Event: August 1312

[northcliffpass]

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: further inconvenience
WHEN: mid-August
WHERE: townwide
NOTES: get your wellies on

It's not that there was a rainstorm. There was, but they happen every so often without any real incident: this one is just happening A Lot, and for a very long time.
It started on Saturday and has not let up since then, with rainfall varying from a smattering to torrential but never abating entirely. The roads are muck, travel and market hours are miserable, and any who have to spend any considerable time out in it (the local Watch, for instance) have the look of drowned rats even with the aid of oilskin cloaks and the occasional break under an awning.

Sands Creek has swelled considerably even in the span of a day or so, and as many of the local old-timers might have predicted, the mudslide follows. Because more mud is exactly what everyone needed.
No one is injured outright, but several of the buildings near the mountain-facing edge of town experience cave-ins: namely, the stable and a few of the houses on Hill Street.

Dealing with it will not be pretty, especially with it being so impossible to stay dry. But it's happened before, and almost certainly will again, some other year from now.

Comments

OTA

[keenly]

I. Bakery - Outside

The leak in the roof has mostly affected the upper floor, and it's remedied (as much as it can be) with a series of buckets. Colin has to take them out quite a distance, sometimes outside the city walls, in order to dump them out without contributing to the puddles outside.

(It's one of the buckets he leaves outside that fills up with pure rainwater, entirely pure from the sky. He can't throw all of it out. Simply touching it enhances his senses, soothes the abrasions on his spirit. Maybe it will soothe others.)

At one point, he can be seen up on the roof, laying down a canvas tarpaulin over the hole in the roof. He's drenched to the bone, but somehow in no hurry to get off the roof. The trouble happens when he's stepping away from it and slips, sliding down the roof and barely catching himself on the edge of the roof. He likes the rain well enough, but at the rate it's pouring off the roof and onto him, it's a lot less pleasant. The chickens gathering under his feet and clucking at him in alarm don't lift a finger to help.

II. Bakery - Inside

It takes rather longer than usual to bake anything, with all the humidity. It's not long after the loaves are out that their crusts become more chewy than crispy. Keeping moisture out of the flour and yeast is the most difficult task, especially since he winds up having to make a second batch later in the day.

III. Chapel

When the bakery closes at suppertime, Colin is tired, but manages to make his way to the Hammer and Spoke. He still doesn't like crowds, and even told Faro that he'd like not to meet there anymore, but he feels like he needs to keep some sort of lookout. Or at least, he should learn how to dampen the effects of his abilities so crowds don't bother him as much. Block things out. Tune into one person at a time. But with the rain so heavy, it's all giving him a headache.

So instead, he sits in the chapel. He looks like he is praying, but instead, he is listening. To the emotions of those around him, and to the rain.

IV. Wildcard

I

[ferruginous]

Fíadh has been out on her self-appointed route looking for people who need assistance. So far it's been fairly fruitful, likely in the fact that she simply ... just starts doing things and people are too confused, wary, or grateful to tell her otherwise. She's passing by the bakery when she sees a man on the roof, seeming to try and cover any leaks. Smart. He doesn't look in distress, and she makes to continue on.

But then there's a muffled sound of a tumble. Turning back it's like the change happened in a split second. First the man was standing upright, suddenly he's hanging from the edge.

Well, now that's a problem. Not a deadly one, but still something unpleasant.

Fíadh quickly makes her way over to the dangling man and reaches up to try and grab him. Years of strength training, don't fail her now. Once she feels like she has him grabbed in a secure enough fashion she speaks.

"Let go."

[keenly]

Colin is surprised when, while dangling from his own roof, someone catches hold of him. Then it's a woman's voice speaking, which makes it even more surreal. Below, the chickens are stirred up, still upset lest the man who feeds them become a pancake right before lunch, but they give Fíadh space to maneuver. Colin isn't entirely convinced that a woman has the strength to catch him, but the decision is made for him; his fingers slip, and he is falling.

[ferruginous]

Well down he goes, but Fíadh's ready for it. She tightens her grip around the man's waist not unlike one would hold a toddler. Does it look silly? Probably. But is it secure? Absolutely. There's a small sharp drop before she steadies her arms and slowly lowers him to his feet. Once he has his proper footing she removes her hands and gives him a once-over.

"You're all right?"

[keenly]

Water is running down Colin's face, his hair and clothes stuck to his skin, his shoes like enclosed puddles. Fingers scrape water away from his eyes and he looks up at his rescuer. The woman is tall and built like a house, which is why she felt so solid and reassuring on the way down. He nods.

"Thank you. I didn't fancy breaking an ankle. Come inside, I'll get you a cup of something hot and a free onion tart."

[ferruginous]

Fíadh's immediate reaction is to decline, and the words begin at a purse of her lips. But then a traitorous growl escapes her stomach, and the recognition of discomfort spreads through her entire body. She's drenched, she's cold, she's tired, she's hungry. This man is offering warmth and food. Ignoring her disdain for social obligations, she'd simply be an idiot to refuse.

She gives a curt nod in agreement before following him in.

[keenly]

Once inside, Colin sets a chair by the fire and puts the kettle on.

"Sit," he encourages. The prettiest onion tart is selected and brought to Fíadh. Then he darts upstairs to his room and comes back with two large towels. By that time, the water is boiling, and he fills two mugs with it, plus barley and honey.

"What's your name?" he asks as he passes her a towel.

[ferruginous]

Immediately Fíadh can feel the heat from the fire sink into her skin and a satisfied sigh escapes her lips as she sits down. She didn't realize how badly she needed to just ... relax. Her eyes follow the man as he moves around the room until he bounds up the stairs, then she looks to the tart in her hand. She can't remember the last time she's had anything that looks this nice. Or anything that doesn't just look like a simple lump of sustenance. She almost feels bad about eating it. But not bad enough.

She's devoured the tart by the time the man returns with a towel, and she quickly grabs it before ruffling it over her choppy hair.

"Fíadh," she answers brusquely, bringing the towel down from her head. "Who are you?"

[keenly]

"Colin." A warm smile. "I'm the baker." A gleam of an apologetic wince. "Obviously. Sorry. Um."

He squeezes water from his hair with the towel before wrapping it around his shoulders and sitting by the fire with her. He's always been rather shy, which makes it tricky when he runs into other shy people. He wishes he could be any other way.

"You can take off your shoes, if you want to," he says idly, while toeing off his own shoes to let his feet dry.

[ferruginous]

If Fíadh thinks anything about his obvious job role she certainly doesn't show it. She places the towel in her lap and stares into the flames. Although she doesn't look completely relaxed, she certainly feels better than she did before she came in.

Without looking away from the flames she takes off her shoes and socks before setting them closer to the fire. After a bit she speaks.

"Did your roof fix seem to work?"

[keenly]

"Yes." Colin doesn't venture too close to the fire, but it's not quite as critical for him. This is his home. As soon as his guest is gone, he can change into dry clothes, so she is the one with the journey and therefore the more important issue here. And they are both out of the wind and rain now, and therefore in no immediate danger.

"It has to be canvas that's already been in water," he says aimlessly, simply to fill silence. "Otherwise it's...and this will be good until it stops raining and someone can fix the roof. Did you want another tart?"

[ferruginous]

"No."

She still stares at the fire, definitely not one for supporting conversation. But, he gave her food and rest, deep down she knows that she owes him some sort of effort. She purses her lips, thinking, before turning to look at Colin.

"How long have you lived here?"

[keenly]

"Here in this house, or here in Northcliff Pass?"

[ferruginous]

"Both?"

[keenly]

"Um." He rubs the back of his neck, feeling slightly insecure, as he often does when divulging personal information. "In Northcliff Pass, all my life. Here in this house, the last five years."

[ferruginous]

"Hm."

She looks back to the fire. She can't imagine living anywhere for that long, that sort of security. It must be nice. But, right, conversation is a two-way street. She mulls over what she should share.

"I've only arrived recently. I run the smithy."

III

[infinitewatch]

It's the beginning of the day for Lance, who at least appears decently well-rested as he sits on a bench and spaces out at the sea shrine, carefully sipping at a steaming mug of some rejuvenating beverage or another and preparing himself to go out in the torrent for another night.
He glances over his shoulder with a little smile for Colin when he comes in, but otherwise pays him no mind; they're all here for privacy and reflection.

What he doesn't know is what Colin is actually doing, and capable of, and therefore able to perceive: which is to say, a miasma of destructive emotion as thick and black as a stormcloud, emanating from Lance with the cruel confidence of a deadly parasite. Like an infected tick, it resides just under the surface, invisible to the eye but so obvious to anyone with the right tools, draining the life from its oblivious host.
But apart from that he seems fine.