ph_logs | [July/August] Dog Days

[July/August] Dog Days | OTA

Who: River la Croix and YOU

What:
Getting a summer log up god fucking damn it
When:
July & August
Where:
Check prompts
Warning(s): Relationship arguments, potential violence and/or curses, bitching about the heat, and whatever you take with you (check individual posts/threads)

Dying In This Forge | Infernal Arms And Armor

The only mercy about running a smithy during the summer is that River has never had to experience air conditioning and therefore has no idea how much better it could be. The pace of the work here at Infernal Arms and Armor has slowed considerably; every door and window is thrown wide open, hydration and shade breaks are mandatory, and no less than twice a week River's apprentices and customers both arrive to find the forge locked up with a sign posted outside which reads:

Fucked off to go swimming If you need us, don't.

Still, if there's work to be done, here's still the place to order it. Just expect River to be pissy about it, she's a bit on fire, y'know?

Cooling Off | Beach

River's desperate to not die of fucking heat stroke and it's an uphill battle. While she usually enjoys the hot springs, right now the beach is a more likely bet, even with the crabs. Friends might be invited to an afternoon crab roast down by the water, or you might find her swimming in a soot-stained shirt too ruined even for forge work these days. Either way, it's not hard to spot River. Look for the steam coming off the water. No, really. It's not a joke. Look for the steam and you will find an elf and friend.

Fire Dancing | Nighttime

It may be hotter than a succubus's asshole from River's perspective, but that's no excuse to slow down her studies. A couple nights a week, towards the bridge over the river into the woods, one can find River practicing her pyromancy. She doesn't take much with her, just a brazier, some coals, and a MASSIVE stone jug that formerly housed whiskey and now contains a great deal of water with lemon juice mixed into it, for hydration. Oh, right, and an undead dragon. It hovers ominously near her, a passive protection against oncoming monsters while River strips down to her shirtsleeves and goes dancing amidst ribbons of tame fire, flickering in many colors while they shift and twirl, never quite kissing her skin, her arms smoldering coal-bright.

You'll never get her to admit it while the sun is up, because she's fuckin' dying in this heat, but these are the moments when the world falls away, and River can lose herself in her art. It feels remarkably freeing.

Blunt Love | Closed to Ruby

A hand on Ruby Rose's shoulder, during a work day. River's sweating buckets, panting like a damn dog, and if her ears drooped any lower they'd fall the hell off, but still the expression on her face is gentle concern. "Lunchtime," River says, with a little shrug. "C'mon, you're eating with me. We should chat, O Mine Apprentice. Plus I got those meat pies from Max that never go stale and girl lemme tell you, my ambition when I bought 'em? Vastly exceeded my grasp."

Wildcard

Fuck me up.

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Ruby does jump a little bit at the surprise appearance of the hand on her shoulder, but she eases afterwards. "Oh, uh— okay! I guess I should eat something..."

She sets her gear aside and reaches up to loosen her eyepatch as she steps away to come with River—the sweat that gathers between the leather and her face is pretty bad, right now.

The local resident of the Underdark is not enjoying the heat either. Considering the Underdark is cold, it's dreary, it's wet, and most of all it's dark, he's not having a good time right now. Everyone keeps mistaking him for an aquatic creature and he's never wanted that to be true until this very moment.

With a gesture all the crabs near him go flying in every direction, some plopping into the ocean and others crunching onto the beach. He needs some solitude to mope around in.

Ryja hasn't been avoiding this. No, really. She's been waiting for the right moment. For when the stars guide. How fortunate she is that these strange stars don't work the same, huh? In truth, she really has been waiting. For a moment that makes sense. For a moment that feels right. And that there's been a bit of relief in it taking so long doesn't make it less... difficult.

But it's time, with Dawn's growth slowing and things returning to, well, an approximation of normal. Ryja waits till night. While she's better able to handle the heat than some, -Especially with her willingness to wear less and less, oh how she misses her old clothes- it still makes her wish she'd learned thaumaturgy. And yet, her feet don't want to take her to the forge.

No, she finds herself walking at the slightly drifting pace of being carried by her intuition. Across the bridge, into the woods. Some times, Ryja is incredibly stealthy. Difficult to follow, or spot... Tonight is not one of them. The blue glow of her constellations is very noticeable as she approaches.

It is probably startling, when Fever emerges from where she's very carefully, steathily, been hiding out in the forest. Oh, it's dangerous to be alone - but she is a dangerous thing, and light has drawn her from shadow into being. Firelight flickering off red eyes, and a look of wonder as River dances. The fire loves her, anyone can tell. Why shouldn't it? Why shouldn't it flirt and flow and be a living thing much as River herself?

Of course, the dragon suddenly changing its location - now its head is in her direction, tail down as if to say this far, and no further is a bit of a mood killer. But Fever raises her hands. Empty. Be at peace, she means your mistress no harm. Only to witness beauty in a dual form.

Edited 2024-07-18 08:20 (UTC)

Local Underdark Resident, this narrator is so sorry. There are some signs, of course, that this beach is perhaps not the alone time one might be seeking, though perhaps only Ilsensine might have been able to piece it together without previous experience with River. The sand is marked, here and there, with bits of glass almost, but not enough, like fulgurite, rounded as if roughly squeezed or shaped. The gulls have taken a particular interest as well, fighting with the crabs (and scattering at the same blast of power), hunting for scraps of something that have long since been eaten by the early comers.

The first direct sign that someone else is here, however, is out in the water. The waves at the edge of the shallows start steaming, gently at first and then rapidly becoming a thick misting vapor. Something unseen breaks the water with a sharp, gasping inhale, and out from the fog an elf wades into view, half-dressed in a soot-stained shirt and some underthings because she has forgotten, once again, to actually go buy a real swimsuit and honestly she really, really needs to.

There are some immediate differences from the usual model of Faerunian elf. She's taller, a bit stockier, with long ears that twitch and bob visibly in an effort to shake off the salt water. The long hair, deeply red and plastered to her neck and shoulders, is fair enough, but from her wrists to her shoulders each arm is carved with overlapping copies of the same sigil, gouged deep into her flesh and glowing like coals. Whatever water couldn't sluice off her arms boils away in yet more steam when it touches them.

She stops.

Blinks several times.

Her accent is lilting, almost musical: "I see folks weren't kidding about us having a real unusual gentleman these days. Afternoon, uh. Ssssiiir?"

The movement of her servant catches River's attention; she turns smoothly on the ball of her foot, ribbons of flame rippling up from around her body to wrap around her bare arms, overlapping and twining and ending as infernos in her palms that shimmer and glimmer and flicker. There is a moment, a moment only, of no words, only green eyes focused in thought, sweat beading down from her forehead and into them without blinking. She knows this person, doesn't she?

...Yes, yes she does. This is Fever, the odd lass with the killer's air that she had sent to Dahlia. Dahlia hadn't said a word of warning back, so maybe River was just overreacting, and yet...

No, no 'and yet'. River lilts a high whistle, clean and clear, and flicks her hand at the brazier; the flame that girds her ripples and flows, splashing back into its home like water poured back into a still pond, leaving the night lit by the coals of the brazier alone. She wipes the sweat from her forehead with her arm, and it boils away, leaving the faintest traces of salt clinging to River's skin.

She waits. For an explanation? An introduction? An excuse for this interruption? Maybe she's just waiting to hear something that says she was wrong and very rude to feel wary.

Easy to spot Ryja may be, but River is so very lost in her art tonight, surrounded by light and heat, embracing the love of a wild thing that has learned not to hurt her because they love each other. Her undead servant, glitchy and unnatural as it is, has been taught - well, 'taught' - to recognize Ryja and not to treat her as a threat, so while it notices the viera first it does absolutely nothing to alert River, because skeletons are not smart things. They do only exactly what you tell them to.

So it is that unless Ryja makes herself known, she will need to wait until the end of River's set here, when the elf returns her flame to the brazier; it splashes, as if the coals were a still pond into which she poured water, bouncing up in droplets of heat and light that fall back down. Panting, coated in sweat, River bends down to pick up the stone jug and take a deep pull of water, and then look around -

She stops dead in her tracks. "Ryja," she says, out of breath from the exertion and the long drink and from the sight of her, her -

"...Evening, Ryja. What brings you out so late?"

The color drains from the world when River sends the fire back into the brazier, coals giving just enough illumination that darkvision latches onto it like a little campfire. But Fever smiles, something sincere and yet sharper than what she wears being devoted to Town Hall and their community. As if this current Fever and the other are twins, and yet the same. One who hides the scent of blood under perfume, and one who wears it proudly.

"Please, don't stop on my account. I'm no more than a moth, drawn in and bewitched by your flame and your sorcery."

And yet, for all her danger, for the killer's air and the sense that things might be so wrong, these words are as honest as they come.

Of course there would be someone here. Why not? And an elf no less. Probably a wizard considering the sigils (though maybe a warlock and that's worse).

Fortunately for all involved his latent racism is tempered by being morose about how uncomfortably hot it is. That's the current focus of his ire.

"Imbros." He folds his arms as he stares out at the water, tucking them behind his tentacles. "My name is Imbros."

It doesn't occur to him the latter half of that is a pronoun question because he's mostly forgotten gender exists.

"You appear to be at an even more uncomfortable temperature than the surroundings." He can't even summon up the energy to wonder if she's somehow on fire.

Ryja watches, quiet as can be, entranced. This is nothing like thaumaturgy, nothing like even the rumors and myths of Black Mages... The way River moves, the way the flame flickers across her, oh how can Ryja look away? No. She watches, breathless, speechless, until River is finished.

That River's only technically really clothed by local standards certainly captures her attention too.

But then it's over, and she has to speak again. "You. Or perhaps it is better to say us? And everything we have not talked about. I meant to meet you at your home, but the stars led me otherwise." Ryja's nerves show in her voice. She would have rather the politeness, and yet... She trust the guidance of her sight. Still.

Her ears are visibly tense, twitching occasionally. She tries to draw comfort from the woods, from the dark which isn't quite so dark to her.

Preach it Ruby, River is regretting having long hair, or in fact any hair, right now. Her kitchen is, as always, a pretty simple affair, and while the first thing she does is pour water she sure isn't lying about the meat pies. Two are retrieved from the counter where they're covered in cloths, and they still gently steam as if just freshly baked. Forks, napkins, done, let's fuckin' eat.

And for that matter, let's not dance around things: "So," River says as she takes her own seat. "If I ask how you're doing are you gonna lie and make me hunt down the people you live with for answers or nah?"

River may find her cookout suddenly interrupted by the sound of an all too familiar voice calling out, "Dawn, no! Damn it child!" When she looks up, she'll see a small blue-furred toddler, dressed in a yellow jumper-dress and beelining straight for her at a pace that threatens to leave her father in the dust. Tarantulas quickly transforms, scurrying after her -- and catches up to her a full body-length away from River's cookfire. Dawn loudly squeaks in objection to being scooped up, struggling against Tarantulas's legs and longingly reaching for the platter of cooked crabs River's already fished out of the big pot.

"River, I -- Sorry," Tarantulas says plaintively, using a length of silk to stick Dawn to his back so she can't run away again. (To his credit, only it occurs to him after the fact that this might also be insurance against getting cursed again.) "She smelled your cooking."

River saw a lot of weird shit in the Dungeon but this is taking the cake. Narrowly, but still. She blinks a few times, nods when Imbros says his name to show she's paying attention, and tries not to say any of the obvious shit he must clearly hear all the time. There is a juncture at which 'why are you a squid' is a dumb question and she's gonna mentally put her money on the entire island being past it by now.

Praise be to Wren, then, that he's immediately bringing up another topic. She rubs her arm with a self-aware little grin. "It's the portals," she explains, kinda tapping one. "Gates to summon forge-fire. Handy, love 'em during the winter, but right now I'd kill a man with no questions asked to cool off."

Beat.

"...Can't hurt to like post a bounty for an ice elemental or something, if anyone spots one that isn't a person I could solve this problem..."

Slowly.

Carefully.

While maintaining eye contact with the child.

River puts another crab in the pot.

The thing to understand here is that River's memory of her own childhood is extremely fuzzy, for elf reasons. But she does remember that her parents would make jokes out of being excessively serious about things that aren't serious at all, so she's trying to bring that energy.

She's shed the eyepatch entirely by the time they sat down, letting her face air while she can. She doesn't like leaving the empty socket exposed around most people, but she figures River's not going to care.

She pauses, momentarily, mid-sticking her fork in the pie, then sighs and continues as she actually answers: "...no, you don't have to hunt anyone down. Though answering that's still more— more complicated than it should be, probably."

Dawn proves that, despite her young age, she already understands social dynamics better than her father. She giggles loudly, watching with rapt attention as River drops the crab into the boiling water, and yanks on her father's fur when he tries to back away a few steps. (Is River threatening to boil him alive now?? What is this??)

"Ow! Dawn, please." Tarantulas winces, eyeing River uncertainly. "I didn't intend to bother you," he finally says. "I doubt you're pleased to see me." Or Dawn, he suspects but doesn't dare to say.

River's eyes slide to her pot. There's a lot of angry things she won't be saying in front of Dawn, and this in turn is only more frustrating.

So she bites it back, and she sighs, and she says: "I'm no kind of la Croix to tell a hungry kid she can't eat. Quit your groveling and get comfortable."

How she can bear to be so cold to him, after everything they shared? Tarantulas can hardly stand it.

"This is hardly groveling," he grumbles, but he seats himself down near the fire, picking Dawn free of the web and transforming so he can hold her in his arms. "Don't touch, darling," he tells her firmly. "The fire and pot are both very hot. Do you remember hot?" Dawn nods solemnly and wraps her tiny hands around his lower arm.

"She's gonna be fun when she's old enough to want to help in the workshop," River comments, a half smile on her lips in spite of herself. "One of my few clear childhood memories is the log incident, trying to get wood for my own father. Got bit by a skunk, wailed about it for hours..."

....

"I'm not the person you remember. Surely you have to understand that."

River can't help it, she really can't; she blushes, ears wiggling, reaches for her jug in a vain attempt to hide her face by taking a long drink.

"It's training," River demures. "Pyromancy instead of summoning, I need...less lethal tools."

Beat.

"Red fucking Troth I really just said that about fire."

"And yet, it makes perfect sense. All in one's amount of control, to shift from laying waste to all around to precision, to choose what damage you cause or don't cause. The finer one's control, the more accomplished the caster. Any fool with the right scroll can toss a few bolts around, torch a place. To persuade it to dance with you, to kiss you with no marks save the ones you choose? That's power."

Perhaps it would help if she didn't sound so truly sincere in what she was saying, dazzled by the display. Enough to forego showing off herself to make the point.

...

......

A lilting whistle. River extends a hand to the brazier, an odd expression on her face; a ribbon of fire twines around her arm, dances across her shoulders -

- wraps through the air, spreading, weaving into a latticed cage around herself and Fever and that odd undead dragon.

"Power," River echoes, her voice quiet. "You know, Fever, I have a hard time reading you. I'd like to hear you tell me about power."

Her eyes follow the fire, all aglow from its light and her fascination, before she registers the question, arms loosely folding.

"...should be frank, I'm not some learned scholar, nor some wise soul blessed with innate knowledge. Whatever answer I give you, the dictionary won't like it. But from my own experience, it's sort of..."

One hand creeps up towards her own neck, toying with a small pendant on a chain. Something to do while she thinks on this, giving it careful consideration. Longer than a statement like that might need, but it's clear she's trying.

"At the center of it, power is you saying I want this, and then having whatever it requires to make your desire become real. For a sorcerer, that could be fine control of your spells. For a soldier, could be enough skill and defense to know you'll survive the coming battle. For nobles, could be money and status and feeling secure in your own home." Fever pauses, then shakes her head. "I feel like something's wrong with that thinking, but I don't know enough to know what it is."

Something softens in River, but her eyes are pained. "Speak your peace. I...am listening."

The unfortunate truth is the answer to why he's a squid isn't very interesting. When a tadpole finds a brain that especially delicious...

"Considering everything else here, I'm sure any ice elemental would start talking as soon as you attacked it." He sounds morose, because apparently that's the point at which people start pulling their punches. "If one shows up it's becoming a cold storage space whether it wants to or not."

Imbros has no such compunctions.

"Are you summoning fire from... your realm?"

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[July/August] Dog Days | OTA

blunt love

Cooling Off

Complicated Feelings || Fire Dancing

fire dancer.

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Cooling Off

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