abraxaslogs | [ closed ] a very merry cadens christmas

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[ closed ] a very merry cadens christmas

Who: sam wilson + free cities fam
When: end of december
Where: cadens, magpie's inn.
What: the dimming might be it's own, abraxas-related holiday, but the christmas spirit is in the air and sam will NOT be spending it alone. time for a big family dinner!!
Warnings: language, possibly drunken singing, chaos.

It's hardly an uneventful time of year, but at this point Sam is used to that. Christmas or not, celebration of science or not, the homesickness hits Sam hard. But, thanks to a few more recent events, Sam decides that maybe - just maybe - he shouldn't try and push that feeling away and ignore its existence, choosing instead to channel it into a-

Wilson Christmas Feast.

He goes about inviting everyone he can think of - giving them an understanding of the vibe, the meal itself, who all will be there. It's planned to be a casual affair, with Sam cooking and plenty of alcohol and maybe some Christmas carols (don't worry, he'll explain those too). Come by for as long as you want, or as little as you want - Magpie's given them free rein of the main floor of the inn, and the kitchens beyond. Also, because Sam is just that charming and persuasive, the entire place is decked out with as many Christmas-y looking decorations as Sam could get his hands on. Garlands, candles, maybe even some mistletoe? It's got a bit of a Dickens old school vibe, but he did his best and it doesn't really need to impress Martha Stewart over here, right?

Bring your own cheer! Or an extra dish to add to the pile - Sam's got the main course (there is definitely an entire pig on that table) covered, but the rest is up to y'all. Drink, eat, be merry - Sam is playing host once again, and Jaskier is probably playing music, let's be real. Beyond that, everyone mingle. Hang out. Realize how small the Free Cities can be. We're all friends! Tis the season!

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Hector is not, by nature, a social animal. But he finds himself attached to someone very social, so an attempt is being made. Besides, he is curious about this Sam Wilson everyone else seems to think so highly of.

He's dressed in blues and black, not the most festive of clothing, but there is a red sash around his waist that is Hector's nod to dressing up. A plate of dolmades, stuffed grape leaves, is his contribution to the feast table. The wrapping is a little shaky; he used to eat them, not make them himself, but he thinks he was able to replicate them with decent accuracy, though not perfectly. ~~His bringing a dish has absolutely nothing to do with how much of a stir Alucard stupid pierogies made, none at all!~~

He sets the plate upon the table and then finds a comfortable corner of the inn to settle into. Baby steps. Raising an eyebrow at the decorations, he snorts.

"Oh, I suppose it is that time of year, isn't it?" Christmas is a thing on Hector's world, just not one he particularly cared about. The Saints' Feasts and High Holy Days were all Church nonsense, and Hector had never actually had anyone to celebrate them with, so they'd mostly gone by unnoticed.

drink the halls

( He hasn't been here all that long — definitely not long enough to figure out how to cook without dials and numbers and Pam. Any good intentions he might've had about bringing some kind of Heart Attack Side Dish are tragically foiled before they can start, so he brings the Winchester Special: a crap load of liquor. If you're not hungover the next day, was it even a holiday?

He's generally a pretty boisterous spirit, happily engaging in conversation and food — especially food — but now and then in quiet moments, you can catch him looking like he's... somewhere else, mentally. A million miles away, distant or perhaps melancholic. Good thing there's an easy fix. )

Alright, fellas. Who knows a good drinking game?

( You can also nab him:
→ declaring tarts aren't pies
→ during one of those manpain moments
→ at the end of the night when everyone's tanked for a fireside Real Talk
→ just jump into the middle of something, and I'll roll with it )

notes

I'm totally cool with (and super encourage tbh) freestyle multi-person threads, meaning everybody can thread-jack each other and jump in with no particular order, so we can embrace the chaos without having to wait for anybody's official turn. Live your dreams. Ya'll know where to find me.

Edited 2021-12-31 07:56 (UTC)

Game?

[ his little angel brows furrow from where he stands in the threshold between the main floor and the kitchen, where Sam's cooking, intrigued by watching the process. he's yet to witness the Winchesters cook. it's typically been diners and fast food as they move between hunts and motels.

but he has witnessed them drink, excessively. once, they'd had a house full of hunters, at Bobby's, when Ellen introduced him to small cups of strong liquor you're meant to drink in alternating turns until one or the other's too drunk to continue. given his nature, it worked best with him taking 5 shots to Ellen's 1, but still, seemed counter-intuitive to 'fun' if it ends with incapacitation or vomiting. is that what we're doing here? ]

Is intoxication not entertainment enough?

[ Regardless of whether a drinking game is settled upon or not, Geralt will—after he's satisfied the boar he brought will not end up a resurrected pig; no one fucking needs that tonight—venture towards where Dean and Castiel are both lingering.

A drink of some kind is in his hand. More significantly, he's got a crown of holly perched a bit askew on his head. Will he explain why it's there? Maybe. Possibly. Given that Ciri can be spotted weaving crowns together throughout the evening, though, it isn't hard to conclude from where it came. Or why Geralt seems willing to wear it all night.

He settles nearby—content to watch the increasingly drunken antics in silence. He's little attachment to the holidays, but it's. Good. To see people together. Putting their shit world aside for the night. They could sure as hell all use it, himself included.

(There's a lot of what's going on which reminds him of home; occasionally, a thoughtful if not wistful expression flickers across his face.) ]

(( also good with free styling and jumping in and out, so no need to wait for my turn etc. ))

Edited 2022-01-03 20:37 (UTC)

But why stop at intoxication when there's more entertainment to be had?

[Hector's venturing a little more into the party circle now that he's had a few glasses of wine.

He takes one of Ciri's sprigs of holly and pops a berry off. Weighing for a moment how likely this is to get him punched, and then proceeding anyways with his usual, terrible judgment.]

How about this- toss a berry, take a drink if you fail to land it in the crown. Land it, everyone else drinks.

[And with that, there's a little red holly berry being tossed at Geralt's crowned head. ~~RIP Hector~~]

[ The little berry is intercepted easily out of the air.

Geralt does not say anything, but there's a look in Hector's direction that suggests this is not an option in the cards unless Hector is capable of performing necromancy on his own corpse.

He also pops the berry into his mouth, seemingly unfazed by its taste or its supposed side effects. Benefits of certain immunities when you're a Witcher. ]

[Hector cracks a smile, and raises his glass in salute before taking a long sip. He's not saying he's stopping, though. If Geralt looks sufficiently distracted at any point in the evening, he may find another berry projectile coming his way.

But until the opportune moment presents himself, Hector will wait to see if anyone else is going to join in on the game. Geralt can't kill the whole party, right? Right??]

( why stop at intoxication when there's more entertainment to be had? He clicks his teeth, points, and nods at Cas. What he said, bingo.

It feels good, this whole thing. Familiar, in a way that's only sad if he's sober and he thinks about it for more than two seconds. So. Let's ditch both those things. )

Nah, see, the problem with that- ( In a sort of grunt, like a tired dad explaining what's wrong with the world these days. He plucks a berry off an abandoned branch, bounces it off the table so it banks off the wall and lands in Hector's drink. ) -is you'd all be hammered before I got to have any fun. That, or Platinum Jesus would murder us all. You got any other suggestions?

( Cool flex, Winchester, you god damn nerd. )

[Dean's berry plops into Hector's drink, and his smile turns into a snort. 'Platinum Jesus' is too perfect.

He takes another long sip. Let nobody call Hector a sore loser.]

It sounds like you consider yourself an expert. What games do you know?

[Because honestly, Hector's from medieval times and his offerings are limited.]

[ for a moment, cas thinks he might witness a murder. it resolves for the best, but he's unsure if these two men with strangely colored hair are friends or enemies. the activities through the rest of the night may tell.

while dean shows off his beer pong skills, cas ignores it in favor of frowning thoughtfully into the egg nog he's not actually drinking. any game requiring a display of physical skill, or hand-eye coordination, would be a moot point for a collection of experienced warriors. most gambling games are based in randomization, maybe that's a good route. ]

Dice?

[ volunteered abruptly, lifting his eyes to scan for recognition. ]

Fill 6 cups with varying substances, to differing levels. Number them and roll.

[ not the most thrilling of games, but medieval folks seem to enjoy their dice games. of course, this would require they dig up some dice. ]

[ Ciri pops up from somewhere to peer over Geralt's shoulder. She's already tugging open one of the leather pouches at her belt. ]

I have dice!

[ Lucky she brought them, too. She plays with Rinwell and Jaskier sometimes; it seemed like games might be suitable for a party. Pulling a smaller cloth bag free, Ciri leans over Geralt, bracing a forearm on his shoulder a bit tipsily as she tosses it at Castiel. (Her aim is good, but the throw a bit too enthusiastic to be described as a toss to him.)

Inside the drawstring bag, Castiel will find a set of five six-sided dice, carved out of bone. And another five knuckle bones left in their natural shape, for a different game. ]

How do we play? It's not all chance, is it? That's boring.

[Yes, medieval folks do love their dice, don't they? Hector takes one from Ciri's pouch and turns it over in his palm. It seems to be weighted fairly enough, and out of bone no less. Nice.]

Then lets make it more interesting. Call your roll before you make it, and if you manage to get it correct, you can chose a punishment for someone else. A small task to perform, or a secret to tell.

[~~It's drunken truth or dare, what could go wrong?~~]

( Look at Cas, throwing out good suggestions. He beams with telegraphed pride, and slaps the guy firmly on the shoulder, giving it a little shake. )

That's exactly the kinda initiative I like to see in this organization.

( What organization? There's no organization. Doesn't matter, don't get hung up on the details here.

He snaps his fingers and points at Hector's addition, and then suggests an addendum himself. )

Rule número dos: you get it wrong, the last person who got it right gets to do it to you.

( Just throwin' it out there, because he's betting there's gonna be way more wrong guesses than right ones. )

[ less drunk than ciri (and slightly off balance from dean's firm shaking of approval), cas isn't expecting a pouch flung at him with quite that much enthusiasm, and a scrambled only a little not to drop it as it pings off his chest, threatening to ricochet at someone else's face. looks like an awkward juggle for a second, while the others add rules to their game. ]

Are there, um, [ distracted, as he's shaking the dice out of the pouch, then glancing up to look between hector and dean, ] Are there any rules to these punishments? Limitations?

[ 'task to perform' or 'secret to tell' sounds like a recipe for disaster, but cas suspects that may be the goal.

anyway, here's some dice, check it out. ]

Edited 2022-01-24 16:14 (UTC)

[It is probably Jaskier's fault for bringing a very special, made-by-yours-truly strawberry tart and once, accidentally, letting it slip it's a pie, but. He stands by his reasoning. His reasoning that it's food and it doesn't matter what it is.]

Oh, no, no. I want to know your entire understanding of the word pie. It's a tart, it's a -- a topless pie. That's all a bloody tart is. Are you saying a quiche is not a pie? It has a crust.

Edited 2022-01-02 22:57 (UTC)

( It is absolutely without a doubt one million percent Jaskier's fault, and Dean will die on this hill thank you very much. Some things are just a matter of principal. You gotta draw the line in the sand somewhere. )

Oh, I'll tell you what a pie is- ( It's squeezed in there underneath Jaskier, who talks over him in this ever-growing battle to out-argue one another. ) -no, no, that's not- ( Adamant head shaking, eyes shut, mouth pressed into a disapproving line. And then there's that last question; it gets them snapping open again to ogle Jaskier like he's an absolute madman. Like he just suggested a Canadian Bull Moose is a pie. ) Hell no a quiche is not a pie, what's the matter with you? That's- I can't- are you screwing with me now or are we having a serious conversation? Quiche. Come on.

[There's going to be a lot of talking in between for the two of them, for sure.]

That's not -- what? Hah, I see you don't have an --

[An argument. What is that look for?] Why would quiche not be a pie? Yes, we are having a serious conversation! [Along with breaths taken between all the seriousness because he has to drink. He has to be drunk for this argument, probably, or. He probably doesn't have to be, truth be told, but it makes it more fun. Jaskier is ready to argue it as if the fate of Abraxas itself hangs upon Dean's agreement with him.] It's an egg pie. It has crust. It has filling. It has floating bits in it -- all right, it needn't matter they float, but they're there. Imagine you put crumbs of bread on top, then. Is it now a pie, because it has a top? Has the nature of the quiche changed at all? Absolutely not. Its soul remains a quiche. Which is a pie.

Egg- egg pie, are you kidding me? Will you listen to yourself? That's the most disgusting- if it were a pie, they'd call it a pie. Apple pie, cherry pie. What's it called? Quiche. If it doesn't end in 'pie', it's not pie.

( It's clear by this smug, triumphant look and the way he leans in a little bit at that last bit that he thinks he's just played his trump card. )

[Unfortunately, Jaskier will not back down. Which means this may be the argument that doesn't end.]

What do you think quiche means? It means tart. And a tart is a pie, it only hasn't got a bloody top. It's absolutely the same thing. Are you going to tell me you define a pie by the fact it's got two crusts instead of one? That doesn't make sense!

[ Ciri arrives fashionably late. But, in her defense, she arrives with a whole keg of wine.

It's about half the size of a full barrel, balanced on one shoulder with the help of her hand to stabilize it; her other is occupied with a box of fresh sweet rolls she picked up from her favorite nearby bakery. Finagling the handle with an elbow, she pushes the door open with her boot, and without any subtlety. ]

I can hear your racket all the way down the street.

[ She grins, handing off the box of more fragile desserts to the nearest person and shifting her grip on the keg to set it down wherever there is room. ]

Can't believe you're having so much fun without me.

[ Look, she's even gotten all dressed up for the occasion.

As the evening progresses, Ciri can be found...

- stuffing her face with boar, bread, and other tasty goodies
- participating in or challenging others to drinking games
- telling stories about her recent hunts, explaining how to properly shuck a scorpion, arguing about the differences between some type of monster and another (a cockatrice is not a basilisk, why would you think that?) or just waxing poetic about her new horse and what a sassy little sweetheart she is (when she's not trying to bite)
- becoming progressively less sober, and sticking the decorations in her hair. or someone else's. who wants a sprig of holly behind their ear or a garland as a crown?

Later, when things quiet down and most of the booze is gone, she sits with her knees drawn up by the hearth, relaxed and half-napping but open to a conversation or two as she enjoys some herbal tea that may or may not help with the hangover tomorrow. ]

[ abraxas brought many changes to castiel’s natural abilities and physiology, though one unexpected is his diminished resistance to alcohol. It still takes him more than the average human to feel the effects, but when he’d started the drinking games with a 5 shot handicap to equate to the other players 1, the silly, tipsy feeling advanced much faster than he’d been expecting.

Such is how he’s found himself slouched in a plush, comfy lounge chair dragged to the end of a table where rowdy conversation and drinking games are still going on, when Ciri’s garland crown plops onto his head. Rather than turning, he lazily leans his head directly back to peer at her, eyes crossing up at his forehead to inspect his new decoration, then quickly fumbling a hand up to catch it when the crown begins to fall free. ]

Am I sovereign of the Christmas inn?

[ given the deadpan of his tone, it may be difficult to suss out if that's a joke or not. ]

Hmmm, I dunno. [there's a giggle as Rinwell peers around towards Castiel.] I don't remember voting for you!

[ That IS how kings are chosen on worlds that aren't Rena, right? There's a distinct lack of crown contest on Abraxas for her to otherwise compare it to, so Rinwell doesn't even try.

She's seated on the other side of Ciri, giggly from the different drinks her found family have casually recommended over the course of the Christmas feast, and Hootle burbles happily from where he sits atop her head as an Owl Crown of her very own. ]

[ Ciri laughs, giving Castiel a pat on the head when he doesn't let the decoration fall. With that, she falls back into her own chair by Rinwell, tucking her legs up underneath herself and leaning her elbows on one of the chair arms.

Rinwell's giggling is infections. Ciri reaches out, on a whim, to brush her knuckles along the girl's cheek. It's warm, flushed with drink and the heat from the nearby hearth. Cute. She's glad to see Rinwell laughing so much.

Her gaze turns to Castiel, lazily amused. Ciri is also pink-cheeked from the wine and the fire, draped comfortably like a cat. ]

As sovereign, what would your command be? If it is unjust, your subjects might riot.

[ assuming the effects of alcohol on him here are the same as they were back home, Castiel begins his drinking festivities with the standard ratio of 5:1. Welp, assuming makes an ass of one dumb angel boy who quickly discovers his physiology, like his powers, aren’t as on par as he’d hoped.

Once soused enough he’s retired to a lazy slump on a comfy couch, what little filter and social manner Cas possessed rapidly evaporates. Cas becomes weak to the compulsory urge to correct biblical history, occasionally announcing unprompted information to the gathering, such as when a winter-themed carol is sung, or he just happens to stare at a holly leaf too long, there's a vaguely grumpy proclamation — ]

Christ was born in June.

[ Throughout the festivities, you can find Cas:

— Running blunt commentary on the holiday and Jesus-themed trivia: the star wasn’t part of the original plan but the Magi had a miserable sense of direction; evergreens were never native to Bethlehem; Christ was allergic to olives, yet often gifted olive branches, so divine intervention was taken to avoid him breaking into hives at inopportune moments - praying at Gethsemane on the Mount of Olives was just cheeky (then: a dorky giggle)
— Insisting he isn’t drunk just before stumbling into a table, then walking it off like nothing happened
— Inconspicuously (he thinks (he’s wrong)) taking a quick sniff of someone’s shoulder. Don’t worry, he’s just checking your blood alcohol content
— Trying on other peoples' hats
— At peak levels of wasted - declaring laws for his sovereign territory, the Christmas Inn, such as: if the bird lands nearby a food tribute must be paid, all hats must be appropriate levels of jaunty (see Jaskier for approval), Dean Winchester is allowed one (1) utterly nonsensical declaration completely free of context clues per half hour. His only claim to lordship is the garland crown Ciri plopped on him, and these laws aren't enforced, save for a sweet roll tossed at the back of Dean’s head if something makes fuck all sense to 80% of the company
— At the end of the night, practically melted into a chair next to the fire, angled out to watch the others still socializing, with a soft, distant smile, quietly soaking in the atmosphere ]

Edited 2022-01-03 20:10 (UTC)

[At Castiel's matter-of-fact declaration, Hector snorts.]

So the Church got it wrong? Ha, of course they did.

[He's so amused, he's not even going to question how this strange man knows.]

What else did they fuck up? Was Mary Madgalene a necromancer? I have my suspicions.

[ n e c r o m a n c e r? that's one out of left field, and for a couple silent, lightly judgmental seconds, castiel's staring as if waiting for more context. none? okay then, here we go. ]

No. [ measured, forbearing, suspicious. ] Nor was she a prostitute. Pope Gregory I projected the shame of his favored solicitation onto her. Mary Magdalene was a widowed midwife.

[ much more boring than some churches like to profess, but it's human nature to sensationalize these things. and, to invent baseless smear campaigns of women with too much power or respect, so no one's that surprised. ]

The Bible makes a poor history book. Though Revelation was fairly accurate, up to a point.

[ the point where the intended participants decided, nah fuck that noise, but that's a much longer story. ]

Edited 2022-01-04 00:23 (UTC)

That's disappointing. How'd the Christ rise up from the grave, then? He couldn't have been a vampire, even if he did go about talking about drinking blood.

[A necromancer at the scene of the crime just makes more sense, honestly. Hector shakes his head.]

The one with the seals and the trumpets and the animals with way too many eyes? Huh. How would you know? Did it end up happening?

[Priests in Hector's time had been clamoring on about end times-- which to be fair, it almost was-- but Hector hadn't seen any horsemen or plagues of locusts running about. Just a depressed vampire and all the Night Creatures Hector could forge.]

God willed it.

[ straightforward, no hint of shenanigans or sarcasm there, just cas's mild face blinking calmly. hector may have been mistaken about the insight he offered. ]

Seals, yes. The vision of many-eyed animals, I suspect, were a misinterpretation of angels. Trumpets were probably artistic license.

[ prophets get flowery sometimes, y'know, but horsemen, plagues - all included. anyway, those are less important details. Cas nods, indicated, yes, it did happen, at least in a sense. ]

It was averted.

That's less fun.

[Really, a supernatural explanation is much more exciting than simply attributing everything to some divine plan.]

Not completely accurate, then, if it ended up not happening. Oh well. I didn't much care for the book anyways.

[There's far better reading to be found elsewhere.]

Few biblical events were.

[ 'fun' wasn't quite the objective God had in mind, Cas is pretty sure, but then again, his reading of 'fun' isn't exactly reliable. ]

I did say fairly, up to a point.

[ the build up was there, it's only the decimation and total destruction that wasn't permitted to follow through. he cocks his head, taking a silent moment to openly examine this man, absorb the whole disposition. ]

You seem spiteful of it. [ which is a brand of caring about a thing, but cas doesn't feel that needs voicing so pointedly. ]

[Hector shrugs. It's no secret, his distaste for the church and the religion that formed it.]

The Church started it. 'Thou shall not suffer a witch to live' and so forth.

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[ closed ] a very merry cadens christmas

Hector

𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟

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we're going in media res for max chaos

perfect yes good

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ciri.

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castiel

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