i had a fun title once. it was awful. (open)

[agonise]

WHO: bruce & open
WHAT: autumn harvest event!
WHERE: moon region & kyst
WHEN: 09/14 — 09/22

a note: the comments below are all in prose, but i am more than happy to match whatever formatting you choose; no preference! if you'd like a custom starter, hit me up on my ooc plotting comment or birdlaw!

Comments

BANDITS » moon & stars

[agonise]

Preparing a farm for winter isn't the kind of manual labor he excels at, but Bruce can follow directions well enough, and after a while, being pointed in the right direction, told what to do, and then left alone is strangely calming. The farm he's found himself assisting is small, run by a mother, father, and teenaged son. It's so quaint they should make porcelain figurines featuring it.

In the distance, muffled shouts ring out — young, male, probably the son — followed by a sudden gasp and mournful sob — the mother. Following the sounds leads him to the source, a storage area, where bandits must have been raiding the stores when they were walked in on. It looks like the son was attacked in a panic; he's very bloody and needs attention, but nothing looks fatal. Bruce attempts to relay this to his mother, but he's not sure if she can hear him.

It is, after all, incredibly traumatic to see your family member in a pool of their own blood.

He manages to get a direction, but that's about it. They've run off to a bigger, neighboring farm, probably to hide among all the farmhands. And that's where you come in, noble helper who's just trying to peacefully do their work. Our thieves are quite a bit younger than you'd imagine, a boy and girl who are teenagers at best, scrawny and dirty and undoubtedly siblings. They each have two heavy sacks slung over each shoulder and are running as fast as their skinny legs will take them. They also have a grown-ass man chasing after them, so it doesn't exactly look great.

Help the kids steal? Help bully these poor children? Mind your damn business and get tripped over?? The world is your oyster.

[pauldron]

[This was supposed to have been a quiet job. "Watch for bandits", the farm owner had said, "and chase them off. Shouldn't be hard for a person like you."

A person like her. Dressed in the soft grays of her faction, sleeves of her tunic rolled up to her elbows and sword still holstered at her thighs there had been no mistaking her as a combatant. It's just as well that she's on patrol since she's never seen this much food all growing in one place before. Having no idea how farms work--thanks, fal'Cie--she's been utterly useless except as one of the many hands on defense. The larger farm has seen little action...at least, until those kids blow past her like they're running from a Behemoth King!]

Hey!

[Sacks that full? Running that fast? Questions can wait. She takes off in hot pursuit, breaking from a slow walk into a dead sprint in a handful of seconds. The kids are fast, but she's got the stamina and the speed to keep up. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she gestures to their other pursuer to head to the left.]

Go that way! Cut them off at the barn!

[agonise]

[ Bruce certainly notices a person like her, and so do the kids. He can see the girl speeding up even more now, reaching behind her to grab the boy's elbow and drag him along as he falls back. She's smaller than him, but faster, and he's suffering for it. She looks back at him, as if worried that he won't keep up.

He doesn't have time to think about anything but getting those sacks back; he hardly even registers that Lightning has told him to do anything, he just does it. As he rounds the barn, the girl runs smack-dab into him with such speed that he actually steps back a little. Immediately, the two turn tail and find themselves faced with Lightning. He can see the panic rising in their faces now, especially in the boy.

Now that he's up close, he can finally get a good look at them. The girl is definitely younger, but also appears to be the leader here; she's scrappy, shielding her brother with her tiny body as best she can. He'd put her at fourteen, maybe. The boy is probably around sixteen, if he had to guess, but on the small side of sixteen. They're both clearly malnourished. He can see now that the boy has some blood on his clothes; he's the one who panicked and stabbed the farm owner's son.

The girl suddenly throws her sacks aside, then grabs the boy's and does the same. Then she screams, "Help! Help! We're being attacked by bandits!"

Bruce, while vaguely impressed by her quick thinking, sighs. ]

Ugh.

[pauldron]

[Clever girl. Lightning keeps her stance loose, ready to bolt after them again if they try and deke off to the side, but then they plant themselves and shout and--

Lightning just shakes her head. Did she really think that was going to work? Under different circumstances, maybe it would have, but under these? With these people? All it does is get people looking at them. A few tense seconds tick by, the watching farmhands taking in the sight before them. Neither Lightning or Bruce are subtle, what with the pink hair and big ass bulk, but it's that lack of subtlety that makes them stand out as Otherworlders. The kids? They don't have that luxury. The farmhands share looks, frowns, and the most senior of those nearest cocks his head.

"Farron?"

Not taking her eyes off the kids, Lightning waves a hand over her shoulder.]

It's fine. We've got this.

["If you say so." He replies, and just like that the farmhands turn back to their work. They toss glances at the knot as they go, but there's too much to harvest and not enough hands to spare. Lightning's eyes narrow at the girl, the air still thick with tension.]

You'll get yourselves killed pulling stunts like that. [A flickering glance to the blood on the boy's clothing; it's not his, by the looks of things. Not good. She spares Bruce a quick glance.] Did they attack someone?

KITCHEN » moon & stars

[agonise]

Bruce Wayne is a perfectionist. Bruce Wayne is good at everything. Bruce Wayne couldn't make a proper pie if his life depended on it.

It isn't for lack of trying; he's wholeheartedly thrown his efforts in, even if his talent is lacking. He simply has the helplessness of someone who rarely ever has to pick up a knife himself, and the ignorance of someone who doesn't actually know that allspice doesn't mean putting every spice in. A better man would walk away and acknowledge that he's hurting more than he's helping, but for Bruce, this is a matter of principle. He's taken on homicidal clowns, aliens, ancient secret societies — he will not let a pie defeat him.

He pulls a pie out of the oven, coughing, smoke billowing he waves a hand in an attempt to disperse it. Raw meat had been a concern, so he'd been careful not to underbake it, but somewhere along the way 'golden brown' turned to 'blackened disaster'. At least it isn't raw. It doesn't smell right, either, not like the others, and he can't pinpoint where he went wrong.

He stares, dejected, at the traitorous pie for a long time.

Re: KITCHEN » moon

[unrepentantsoul]

"This one thinks the human should start with something simpler," she murmured from over his shoulder, nose crinkling in an attempt to keep the smell out of her nostrils and not doing a very good job of it.

"A basic hunter's pie," she declared after a moment, waving her hands so that the already burnt creation burst into flames and was reduced to an ash pile in the time it took for the fire to flare once before going out. "We start there. Come. The human will get the flour and water and this one will get the meat and rice."

[agonise]

"Someone might have eaten that," Bruce said too late as she magicked his failed pie into a pile of ash. Surely the starving wouldn't turn their noses up at his cooking. (Would they? He liked to imagine not.)

The pie was even more unsalvageable now, and he hadn't thought that possible, so he had no choice but to listen to this magic food-destroying interloper. Even if it felt mildly humiliating. He liked to be good — if not great — at things, you see, and to have someone witness his continued failures was a bit degrading.

Degrading or not, he fetched the ingredients for her, looking upon them with distaste, as if to say, You've betrayed me for the last time, flour. When he returned, he placed them on the counter in front of her.

"I don't have a lot of time for baking." It was a poor excuse for being innately bad, but he felt like he had to say something.

[unrepentantsoul]

"This one will not allow even the livestock to suffer such a fate," she said decidedly at his protest, humor clear in her tone as she brought her half of the ingredients to the table.

"And this one has chosen a simple hunter's pie because it is simple and requires little effort to make. Hardly any baking at all. It is called this because a hunter can make it in a campfire, yes?" she tilts her head at him, eyes half-lidded as she gathers the flour into a pile, then creates a 'bowl' with the back of one hand.

"Usually it is made with hard breads stuffed full of meat and cooked in a pot shoved against the base of a fire, but it is tastier when you cook it with a crust made as fresh as the meat put inside it," she continued slowly, explaining the thought behind her choice as she poured water into the 'bowl' of flour.

Then she reached out and took Bruce's hands so that she could make them cup the bowl, "The human must push the sides in and mix the flour and water until it is a dough. It will be much better if this one's fur does not fall in."

[notimefordreams]

Poor, traitorous pie. It's the smell that really draws Sarah's attention first and foremost as she enters the kitchen. She's had an apron dropped into her hands once again and is unsurprised by it; she's almost getting used to that coming before the 'hello' when she volunteers now.

The guy holding said pie is giving it such a forlorn sort of look that Sarah can't help but speak up as she ties her apron. "It happens to everyone now and then. You ought to see the things my brother can create sometimes." To say Toby bumbled a lot in the kitchen was sort of an understatement, at least in the past. He didn't have the patience to really put time and effort into cooking and so tried to rush things.

[agonise]

Worse than creating this monstrosity is having its disaster of an existence acknowledged by other people. Smoke sufficiently dealt with, Bruce places the pie on the counter in front of him and spares the woman a glance. It's not so much a now and then and her brother also being untalented in the kitchen doesn't make him feel particularly encouraged, but he says neither of these things. He recognizes she's making an attempt to be kind.

By way of explanation, he says, "I don't have much occasion for baking." His diet is that of a health nut most of the time. It's all about getting three square protein shakes a day. "Or eating pie." Even when his meals aren't bland and nutritious, he's not the one doing the food preparation. The few times he has, the results haven't been well-reviewed. People have stopped eating anything his hands have had a part in making. The smart ones have, anyway.

[notimefordreams]

"Oh? Well that's a shame." No really, it is, even if she's damn near the same in that respect. Sarah cooks sparingly for herself and just generally forgets that she needs to have food in the house alongside the tea she consumes like it's going out of style. It seems like the times she cooks always coincide with Toby's visits and she can admit to herself that's not a mistake.

Her brows rise up and her look is curious. "You want to give it another go?"

[chronosynthesis]

[Syrlya elbows the backdoor to the kitchen open, arms full of a sack of grains with more on the way.]

Excuse m--[He chokes on the scent of something burning, sucking in a breath against it as he looks over to the smoke. And Bruce.] Is there a fire?

[Does he need to call somebody.]

[agonise]

[ Wonderful. ]

No, [ Bruce replies, placing the smoking pie on the counter in front of him. He gets the feeling it was almost a fire, considering the egregious amount of smoke, but even he isn't quite that bad, even when making something as new to him as a pie. He'd notice a fire. ]

Just a little overbaked.

[ Perhaps an understatement, looking at the blackened crust. It might be all right on the inside, if he scrapes that part off. Not to serve at the feast, where they'll be picky, but at least to give to the hungry? It can't be bad enough that even they'd turn up their noses at it. ]

[chronosynthesis]

[A little...?

Syrlya approaches the counter, dropping the sack on the ground beside it as he stares at the pie. Even he ends up waving his hand to try and blow the smoke away.] Well, how does it taste?

WILDCARD »

[agonise]

Feel free to encounter him helping children pick apples — maybe his Assigned Child™ bumped into you — or assisting with the harvest. Alternate bandit encounters than the one outlined above are more than welcome, as well!

Training and/or sparring are on a one-on-one basis, but if your character's openly interested and asking around, you can assume they linked up! No giant bat costumes today, sorry to disappoint.

Otherwise, he'll be around in Kyst, especially interested in talking to people with Stars tattoos.

If you'd like a custom starter, let me know here or on Plurk. Otherwise, feel free to wildcard me yourself!

WILDCARD » more bandit shenanigans

[hipshoots]

Ashe isn't one to beat around the bush. If she sees a problem, she's gonna deal with it, and — as it turns out — she's intimately familiar with bandits from being one herself.

But "bandit" is just a term. She's an entrepreneur, a businesswoman. And she can tell that these here bandits are nothing more than starving peasants stealing to survive; not people who steal to sell on the black market like she does. And since she's keeping hush hush about what she does back home (omitting the "illegal" part, that is), she's going to be all innocent and try to help these bandits because that in turn makes her look good.

"I think we can cut a deal with them," she says to Bruce as they watch a farm from their hiding spot on the crest of a nearby hill. What she wouldn't give for binoculars right now, or to not have field grass slapping her in the face as she lies on her stomach to stay out of sight.

"Way I hear it, a lot of them just need the food. If we can get them on our side, then they get three square meals a day in the army, and they'd get a salary to send home too."

[agonise]

Bruce likes the idea of helping them rather than hurting them; harming people who are just trying to get by doesn't sit right with him. However, he can't say he feels great about pushing people with no other choice into an army he knows little about, either. Isn't there a reason they aren't already in it?

"Wait," he says before he can stop himself. He just can't agree to it before talking it through, at least. He needs to know there aren't better options out there.

"Maybe we can set them up with employment in some of the farms looking for help. They can pay them in food and shelter." It seems like a long-shot, overly idealistic at best considering the free help these farms are already getting, but it sure sounds better than conscripting them into the army. "There are other options."

He shoots Ashe a supplicating look, eyebrows raised, mouth a thin line. "How much do we really know about this army?"

FARMING SIMULATOR

[atreefull]

It's been ages since Aziraphale has gone out into the fields to work. Not since, well, possibly before the Romans, actually. He'd kept himself in monasteries when in the West after the fall of that empire -- and there was farm work to be done, of course, but Aziraphale dealt more with the manuscripts kept by the monks and nuns. He's dressed down, for once, or would if it wasn't clear that the local style he's attempted to adopt was achieved with fine fabrics in creams and a deft hand at gold embroidery.

He is also enjoying working far more than the average person. The baskets of ears of corn he's helping harvest seem to be overflowing -- someone remarks that the yield is far above what they were expecting, even hoping for for this particular plot of land. Aziraphale doesn't look at all sheepish, just handing over another basket with a smile.

"Well!" He exclaims happily to the man he's been told is another arrival, just here to help. "They're certainly in luck, aren't they?"

Not to overuse bird comparisons, but Aziraphale's a little puffed up in pleasure from the miracles he's been able to cast.

[agonise]

Bruce remembers Aziraphale, although he knows Aziraphale won't remember him. The man who'd eagerly used magic, then clammed up the moment Bruce called him on it. It looks like he's still applying magic liberally, if the crop yield is anything to go by; that has to be the case, because he's accomplished far more than Bruce, and he doesn't want to think that he's just bad at this. Sure, he's no corn-fed, wholesome farm boy like Clark, and the only time he dresses in plaid is when he's literally forced to, but he still likes to imagine that he would be good at it if he ever set his mind to it.

"Luck," he repeats, skeptical, eyeing the man's latest basket. The guy looks positively gleeful. Bruce can't decide if it's endearing or just stupid, considering how uncomfortable he'd been the moment his magical aptitude got brought up. Joyously flaunting his skills, which far surpass any learned by the Otherworlders as of yet, isn't exactly subtle. Then again, Bruce has only seen him use them to help.

He exhales, acquiescing.

"They are pretty lucky." It isn't a complete farce; he supposes the farm lucked out having someone like Aziraphale help out. Bruce wonders the extent of his powers, if it ends at doing laundry and multiplying ears of corn. "You're skilled. Have you worked on a farm before?"

wildcard » world's finest (pair of dumbasses)

[sweariff]

[Kyst seems to be the place where one can count on finding Temple members at the most. That isn't to say Bigby hasn't seen them around other territories, Lake Theta coming to mind, but the city feels like a designated meeting place of sorts, probably out of convenience more than anything else. It's not like he can just waltz into the Moon Temple's capital city and expect a warm welcome. At least here, as long as he keeps his tattoo hidden, he's nobody.

Everybody's somebody to someone, though, and he only gets so far today until he runs into a familiar face at the border between the marketplace and the area where all of the food stalls and small eateries are set up. It's fascinating how much you can tell about a person just by the back of their head. In this guy's case, it's the waning gibbous on the back of his neck, peeking out just enough over the top of his collar for Bigby to see as he comes up behind him, the vague hint of old, curled scars intermittently dotting the flesh around it. Wonder what kind of contact sports you'd have to play to get those? Maybe he's a hockey player.]

Detective.

[Bigby's voice is raised and mild in greeting, loud enough for Bruce to hear him over the commotion around them. And just to be safe, he takes a step back. Call it a premonition, call it self-preservation, call it not taking any chances around a potential hockey player/cop/soldier/whatever the fuck this guy is.]

[agonise]

[ Good wolf-sense. Bruce's eyebrows raise in unease, and he turns quickly, muscles tensing as he wonders who here recognizes him and if he needs to be concerned about it— and then Bigby's face comes into his field of view, and oh, of course. He'd told him he was law enforcement. There was never anything to be alarmed about in the first place. He finds himself with fewer reasons for constant stress here, save being here, and he actually clings to any possible cause as a source of normalcy.

His shoulders relax, and he acts like he was never strained at all. Bruce Wayne, king of gaslighting. ]

Sheriff, [ he says, realizing that they never actually exchanged names. Perhaps that isn't such a problem. The sheriff seems — and Bruce is — the kind of man for whom titles are as personal as strictly necessary.

Bruce spares a glance down at Bigby's knuckles, looking them over for signs of healing. He wouldn't be entirely surprised if they were even worse than before. The kind of person who idly punches tree trunks is the kind of person who often uses his fists, he thinks. ]

How's your hand?

[arcsplainist]

Not once in his life has Alphinaud ever done a farmer's work, but a small group of enthusiastic children are eager to change that. The reason why quickly becomes obvious: he's one of those from an other world summoned by the Priestess herself, and they're a curious bunch that wants to know all about it.

So he obliges, if a touch reluctantly, and it ends up he does a lot better at conversing with them than the work that needed to get done. He's a little slow, as someone inexperienced at fieldwork would be, and carrying anything too heavy... is out of the question. On top of it all, his short stature means there isn't much he's able to reach. At the very least he's making an honest effort, after the initial hesitance, that is.

With one area deemed picked well enough, the group makes their way over to another area. One that a man and a smaller figure beside him have already begun their work at.

"Good morrow, and pardon the interruption," Alphinaud begins, polite as ever. "Would you happen to be in need of assistance? We mean not to intrude, but the children insisted the trees over this way provide the best apples this time of year."

Whether this is true or not he couldn't say, but there is a girl holding a basket beside him nodding fervently in agreement.

[agonise]

Good morrow, good God. He can already tell that this boy — young man? It's difficult to tell — is a fish far out of water. It excites the little boy he'd been helping, at least, probably because Bruce makes himself about as interesting as a wet napkin. There's not a lot he feels like sharing about his world. (Besides, he tends to interact better with kids who are capable of disabling grown men with their fists.)

He thinks, but does not say, You mean you're not one of the children? The guy is awfully small to be full-grown, even by gymnast standards. Then again, his ears are awfully big, too, so Bruce gets the feeling the two of them aren't quite the same.

"It's not an intrusion." It's apple-picking, after all; not exactly a non-stop thrill ride. He cants his head towards the girl. It's a little funny how much closer they are in height than Bruce and his babysittee. "Who's this?"

crawls in here

[purpose]

There's been a mistake.

[ Rey voices it immediately, at that, without any consideration to insulting Bruce's feelings in the process. The soldier that has pointed her in Bruce's direction doesn't have the patience to hear the rest of Rey's explanation, evident in how he brushes the concern aside with a, "You wanted help? I'm telling you he can help."

He can't fault her for that caution, Rey tells herself, when the soldier waves her off and exits without sparing a glance. Moon Temple is meant to be her opposition, after all; pairing them together is a miscalculation on their parts for how freely it allows them to be observed, their talents assessed.

The disapproval is clear in the thinning of her lips, mouth pulled into a taut line. ]

Do you usually agree to train the very people you would make your enemy?

[ It has more bite than is warranted when he's done nothing to offend her, but the very image the Emperor had painted of the High Priestess's intentions is affronting. Misguided, more than that. It's difficult to separate and reconcile their leader's ambitions from the people who appear to have willingly followed her despite it. ]

[agonise]

[ She's right; he can't fault her, and he doesn't. The Moon Temple recruits were fed propaganda, and he assumes the same goes for Stars. If he believed wholeheartedly what was told to him, he'd be wary, too. He doesn't, though, even if he believes the Priestess meant to tell them the truth as she sees it. Her story was too black-and-white. It's more complicated than that. It always is. ]

You're not my enemy.

[ His tone is stern and humorless, although privately he finds a bit of amusement in her defiance. She's remarkably feisty. He only hopes that it'll serve her well here instead of leading her into danger. ]

I don't know what your Emperor told you, but I don't want to see anyone harmed.

[ Much less innocent girls who look barely out of their teens. He'd rather she fight back hard if one of his quote-unquote allies took it upon themselves to hurt her. Maybe that's not the right attitude to have when she's supposedly standing in the way of saving his world, but he's never been very good at utilitarian ethics. ]

We don't have to hate each other just because they tell us to.