Logs:Taste of Revenge
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| RL Date: 26 June, 2015 |
| Who: Casseny, Kaelige |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A healer apprentice is caught doing something suspicious |
| Where: Kitchens, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 2, Month 2, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Backdated |
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>---< Kitchen, Fort Weyr >---------------------------------------------------<
Fort's Kitchen is a large, well-appointed cavern that is designed for
efficiency. Granite counters, smoothed and polished through turns of use,
are tucked between the banks of stoves and ovens that share a wall with
the Living Cavern's hearth. A swinging door at the end of the hearth area
leads into the Living Cavern for easy set up and service of meals.
Additional workspace is available at half a dozen marble-topped, wooden
islands that line the middle of the Kitchen beneath hanging racks of
copper pots, pans, and other equipment. Each island has drawers that hold
smaller equipment like spoons, whisks, and rolling pins. Supplies are kept
on shelves along the walls with bulkier items available in Stores through
another swinging door at the back of the Kitchen. A row of utility sinks
line the wall beside that door for food prep and dishwashing.
The Kitchen is busy almost all day, the only expection being typically
between midnight and 4am when the bread bakers go on duty to bake the
daily bread. Exception hour in the kitchen: it's delicate early-morning, the bread bakers hard at work in a timeless, tireless routine. They chatter with each other, enjoy the occasional silence, and always maintain a mostly single-minded attention for the task at hand. There's a lot to do; they've only these hours to do it. She's not bread and she's not on fire, so Casseny blends benignly into the background. After a quick set-up from Molly-- assurances that if she stays at this stove, or this counter, she won't be in a way-- she's gone silent except for the occasional noise of her slow work. First, there was water set to boil. Then glass bowls borrowed: small. She'd retreated to a counter at some distance-- so as not to be a bother-- and began the testing process of cutting and mixing herbs. One had gotten approval. Steeped. Brought back to the counter. The mixture sits, spreading its spicy scent. Disguising that of the one sitting oddly in a partially open drawer below the counter, near Casseny's thigh, where it's not visible to the bakers' realm. Casseny shuffles a couple of herbs together, shakes the bowl a couple times, then leans forward to inhale deeply. As she's lowered, her other hand reaches down, plucks out a sweet bun, and dips it in the hidden bowl, out, and away. Casseny straightens, idle and contemplative over her tea mixture.
So early; early enough to be late to one who spends the night out and about. The hooded figure has excuses to be in the kitchens; a number of them in fact. The candidate chore list has him scheduled for assistance in the kitchens today, however the hour is too young in the day to make it entirely legitimate that he's here to get started. Nor would any of the kitchen staff who know him well by now believe him if he said he was. So it's some degree of hunger that brings him now. He enters the kitchens with his head dipped enough that his hood obscures direct visualization of all but his mouth and the dark stubble that lines his jaw, and his hands stuffed into pockets. His pace is unhurried, uncaring. Though he habitually scans the room, only finding one thing- one person- off from the typical normal just-pre-dawn buzz of this part of the Weyr. And it redirects his path to come up to, and linger, not all that many feet behind Casseny as she dips that sweet bun. "Strange icing." Is the apparent greeting.
Kaelige's posture never changes, his easiness about the situation perhaps trending towards the amused if she could clearly see the remainder of his expression. There's no smirk yet to give anything away, though it's likely not far. As close as he is now, just barely beyond arm's reach, those blue-green eyes of his can be apparent to one who studies him further, his observations letting that gaze slip from Casseny's face, or at least what he can see of it from the angle at which he stays, to the partially opened drawer and back again. But he says nothing to this save the subtlest upturn at one corner of his lips. Silence responding to silence, patience to patience, he waits. Chin drifting his way again, Casseny's pointed sniff seems innocuous-- surely, the wash of baking and the spice-filled tea renders anything else untraceable-- but after her eyebrows lift just-ever-so, like she's been informed. Eyes up, to his mouth, eyes back to the counter. She uses the back of the knife to separate a stash of mint leaves from the rest. The ramrod of her spine could be tension, or immaculate posture saving her lanky, overgrown limbs from being noodles. She portions out some cinnamon for the new bowl and goes quite sparse with it. As she's doing, bakery girl Molly spares a look back; a quick smile while she's lugging flour. Casseny holds up the cinnamon, Molly mouths more. The healer obliges without noticing that her left leg has started to bounce. Her hands are steady.
She gazes back, affording him a look long enough to read that from him. A breath is expelled low out of her mouth, short of exasperation, tapered more towards resignation. Not to be confused with surrender. He's ignored for another interval by Casseny, as she drags out a bag of semi-flat nuts. Under the flat of her blade, several are crushed with practical, aggressive motions. Crunch, crunch. "You know," crunch. "I just might." Crunch. Bewildered storekeepers have been keeping closer eyes on items: medicinal herbs, other greenery, amongst the rest. Not that this sappy, flowering plant was on anyone's steal list. Yet it still came up short last sevenday, imagine that. But even as that perfume-y smell's starting to become invasive again, Casseny's staring ahead of her. The bakers are efficient. Their routine well-oiled. Decisively, she takes up the cinnamon, but the dash of it never reaches the glass bowl. It goes over the recently dosed sweet bun, masking a more suspicious scent. "I have an interest in herbology myself." Kaelige states casually, a hand gesturing briefly and lazily to nothing really, the upturned edges of his lips vying into a fuller smirk at this point. His grey attire, notably patchy in darks that should be blacks that never-were, rustles quietly as he turns when she looks away from him again. He doesn't leave, unfortunately or not, but rather leans his lower back against the side of the counter. His arms fold, and something about his mischievious, amused expression is thoughtful. "I don't have an interest in much but I will say I've been around them a little more than most, save healers I suppose." A beat, "Maybe farmcrafters, those that grow the things." Is there a point to the rambling? There is, and when it comes, so does a small bob of his head towards her, towards that roll, "And I'd say that's not what's supposed to go in that recipe." Casseny's eyes roll diagonally to the ceiling as Kaelige settles in. Her strongest reaction to him while he chatters. A reminder of that ticking clock, the continuous growing of that tasty fresh bread smell, infuses a rhythm back into her. Further ingredients, in varying amounts, join cinnamon and almonds. Mixed in the bowl, the pre-tea concoction's getting a heavier, less herb-y feel; its scent more akin to the original sweet bun than the normal blends. Between measures of things, and dipping in to test the fragrance, Casseny re-engages with her illicit drawers: she produces one, two, three more buns, which are methodically soaked and left to dry with a douse of cinnamon. Somewhere in the background: Kaelige is talking. She gives no appearance of noticing a difference when he stops. A couple of tasks later, she straightens, wipes her hands down across her thighs, and looks at him, flashing a not smile-- an impression of one, nevertheless. "Oh, but it is. So." "Enlighten me then." The hooded boy watches her process, and one could say the inconspicious manner he unfolds and holds a hand out towards her collected supplies, those dipped breads and- most specifically- that drawer is meant to seem to on-lookers to be a friendly request for a roll before breakfast time. His implication of that statement is implied, and given the way his balance is shifted slightly forwards, he doesn't appear ready to let her leave if she intends to be done. Nothing about Casseny can be said to be dainty. Being at such a height simply does not allow it, physically; neither does she bend to the loom Kaelige employs. Instead, her nose wrinkles up again, like he's flashed her a bad smell. He's now closer to one of the other glass bowls, empty, left further down the counter. To his empty hand, she jerks her chin towards the dish. "Hand me that." She has chosen a different interpretation for on-lookers-- so far, Molly's let her little tea apprentice be, at least. The healer grounds everything up a little more and then slides bits around, investigating the texture critically. Critical is a good word for how she speaks. Not judgmental, but also not weighing Kaelige, and his request, too favorably. "Why?" The breathy and brief chuckle that follows rocks his chest lightly, and Kaelige obliges her reorientation of his hand to take up the glass bowl she'd so kindly indicated. It doesn't quite make it to the apprentice as he holds it in both of his hands in front of him, relenting his stare of her to consider it for the moment. "Why what? Do I want to be enlightened?" Gloved hands rotate the bowl between patchy-hide covered fingers. Carefulness is not evident here, and there's a roughness about those slow movements that may have some concerned he could drop it. Eventually, he holds it out to her, but in an awkward way of having his gloved hand open, flat, and bowl ontop of it like presenting it with flourish. "Because this," Whatever 'this' is. His head tips towards her collection, his blue-green eyes back on her face, "Could cost you everything. And I'd like to know what makes that worth it." Casseny's plenty to do while Kaelige's fussing with that bowl; she doesn't scold him, not even with her eyes. Rather, an apparent trust that she will be obeyed. And while he's turned to take it-- and so occupied twirling it-- she deftly packages all the tainted buns and removes the questionable drawer mixture. The evidence vanishes amongst her other failed tea blends. As he concludes, she abruptly turns her head to him, runnertail swinging, with wide, appraising eyes. "It could?" Like it's only just occurred to her, gasp-- but also, with distinct subtlety, undermining that he's right. What does he know? A little niggling of doubt, under the skin. Perhaps because she's able to keep her face so uniformly calm. Moving on, she lifts her glass bowl and begins to portion out some of the ingredients into the one Kaelige holds, leaving it in his palm. The strong scent begins to permeate even his clothing. "It's too bad we can't always get what we like-- you can put that down now." She turns her back completely on him, as if with absolute trust. It's not like he'd tamper with anything, is it? Across the kitchen, Molly's beginning to clean up, glancing over. "Maybe you should get something to eat, Kaelige." Kaelige's attention is not so slack as to miss her quick removal of the items in question, but makes no motion as to suggest he noticed aside from a brief glance amidst messing with the bowl. Once she's poured some of her herbal mixture in that bowl, it's reclaimed for a moment's closer inspection before being set aside. "It's worse when we get what we have taken away, especially if we only had what we worked for to start with." It's a threat, though made with no such inflection or pressure in tone. It's offhanded and would be almost pleasant with that wry grin of his if he weren't implying consequences. "Would you like to show me what was in there?" The easy way that's asked knows he suspects what answer she'd give to that, and in light of such he stands from his leaning to take a step closer to invade that concept he so rarely appreciates; personal space. "Maybe," He adds, "But probably not whatever you're making." A raised eyebrow seems to emit that, perhaps, it's the opposite; what she's making fits him perfectly. Creeping exasperation taints the edges of any humored neutrality, however. Up close, her tenseness is highlighted. A bicep twitches as she holds her arm over the counter, paused in action, hovering as a line cut between them. She's not so easily physically loomed at; lanky, yes, but firm, growing in. She holds herself tall, abashed. Stalemate inches towards them in her stillness. Then, hands spider across the counter and clasp one curve of the second glass bowl, full of evidence diluted by a failed tea blend. Fingers curl, pause, curl deeper. Casseny picks up the concoction, and gently dumps it into a trash disposal. Kaelige apparently revels in the tension his closeness brings, his nigh-cocky smirk drawn in full, his eyes narrowed coldly. Looming he seems to have down to a science, an art, and his hooded form seems all the more perfect to do so. His hand reaches for hers as she moves to tip the bowl over, a gloved finger hooking over the edge of it mid-pour, the hand itself seeking to lay overtop hers to stop her efforts. "So desperate to get rid of the evidence?" Comes the snake's darker tones, "How about I let you." A beat, "For an exchange?" The bowl pouring quivers to a stop. Casseny stands, utterly and precisely poised, frozen by his touch. Heated by the nearness of his words-- and, just like that, the warmth livens her. Tension evaporates from each inch of her he previously appreciated. She pours it off like the evidence, so easily tipped. "'There it is," she murmurs, edging towards actually pleased-- sounding. Finally, she says. Less resigned that they'd reached this point as relieved it's managed to get there. Beneath his glove, her steady hand keeps balance. With a flex of shoulder, her other arm reaches around Kaelige-- he's put himself so conveniently close-- to snatch deftly for the draping cloth of his hood. A sharp, clinical, motion sets to pull the fabric off from around his head. With the bowl stopped, his gloved fingers slide for better purchase of it, enough tension drawing back on it, and subsequently likely her hand that's there as well, to retrieve it from its precarious perch on the edge of the counter. Kaelige tends to foresee many things, but her making a play for his hood is not one of them. He flinches, the sly smirk evaporating from his face in the instant she moves for him. His free hand is snapped up reflexively to snatch her wrist from the air, though not before his messy, spikey black hair and the rest of his face are so unfortunately revealed. A pretty face, that, lined with stubble and a hardness about those blue-green eyes that seem aged for his turns. A successful grab would prove to be a tight one, a warning one, and he'd pull that hand down towards his chest as if 'claiming' it. Failing to do so would demonstrate a block of her hand more protective of his face than the hood. But, regardless, the cockiness was partially wiped from him, his glare a steadier one. "You act like you have more than thin ice to stand on." She was successful in creating an uneasiness, but for an unknown cost. Having her hand squeezed adds a grim overtone to Casseny's succinctly satisfied lips. They press together and even out as time passes. He's succeeded in adding tension back to her left leg; it slid towards his, toe and heel flexing back and forth ponderously now, as if always seconds away from curb-stomping his toes-- or, at least, enjoying the thought of it. An elevated heart-rate identifiable through a grasp of her wrist patters on--on--on-- and then, also, slows. The drawn out seconds after he's hissed his next note are quiet. Sedate. With the advantage of his hood off, her overly bright colored eyes engage in unhindered intensity over the details of his face, manner, his own glare, so transformed. A tug at the corner of her mouth dies before it's at all readable. "You," she pronounces, practical and assured, but not egotistical, "act." No like follows. She lords nothing over his head. Kaelige's grip eases enough that a good yank away would free her if she so chooses. But his stance doesn't. "I act like what? Like a good upstanding candidate? Looking out for the safety of my peers?" He fails at restraining a breathy chuckle, one that all but briefly shakes his chest in the effort. Not even he could sell that line, not that he currently wants to. But despite the humor, the severity about him is more prominent than the wry behavior he started with. His jaw is set, though he maintains an easiness to him that's forced, trained. There's no tension in those shoulders, not even in the hand rigidly steeling against any motions involving the bowl. After some too-long length of an eerie silence, he adds with a pressure about the point to be made, "Will you take my terms or not?" No yank; her hand remains, purposeful, held. No reciprocation of his chuckles, though Casseny's face registers a little something of its own as she shakes her head the tiniest amount. I know better, you know better. "That's not what I said," is not so much a correction as an advancement of her point. She keeps no hold on the sentiment, either, letting it flutter out of her mouth less purposefully than everything else so far. Eyes note on his jaw, his hand, his shoulders, whether there's anything apparent to see-- or not. Silence is comfort. She lives happily in it. Not as much for Molly, finishing her shift and glancing over increasingly often; not so pleased with what she thinks she's seeing. Casseny's light dropping of her gaze, a side-eye, seems to note this. She breathes in and out more pointedly. "You haven't made any." Satisfaction, or at least satiation, comes in the form of some of his smirk returning. However, Kaelige is apparently not at full strength, revealed as he is. Bested, perhaps, in that he didn't expect to have his hood removed when he'd thought he'd claimed the upper hand- a small mistake, but an annoying one all the less that lingers. He does make a small idle motion- a shrug of his shoulders unassociated with the conversation that most likely denotes that continued discomfort. But as for the rest of him, the looming is relentless, the pressure continuous, those blue-green eyes of his humored but threatening all the same. "I may need your skills at some point." The way he says it, though, with a slight drop in tone at 'some' indicates it may be a plural thing, "And I'll want them off record." "My skills," ponders-- mocks-- Casseny, quiet and, now herself, wry as the prospect unveils as she had Kaelige. "How fortunate for you that I did not give up for baking." With her hand still close to his chest, she splays those talented fingers like she might go for more of his precious outfit. For now, she remains restrained. Between them, such little space, is clothing moving, meeting, with the rise and fall of individual breaths. A soft squeak is her foot flexing in the boot, prepared; Kaelige is the kind who can tell that her defense's not merely instinct, but could've been well-aimed. But she's thinking ahead-- and probably not to violence; not here, not now. Even if her emotions don't show, that much is visible, with eyes that cut through his humor and respond directly to his threat with upmost solemnity. Which doesn't mean fear. "I will be able to ask questions," laying terms with her low, unhurried, voice, issuing no wiggle room-- though his penchant for looming may afford him the talent to find the space nevertheless, "About the nature of the injury. I will only be transported by my own power. I will always recognize my surroundings. If you indicate, in any way, to me that someone else is injured, and not receiving care, then you forfeit my secrecy. If I believe that my skills alone can't help you--" her eyes flicker, but she does not hesitate: "Then you forfeit my secrecy." Awareness is keen- the flexing of her foot, the movement of her fingers, the lack of fluctuation of her expression. His eyes as they so unrelentingly watch her own are studious, intense, yet never without that easy sense of humor lighting the edges of them, giving them the lines at their edges that speak to the age that doesn't match his turnday. His gaze so briefly looks to her hand before back at her eyes, a thoughtful listening to her returned terms egging on the smirk he wears so well. To each, he has an answer- unsurprising- but his willingness to take such time is in and of itself confirmation of yielding to at least some. "You may ask questions," He begins, a sly drawl to his voice, "To be answered with necessary information and no more." Her final conditions aren't as easily responded to, his gaze narrowing just a touch in light of it. While it's clear his consideration of her conditions is a thorough one, his expression does not betray what he thinks of them. Rather, he gives but simply, "Agreed." And the hand holding so knowingly to her other keeping the bowl in its placed is released. The motion is a fluid one that, from one moment is so implacably keeping the bowl still to reaching behind his head to draw his hood back over his head. A thumb and forefinger touch its peak in habit, a final adjustment. His return term is met with a single twitch of one eyebrow, not disagreeing; they remain as aligned as their stares are matched in intenseness. Casseny offers him all the time he needs to agree. But the second he does, it's again a trigger; her hand slips away from him with a last dedicated flick against his chest. She's gone before his hood's up, gaze too, and the last of the mystery fluid tea blend mixture disappears with a splash. "You can go," is offered him benignly but firmly, a hand calmly dipping into the array of herbs left so long sitting, swishing things around, checking portions. Her hand then drops to rub against her pant leg, brushing off remnants, leaving others behind. "Get something to eat before Molly comes over here and knocks you. I haven't the time right now to treat it." With his attire back to how it'd been, the last thing visible as he steps backwards is the look of smugness that remains. It's almost as if Kaelige is willing to obey the healer with the way he makes his move only after her words send him away. His head even tips in the likeness of a bow- the mockery, of course, that it is. It's wordless that he leaves her then, only turning his back once he's some few strides back. Pivoting, he passes close enough to a table of a platter of meatrolls to take one without pause. He raises it to shoulder-level, more a gesture for Molly's sake than anything else as he pushes through the swinging kitchen door and away. |
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