[OPEN EVENT] Weekend Winter Wonderland

[wintershepherd]

Characters: All?
Date: March 8th-11th
Location: All of Keeliai
Situation: It's been a stressful month thus far for a lot of people, but Jack is determined to Make All The Happy and decides he needs to get back to his wintery roots by giving the city a proper snowing.
Warnings/Rating: People high on snow glitter?
NOTES: Actionspam OR prose, whatever is preferred! (Settings were just easier to prose.) Make your own thread headers if none of these suit! ♥



Jack had spent the last three hours balanced motionlessly on the top of a flagpole, head tilted back as he listened to the wind and the sound of the city below. Where is Winter? it asked. I'm here! the spirit replied, but he knew it didn't mean his physical presence. He'd had too much on his mind and too much in his heart and in that sense he had indeed been absent these last few weeks.

Eyes closed and thoughtlessly trusting, he tipped forward into open air, letting the wind catch him and hurl him upward into the misty cloud cover that scudded across the stars tonight. At his touch they thickened, fat and pale grey against the indigo backdrop and Jack swirled them up, the motions so ingrained in him they felt just like breathing. In the small hours of the morning snowflakes began to fall on the sleeping city, specks at first but then quickly becoming heavier.

Now with a fresh canvas to work with, Jack was really in his element. He could never have done something like this back home, not anywhere in his world. It would have been too strange, too inexplicable, drawn too much attention. But here on the turtle, things were different. There wasn't really a semblance of normal and Jack poured his imagination and heart into the things he wanted most to share, and from the snow rose gleaming swirls of snow and blue light, forming things of exceptional detail and delight.

By the time the sun rose, a solid three feet of the snow had blanketed the city, glistening and crisp and Jack went rocketing down the streets, rapping on doors and windows to leave spirals of frost on every surface.

"Whooohoo! Snow day! Get up sleepyheads, everyone come out and play!"


THREAD STARTERS
Ice Skating | Snowball Battle | Sledding Hill | Ice Cityscapes | Kids Playground | OOC Plot Post

Comments

[inseine]

No one decent takes pleasure in war. Men who say they enjoy it are one of the following: lumps vying for some bloated attempt at machismo, beastly serial murderers, or some sort of secret psychopath. [Javert is certainly in good spirits, loose with his words, the conversation rolling in casual waves off his tongue. Despite the earnestness of their predicament, it is the first time Javert feels most like 'himself' in this strange In Between.] Clapped a few men like that in irons before.

[Javert, damnably tall as he is, has to bend himself nearly in half as to properly fortify the west walls without risk of a surprise strike. He falls in line rather quickly, deftly maneuvering with careful consideration as to Haytham's visibility and any targetable gaps still left open. Has he done this before?

He snorts mildly as he works, a hum in the back of his throat.] Are you experienced with wild gamins, Monsieur? [He firmly packs an ice brick atop the wall.] The proud ones flaunt the thrashings. Wear them like badges of honor, then sing a ditty to their friends about it.

[brokenweapon]

[Jason Bourne finds himself entering a warzone.

And, unusually for him, entering it with some slightly scary good cheer. There must be something about snow, something he hadn't seen much of in his years on the run - and then too much of, in Moscow - it doesn't summon a memory (he should be so lucky) so much as a feeling.

As a snowball hits him squarely in the ear, he decides he ought to invest in a hat. Paying attention now, he punches the next one out of the air.

People tend to avoid throwing snowballs at him after that. Unless they want to see if they can make him do it again. Which proves to be a surprisingly popular piece of entertainment, once people figure out that he's making the snowballs explode into powder on impact. He's gone through four more in a couple of minutes and his right hand is starting to sting with the wet and cold, so he ducks behind the nearest snow fort to give his poor hand a break.

Enter Fort Sassybaskets.]

putting these threads together!

[dominare]

[ Haytham frowns as Javert criticizes his brick, and holds back the urge to snap back that a brick is a brick is a brick. But he realizes it's only the advice of an ally for mutual benefit, and instead directs his energy into repacking his snow brick to meet specification. ]

I am not a brickmaker— the subtleties of the art are lost on me.

[ and honestly, it's something he's perfectly fine with admitting. brickmaking was the employment of indentured servants, bored spinsters, and convicts. He's not entirely sure where Javert falls on the spectrum, and doesn't feel the need to ask. He's about to turn and hand his brick over for inspection, when a rather unexpected visitor ducks into their fort. He warned you about this earlier, Javert.

He doesn't pull his sword on Bourne, but yanks the man down by the collar, holding his precious ice brick precariously close to Bourne's head as if it were an effective bludgeoning tool. It won't kill, but you can bet it'll be goddamn cold. ]

Ah, and our coterie grows.

[ FRIEND OR FOE? ]

Re: putting these threads together!

[inseine]

[Javert sees that look you shoot him, Haytham. He can feel your, 'I told you so,' and he counters with a knowing arch of his brow and a coy little shrug of his shoulders. He pats the latest ice brick firmly into place and practically bounces himself up onto the balls of his feet to face the newcomer.

That would be under the direct safe heaven of the completed fortifications, of course. He calmly exchanges a glance with Haytham.]

Too early to call it a coterie, Monsieur. Can't say friend with one arm and brandish a cudgel in the other. Let's hear him.

[Javert folds his arms across his chest and regards the newcomer with a calm and proud air. He presses his thin lips together, contemplating.]

And you. Well? State your business. [At that, he slowly draws a spare pair of thick gloves from his pocket, and approaches a step or two. Haytham, you can keep holding him at bay. Jason alone will determine whether he stays as a friend or a hostage. He cautiously proffers the gloves toward the newcomer's cold and burning hands: It is your peace offering, Monsieur.] You're not much like the kids scurrying around the battlefield like moles. Come to enlist in our war?

[brokenweapon]

[If Bourne's hands hadn't felt half frozen, maybe he would have been able to get out of Haytham's brick-to-the-head situation. All for the best, probably, since he really didn't feel like getting into an actual fight again so soon after his chance meeting with Costigan and the ensuing mistaken-identity brawl.

At the surprising offer of gloves, he considers his options.] Do I really have a choice? [he asks, his tone dry, but a bit of a smile on his face nevertheless.] Not so great at building defenses, but I've got a decent throwing arm. Sure. I'll join up.

[And to finalize his committment to the war effort, he accepts the gloves from Javert, slowly and just as cautiously as they were offered.] So are we done wasting time holding me at brickpoint? Because I don't think anyone else is interested in taking a time-out so we can get our act together. [As if on cue, a snowball whizzes by overhead.]

[dominare]

Then it's settled.

[ no hard feelings, right?? It's not as if snow kills. (Napoleon would disagree, but then he was stupid enough to march through Russia in winter.)

The brick is pulled away, and placed back into place with a slight pat to make sure it stuck. The entire hubbub, from Bourne vaulting over their walls to him accepting their invitation was taken with the casualness of two men discussing the weather.

He peers over a rampart, looking rather unconcerned at the gathering number of gathering population of under twenty ones. ]

Terrible aim, but no doubt they'll improve if we don't put a stop to it soon.

[inseine]

[Let's not talk about Napoleon's march through Russia in winter. Oh, the stories Javert could tell! -- If he were drunk enough.]

I shall worry about the defenses. You cover Monsieur's blind spot while I finish, [instructs Javert curtly, deftly ducking out of the way of a stray snowball with little fanfare or care. The stranger passed his brief inspection; he is satisfied. He sidles back to his partway-finished work. He is a touch anal about rampart construction, pausing to quirk a wry brow at Haytham as he properly secures the snatched brick back into place. A crooked, wolfish smirk.

Javert bends back beneath the wall and gets back to work, but not before calling over his shoulder to Jason,]

By the way, it would make you a very nice fellow if you would warn me of incoming barrages or grapeshot or what-ever from your perch. Call me by name, Javert. Who are you?

[brokenweapon]

[Nah, no hard feelings, he would totally have done the same. Bourne accepts the directive; he knows tactics in his bones, if not in his head, and he knows command when he sees it. The former Army Captain recognizes a bit of the officer in Javert, though perhaps subconsciously. Without a word Bourne moves to cover Haytham's blind spot, almost idly packing snow into a small stockpile of snowballs, the borrowed gloves speeding up the process. These are not powdery; they're dense and icy, and liable to sting upon impact.

Ah, the question, the question. A month here and while Bourne hadn't seen hide or hair of anyone trying to kill him, he still didn't feel too comfortable bandying his name about. But then, better that than the name on the dog tags, and enough kedan and otherwise alike knew his adopted name here.] Jason Bourne. Watch out, inbound--

[A snowball skims over the top of the fort, and he lobs it back as easily as pitching a baseball. A muffled paff noise lets him know it hit someone, if not the person who sent it in the first place.] At least if they keep aiming low, they'll be fortifying the wall, not chipping away at it.

[dominare]

Only one, really. Idealistic, headstrong, naive beyond all imagining...

[ he stares rather pensively out at the snow, wondering idly what Connor was up to at this moment. Trying to send smoke signals up towards Washington to warn him, no doubt. ]

Their idealism blinds them; they think themselves to be invincible, and for the moment, perhaps they are. But age soon catches up, and even the proudest have to admit they are merely human.

[ he turns to watch Javert's progress, a steady and precise pace, but not quick enough to save them if their assailants were anywhere nearby. With a small tut of impatience, Haytham moves to make himself his own snow brick, while changing the subject. ]

I've worked with men who enjoyed war— they were brutes, cruel and barbaric, and in the end, their savagery was their downfall.

[ a beat ]

For those sorts of men, prison is too lenient a sentence.

[inseine]

No one is invincible. It is a mistake to think so.

[Javert grimaces deeply at the term idealism, though it is more than that word that's got him thinking. Haytham's short tangent about the proudest of men admitting they are merely human strikes a chord. He hesitates.

It lasts for thirty seconds, and he is nearly clobbered in the temple with a stray clump of snow. Thank goodness for his remarkable intuition, snapping him out of it just in time. He shudders and shoulders off whatever thoughts plague him. The snow's bright, glimmering power takes hold again, and he resumes his project.]

That was not my place to judge, [says Javert noncommittally.] --Stop! Not like that, the ice first, then you fill the gaps with the softer stuff! Here, I will do it-- I did not issue sentences. I rounded the scoundrels up and delivered them in a neat package. Such is the role of the police. The sentence -- guillotine, noose, or jug -- is determined by law.

[A flash of teeth.]

But it is true the savage brutes dug themselves into the ugliest messes.