Difference between revisions of "Log:Happy Friday"

31 March, 2016

Cultural sharing among Lost: firearms, Shabbat, beer and Manichewitz.

Stoneheart - The Broken Hearth

It's Friday night, a few hours after sundown, and as the hobs near the hearth tend their fire, there are two other -- not usual -- flames burning, little candle lights off to one side, sitting on one of the tables. That's likely the first thing to catch a person's eyes: extra fire, however small.

To be precise, those two small flames flicker atop white candles about the length of an average palm, halfway burned down. They're set in collapsible silver candleholders, those ornately decorated with tiny cityscapes. Next to the candles, a small collapsible silver cup with similar cityscapes, and on the other side of the candles, a small silver plate from the same set, with a piece of bread on it.

One might be forgiven for thinking that the creation sitting in front of this little tableau is part of the scenery: wire hair wrapped and covered in dark blue cloth, her shoulders draped in a blue and white prayer shawl whose fringes dust a few inches from the ground, her ceramic hand open on top of a book that's in front of her on the table. Gisa is totally motionless, her eyepits completely dark. The only sign that she might not be a permanently-installed statue is the shin on her forehead, which dims and brightens intermittently.

Billy Ray makes his way into the meeting area. He's clad in jeans and hiking boots, a hoodie that he takes off in the warmer cave and has a backpack over both shoulders. He drops it down and shrugs off the hoodie to reveal a steampunk looking rapier at his hip and a heavy belt stuffed with tools. He sits down, pulling a six pack of beer out of the backpack and setting it nearby, and putting himself down in a seat, pulling out a pistol that he function checks before putting it down in front of him on a soft cloth, pulling on latex gloves and pulling out a small case to open it and reveal an array of small tools. He glances over to Gisa but doesn't bother her, just giving a polite nod.

He has plenty of time to unpack: Gisa doesn't move for a good long time. Her hand stays splayed, resting on the open book, and eventually, before she seems to notice Billy Ray, a low murmuring in a language which is not English can be heard. It's a rhythmic, musical thing, with a few sets of phrases that repeat over and over again, and she turns the pages in her book, right to left. Eventually, though, she finishes the ritual, closes the book. Twin small flames come on in her deep-set eyepits, and she rises. A heavy canvas messenger bag to her right is lifted up and she puts the book away, then takes out a small zippered canvas bag in the same material as the shawl. Folds the shawl neatly, tucking the long fringes to the inside, puts that away in the zippered bag, and then into the messenger bag. The candles are left to burn, the cup and the bread left where they are for now. Only then does she offer in Billy Ray's general direction: "Shabbat shalom, my friend."

B-ray has time to open a beer, taking a few gulps from it and adjust a small light to shine down on the weapon. He takes it down with small fingertips and tools, peering at the trigger assembly and working with a small tool on it. "C'mon, you sumbitch, loosen up, it ain't that hard," he mutters under his breath, angling the tool. Then Gisa speaks and the little man with the oddly metallic skin and writing along it that seems to shimmer looks up. "Oh hey. I uh, y'know, don't like, speak that language an' whatnot, but heya. Good Friday, happy Friday? Didn't wanna disturb y'none, hope ah ain't disturbin' ya at least. Wanted somewhere away from th' wind. Billy Ray Johnson, at yer service."

That sparks laughter in Gisa, something that sounds like a deep bellows working in a blacksmith's shop. "That language is Hebrew, my friend. Shabbat shalom means 'a peaceful Shabbat'. It is Friday night, so for me, it is Shabbat. The Sabbath. The seventh day. I wish you rest and peace." Each word is carefully chosen, it seems, her every motion deliberate, and she speaks a little slower than most. The golem raises and drops her shoulders, a slow motion that seems like mountain ranges rising and falling. She isn't that tall, but somehow -- perhaps it is the candlelight -- seems as if she ought to be taller. "Happy Friday, if you like." She turns slowly, picks up the silver cup, and raises it in his general direction. "L'chaim." Downing the rest of whatever's in the cup, she collapses it in her hands, and places it in a case that looks like an oversized makeup compact. Her ceramic hands clink against the metal. Click-click. Then that, too, goes into her bag. Have Judaism, will travel. "Gisa Cohen. It is my pleasure. What are you making?"

Billy Ray is sitting down, a soft cloth is in front of him and a semiautomatic pistol is broken down in front of him - tools arrayed around him, and open beer - and he has a five-pack of beer nearby, his Token rapier is in it's scabbard to one side. "Happy Friday. It's a good day, ah may got a job which is good times! An' mebbe a place to live, so ah can bust outta that hotel room." He gestures to the pistol. "This be my carry gun - well, ah want it to be. Sig Sauer P320. But I wanna polish the feed ramp - make it feed better, redo the barrel by hand, and ah think the trigger pivot and trigger bar got a tiny imperfection. Won't kick in mebbe but one in what, a thousand rounds, but if'n ah'm usin' this sucker stuff done gone straight t'shit and ah'll need every little bit of accuracy ah can get, ah ain't whatcha call a 'gunslinger', per se." he offers to Gisa. "Can ah offer ya a beer, miss? Got water, too."

And in front of Gisa on the table are two candles in silver collapsible candlesticks, the white candles in them about halfway burnt down. A matching silver plate with half of a small loaf of bread on it rests nearby with a cloth to one side. Gisa folds up the small white and blue striped cloth, then picks up the half-loaf and puts it -- in one swallow -- into her mouth. A soft 'whoosh' sound. Does she eat or incinerate her food? The silver plate, the blue and white cloth, those are both neatly packed away in the canvas messenger bag on the chair next to her, her ceramic fingers clicking against the metal. The candles, though, those are left to burn. "Then it is a good day for you. Mazel tov." Everything Gisa does happens at a careful, deliberate pace, just above glacial. "I see." And perhaps she does. "A beer would be very nice, thank you. I have wine, also. It is sweet wine. Some people do not like it."

A small shadow with a hood and a bow slips through the entrance into the Broken Hearth. She looks around and spots both Billy Ray and Gisa and a smile appear when she pushes her hood back and shadows disappear from her face. "Hey! I thought I heard a familiar voice." Tini happily greets in her L.A. Distinct accent. Gisa gets a nod of her head and a wave before she turns to look towards Billy. "Hey, I didn't get a chance before I had to run the other day. When you have some time can we talk business? I don't want to distract you from cleaning your piece, though."

"Sure, ah'll trade ya some of that wine for a beer, that seems fair," says Billy as he puts down his tool, leaning over to snag a can and open it, rising to offer it to Gisa with a dip of his head. "Ah was raised on Mad Dog 20/20, miss, so sweet wine is right up my, how you say, alley." A grin at Tini as she arrives, "Nah, nah, ah was just killin' time," he says as he gestures to the pistol, "Ah could tinker on that sumbitch for six years an' still have work t'do. Tini, y'know Gisa? Gisa, this be m'buddy, a Tolltaker. And," to Tini, "We c'n talk business whenever you want! Ah'm still settlin' in so ah got nothin' but time." he adds.

It's possible that people do know Gisa, at least in passing: the Dawn is a founding member of the Freehold, just someone who took a long sojourn around October last year. Her accent is hard to place, unless someone's very familiar with Middle Eastern accents. "Good, good," agrees Gisa, reaching into her bag and pulling out a bottle (which looks oddly ketchup bottle shaped) with a white label. Manichewitz Blackberry Wine. "No trade, we just share." The distinction seems important to her for some reason. Tini's arrival earns her a head nod, and a slow, even, "Shabbat shalom. Wine?"

"Sounds fair," agrees Billy as he hands over the beer. He digs into his pack, coming out with a camp cup as he dips his head at the bottle. "Ain't never had this 'fore," he offers as he pours some into the cup, caps the bottle and hands it back over. "Sharin' is good. Ah think ah heard a'ya, you're onna them foundin' members, right? From way back. Ah'm new - grew up here as a young buck but been gone a good long time, entire time since I came back from my Durance," he says. A grunt as he hears a clanking outside. "Ah think that's my table. Excuse me, misses. Ah'm sorry!" he says as he heads out, after drinking the wine. "Oooh. That is good!" he calls to Gisa.

Tini had spaced out. Why? Who knows with Lost. She blinks and looks around and makes a tiny squeak in her throat. "Well, hopefully, he enjoys his evening." The petite mousey woman's largish ears twitch and she offers out her hand, "Like Bee Arr said, I'm Tini and I'm a Tolltaker. It's nice to meet you, Miss. No wine, but I appreciate the offer. Water, though, if you've got it I'll take it. Shabbat Shalom? I'm not familiar with the tongue."

The bottle of wine, now that she's shared with Billy Ray, is closed and tucked away in her canvas messenger bag. "He said it was a Happy Friday." As if that says everything that needs to be said about Billy Ray and whether or not he will enjoy his evening. Gisa's shoulders rise and fall like a mountain range. She isn't much taller than Tini -- half a foot, perhaps -- but she seems to take up space somehow. Every so often, her Dawn mantle slides in along the edges, subtle, all petrichor and ozone, the mercury of a match strike. "Gisa Cohen. Dawn." Her head bobs slowly as Tini makes her drink preferences known, and Gisa agrees, "Water." The golem seems to be mostly made of inertia: it takes her a bit of time to go from 'at rest' to 'performing a task,' or perhaps she is simply very deliberate about everything she does. But she heads to gather up a glass of water all the same. "Shabbat shalom," she repeats, and the sigil on her forehead glows briefly brighter for a moment. "It is Hebrew. 'May you have a peaceful Shabbat, or the peace of Shabbat.' Our seventh day. Our day of rest."

“Oh, Oh hey! I think I heard about that in a movie I saw once." She holds a hand to her chest and bows a bit, "Thank you. And I hope your day is .. well of rest. You know I can totes get my own water." She, on the other hand, moves quickly. For as small as she is she zips along like the roadrunner and stops close to Gisa. Her own Mantle, when /away/ from Gisa is scortched desert winds, the sound of sandstorms and mall dunes forming against her feet before dissapating into sunlight and nothing. The fact she is Summer is evident. Tini blinks at the sigil for a moment her head tilting far back to regard it. "That's pretty neat." She offers a gloved hand forward, "Any friend of Billy Ray's is a friend of mine. He's a fine craftsman."”

It's a study in contrasts, the two of them: slow and steady vs. zoom zoom around the room. Gisa stops halfway to the water, though, because Tini is going so much faster than she is. "Getting water is not prohibited by the Law." And she manages to pronounce that capital L, somehow. "Yes. You probably did. Thank you." Her answers are all short, and somewhat scattershot-sounding, but she is responding to everything that Tini says. The crash of their Mantles is something else entirely: a storm in the desert is a profound thing, after all. Sandstorms with lightning, crack and pop! Gisa stiffens for a moment at something, or perhaps just freezes momentarily, as if someone powered her down, but then her assiduous motion resumes, and she takes Tini's hand with almost exaggerated care. "Thank you," she repeats, when Tini comments on the sigil. "It reminds me who I am." Her hand is smooth ceramic, warm to the touch. "So he seems. I know of him. And now I know you."

The sudden sandstorm, the distant roars of massive elements in turmoil and the way the dust and sand suddenly blow about the Summer makes her head tilt a little bit. But she's built for these conditions and instead it just makes her smile and she shivers, "Man..that's too cool." The little jerboa grins, flashing those big front teeth. "The sigil reminds you who you are? Would you forget if it weren't there?" Her brow lifts and there's some concern for the clay woman.

Dawn mantles always bring change, and Gisa stands in the sudden sandstorm with the patience of, well, a golem, letting it blow around her. She doesn't seem as excited about it as Tini does, but Gisa doesn't emote very much, it seems. "It is very warm," the literal Elemental replies, and then reaches her hands up to carefully adjust the scarf neatly covering her wire hair. Then her right hand covers over the sigil for a few moments: when she pulls it away, her ceramic palm has a smoky shin on it, backwards, naturally. "If it were not there anymore, the top of my head would be gone. I would have bigger problems then, I think." On closer examination, and with her covering and uncovering it, it becomes clear that the sigil is cut into the clay of her forehead, the fire showing through from her insides just as it glows in her eyepits. "Do you like to be a Tolltaker?"