Logs:Feeding For Two
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| RL Date: Some time in history |
| Who: Casseny, Isidro |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Casseny and Isidro's cravings are, so far, only their own. It's very medical. |
| Where: Sanctuary, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 24, Month 1, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray drizzle. |
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>---< Sanctuary, Fort Weyr >-------------------------------------------------<
Once a complete weyr, buried beneath the mudslide, this awkwardly-shaped
chamber has now been cleaned up and protected from the elements by a set
of proper doors where the ledge might have been. It's a cozy little spot,
all funny little shelves and nooks in the warmly-painted walls, various
ornaments sat in each space in the wall, from collections of tealights to
elaborate carvings.
A third of the cavern is occupied by a large, rectangular storage unit
fronted by glass to make a counter-top, behind which lie a series of
wooden shelves stacked with crockery and various bottles, a proper yet
small built-in oven and a short, stocky cupboard. A selection of cakes,
biscuits and pastries are usually available throughout the day, set out on
the countertop alongside a board detailing the variety of warm drinks
available. Small groupings of mismatching furniture sit scattered
throughout the remaining free space, lending the place a quaint, homely
air. Usually on-duty is Molly or Joy, kitchen girls known for their baking
skills. Patchy: the weather, and the selection left at Sanctuary. It's turned to bouts of snow-- a relief from dreary rain-- outside the doors, and the refreshingly warmed spiced drinks and stuffed pastries have been popular. The counter's looking pretty picked clean, except for a couple of buns here, a cinnamon something there. Casseny's the hovering bird, picking at the remains, while Molly tends to stacking furniture to clean, taking out trash. She slides out the double doors briefly-- Casseny's alone. For a couple seconds she restrains herself, holding onto her little bag of Sanctuary leftovers and waiting. Then, teeth pinning her lower lip, and with furtive glances, a hand darts out-- pauses-- then snags another sticky bun. In the bag. Wait. She grabs another. This one is held a bit more personally close to her chest as she contemplates; contemplates and sidles a step towards that cinnamon thing. It doesn't seem to matter its actual name, or, really, anything at all. Candidacy is not known for leaving anybody great swaths of free time, which probably explains why it is that Isidro wanders in now. His hair is all wet curls, just barely dried enough not to be plastered to his forehead, but it appears to be more after the fashion of a recent bathing than from the snow, mostly because he's not a shivery miserable mess on arrival. No, fresh clothes, wet hair, predator's sharp eyes. "Just how many of those do you need?" Casseny's abruptly stiffened shoulders read her as startled-- though, rather than look perturbed, when she turns, it's almost surprise that it happened. A new phenomenon! Not that it's easy to tell, with the half of sticky bun still mostly in her mouth. Trying to hide that she was indulging in a bite by shoving the entire thing in her mouth at once perhaps didn't work out for her. A hard gnaw breaks off what she can successfully chew; the rest led guiltily down towards an inescapably full bag. "Enough," she declares, mysteriously succinct, when the coast is clear between her teeth. A second later, she clears her throat and thinks to add, "It's not for me." Ignore her sticky fingers. "Infirmary, rather." "Infirmary," Isidro repeats, with that uh-huh-yeah-right kind of tone. But the worst penalty that will be involved in this is her having to relinquish the cinnamon thing. Look at his waistline, surely he needs the calories as much as any sickly old person does, right? Have to keep those Candidates going? Something like that. But he does insist on also obtaining a fork to go with it. "I feel like I could eat at least three quarters of a herdbeast, right now, but this will have to do. Deserve something nice, after all this. Candidate chores are more frequently revolting than I expected." Isidro is not her patient; she's not obliged to listen to him. Casseny and her guilty sweet-tooth seem of a mind to leave before he can cement her sins to memory, but she holds back, eying his claimed cinnamon something with more intensity than it deserves. "Revolting." It is prompt, question-- though it is not uncertainty-- and almost disbelieving, without precisely critiquing. A lot of ingredients for one word. Probably too many for someone so hungry for actual foodstuffs. Hungry enough for the devouring of all sorts of things, but even so, Isidro manages to actually get his cinnamon something on a plate, with a fork, and Faranth... he even sits down at a table. He does, however, require at least one forkful to be chewed before saying anything. Why have that much in the way of teeth if you aren't going to use them? They're not just for being pretty. Chewing, swallowing, then: "Seems like we get all the most distasteful tasks. It feels like some sort of test. Prove yourself willing to crawl through the mud, and you can marry the Lord Holder's daughter, that sort of thing." Again Casseny hovers, with a particular meticulousness indistinct between an intelligent pensiveness and a mere disinclination towards socialization. Again, she chooses to bend, walking carefully towards Isidro's chosen table, left alone where Molly had only half finished her Sanctuary closing practice of stacking chairs for sweeping. Hugging the little bag of illicit goodies to her chest with one hand, Cass subtly rubs the palm of her hand against the back of her thigh, excising stickiness left over from the bun. "Necessary tasks." She half-squints at him. "There's not exactly rest and riches after you Impress. I'm sure you've heard that from others by now." She softens her voice a modicum, perhaps hoping to tease herself for repeating some kind of mantra. But she hasn't mastered the art of not sounding overly dry. "I believe rest and riches only comes with marrying Blood, and that's never been something that seemed a likely course for my life." Not that this stops Isidro from sounding a little bit regretful about this, all wistful sighs between bites. Big bites. That cinnamon whatever is becoming a smaller whatever by the moment. "Might feel differently if there was a Pass, but I'll take it, if it comes with a place to myself and..." And a look at the girl, vaguely furrowed brow, like he's only just recalled who he's talking to. "...and freedom to do what I like the rest of the time." "You'll take it," she continues to measure his words, feeding them back with a soft, assessing nod. Casseny's eyes flit left-ward as she considers the matter, briefly distant and distracted before she rounds back to the meeting of-- whoever. With the cinnamon whatever. Her feet scuff softly against the floor, betraying a slight restless she can keep off of her fully invested face. Her fingers knead into the cloth bag; she looks like she could sit there all night. Perhaps make him some tea to help him do the same. "And..." Her prompt for him to rewind to before he stuttered to look at her's followed momentarily by the contrarily idle purposefulness with which she finds and pulls a plump sticky bun from the bag. Sets it on the table. Turning it with a few fingers as if to find its good side. "And," a bit more firmly this time, "there are some things you'll understand more when you're older." Is she really young enough to warrant that? Not necessarily. But he's old enough to feel like she does, which is a different sort of a thing, maybe. He emphasizes this bit of the wisdom of the ages with his fork, then stabs the last piece of his pastry and stuffs it into his mouth. A mood grips the corner of Casseny's mouth, torn between possible insult and just as likely amusement. She weighs what he says for the time it takes him to chew his last, however, indulging no knee-jerk sentiment. "I hope I am tasked with it in time," is what she chooses to say, at last. With Isidro's plate woefully empty, she plucks up the sticky bun and sets it experimentally on that blank space. And watches. Not unlike a mama bird. Which is extremely age-appropriate. Is Isidro going to question age-appropriateness now? No. No, he isn't. Where food is involved, no questions are asked. Well, one question: "You're sure? I mean--I can probably make it to breakfast without expiring. Are all the people in the infirmary going to be able to make it through the night without the sugar infusion?" Yes, there's a smile, there, and not one that bothers trying to hide itself. Casseny's last little finger poke leaves the bun in the exact middle of Isidro's plate before she folds back into her own space, even rather similarly lanky-limbed as the yet older boy. She might even still be growing: the horror. "We'll make it better if you're not brought in there later, uncomfortably expiring." Her utter seriousness resolved, she waits a second and then-- a smile. It brings out the rosiness in her cheeks; it's ushered out quickly, as though her assiduity were embarrassed by such. "Besides, soon you might be feeding for two." "Feeding for two," Isidro echoes, his dark brows climbing so far they might crawl all the way up his forehead and hide in his hairline. "Pretty sure that's traditionally something else. I don't think my going round about the middle is going to help a dragon any--anyway, who am I if I don't have my girlish figure?" This does not, actually, stop him from finishing off the sticky bun immediately thereafter. His is apparently not a low-carb diet. "That's eating for two," suggests Casseny amiably, her own eyebrows flirting with making a skeptically amused v. "Feeding for two is when you have to stop a ravenous little dragon from getting overly round about its middle though you're putting food in its face while, somehow, against all odds, remembering to eat, yourself." An awful lot of words from her, even a short impression of her suggests. She aims to balance it with a bout of silence, but breaks that vow when, after a short, aborted breath, she adds quite sincerely, "I don't know. Who you are." "Feeding, eating. Close enough! Anyway, maybe it'll all pan out to nothing." Another bite, more chewing, fork set down. After Isidro swallows, he adds, "But I guess I'll take what I can get, now." Then a beat after that, he blinks at her. "Right. Sorry. Sid. So many people, it seems like either I have to default to saying it to everybody or I forget entirely. And I can't keep track of even the Candidates, much less everyone else." Judiciously, "Not that I won't try to remember." "Too late for it to be nothing," Casseny opines amidst Isidro's chewing-- or Sid, as it were. "Casseny. You don't have to remember." An inkling of understanding as to the labors of how many faces pass by the Candidates. The scuffing of her feet, stilled through conversation before, begins once more; she's reminded herself of something, whatever made her subtly antsy. Her gaze darkens, eyelids drifting slightly closed to take her momentarily far away from there. Though she's all earnest, speaking, "But please do let your closest healer know if you start going round about the middle in the traditional way." There's just a slight delay, but then Isidro grins at her, big smile, showing teeth. "If that suddenly became possible, that would be absolutely terrifying. I'd have to seriously adjust my social calendar, for one thing." Wasn't she supposed to be Too Young For That Sort Of Talk? Apparently he's just not safe to be around young people. "Casseny. I'm not keeping you, am I? Were you supposed to be sneaking out of here with your prizes by now?" Not completely oblivious to antsy. Casseny blinks languidly at Isidro's smile several times, perhaps blinded by all the teeth. Her own lips do not reciprocate now, only daring a tiny notion, unclear. Amusement might be an able guess, if only because of her following look up and down Isidro: slow, studious, her head slightly tilted, to be quite entirely sure of his state. Reminder of her own agenda stops her feet. She taps a couple of fingers. "You are," she allows, "But I chose to let you." Her next seconds are contemplative, weighing. Double doors swinging interrupts any notion she might've had to speak again. Molly reenters the Sanctuary, double-taking at Isidro's presence, and then nodding to the healer apprentice. "Y'get all the surviving remnants, Cass? My regards to 'em manning the night desk." Molly's tone reveals this as a routine for them, and she just as soon goes about her business again. Obligingly, Casseny pulls out of her seat. This seems to be Isidro's cue, too, doesn't it? He's not oblivious. "Long day," he says to Molly, by way of explanation, a flick of fingertips to the white cord at his shoulder. He offers up plate and fork. "Best be getting back to trying to use what's left of my waking time productively. Morning will be here too soon. You both have a good night." Whatever it is can be wedged into what's left of the evening, at this rate, seems not to require him to take off at speed, he just heads back into the caverns at a relaxed pace that is going to do nothing to burn off those two pastries. "Good night, Sid," returns Casseny-- and when they're, briefly, aligned because there's only one exit, she uses the proximity to add seriously, "Watch your cravings." With a last spy at his belly, he can be sure she's taken his shape to memory; she'll know if he starts showing. Even if it's only pastries. |
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