debriefing ♔ in the emptiness there's a solution | just look within yourself for absolution

[nepotism]

♬ locking up the sun- poets of the fall

WHO || Wynn, Buffy, Myri, Finnick, Spike, Gar, Archer, Des, Vi, Rafael, Fred Jr., Dumage, Mark, Rocket, open! [Closed]
WHAT || Andres Mission Debrief & Aftermath
WHERE || Knights HQ, lobby etc.
WHEN || September 18th [forward dated*]
HOW || Actionspam. Single thread, don't worry about maintaining tagging order.

There are plenty of missions that return to the castle a success - most of them, even. The defeated air of the solemn group that returns from their diplomatic mission to Andres Isle to hear the demands of dictator Dimitris Sarandis makes it quite clear that this wasn't one of those.

Starting with Sarandis' actual demands - for all Knights to withdraw from Andres under penalty of death, or for Wynn to offer his own head in return for Thomas' safe return - and ending with the unexpected, disturbing confession from Kat that she intended to stay behind on the island because she had "fallen in love with" the dictator, the events of the island made it very clear that Sarandis was cannily playing his hand to get the Knights where he wanted them.

Fred Jr. shoves open the doors with his unnatural strength, stalking in ahead of the group into the lobby. Whoever's on desk duty isn't going to have to roll a high wisdom check to see that these people are pissed... and distraught... and a myriad of other emotions on the bad end of the scale.

*I am changing the date of the briefing log and Andres log/live session to have taken place in September, to avoid us being in backdated hell forever, and to allow for a September squiring ceremony before apps are closed. Carry on... in the future!

Comments

[bigbad]

[Spike rolls his eyes.] Twenty-three. Right. What took you so long with this one?

[beatupgrass]

[FIFTY BEHOLDERS??

actually, no. that is not even remotely why it took so long and he looks completely agitated with the reminder.]

Timing. I needed a distraction big enough that most everyone in that joint wouldn't be thinkin' about what was goin' on in the building.

[Still not the whole truth, but close enough that he isn't... lying. It was a matter of timing!!]

[bigbad]

That's a nice excuse. You seemed to be causing a big enough distraction all on your own, honestly.

[beatupgrass]

[YOU DON'T KNOW HIS LIFE, SPIKE.

YOU DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH MILK HE TAKES IN HIS CEREAL.]

All right, Tough Guy. If you're so frickin' brilliant at this, then how'd you get out?

[bigbad]

I jumped the fence.

[That's an... incredibly shortened version of the story.]

[beatupgrass]

[Deadpan raccoon face of deadpanness. And then he laughs a short, sardonic bark of a laugh.]

Oh, that must be why they stopped lettin' the prisoners out in the yard by the time I got stuck there, right?

[Seriously, Spike.]

[bigbad]

That'd explain it, yeah. [DEADPAN RIGHT BACK AT YOU. PS that laugh is totally rake.]

[beatupgrass]

[IT'S THE SECOND MOST REAL, HYSTERICAL LAUGH IN HIS LIFE.]

How nice for you.

[His drink arrives and he considers it with mild distaste.]

Terrans are such lightweights, man.

[No one mixes drinks with antimatter here. Wimps.]

[bigbad]

[Idr if they covered the fact that Rocket's a space raccoon but tbh I don't think Spike cared enough to pay attention up til now so I'm gonna go with no. Spike looks down at him, raising an eyebrow.

Then back up at the bartender.]

A glass of fey wine for my unimpressed friend here. [Then he glances back down at Rocket.] Terrans?

[beatupgrass]

[rocket failed his knowledge check so he knows nothing of this fey wine. IF IT DOESN'T HAVE ANTIMATTER, IT'S SHIT. but anything is better than whiskey and disappointment.]

Terrans. As in people from Terra? [he eyes spike.] You call it earth, which says a helluva lot about the planet. Might as well just call it Planet or Ground.

[bigbad]

[...]

Considering you're a bloody raccoon, I'd have guessed you're from this planet too. Or are you some sort of alien raccoon?

[So much sarcasm.]

[beatupgrass]

[see him visibly twitch at the word "raccoon." It's so hard to be in denial of your species. Slightly less hard when you're... a freak.]

Half-World. In the Keystone Quadrant. [a beat] Which yeah, by your definition makes me an alien somethin'.

[oh look fey wine. rocket sniffs at it experimentally. huh...]

[bigbad]

[Those are not words that mean anything to Spike.] Isn't that some sort of video game?

[beatupgrass]

[FUCKING TERRANS.

Rocket picks up the (probably tiny lbr because someone didn't want to be responsible for murdering a woodland creature) glass because that question was too stupid to answer and downs the shit out of the fey wine.

This will later prove to be a terrible fucking idea. (fort save 20 total, which was not enough okay. IT WAS NOT ENOUGH. But much better than that crit fail that I action pointed because I don't feel like worrying about... comas.)

He blinks, but luckily he passed his will save to know he should... probably stop. Thank God, because man I don't want to RP a woodland creature going into an alcohol-induced coma. That sounds like something Sarah McLachlan would sing over.] Huh.

[bigbad]

[Spike just looks amused because apparently getting woodland creatures drunk off their asses is funny to him.]

Bit more impressive than your space beer, right?

[beatupgrass]

Unless you're gonna tell me it has an antimatter charge, then not really. [He waves a hand- paw- whatever... vaguely.] It's got its own special kinda nuance though.

[bigbad]

Yeah. Some sort of magic, I think. Few humans can handle it.

[beatupgrass]

Don't tell me that, man. I hate this magic crap. [He reaches over and tips the empty glass over for the sake of... doing something. He's definitely looking pretty hazy.] Terra's backwards enough and then- oh then... then you gotta add magic to it. We got shit nobody can explain out in the galaxy, but we sure as hell don't go around talkin' about wizards and mages doin' spells.

[said the space raccoon.]

[bigbad]

I think magic is the explanation in this case.

[Wow, that is one drunk raccoon. Maybe Spike shouldn't have gotten him fey wine.

Nah. He's ok with this.]

[beatupgrass]

[That is so deep, Spike. Rocket flops forward and puts his head on the bar. Whhhy is everything moving.]

D'ast it. I ain't cut out for this freakin' planet.

[bigbad]

[Spike looks down at him, than up at the bartender.]

...don't let him get fey wine again. He can't handle it.

[beatupgrass]

I can handle it fine! [EXCUSE YOU. His head comes up again... though with some effort. HE'S NOT THAT DRUNK. REALLY. YOU HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN HIM DRUNK.] I ain't no lightweight.

[bigbad]

You sure about that? You're not very big.

[beatupgrass]

[he plants his little paws on the bar and forces himself (with unsteady feet) to raise up to his full height while balancing on the barstool. (Balance 17 and even with a penalty... it's probably enough to keep him from falling over.)

That will save from earlier doesn't mean shit when his pride is at stake.] Barkeep. Hey. Don't listen t' him. [Lord that was a little slurred.] He don't know what he's talkin' about. Get me another. I'll show 'em lightweight.

[you had to insult his Napoleonic pride, didn't you, Spike?]

[bigbad]

Don't be a stupid git. You're practically falling over.