Logs:Fathers and Aspirations
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| RL Date: 23 May, 2015 |
| Who: Jemizen, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, Southern Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: A hungry N'rov seeks sustenance in the kitchens but finds only unpeeled potatoes and Jem. |
| Where: Kitchen, Fort Weyr |
| When: 23 May, 2015 |
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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. It's late. The smarter thing to do might have been to visit the nighthearth, but it's not like N'rov's wearing a sign that says he hasn't, only dark leathers and a sour expression. The soup pot before him, no matter how much he pokes it with a wooden spoon, still refuses to refill. Normally, Jemizen would not be found in the kitchens. Normally, he would be far, far away from the kitchens--hidden in some faraway stores room, perhaps lounging on a pile of freshly-laundered linens. Normally, he would not have let himself be caught by a member of the headwoman's staff and forced to re-launder all of those linens and then be made to spend all night drudging in the kitchens. Unfortunately, this is not a normal evening for Jem, so out he trudges from the kitchen stores, lugging a heavy sack of tubers with him. He dumps the sack onto a nearby counter with an audible grunt, then glances about in search of a knife with which to peel them. It's then that he spies the dragonrider at the soup pot and he gives a mopey "H'lo" in greeting. Normally, N'rov might not just grunt acknowledgement without even looking up from the pot, but then, normally he'd have shown up during normal hours and talked up the cooks for conversation and collations. Normally, too, there might be a larger collection of supplies. This time, his latest sloshy poke is more of a sloshy clang, the metal reverberating even as, slowly, he starts to turn towards the rest of the room and, coincidentally, Jemizen and his maybe-knife. Jemizen's dark eyes eventually alight on a small knife that seems suited to the purpose of peeling tubers and he quickly snatches it up and very responsibly and intelligently waves the knife-wielding hand at the unknown bronzerider. "Evening," he calls over in a slightly cheerier tone. "Or morning. Or whatever. I don't even know what time it is anymore," he admits, miserably. "These cooks are real taskmasters." After an unwieldy swipe with that knife he manages to remove a very small section of peel from a very large tuber. He frowns at the remaining sackful. This might take awhile. N'rov looks at Jemizen. N'rov looks at Jemizen's small if possibly-sharp appendage. N'rov says, in that drawl that's not from around here, "Close enough." The stove's not on; he turns his back to it and the counter both, leaning against the latter to continue surveying the shorter man. "How'd you manage to piss them off like that? I'd guess it's getting born a Southerner, but," apparently not. Jemizen's features contort in such a way that he is simultaneously pouting and looking disgusted. "Got caught sleeping in the stores. And the laundresses ratted me out." He pauses to give a dramatic roll of his eyes before he explains: "I told the cooks I had laundry duty when I didn't." His explanation ends with a lazy one-shouldered shrug, and then he makes another pass at that tuber's peel before the bronzerider's latter statement is really understood. Turning back to face the older man, Jem's head tilts to one side, he brow furrowed in thought. "Do they not like Southerners here? I thought everybody would be glad we're here to help." Not that Jem has been particularly good about actually helping. It's not that N'rov looks disgusted exactly, and he's definitely not pouting, but there's a peculiar quality to his expression that suggests repressing something that isn't quite a sneeze. Though he does have to cough into his elbow, so maybe he does have a cold. Recovering for the moment, wryly, "You'd think. Did you volunteer, or did they just toss you onto a dragon and say good luck?" "I volunteered," Jem announces brightly. He pauses for a second then adds slowly, "Though my da' did heavily imply that I should." One corner of his mouth twitches up in a wry half-grin as he adds, "And then they threw us on a dragon and said good luck." He manages to remove two more tiny slivers of tuber peel during this exchange. N'rov's own slow grin detours, hard, into a smirk. "Funny how that happens. I had to run from mine." It's a moment before he adds, "So how have you been helping, what's-your-name? I see you'll have, ah, quite the tuber expertise to bring back to Southern with you when all's said and done." "Run from yours? From your da', you mean? Whyever would you need to do that?" Jem seems to think this line of questioning demands his entire attention--he abandons his little knife and turns to fully face N'rov, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest as he regards the dragonrider thoughtfully. "I suppose that's what I've done, too," is admitted with a shrug. Though all he escaped was being doted on and occasionally pressured to do something other than lounge about the weyr. Jem might be self-aware enough to admit this out loud, but before that, introductions must be made! "Ah. Jemizen. Jem." This is punctuated by a thumb pointed at his chest. In case there was any question as to who Jemizen is. "Youthful rebellion, you know how that goes. Hadn't met my quota." The bronzerider adds, "N'rov. Used to be 'Norov,' so not that big a difference, and no, it's not an alias I'm wanted under in ten holds." His grin flashes, white and whole. "Had a rough life at Southern, did you? Or does your family just have aspirations of your Impressing here instead of there." Jemizen, ever the polite and pleasant young lad, flashes a smile and nods, "Well met, N'rov." That smile is quick to turn into a grimmace as Jem explains, "My family has... aspirations." Full stop. "And I don't." His arms uncross and he raises his palms up as he shrugs. His fate is out his (and everyone else's) hands, apparently. That gets a cocked brow from N'rov. But after the stop restarts, "It happens," the bronzerider says briefly. With recognition, even. He thwacks the spoon's handle against his hand before turning to drop it into the pot. On his way out, "Good luck." |
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