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As far as structures go, the newest addition to the Milliways grounds is not particularly impressive. Snow is hardly the most durable of building materials. For another it falls short of three feet in height; a crude horseshoe shaped mound a few yards off the path leading down to the gardens. The nondescript image is somewhat marred by the flag that's hanging limply from a broken tree branch wedged vertically into the edge of the wall. If one were the curious sort, they might notice a flash of red that is the very top of a bobble hat surveying the landscape through a small gap in the fortification. Those that do ignore it at their own peril.

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Castiel is the curious sort. But his curiosity is, at this moment, focused on the crude fort's standard.

It is highly probable that he has no idea what he is walking into.

It's almost too easy. And that would probably stop most people from launching a snowball at Castiel's unsuspecting face. Sadly, Castiel may have to settle for the fact that there are no pine cones in it. Stitch is considerate that way.

Edited 2010-02-16 02:48 (UTC)

Being hit in the face with a ball of snow?

First off, it is cold.

Secondly, it is wet.

Thirdly, it is fairly startling.

Castiel falls back a step, snow sliding off his face. He reaches up to wipe the rest away. (A little bit may be discretely spit out.)

Now, Castiel can spot movement behind the fort. He raises his voice.

"I do not approach with ill intent," he calls.

If he had, there would be little but vapor left of the snow fort.

The only reply forthcoming is a roar of maniacal laughter. Somone apparently finds this all very amusing.

Edited 2010-02-16 03:02 (UTC)

Castiel knows that laugh.

(Good to know that Stitch's throwing arm is still in good shape.)

Keeping one eye out now for flying missiles, Castiel approaches the fort.

"It is an unusual choice of weapon, snow," he observes.

Eventually the cackling subsides enough to allow the alien to peer around the side of his fort, grinning broadly.

"Naga-takabah. 's fun." Stitch replies, the English delivered in its usual stilted tone.

Castiel's head tilts at a what has by now become a very familiar angle.

"Why is it fun?" he asks, curiously.

He is not acquainted with this kind of fun.

Stitch's grin evaporates into a look of disbeleif as he peers up at Castiel.

Why is-

Well obviously it's because...

Because it's...

He blinks, clasping his claws together before looking around as if hoping to find inspiration on the ground nearby.

And then he throws another snowball at Castiel.

Edited 2010-02-17 03:08 (UTC)

This one hits him in the chest.

Castiel looks down at the wet splotch on the front of his shirt.

Looks, with an ever more puzzled expression.

Then....light dawns.

Stitch must mean that he is to try throwing one himself. That this will help him understand.

Castiel scoops up a large handful of snow, and begins shaping it into something throwable.

"Ih." If that grin were any wider, it's possible the ends would meet and the top of Stitch's head would fall off.

"Maka maka. Goobaja." he jabbers, motioning impatiently for his pupil to come around the side of the fort. No snowball fight was ever won by standing up in view of everybody else.

Edited 2010-02-17 03:22 (UTC)

"This, then, is meant to be a form of guerrilla warfare?" Castiel asks, coming around as ordered, carefully carrying his snowball.

"Does the flag not give our position away?"

He's been in foxholes before.

Though this is probably one of the strangest.

Castiel gets a look.

"Naga. We-" His eyes narrow in concentration. We need it." Really now.

There is a soft growl of exasperation as Castiel remains standing upright.

"Down!"

Castiel gives the flag one more look, and a half shrug.

He is the student here.

"Down? ....oh. Yes. Of course."

Castiel hunkers down behind the fortification. He is a good deal taller than Stitch. He has to hunker pretty far.

"This would seem to be an inconvenient position from which to launch an attack," he says, attempting to peer over the wall and stay largely out of sight at the same time.

"What comes next?"

What are the rules?

What comes next?

At this point, what comes next is a tall teenaged girl, coming out of the greenhouse.

Her eyes narrow, as her attention zooms to the snow structure.

Mary is the student of a formerly evil tactical master; she recognizes a fort when she sees one. Even one that is made out of snow!

"Shhhhh!"

It's a rather interesting picture, the tall seemingly human face peering over the lip of the fort, the narrowed eyes of a decidedly inhuman one barely visible a few inches away as it glares out over the frozen landscape. And then narrow further still as a familar figure is spotted.

You.

". . . . you!"

Of course.

It would be Stitch - in a tactically superior position, no less. And the greenhouse is directly in the line of fire.

(Mary's definition of 'directly' here means "several feet out of the way," but IT IS STILL IN DANGER, COME ON.)

There doesn't seem to be much chance of escape. And sometimes the best defense is a good offense.

Mary leans down to scoop up some snow.

"TUKIBOWABA!"

It would appear that Mary and Stitch agree on this particular philosophy. So declares the snowball currently hurtling towards the girl's prone form. Good luck keeping up, Cas.

Castiel watches the byplay--the facing off of foes--with great interest.

Before the battle cry nearly deafens him on one side.

Following Stitch's lead, he launches his snowball. He's not throwing at full strength. Or aiming to hurt. This is, after all, simulated battle.

He aims for the knees.

"We shall emerge victorious."

Two to one, after all.

Stitch has a tactical advantage and strength in numbers. Mary's position appears weak.

Surrender, however, is not an option!

One snowball hits Mary in the shoulder, the other in the knees; she takes a moment to regroup, then launches the snowball she holds in each hand towards Castiel's face. He has been identified as the weakest link!

If not the weakest link, then certainly the larger target.

One snowball splatters against his chest. The other glances off his shoulder.

Castiel takes cover again.

"She has formidable hand-eye coordination," he says to his comrade in arms.

Stitch scowls out through his limited view towards the assaults point of origin. Mary does not get compliments from him. Even if they're facts.

"Grrrrrr. Meeo dakka poju!" He calls across the distance before lobbing another round over the wall.

Edited 2010-02-20 01:41 (UTC)

Well, if they're to the insults . . .

"Two against one, and you are in a fortress. Cowards!" Mary shouts back, before she takes a snowball to the face and has to stop to rub snow out of her eyes.

Time to scoop up more ammo!

The wet splat of snow meeting face is a most satisfying sound. Satisfying enough to prompt another bout of extraterrestrial cackling, in fact. Stitch rocks backwards into a sitting position, holding his sides.

"We are not cowards. We merely have the tactically superior position," Castiel calls over the snow wall.

"Though," he adds to his (quasi-hysterical) cohort, "she does rather have a point."

"Even with the tactically superior position, one ought not to take one's eye off one's opponent! That is overconfidence!" Mary announces, and flings a ferocious curveball straight at the laughing Stitch's head.

Mary's aim is truly impressive. Even moreso when one factors in that Stitch is not particularly visible at the moment.

The laughter is cut short by a surprised squawk. There follows a great deal of ear flapping and head shaking. And then, amidst a veritable cloud of (thankfully untranslatable) obscenities, Stitch charges from the safety of cover. The likelihood of this all going in his favor would probably increase if he had the sense to not leap out in to the open unarmed. No doubt it'll catch up to him eventually.

For a very brief (very odd) moment, Castiel is reminded of Uriel.

Somehow, he does not think that his brother would appreciate the comparison.

Stitch seems to be changing up the rules of the game. Breaking from cover, going on the offensive.

Castiel shrugs, stands, steps over the snow wall, and follows.

Aha! She has angered them into making a stupid tactical move! Galadan, Mary thinks, would be proud of her.

She stands straighter and arms herself with a double handful of snow . . . and then lobs one snowball at each opponent and runs straight between them, launching herself into the fort.

WHERE ARE YOUR FORTIFICATIONS NOW?

Stitch has been known to dodge plasma fire. Mary may have taken him unawares with her initial assault but he sees this one coming and dives to the ground. He comes up a moment later, grinning from ear to ear.

"Ha!" Missed! Never mind that he's now covered from head to toe in fresh powder. It's the principle of the thing. He turns; thumb on his bulbous nose, clawed fingers waggling. And his eyes go wide as Mary's destination becomes clear.

Castiel has not even begun to master the art of ducking.

A large gob of snow is currently working its way down the back of his shirt. It is an interesting sensation.

In a cold, wet sort of way.

"I believe abandoning the fort was an error in judgment," he says to his comrade in arms.

"It was extremely poor tactics!" agrees Mary, from her NOW INFINITELY SUPERIOR position.

"You began with superior numbers -"

A snowball comes flying towards Castiel.

"- as well as the advantage of fortifications -"

Another one is headed towards Stitch.

"- and ought to have overcome me easily! But now you shall not have the chance!"

If looks could kill (and angels were not quite so resilient) the recipient of this particular look would find themselves dead several times over. As it stands, the only thing Stitch's furious glare results in is a missed opportunity to duck. The incoming snowball snatches the bobblehead off his head with the near surgical precision. The speed at which his face goes from smoldering rage to something very akin to panic is truly remarkable.

"Run!"

And then he's off, dropping to all fours as he sprints towards a lone birch tree some distance off.

Edited 2010-03-10 04:13 (UTC)

There is a human saying about discretion and valor.

Castiel takes the time to throw one more snowball back at the captured fort before he retreats, at a trot, and steps behind a scraggly winter bush.

Two snowballs zero in on his back as he goes.

"This is part of the fun?" Castiel calls.

You have possibly never seen a fourteen-year-old as smug as Mary Lennox is at the moment.

"Perhaps you will think twice next time," she crows, "before engaging in reckless battle maneuvers near things that are fragile!"

- okay, as punchlines go, it is not exceptionally pithy. But it gets the point across, and THAT IS ENOUGH.

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