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

[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."