[Center][img]https://i.imgur.com/35foN5l.jpeg[/img][/center] [color=darkgray]He stepped to the iron gates in a daze. Baxter Marsh's eyes barely held lucidity, but that hadn't changed as much as one might think since he started walking. He'd left Berlin Brandenberg Airport and staggered alone in his own style. That was a month ago, and the small rolling suitcase he dragged behind him had long lost all plastic covering on it's wheels and would occasionally spark on flint and dryer bitumen. It had been a long time since it's last spark though, since he'd most recently been dragging it through snow covered woods, however. Bax pulled his black feathery coat taut around his shivering form, and tossed the pink boa around his neck with a twitching hand. The warmth of the brandy sitting in his core, doing little for his extremities. For the most part the change in seasons had been enjoyable for his little traipse across Europe. His family may have left him in the dark but he'd enjoyed a good many dunkels in Germany, becherovka's bitter herbal kiss as he detoured slightly through Prague, slivovica struck him plum(b) as he cut through Slovakia, a shot of unicom after his meals in Hungary, he'd even celebrated Christmas with locals and a good few varied bottles of rakija as he'd hit Serbia with the irony of his destination completely lost on him, and the omnipresent mulled wine of the evenings before he'd stop at a backpackers for the night. By the time he'd hit Greece though, winter was in full force. He didn't remember hearing about the cold Greek nights anywhere. Olive oil and vineyards were what came to his mind. He always thought Greek winters were supposed to be fairly balmy. But the snow apparently felt otherwise, and made it its business to correct his ignorance. His breath was stilted and shaky from the cold, as his breath belched out in thick plumes like he was chain smoking fat Havana cigars. He looked down at the panel with curiosity on his brow, and the omnipresent wide smile on his face. He tried to mash his whole hand on the tiny pad to no avail, before concluding that the pad was far too small for such a function. He tried breathing on it. Stuck his tongue out and considered whether he was supposed to put that on it, before trying a finger. Still nothing. Wrong key. He tried his thumb and with a great creaking, the giant iron gates made way for his entrance. Where he was met by nothing and no one. As he took a few staggered steps into the gated camp, he considered calling out, but the silence seemed to insist on more silence. Maybe everyone was still asleep. He knew that after his late nights he wouldn't normally be up this early - back home you wouldn't see him awake before noon - and the only reason he was still awake himself, was because he pushed on through the night with his own excitement as he'd drawn near his destination after such a long trek. If a trek could be done in a thin button-up shirt (with the buttons undone), beneath a thick feather coat, skinny pants and dragging a rolling case. He noticed the weather seemed slightly warmer since he'd walked through the gates, and a more sensible person might have considered it to be hypothermia setting in. Baxter Marsh was not someone to be confused with a sensible person. A voice came over an unseen PA. It announced the time as a novel new thing called 9 AM. He'd heard about such a time as a child. Mainly that he was supposed to be at places that he hadn't bothered to be at by this strange mysterious time, but apparently some continued this nonsense beyond adolescence in this strange pocket-world inhabited by the supposed children of gods. The weather seemed equally ridiculous. -9 degrees celsius? That's not a real temperature. And if it was he certainly wouldn't have chosen to be out in it. Everything about it was absurd. A non-existent hour... A made up temperature... News from the gods... [color=firebrick]"Oh right... that's why I'm here. Or something."[/color] Something-something-- New demi-gods will be here today. [color=firebrick]"Oh good... got here just in time for that. Looking forward to seeing them..."[/color] With no sense whatsoever that this included him. Or any sense in general really. Something-something-- Leader-- something-- Rigorous-- Something something-- Tonight-- a New Years Eve Celebration-- Hope to see you campers there. [color=firebrick]"Wow... they're holding New Years really close to Christmas now. Hey, they should invite these new demi-gods too."[/color] Bax listened on, but the voice from the PA had stopped. Its message concluded. He leaned closer to the open air, not knowing where the PA was actually located and listened harder, but still nothing further was coming. He squinted, as if that would help. Nothing. Then he realised he still felt cold and that he should get inside while his legs still worked. Bax pushed on and came to a large sign which appeared to have a map on it. He squinted through the haze in his head, broad vacant grin still omnipresent on his face, as he looked upon the map and the code beneath it, that seemed to direct the residents to their prospective homes for the duration of their stay. He checked the landscape in the map, and corresponding numbers for a few, before deciding he should check for his own name. He started to pass by the names and numbers. [color=firebrick]"Cabin Thirty-One... Beachfront property... Heh-heh-heh. Sounds good to me."[/color] He passed through all of the cabin numbers, never catching his name. His laughter almost delirious from a combination of the cold and his nature. Reaching the end, he widened his eyes, and delivered a cold handed slap to his cheek, as if that would accomplish anything from his years' long cumulative present state and went back to the top of the list and scanned through the cabins again. Cabin 31 - Bax That... did that say that before. It must've. Right? [color=firebrick]"Huh..."[/color] Not thinking anymore, he dragged his case towards what would be his humble home for the duration. [center]_ _ _[/center] It turns out his humble home had quite an ego on it. It was one of the weirdest designed placed he'd ever lived, and it's shape was most peculiar. After walking through the entrance the living space opened wide and vast, with exits in both corners, but large one-way windowing overlooking the woods, and peeking out to the sand and surf of the beach just beyond in the distance. It could have been considered to be shaped like a bunch of grapes, that grew ever smaller towards the front door. Or a pinecone, similarly with it's point, upside down at the entrance. A wine flute. Or even a womb. Whatever shape one wished to call it, to Bax it would be home. He walked up the few single step levels to the back window and marvelled at the natural view. And then with a shiver he remembered why he was in such a rush to get here. He rushed over to a wall which kept a sizeable bath with jacuzzi jets and promptly ran the water. With confusion he couldn't find different temperature taps, and looking around, he found the water temperature, along with other environmental conditions for the cabin controlled by a single thermostat interface. He set the water to 37 degrees. A sensible person would not jump straight into a hot tub after braving hypothermia for as long as Bax had. Again, Baxter Marsh could not be confused with a sensible person. He stripped down and jumped in, after several squeals from how hot the water felt against his exposed, almost frozen body. Steam rose into his face and he was in danger of passing out, before he stepped back out and remembered he'd need clothes for the other side. He opened his case, pulled out a similar shirt to what he'd just worn. A faded button up shirt that archaeologists could reveal once said 'Tequila Sunrise' before large orange patches which were once the aforementioned sun. A pair of underpants and randomly pyjama bottoms. There'd be a party tonight, but he fully intended to get his sleep in before then. He'd just treked all through the night to get to this place, and well earned his rest. A sensible person would have wished he still had one of those bottles of rakija left over, but he'd drunk them as he was offered them, with no luggage space to spare. Even if he had luggage space to spare, the outcome would likely have been the same. Nobody would confuse Baxter Marsh with a sensible man. It now dawned on him he'd never taken the opportunity to try locally sourced ouzo, and hoped someone would have the foresight to bring some tonight. All of this crossed his mind, as well as the one question he'd had that kept one foot in front of the other all the way to this, his final destination. Perhaps he'd finally have an answer. Does ambrosia ferment? He stepped back into the hot tub to contemplate such things, wetting a flannel and putting it over his face, as he slowly worked on feeling normal again, in this place which may well be anything but. [center]_ _ _[/center] Bax awoke from his discombobulated sprawl across his bed once he'd had his fill of bedrest. It was dark outside, he could immediately tell that from the window view. He mouthed at nothing, as he slowly awoke, and with the area light from the hot tub hurting his eyes he brought his own blood alcohol level up to a happy buzz. The vacant smile once again restoring, as what would have been the pain of an accumlative hangover once again receded to the fog of memory. Dressed. Gotta get ready. He remembered they were having some kind of celebration tonight. He'd be fashionably late. So now the onus was on him to hit the 'fashionable' part. He was still wearing an unbuttoned faded button-up shirt and pyjama bottoms from after his bath. He opened up his case and withdrew three different buttoned up shirts on coathangers from it's contents and laid them on the bed, considering his options. He chose one. Hung the other two in the wardrobe, and took his own shirt off before pulling the new choice on over his head, before running hs fingers down and undoing all of the buttons. Leaving him looking identical to how he looked less than thirty seconds ago. He picked a pair of pants and underwear and put them on, in the appropriate order. A feat he achieved most days. He checked himself in the mirror, and unsatisfied with the effect his clothes were making, he dove through one corner of his bag looking for something. His art supplies. He pulled a small container of [color=Springgreen]Spring Green[/color] from his paints. With a brush in the mirror, painted a firm block line just above the brow level, and as low as the bridge of his nose, including across both closed eyes, and covering his ears. He waited a moment and re-checked himself in the mirror. He liked it. Made the deep merlot of his eyes [b]*POP*[/b] with the contrasting bright light green. Now happy with how his face looked he ran his fingertips through his hair. Alcohol from his pores working wonders to hold and shape his hair to his satisfaction. Eyeing it through the mirror and moving his head to check the angles, his smile widened, and snapping his fingers and pointing at the man in the mirror, and withdrawing all of the alcohol from his hair to prevent it from drying out and getting damaged. It mostly stayed up. It also looked almost exactly like it had forty seconds earlier. He grabbed his feather coat from earlier and winced that it still wasn't dry from the wet and cold. He furrowed his brow, but was about to put it on nonetheless, when he spied the thermostat. The exterior temperature was... Huh. Not giving it a second though. After all, -9 is not a real temperature, he threw the feather coat over a chair and stepped outside to confirm that reality did indeed have a real temperature. Only to hobble back inside with the realisation that the warmth in the air had somehow not affected the snow which was settling on the ground in the moments before it melted. Real and unreal seemed to have a confusing habit of not knowing what it wanted to be of late. Bax decided to put shoes and socks on before discovering whether chillblains and digit loss through extreme cold were indeed 'real'. He once again stepped back out through his front door and back towards the main entrance, in hopes of finding signs of life now that this celebration should be underway. And as he walked past a bonfire and seated people eating and talking, he indeed found signs of life. Leaning against, and sat atop the bar, being extremely lively in the place his eyes would most naturally fall. He hesitated a moment, before breathing a sigh of relief in realising he couldn't blamed for whatever this spectacle was, because he'd only just gotten here. Regardless, he was glad the girl and guy, whoever they were, were well and truly enjoying themselves. He kept a steady pace, and re-filled their absence as they disappeared in the other direction, albeit on the other side of the bar. He didn't bother with introductions. There was work to be done. There was a broken wine bottle on the floor and he quickly set to cleaning that up and away before anyone got cut. Then he settled in to real work. He laid out six shot glasses and with the speed and precision of a DJ perfectly layered a row of [url=https://www.thespruceeats.com/thmb/iL9YgwPZPxYO_caolzap8DuGefw=/750x0/filters:no_upscale():max_bytes(150000):strip_icc():format(webp)/b-52-triple-layered-shot-759583-hero-01-5c055effc9e77c000163f891.jpg]B-52[/url] shots to start with, just to get his eye in. Half way through, he spied a bottle on the bar which numerous partygoers in front of him had commented on. One dark haired guy, and a blonde girl in particular, who said the name he'd heard once before, seemed particularly taken by it, and Bax recognised it as a homemade mead. With no wasted movement he pulled the cork, snapped a splash over his right shoulder, which found a glass without spilling a drop and recorked the bottle, whilst continuing to layer the shots. [color=firebrick]"Homemade..? I'll try that..."[/color] He left the six shots on the bartop before sweeping up an empty wine glass wanting a refill, and with a sniff of the residue, identified the match to have been the bottle that now was swept beneath the bar. He sorted through the available wines at his disposal, a man on a mission, before pulling three and blending an approximation that was indistinguishable from the original in a decanter - himself appearing as some blend of mad scientist, artist and chemist as he moved with a swift pace, bobbing his head at a rhythm inconsistent with the music everyone else could hear. Completing the process in barely a minute, he refilled the empty glass, and left it on the bar for whoever was awaiting their refill. He ran his eye across the people on the opposite side of the bar, and tried to anticipate desires. Omnipresent broad grin across his face, and his bopping head had started to spread to occasionally include hand tapping, as the music in his head swirled. 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