Difference between revisions of "Logs:Muddied Intentions"

>---< 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 exception being typically    
  between midnight and 4am when the bread bakers go on duty to bake the     
  daily bread.

It's early afternoon at Fort, early enough that the caverns still bustle with people seeking a lunchtime respite from duties. With the slushy mess that seems determined to trick people into bruised behinds with scattered patches of ice, it's no wonder that there are those who attempt to linger in the caverns a bit longer than usual. And it should likewise be no surprise that Eadgyd comes bursting into the mess of the kitchen through the swinging doors, nearly getting caught in their return swing when she stands there for just a moment too long. She yelps and ducks away from the danger, only to nearly crash into someone carrying a tray out to the caverns. Apologies are muttered and curses are whispered under her breath. That tray is only seconds out the door when there's an impressively loud thud followed by the clatter of metal hitting the floor. Eadgyd turns bright pink as she leans around one of those sliding doors and slowly deflates. "Uh. Does anyone have a mop?" the stablehand requests loudly, as she carefully positions herself behind something that hides her feet from view, "Someone tracked mud in here."

The Weyrwoman is somewhere in the bustle of the kitchen, the work of various cooks and kitchenhands unfolding around her at a pace so unlike her own that she seems almost stationary, yet she does make steady progress from one end of the cavern to the other, stopping here and there to check on this and that, a cup of something all but forced into her hand on her journey. By the time that she nears the doors, she's been distantly observing Eadgyd for long enough that her focus remains with her, and though she looks her up and down, she doesn't get a glimpse of her feet. A halt is achieved and mug lifted to lips as Hattie asks, "Are you generally this much of a commotion, or is this a special occasion?" over its rim.

Eadgyd presses up onto her toes, attempting to peer around swiftly moving bodies to pick out a mop handle somewhere amidst the organized chaos. Unsurprisingly, she has no success. She rocks back onto her heels with a heavy sigh and glances down at her muddied boots. The poor kitchen worker who slipped outside the door comes back through with a plate of mangled pastries which are summarily dumped as trash. Ead mouths an apology as the other woman glares at her, and is so focused on the kitchen worker's retreating back that she doesn't notice Hattie until she's open upon her. The curse that falls from her lips is audible this time, which the stablehand quickly follows up with a respectful, "Ma'am." She looks about ready to choke on her tongue as the question is posed to her. "No? I'm good in the stables. Just, I try to stay out of the kitchens. Things I can light on fire. Burning." There's a vague wave of her hands as the usually confident girl all but trips over herself. "Ma'am."

Hattie appears unfazed by the cursing, but she does dryly remark, "I really do hope that that's not a term used to refer to me behind my back." At least there is the chance that she's vaguely amused, rather than genuinely offended, given her evidently deliberately twisting of intent. She leans a little, to look around Eadgyd and down at the floor, and it doesn't take her long to put two and two together and glance back down towards the stablehand's feet. "Take off your shoes," doesn't really sound like much of a request, "and go and sit over there." She gestures towards the empty table tucked away in the nearest corner. "And stay out of the way for a moment." Whether or not she's obeyed, she turns to murmur to one of the staff, her nod towards the muddy floor.

Eadgyd makes a sound in the back of her throat that might very well be the gasping death-cry of some poor, pathetic creature - or just an awkward young woman trying to summon words that won't come. Her cheeks are distinctly pink as she bends down to unlace her boots, stepping easily out of one and then shaking the other until it flies a few feet to the side. There's a darted glance to Hattie as she goes to retrieve it and place the two offending items of footwear side by side. Then she retreats to the chair like a chastened child with her feet carefully kept beneath the seat of the chair and her head bowed. "It's a funny story," she starts in a voice that's pitched just a tad too high, "But there's mud outside. You wouldn't think so, with that stuff falling. But there is. So I came to get a mop so I wouldn't track mud everywhere." While tracking mud everywhere.

The floor is left to the care of one of the younger kitchenhands, who promptly begins to clear up the mess and restore everything to its former glory, with the mop - or /a/ mop - that Eadgyd has been seeking. Hattie doesn't observe the proceedings for any longer than it takes to understand that the young man is doing the work and doing it efficiently, and only moments pass before she wanders the few steps to reach that table, where she pulls out the chair opposite and sits down. "Did you not think to remove your shoes earlier?" It's only half a genuine question, half-rhetorical in her delivery. "...You might wish at some point to make recompense to the poor cook whose pastries you've sacrificed," she suggests more quietly. "What's your name?"

Feet swing a little beneath the chair as Eadgyd kicks them back and forth, no doubt waiting for some form of punishment to be levied in her direction. "I thought I'd be cleaning it up and I didn't want walk around without them," she admits, lips pressing together as hindsight makes itself known. She runs a hand through her hair, tugging at the short strands. "Right, of course," is muttered as she glances toward the bustle again, trying to pick said cook out of the crowd. "I'll bring her, uh..." Hay? She shakes her head a little, dismissing the idea as quickly as it appears. But it seems Hattie isn't to be troubled with her attempts at compensation, because instead of continuing in that vein she states, "Eadgyd, ma'am. I work in the stables."

"Well... I think we can settle for the fact that your intentions were good," Hattie answers rather dryly, as she lifts the mug to her lips again. "A profuse apology might allow you to survive without the wrath of the kitchen descending upon you. You never know when you might want some soup or cake, or something not available from the most recent meal, and it helps to have this lot," she nods towards all those bustling people, "on your side." There's still no sign of imminent shouting or rebuke; maybe today is a mellow day. "I guess you know who I am," hits a wryer note, yet what faint hint of humour she summons fades as she looks Eadgyd up and down again with a sharper gaze. "How old are you?"

With no hint of any kind of wrath descending on her head, Eadgyd finally begins to relax. The shoulders that crept up almost to her ears relax, and her spin straightens a bit. She even dares to look Hattie in the eye, although that attempt is short-lived. "I'll apologize," she promises in a voice that's no longer stretched tight with nerves. The threat of having the kitchen staff angry at her is likely enough to make that something other than an empty promise meant to keep her out of trouble. Hattie's next statement is met with a nod; she's been around Fort long enough to know who's in charge, as well as how best to avoid them. "Nineteen, ma'am," she answers, suspicion creeping into her tone.

Hattie is not oblivious to that suspicion, and it's enough to give her pause, but not quite enough to make her abandon her line of questioning. She only watches Eadgyd in that moment of silence, expression shading more towards thoughtful than sharp, though it plummets towards melancholy before she manages to bring herself back under control and present a much more bland front. "...I'm sure you're aware of what happened at the hatching," she murmurs, the tremor in her voice casting it lower in an effort to control it. "If you work in the stables, I can assume you're not afraid of hard work. You seemed intent on fixing your error. You're of the age." Then: "...We need people to Stand."

It doesn't take long for suspicion to shift into resignation. There's a hint of bitter frustration behind it which she tries hard to disguise, but she's not so well-practiced at hiding her emotions. It slips through around the edges, hardening her tone even as she attempts to be diplomatic. "I am aware." There is sympathy there, although she lacks an emotional connection to that tragedy. "With all due respect, ma'am," she swallows hard, "I don't know that I'm suitable. I've been here long enough to know that I'm not sure what I want."

"And why are you here?" Hattie puts to her, the question a little crisp. Another drink finds her mug empty, so she sets it down on the table and folds her hands in her lap. "I didn't know what I wanted when I set foot on the Sands," she freely admits. "I thought I might be making the biggest mistake of my life. There's no knowing the type of mind that might find you to be the one they want, or what colour their hide might be." A frown follows on the heels of her last remark. "If one is concerned about the colour of dragon to be found 'acceptable'." She flexes one shoulder in a twitchy sort of shrug. "It's not compulsory. I'm sure it's evident enough that my motives are not ones that might align with those of others."

"I was brought in for Eliyaveith's last clutch, ma'am." Eadgyd straightens as she speaks, chin up and voice level. Still, that bitterness is there beneath the surface. Anger for what might have been. "I've stayed and I've worked hard. And I've had a lot of time to think." She presses the palms of her hands against the tops of her thighs, bracing herself in that awkwardly rigid position. Lips purse in thought before she asks, "Do you want candidates who feel the same as you did? Who think they might be making the biggest mistake of their lives?" The Weyrwoman's remarks on color are met with a confused frown, as well as questions that remain locked behind those lips. "There was a girl. A candidate. Tried to convince me it was my duty to stand."

"It's not your duty," Hattie says, though she has to swallow hard to get the words out. "As in, despite everything, I won't tell you that it's an obligation, even if I might do anything to stop it happening again." She uncurls one hand in a vague gesture that tries to serve as punctuation to fill her brief silence. "But you were Searched, so you say. I can only assume that you wanted it then." The Weyrwoman hesitates again, frustration at her own incapability beginning to edge into her expression. "I want Candidates who, maybe like me, understand that it's a risk, and that it might not be easy, and it might be awful at times, and your life might not ever be exactly as you wished, but, on the other hand, it might be wonderful. That there might be good to make up for the bad. Or it might /just/ be wonderful."

Eadgyd's head tilts slightly to the right, that narrowed gaze taking Hattie in with some bewilderment. There's something searching in the way she studies the older woman, as if there's something about the Weyrwoman that's just out of her grasp. "You want to say it's an obligation, though, don't you? Because of what happened." Try as she might, that event remains much like losing a baby animal in her eyes; it's sad, but she can't drum up the sort of devastation that others seem to feel. "I did want it once," she agrees. Maybe it's that hint of frustration she sees in Hattie's features or the recollection of how she once felt, but there's a softening of her expression. "/If/ I did it," she begins, the words slowly forming on her lips, "I could change my mind before the day, couldn't I? Or I could wait until I'm sure to take the knot?"

"No, I don't," Hattie answers bluntly, "because even if I would do anything to stop it happening, I also don't want a dragon saddled with someone who doesn't want them, or will resent them." She swallows again. "Living with that could be worse than--" But she can't say it; she can't continue down that path, and so she averts her gaze and stares into her lap, blinking her eyes wide as part of her continued effort to maintain her composure. It's moments, not minutes, that she allows herself, until she looks up and inclines her head a little. "I was given the opportunity to give back the knot. I could afford you the same."

With those words, Eadgyd's lips turn up in a ghost of a validated smile, however inappropriate it might be in the moment. "That's what I told the candidate girl. That no dragon should be matched with someone who'll resent them. You can see it with beasts just as clearly," she explains, putting reason to her odd reaction. Her hands have slipped from her thighs to meet in her lap, where they twine together in uncertainty. It's Hattie's momentarily averted gaze that's compelling, even more so than the words that follow. Her gaze fixes somewhere on the floor, brows knit up as she considers the offer placed before her. "As long as I wouldn't be in trouble for handing it back," she clarifies after a moment of thought, "But only if that is clear."

"Only if you didn't hand it back for a petty reason, like being chastised over chores or work," Hattie declares, stern there, where she wasn't a moment ago. "I reserve the right to be angry about /that/." Simple and to the point, and then she steals Eadgyd's words to echo back to her. "Only if that is clear." And she waits, watching her again.

Eadgyd actually laughs at that idea, both hands waving to swiftly dismiss something so preposterous. "I never shirk my duties, ma'am. I earn my keep as I should." There's an edge of pride to her tone, hinting at the value she places upon this fact. "Never let it be said about me that I turned in a knot because of /chores/."

"Good." Hattie lets approval temporarily wash away anything else still fighting to be free, another nod supplied with her single word response. "Then I think we have an agreement." From one of the pockets of her dress, she produces a slim tangle of white cords and places it on the table between them. "And I believe you'll be needing this." One finger taps at the tabletop, just shy of the knot, and then she's rising, smoothing out her skirts as she does so. "If you go and see the Headwoman, she'll sort the rest out for you." She glances towards the doors leading back to the living cavern. "I think your shoes are in a much more acceptable state now." If the mop got to them too, such is she suggesting. "Eadgyd." It'll have to do for a farewell, her departure as abrupt as her arrival.

"Yes, ma'am," comes Eadgyd's quiet - if uncertain - assent. A glance strays toward where she abandoned her shoes, some relief in her gaze. She won't have to go tromping through the caverns sans-boots, at least. "Ma'am," she repeats with a nod to Hattie's already retreating form. And then, inevitably, her eyes fall again upon the simple knot on the table. There's a long, lingering moment in which she simply stares at it like it might leap across the table and bite her. It's only when she notices eyes upon her that she snatches the thing up, burying it in her pocket. Doubts and indecision can be saved for later - for now, she has a cook to whom she owes a very convincing apology.