====September 26, 2013
====Hannah, V'dean
====Sometimes, it's just best to stay out of the kitchen. No wieners were mangled in the making of this log.

Who Hannah, V'dean
What Sometimes, it's just best to stay out of the kitchen. No wieners were mangled in the making of this log.
When There is 1 turn 1 month and 15 days until the 12th pass.
Where Kitchens, Southern Weyr

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Kitchens
Renowned, the culinary prowress of Southern, and suitable her kitchens to the task. A broad and airy sweep of room, it cannot help the sweat-drenching heat — though hearths are cleverly set within the ground itself to maximize efficiency. Big copper pots gleam along long tables, cooks hustling to and fro to prepare the necessary meals. There is never a candlemark the kitchens are left unstaffed: even in the wee hours of the night, bakers can be seen shaping loaves and mixing biscuits. For those who miss meals, a sideboard brims with leftovers that are easily transformed into portable potables, complete with sweet herbal tea and a large wheel of a soft, white, crumbly cheese.
To the east, you see two people.
On the perch is Neptune.
V'dean is here.
Obvious exits:
Living Caverns Stairs


-- On Pern --
It is late night
It is 11:52 PM where you are.
There is 1 turn 1 month and 15 days until the 12th pass.
It is Spring and 76 degrees. It is heavily overcast.




The hour has fallen past the normal dinning time; it is not yet late enough for everyone to be deserted, but it is late enough that all of the kitchen staff save for a few are long since gone. The kitchens are a quiet haven against the remaining chaos of a weyr settling down to night-soaked dreams. Hannah has settled herself into the kitchens, dressed carefully in attire that's surprisingly modest in the display of skin: the neckline is no more scandalous than would be deemed appropriate, showing delicate hint of collarbones but no more. In deep midnight blue patterned with the sprinkling of tiny dots to resemble stars, the dress has a high-waisted sash of black. Moonlight-pale hair is wound into a light bun at the crown of her head, held there by midnight blue ribbon while pale tendrils frame her face. She's currently fixated on putting together a tray of delicious edibles. It's not very good and in fact her fingers are doing more damage than not, but concentration is at its peak, tongue peeking out between lips as she tries to roll a finger food without all the insides splooging out.

A piece of that remaining chaos is drifting in from the caverns now. He has a stein held by its top within the bridged fingers of one hand, though its likely empty given the way he lets it bounce against his leg as he walks. He has a knack for looking of recently undone neatness, though the initial orderliness would be difficult to find evidence of about his person. Today that means the laces of his finespun linnen shirt have been loosened to allow a peek of his own collar bones. A low whistle starts as his gaze snags upon the blue-clad figure and starts traveling up the length of the dress. It peters out somewhere around the time he notices that bun of moonlight, leaving him with a slim smile. "Weyrwoman Hannah." It's almost like he wasn't just catcalling. Of course, as he slides up at her workstation, he can't help but observe recallingly: "That is a good color on you."

V'dean's entrance gets the little wiener trapped in the gooey bun thing shooting out as Hannah vainly struggles to make a 'porcine-in-a-blanket' when her hands jerk at the low whistle. She lifts her head, frowning slightly, to blink owlishly before emerald gaze narrows. "Bluerider," the voice comes in a release of air, a hiss, that carries a hint of sepulcher danger to midnight tones that further the greeting with, "And you look like you're on the prowl for trouble." Despite the difference in height, or rather, the difference seems to be a smidge less given the killer heels the woman's wearing, she manages to give the Ocelot rider a thorough sweep of her gaze. From the top of his head down to the touch of fingers to stein, and a hint of something dangerous curls beneath. "Thank you." Polite is as polite does. Retreiving the wiener (with a curse), she tucks him back into his blanket and tries to roll him back up, the deliciousness that was slathered on the 'bun' oozing further out.

"Me? Trouble?" The self-satisfied smile that deepens his dimple undoes any innocence that the soft blink of eyes might have had. Her study sees V'dean lifting his free hand to comb the loosened wave of his hair back from his forehead, more preening than self-conscious as he leans up against the counter. This gives him better vantage for watching Hannah wrangle the evasive wiener. "You're welcome," is thus a smoothness marred by a hint of the quizical. His eyes twitch a little more narrowly, the edge of his tongue sketches out thoughtfully over his lip. "Special occasion?" is guessed after a moment's musing as his attention falls back to the moonlight woman cloaked in midnight.

These finger foods are giving Hannah fits, for another wiener shoots out of a breaded contraption after she finally finished her previous little treate, albeit somewhat mangled. The woman is not a kitchen prowess, that much is clear. With a sigh, she plucks the wiener off the cutting board and savagely shoves a toothpick through him and shoves him into the breaded filler. "Yes, you." Green eyes once again flick to V'dean, eyebrows ticking upward in subtle taunt. "Something like that." The mangled, be-toothpicked thing is set on the tray. Whomever eats that might die a prickly sick-death from the bit shoved in the middle of it. "Only it is not going as I planned and the candlemarks tick away." She reaches for the spread of ingredients and chooses another wiener, holding it pinched between her fingers while she pauses to consider the bluerider. "Seeking to alleviate your boredom here in the kitchens?" Now amusement colors husky tones, as well as light disbelief.

V'dean doesn't exactly wince. But maybe only because that would take too much effort. Her savegery is witnessed with a widening look of mild horror, the expression opening his failing smile slightly over a soft grit of teeth. His hand has fallen to catch behind his neck after fussing with his hair, helping to ease his gaze into a cautious slant as he regards the taunting goldrider. "No," wanly, he doesn't imagine this… stick prickled travesty could be anyone's plan. A long breath pulls into his lungs and puffs fast from his nose as her pinching pause catches his attention and shifts his features into a thinner rumple of consternation. "I thought I was hungry," is his somewhat-distracted answer. "It seems… Can't you have someone do that for you? Kitchen staff? Candidates? Really, I think he'd rather just have you there than this…" He lifts the empty mug to gesture vaguely at the concerning tray.

Hannah has readied another toothpick — what is in these treats of death? — to jab through the wiener lengthwise, when she pauses and fixes a steady gaze upon the bluerider. "You thought you were hungry?" she queries, archly, one single brow raising as disbelief colors her expression. "My, my," a searing look is given up to V'dean from 'neath pale lashes, "it's a sad day if you only think you're hungry." Does she taunt? Perhaps. V'dean is entirely too easily taunted, and a feral joy comes from the tucking of the latest wiener into a crumbling crust-thing. Using one small finger, she dips it into some sauce and runs the tip up and down that little wiener and its package. "Why would I have someone else do this for me? Then it's not my", deathtrap, "work." Again, she pierces the bluerider with an unfathomable look. "He?" A pause is affected in the act of tucking this sad, sad little wiener treat onto her tray, and were it not for the hidden toothpick, the little guy would probably be struggling to jump out of his prison. "What makes you think this is for anyone but me?"

"Tragic." Not really being hungry. Watching the delicate ministrations given the pastry snack leaves a fold upon his brow. He straightens breifly from his lean, a subtle adjustment made mostly from the shifting between one foot and the other. It just so happens that this leaves him a half step further away from those tiny wood spears. "It's the thought that counts?" is offered as an excuse to leave the work to someone less likely to make it lethal. "The nice dress," V'dean starts to answer while still distracted by looking skeptically after that hidden-toothpicked morsel. "The heels, the preparing of food. That's what women do, when they…" The bluerider catches his ramble with a lift of his thumb to dig into the wrinkle of his forehead, smoothing out the lines as his smile stretches thin and the wonky slant of his eyes peek towards Hannah.

Slowly, the sad wiener-snack is set on the tray for V'dean has captured the entirety of Hannah's attention. She taps a fingernail upon the wooden tray in a rat-a-tat-tat sound that seems to echo a rising hint of danger. "That's what women do, when they what, V'dean?" the question comes as soft as the gentlest of breezes, husky voice barely audible but for the sepulcher chill to the carefully crafted words. Tilting her head back, the additional height of heels yields less of a crane to her neck, though a lock of pale hair falls from the carefully wound hair decorated in the ribbon-of-midnight. The nowtimer male is given a deeper look, as attention pulled from mangled wieners has fully focused upon V'dean. "I could be," danger breaks against a sly humor, "just enjoying the extra six inches and making fingerfoods for my health." Brows quirk. Dares him to contradict.

The flat of his fingers continue to spread out along his forehead, rubbing once, twice, before dragging away. V'dean lets the dropping heel of his hand push himself straight and away from the edge of the counter. Shifting waves of expression crest and ebb, a drop to tighter-jawed neutrality giving way to the resurfacing of a smile that gets fought back down before reaching its full amplitude. "When they want, ah, health and six inches, weyrwoman," he echoes dutifully. Or was that a healthy six inches? So hard to tell. The way his hands have fallen to fold over the mug in front of him as he stands straight could be taken as politely contrite. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your enjoyment."

V'dean's smile is given a narrow-eyed look of suspicion, but even cannot deny what a reprehensible sight she makes with her mangled wieners with their choke-inducing toothipicks inside. For a moment, her expression weakens, hovering on crestfallen as all of that hard work crumbles at the pride that battles against lack of — or nonexistent skill. "Hmmph. Don't be dense, V'dean. I am neither stupid or unobservant," again with the piercing look that assesses the bluerider with sudden interest. Some judgment is made, though whether the bluerider passes whatever bar that's set is held to the shadows. "So maybe, I might be making these," a sweeping gesture encompasses the sad treats, "for a dinner that I might be going to." The look that's given from the corners of her eyes, beneath the fringe of pale lashes that hide much, hints at the goldrider's adept hearing. "I am almost done anyway, don't let me keep you from your," again the sweeping gesture, "drink. Or food. Or whatever precept has taken you to the kitchens at this hour." Hesitation comes, though she doesn't audibly conscript the bluerider to help. Nay, that'd be cheating. Instead, she returns to the slow work of dressing wieners. And stabbing them with toothpicks. She might even eat one, because this is hard work.

V'dean wouldn't dream of thinking such things of her, says the broad turn of chin that sketches out a negating shake of his head. He has seen quite enough of the treats, so her sweeping gesture doesn't distract from the fixed attention that allows him to catch the fringed hint in her gaze. "Thank you, weyrwoman," he steps back to give enough room for sweeping into a picture perfect bow. So gracious, he may as well just have been knotted. Except for the tug of that pesky smirk, of course. "I hope your putative dinner goes exceptionally well," he bids in parting. And because he must see what hard work it totally is, he only steals one of the wieners that hasn't been wrapped yet as he slips on to rummage in the further recesses of the kitchen before eventually making his way mugless towards his own night-soaked dreams.

"Hmph," Hannah mutters as the bluerider takes himself off. When he purloins one of her precious wieners, the goldrider gives him a good glare, huffing in disdain. "Tricksy male." Once the bluerider is gone, however, she's back to her task. So much care, so much effort; once she finally does leave, trying to balance that tray along with her own weight on heels far too high, she carries an expression of smugness. Faranth help whomever those little wieners are for! Hopefully, come the morn, no one is mourning anyone's passing into the dark of night.
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