ph_logs | Mingle - Emergency Potluck

Dahlia Leeds, a member of town council and the daughter of the town's founder, can be found accepting dish donations and arranging them on the serving table. Need help? She'll probably be running around the whole time. But if you're lucky you can also catch her sitting down to eat!

Dr. West is going out of his way to greet newcomers and hand out pamphlets for his business, making them aware of his mental health practice. West Dream Analytics, according to this brochure, is both a regular talk therapy office and a dream and sleep therapy practice. He advertises something very unique called "dreamwalking." Perhaps you have questions.

Outside of this, he can be found at a table near the edge of town square away from the bulk of people, most likely seated with his partner, Jon Sims. But he's always happy to chat.

Bark Bark Bark! || [Open To All, yes, you too, you especially.]

She's so fluffy. So fluffy, you don't even know, except you do know, she's right there in front of you and giving you a knowing smile like you could tell her anything. Or perhaps she expects you to give her food.

Amaterasu could get her own food. This would be allowed, most of the people here already know...

But it's more fun this way.

This is how Amaterasu welcomes in all these new faces, and more importantly, how she's greeting you.

Edited 2024-03-06 02:20 (UTC)

One of the new faces to arrive is a woman who is gazing at nearly everything with a mix of wariness but some relief. She doesn't need too much prompting to get a plate, choosing a bit of anything that looks good regardless of whether it goes together. Naturally, though, arms bump and apologies are murmured, or she's taken a seat somewhere that either her back or one of her sides is covered. She can't be too careful, particularly when trying culinary combinations or devoid of any weapons beyond whatever knives are provided to eat with.

After food, there's other opportunities for conversation, be it the intrigue of one of the crowd or how she's carefully touching some of the buildings as if they were illusions to crumble later. Solid ground, and her magic in her system - she briefly winces when the usual headache spikes, but it can't stop her. Free air. Even if it comes at cost. One thing is for certain in the rush of all this newness - this world is alive in a way the previous was not, and in that, one can gain some ground.

[ooc: feel free to wildcard it, Fever will just be all over the square!]

A potluck! He loves potlucks. But, oh, stress. He didn't make anything. He knows the sign said new people don't need to bring anything but he feels deep shame in his midwestern bones for showing up empty-handed all the same. Maybe he can offer to wash the dishes? Or serve! Yeah, he can do that.

So, behold, one of the newcomers fresh off the ferry, standing behind the table with a wooden spoon in-hand offering to help anyone who comes over fill up their plates with whatever looks good. "Hi, I'm Max! What can I help you with?" By the way... where did he get that apron he's wearing?

There's a short and slim-but-muscular woman hovering at the edges of the event, eyeing the array of food warily with strange yellow eyes. From a distance she could be mistaken for human, but up close it's hard to miss the split pupils, or the claws, or the flashes of too-big teeth whenever her lips part. Even the way she holds herself somehow seems animalistic. Predatory.

It doesn't quite align with how uneasy she seems. Or maybe it does, if you can see her for what she is: the captive beast, released suddenly into an unfamiliar wilderness.

Despite looking at the food like it might bite her, and the unfamiliar people like they might do just the same, she sticks around. Everyone gets a once-over, but those who get closer are followed by an uncanny stare that never breaks until they've passed her by.

Those who chose to sit nearby, or approach directly, don't get told to shove it, nor do they provoke Daisy to get up and walk away, but she will look at them like she's extremely confused by their choices.

[ OOC: Daisy has a supernaturally heightened sense of smell that also picks up people's Fears, as seen through the lens of her world. Permissions related to this are here, you can opt-out of her picking anything up at all or opt-in and let me know what you think she might get. ]

John is still…having a bit of a rough time adjusting to being back. Work helps, the whole Merrymeet thing—well it wasn’t bad, but he never meant to even go.

This is no exception, he learns about the potluck but he’s planning to visit Co at the farm and head home after work.

…but the thing is, it’s a bad day. It’s a really bad day, and he’s self aware enough to know that going home to sit alone in his place is a bad fucking idea.

So he just…hovers. He wanders around, can’t bring himself to eat anything despite the smells in the air (good, all good, good enough he reminds himself about two dozen times about the leftover stew back at his place when he’s done failing at being social), and takes note of the new faces. He sees a couple he knows, a few that are familiar…

But after three years and a lot more bullshit to contend with, he can’t quite trust his memory enough to approach anyone.

Spot the commando ghost on the fringes? Go. Talk to him. This sack is sad and needs friends.

Potluck. Oh. That's a little tricky for him. He hasn't cooked anything since...wait! He still has some of his homemade fudge stored in the freezer. For some reason (a very good reason) no one wanted to sample any more of it after Givingstide. This is the perfect opportunity to get rid of--er--share it. Yes.

"Mmm, there..." he says, awkwardly placing it on the end of the dessert table and sort of fussing with which direction to face the pan. It's still frozen right now but surely it will thaw out quickly. Right?

One of the newer arrivals is lingering on the edge of everything with the wary look of a feral cat.

No, that's not quite it. It's more...the look of a dog dropped off at the shelter after being told he's been a Very Bad Boy. He's here for the food, but seems hesitant about approaching the table and making himself a plate.

Still, if you walk by carrying something that looks really good, his gaze might follow for a moment or three longer than is normal.

What to do...

Even in a varied crowd such as this, Siebren stands out. Admittedly, the most obvious way he does this is by being 6'3" and hovering a solid half-foot off the ground, barefoot. So he's tall to rival First Aid, and a fresh face to boot.

He's humming to himself as he waits in line to get food, one hand gesturing as if he's conducting an orchestra. It's a little of a self-soothing gesture; it has been a long time since he's been around a crowd of people, and he's one part scared witless and another part excited and another part certain something's going to fall apart along the way. Still, he'll enjoy this for whatever it is right now.

Unfortunately, he's not paying attention particularly well, and might accidentally hit someone while gesturing for a crescendo. Whoops!

A curious young woman with vibrant pink hair tied loosely into a messy bun approaches the table reverently. In her hand is a wicker basket full of dandelions, nuts, and several types of edible mushrooms. She doesn't seem to quite know what she should do with the bounty she brought and is looking around at others for a hint.

For a few days leading up to the potluck, Marrow Island is haunted by a strange phantom; an image of a very tall, seemingly elfin woman with broad wings, appearing as an outline in the raindrops, a shape in the mist, a trick of the light. She's shouting in English, stabbing at the air with a long, broad sword. For those of the newcomers that understand English, the author will not be transcribing the vile curses the figure is spitting. They are inventive and graphic.

On the day of the potluck though, a hearse festooned with amaranths pulls up to the square while the gathering is in full swing. It slows to a sedate stop, and for a moment nothing happens.

The tall woman who steps out is much different in the flesh; she has to fold massive raven wings to get out the door, moving tattoos of sheet music crawl along her pale arms. Her black hair moves as a cloudy mass, often falling in front of the thick green blindfold on her face.

Surrounding her is a shroud of gunpowder that pops and sizzles in the air jubilantly, like fireworks, shapes of flowers and trees and clouds forming in the haze. For that first moment she's as regal and imposing as an angel.

Then she takes one step and falls flat on her face.

César's Contribution
You can't go wrong with cheese in fried pockets of dough. Or in this case, tortillas that he had to make himself. There are two dishes labeled with their ingredients and Peneques - Mild with the smaller dish labeled Peneques - DANGER: SPICY. Hope you know what spicy is. And if you don't, you soon will.

Quiet Moment
César's looking at the gathered folks with a smile on his face, standing off to the side with his hands on his hips. He just... needs a moment to admire all this. People came together quickly for this.

Edited 2024-03-06 04:57 (UTC)

It's Pronounced "Keesh"

Between the egg production and winter's spinach crop, even though Eddie has since switched to planting for spring vegetables... his contribution to the potluck being a spinach quiche probably isn't a surprise. He's brought two fairly large quiches and places them on the main buffet table. Then he pulls out a knife and starts slicing into one of them. Approach him at this moment and he'll probably serve you. Or just come say hi.

A Breather

Maybe you need some time away from the crowd. Eddie sure does, and he can be found by the carriages and carts -- putting a nosebag on Missy so she can have her own meal as well. He pats at her neck, then gazes back toward the gathering in Town Square.

Like Neil West, First Aid is also behind a table -- in his case, his chair is made of cinderblocks -- handing out pamphlets. These are for the Winterbottom Clinic which, he's happy to explain, he and Chris Freeman inherited from Agnes Winterbottom, the elderly local doctor who was very glad to finally retire.

First Aid is a seven-foot-tall robot, painted white and red-brown with, oddly enough, green moss and spring wildflowers covering both shoulders. His body is somewhat humanoid in proportions (read: his icons aren't a strictly accurate representation because I haven't been able to find a TF artist I like with open commissions, lolsob) but his face is a blank metal plate with a softly glowing blue visor. In contrast to this alien and rather possibly rather intimidating appearance, however, his voice is warm and gentle, sounding surprisingly human as he greets you and offers you a pamphlet.

Would you like to meet him properly?

While Annabel cannot outfit all the newcomers in fresh outfits immediately, when she hears of the potluck, she begins to assemble a small welcome. At the event, she claims a table and lays out embroidered neckties and hand-dyed cravats, ribbons for hair and handkerchiefs, knitted scarves and gloves...

Not much, but enough to allow newcomers to add a little personal flair to their starting outfits.

"I haven't seen you around before. This pocket square would match your eyes, I think."

There is a slender young man with his back to the nearest wall that's tall enough to protect him. He's holding a plate after having quickly gone through and picked a few things here and there, and only barely picking at it. He looks hunted, jumpy, uncomfortable at all of the new people.

If anyone new approaches him, they may see him stiffen up and shuffle an inch away before he catches himself with a soft apology.

From the moment they'd gotten word of the new influx of refugees, Magne had been up at the Oak & Iron, working flat-out to help prepare rooms, move beds around, and help the kitchen staff here and there to fetch what they needed. If someone new wanted to find where they should rest, she'll have done the honors.

At the potluck, she stands beside a couple of things: one huge pot full of steaming, fluffy white rice, and a massive covered dish in which had been layered a lot of pork cutlets, breaded and neatly sliced. A second dish holds chicken katsu for those that aren't able to eat pork.

Notable about her appearance: stubble that denotes she hasn't taken the chance to shave today due to the much more important work of tending the people that need her, a nice peasant blouse under a lovely green and brown leather Edith corset laced to give her a meager figure, and auburn hair tied up behind her head out of her face as she helps to scoop food onto plates for those that want some help.

"Here hun, take a little more. There's plenty to go around."

Sam is not here. He helped get some things set up, and then he fucked off to go back on his normal route. He can be found around the village, or more commonly lately, out in the woods. If you hear someone rattling around up a tree, don't worry. He wants to be there.

At the potluck in his stead is his infant daughter, in the care of one of the myriad babysitters that she's acquired since their arrival here. She has a stuffed rabbit that she clutches and chews at one ear of as she teeths. Is she by herself? Who Put This Baby Here??

Lieutenant Tayrey might presently own nothing but the annoyingly ill-fitting clothes on her back and be utterly incapable of cooking, but there's no chance she'd show up at an event like this expecting a handout. She arrives, therefore, with a big bowl of fruit salad in hand. Hardly Cardalek cuisine, but she did a day of casual labor, she bought the fruit, she cut it up. Fair contract.

It's only after she arrives that she realises it might have been a bad idea. There are familiar faces here, some of them faces that give her a prickly uncomfortable feeling. Her hands start to tremble, and she clasps them together tightly. Tayrey doesn't have her uniform or her weapons or any of the things that she clung to in the long nightmare of her imprisonment. It's troubling.

She forces herself to see the positives. She is strong and healthy again, strong enough to fetch and carry on a construction site all day. No wounds, no scars. Her vision is clear. She has her life, she has her freedom, and she has her pride. All else, she thinks, will follow. There is a way home. So many people would give all they had for this opportunity, so she doesn't get to feel sorry for herself, not for a moment.

Still, she's hesitant. The seat she takes is on the edge of the gathering, in clear sight of an exit, and it's only the total strangers who get a brave, friendly little smile from the young lieutenant. Even then they might notice the tension in the way she holds herself, posture more rigid than it needs to be. One of them might see her point at a dish on the table and ask, quietly, 'Is that made with animal flesh?'

➤ and i find it kind of funny

( steve stares at the spread of food before him with a puzzled expression that somehow manages to convey both his blatant confusion and a tinge of annoyance. but really, who can blame him? he'd been snatched away from a vitally important moment in his life (if "snatched away" means "he fuckin died") and now he's at a potluck like it's his mom's sunday get-together with her friends.

if his mom and her friends lived in some super weird, super old-fashioned place straight out of a movie, anyway.

at the moment there's just one question on his mind: )

I don't get it. If we're dead, why should we have to eat?

➤ i find it kind of sad

( a bit later he's seated with a plate of food, but he's not touching it. to be perfectly honest, his frustration has only grown in the past fifteen minutes or so. he's not hungry — whether that has anything to do with the whole being dead thing or just the fact that it's actually hard to work up an appetite when the entire goddamn floor's just been ripped out from under you, rug and all, he's not sure.

he prods at the scoop of mashed potatoes on his plate, shaping it into something like a miniature volcano with his spoon. perfect for gravy, if he had any. he still doesn't eat, though.

instead, he glances at the person nearest to him and says, )

Yeah, so... the whole "finding a purpose" thing. When do I start that? ( a beat, then, ) Like I'm not trying to be an asshole or anything but I'm kind of on a tight schedule.

➤ it's a very, very mad world (misc.)

( i'm usually a brackets-tagger but i'll match prose. if you wanna do anything else you can hit me up at

commodore! )

Did somebody call for an overly confident mediocre white man?

Well, too bad, you've got one. Here's a dude, who definitely reeks of Wolf (to anyone with a powerful enough nose for these things), pretty much double fisting some meat, with chicken katsu in one hand, and pork katsu in the other.

"You know, when it's all breaded and fried, meat's meat, man." He tears into a cutlet. "You could fuckin' fry up some panda, or like..." He shrugs. "A dodo, or a person or whatever, and I couldn't tell ya if there's anything special about it. It's all meat in the end."

A pause to let that wise, philosophical statement sink in.

"That's why kobe beef's a fuckin' scam."

There's a lanky doctorly fella who brings in a very large flask [chemistry, not beverage] of his world-famous moonshine gin, labelled as such, along with a smaller flask labelled 'Experimental Energy Drink, try at own risk'. This counts as a meal, right?

Otherwise, this is probably the first good meal Hawk has had all winter, and he will be spending the event refilling his plate as many times as he thinks he can get away with.

Wayne is here.

Wayne is here and looking relatively unimposing in the basic clothes he was switched into after an accident in the internal mechanisms of the pool network sent him...elsewhere. If one ignores the shape of his head, he looks otherwise pretty nondescript, holding a plate that he's stacked high with things that don't require silverware. He's quiet, aside from humming to himself around a mouthful of the little tortilla and cheese things, having already shoved one of the hot ones into his mouth without hesitation.

He sees people that he recognizes here. People he hasn't seen in months. He's in the lieu again, he's guessing. He supposes it's better than being stranded alone. He just wishes he hadn't been separated from his Things. He's really feeling the emptiness of his lack of pockets right about now.

QUESTIONS/COMMENTS/CONCERNS

Dahlia Leeds || NPC || OTA

Neil West || NPC || OTA

There Is A Dog At The Potluck

fever (dark urge) | baldur's gate 3 (+crau) | ota