unless Hudson was close enough to grasp from the water's edge. Finally relinquishing his hold on the vampire, assuming she didn't evade or break free, the silver-haired man called across the beach to the mermaid's intended target - though it could have been received by everyone -, " Step back - get away from the water!" Hudson's inquiring eyes received him a grim shake of the head, nothing more. He didn't want to create mass panic amongst the intoxicated men. Of course, there was a chance that the drunkards would throw beer bottles - empty and not - at the mermaids, at which point Krice would step in again, but for now, he remained by Callamyre's side.'

Callamyre had not expected the sort of reaction she ended up garnering from Fairfax, and she found herself momentarily paused in her foray among the waves, soaked boots slowly sinking in the sand below as the undercurrent buried her. “Wh-- … what?” she mumbled, swaying for a moment. She was not usually swayed by the Seaborn creatures she had met so far, but then again, they did not usually approach her with such an ensnaring stare. Calla sucked in a shaky breath, then whooshed it back out as she felt the woman’s hold on her fade, Fairfax’s attentions diverted to Hudson. Feeling a firm, familiar grip around her wrist, she turned back to see Krice, and for a moment, she felt as if her heart might skip a beat, if it beat at all these days. Her lips curled into quick, uncertain smile, but it held little weight as the waves continued to push her to and fro. Snapping out of her secondary reverie, she shook her head adamantly at the silver-haired warrior, and replied, “No! I-- I have to help, Krice. I have to.” It had not yet occurred to the scientist that she was way over her head with these seafolk, and her drive to help them compelled her to pull her wrist smoothly from Krice’s grip. Stumbling toward Hudson, each step bringing her closer to Fairfax as well, she reached out with her left hand: as she did, the water before her began to dip lower and lower, forming a canyon between two sides of brine. Pushing the air between the shore and the ocean forward, it extended, growing greater and wider as it stretched outward between Hudson and the Seaborn. “Sir!” she called to the former as she hoped her waterless wall would reach them in time to prevent them from being able to touch each other. To Fairfax, she expressed urgently, “You and your friends should go.” A beat later, she clarified, “It is not safe-- it is not safe for *you*.” Another beat as she continued to try making her way to Hudson or Fairfax in time. “You have to go,” the woman repeated, warily looking back and forth along the shoreline, hoping to the gods that the Nautilus was in port and not roaming the seas. “You’re not safe here.”

Sargaso sinks into the dry sand, and blinks four times at the scene unfolding before him. One. Lorca, the beer pong expert, is dragged under the waves. Two. A woman in the water speaks to the terrified Hudson. Three. Another woman parts the seas. Four. Lights out. Sargaso’s body falls unconscious so that his body may better fight the alcohol. The beach spins with Sargaso at its center. Hudson may at some point be able to drag Sargaso back to the shack, or if not, Sargaso will pass out here and awake with the cry of the gulls. For now he rests peacefully unaware of the tragedy that befell them today, of Lorca’s death.

Fairfax is sorely disappointed that everyone is shouting because she is fairly certain this is not how land walkers conduct land walker parties. Someone had either a) been lying to her or b) this is some ceremonial thing of which she is unaware. She debates joining in on the shouting when the water starts to move and it is not by her command or her hand, and certainly not by any other of her seafaring kin. She's separated from Hudson, who's invited her to this late night soiree, driven back by the strange chasm, the waterless waterway. Dark eyes settle back on Callamyre whom she deduces to be the cause of this supernatural event. "I was invited," she informs the vampire darkly. She drifts away, heading back toward open water and away from Hudson, but not before reminding them all, "I was invited." That hooded gaze seeks Krice and she levels on him a stare that suggests he is responsible for this event, this evident 'un-invitation' she believes has taken place (when really, all parties are just concerned about keeping all surviving parties alive, on both sides of the line). But the mermaid feels slighted, and there's no coming back from that -- at least not for a few hours. She flicks her tail and disappears beneath the surface of the water.

Hudson gets all the confirmation he needs out of Krice's wordless response. Even though she hadn't been directly involved, he flinches away from Fairfax. You think you know someone... until their friends eat your friend! RIP Lorca. He is made immobile by the confusion that rips right through him, and only does Callamyre rouse him out of it. Or perhaps it's the other two sailors, now roused themselves, who bodily yank Hudson back. It seems Fairfax has rather wisely decided to excuse herself too. "Thanks," says Hudson to Krice and Callamyre, as he yields to better judgment and falls back to Sargaso, passed out on the beach. He helps the two surviving fishermen pick him up. Things are silent like a funeral after that as the men carry Sargaso back to the shack. As they pass Krice and Callamyre, Hudson inclines his head. His expression is set in a grim line, somewhere between grief - he'd literally just met that guy this evening! - and white terror, having come to face with mortality. Presumably once they all hit the shack, they pass out. Or try to.

Krice 's fingers relaxed as Callamyre pulled free, though his instincts told him to rush after her. He jerked forward as if to pursue and stop the vampire, but rather than interfering with her bid to assist the mermaids, he sensed her magic at work, -saw- it working on the space between the seaborn and the humans, and promptly left the tide for the safety of the beach. Standing just shy of the water's reach, he observed Callamyre as she used her ability, watching with minor intrigue--intrigue because he hadn't seen such a thing from her before, and 'minor' due to other things that needed his focus; like the confused, terrified, or passed out drunkards on the beach; like the mermaid who ensnared him with her judgmental gaze. The look he gave in return was one of guarded apology and clear confusion. Did she -blame- him for being separated from the party? Whatever the case, the silver-haired man relaxed more noticeably once Hudson and friends had seen to Sargaso and began moving toward their shack, thus -away- from the ocean. As they passed, the warrior's gilded gaze settled on the more coherent male in the party group and he dipped his head, an offer of farewell - though the 'well' part might escape them given such a harsh ending to their party. Only once the men were several paces away did Krice return his gaze to the split waters, which presumably would slosh back into place once Callamyre relinquished her magical hold - circa the seaborn disappearing for the night. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he adopted an expression of contemplative unease.