Cascabel, Ryott (incognito)


Cascabel is cooking up something that smells delicious which seems to attract a starving street urchin.


It is midmorning of the sixteenth day of the fourth month of the fourteenth turn of the 12th pass.


Shared Ovens, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 22 Jun 2018 04:00


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"Please mistress, d'ya have a drop to share?"


Shared Ovens

Even in the heat of summer, a fire will always be found here and that's the point. Stationed conveniently close to both the residents terraces and crafters' quarters, the back wall of this courtyard is taken up by a massive brick oven with constant delectable aromas wafting out of it. For a token amount for to contribute towards the fuel and maintenance costs, a dish can be left to cook in the oven during the day. The omni-present crowd of aunties and uncles will take turns out of their routine of gossip and card games to occasionally check on the dishes under their care and stoke the fire. And if after a long, hard day of work, someone is too hungry to wait to get home and eat, there's a few tables set up around a lone tree.

Cascabel has taken a liking to making her large pots of soup here, in the shared area where others are socializing and making things and tasting things, rather than in the confines of her own home. It's hard to blame her, with the cheerful atmosphere being what it is, especially considering the current balmy spring weather. One of the aunties has just finished fussing at her about the excitement of her most-of-the-way-done pregnancy, which Cas largely demurs from but can't help but smile a little bit at. She's also repeatedly taking tastes of the soup even if it's a bit before lunchtime. And occasionally whispering something incoherent toward the ground.

Drawn perhaps by the sound of the women chatting, or maybe the wafting aroma of cooking food, a slip of a girl peeks timidly around the corner. Her face is obsured by long bangs of lank dirty blond hair as her gaze is kept low, as if avoiding eye contact of any kind. She's wearing a dress of muddy yellow that is shockingly threadbare in places, the short sleeves only coming to halfway down to her elbow, her bared arms sporting bruises in various degrees of healing. A light shawl covers her head and further throws her features in shows as she moves with hesitant steps towards the ovens, licking her lips hungrily as she wanders forwards. To anyone taking a guess, she's a girl just on the cusp of her teenage years, although her shy manner is of one much younger.

Fitting, since that's how some people speak of Cascabel as well — she's more timid than one would expect from her age, and looks smaller, until she drops her guard enough to speak her mind and only then can one see that she's actually twenty. Nearly twenty-one, as it were, but even she forgets. The soup smell definitely wafts the way of the new-arrived stranger, and as soon as Cas is aware of another's approach, she turns her head a little to be able to stir and watch at once.

When she first approaches an auntie removing a tray of bread rolls from the ovens, hands outstretched pitifully, as she mumbles something almost incoherant. The woman pretends not to hear her and moves to a table further off with her hot tray. With a sniff and wiping at her nose with the back of her hand, the girl in yellow tilts her head as she gets a whiff of soup on the wind, her nostrils flaring as she inhales deeply and turns in Cascabel's direction. With something of a timid smile, she shuffles forward, her posture hunched over as if she is in a constant state of defending herself. When she draws near enough to be heard, her hands clasped in front of her, she mutters softly, "Please mistress, d'ya have a drop to share? Even just a couple spoonfuls? I'm dreadful hungry." What little of her face is visble also sports an assortment of bruises under a thin layer of grime.

A wrinkled nose of disapproval comes from Cascabel's face — a part of her presently not sporting bruises, but her foreams still are. It's not for the girl, though, as is evidenced almost immediately by her next statement: "Oh, of course, if you want to grab a bowl — " She gestures at where a few stone bowls can be found sitting in a stack, "I have enough to share around a little." That now vanished look of disapproval? It's for the bruises, but not their recipient.

The girl almost sags in relief when Cascabel tells her to fetch a bowl, her smile broadening the tiniest amount, revealing some badly decaying teeth. When she returns, she's carrying the stone bowl like it's the most precious thing in the world and holds it out just a bit towards Cascabel. "Thank ye kind lady. It smells awfully good," she murmurs in her softly hollow voice. When she peeks the bruises on the woman's arms, she lowers her voice to almost nothing, "Are you clumsy too?" she asks in a whispered breath, that touch of emphasis seems to be carrying some sort of hidden meaning.

Cascabel's smile is a little broader, at least at first, as she ladles a hearty helping of that soup into the offered bowl. If the herdbeast meat is a little undercooked it's because it's not quite perfectly finished yet, but it's not so rare as to cause illness. "I hope it is," she says softly. "Good. I made it a little different this time." Her expression droops a bit at the question, as realization dawns on her how much she can't really judge this situation considering her own. "I — yes, sometimes. I'm trying to … get better."

There's a hint of dark eyes widening beneath the fringe of dirty hair at the hearty helping of soup being ladled into her bowl. She doesn't even wait for a spoon, just raises the bowl to her dry lips and slurps noisily, not minding the heat of the liquid in her need for food. When she lowers it with a deeply satisfied sound, "Mmmmmmmm. That's the best thing I've tasted in forever," she praises, her voice still not loud, but with maybe a bit more warmth to it. To her last, she nods almost sympathetically, "Yeah, I keep trying to do better too…" She trails off again as she lifts her bowl to her lips for another long sip.

"Satisfactory?" Sure, Cascabel went poking arund for an extra spoon briefly, but — it's not needed so long as her companion isn't burning her tongue on the soup. "I'm glad. I like to experiment with the spices sometimes, make something a little different …" Her expression is still lined with concern, though; someone this apparently young shouldn't look as mangled as she does, and in that Cas isn't even being hypocritical. "Do you have somewhere less — accident … prone to sleep?" The briefest pause was for thinking of a word; what she wanted was a much longer and fancier word she'd heard Divale say, but couldn't recall. "Not that I can offer that," she admits, "but I usually have extra food."

"It's so good," the girl in yellow confirms, her words muffled as she chews on a piece of herdbeast she managed to snag. When she finally swallows it down wiht a audible gulp, she takes a moment to listen to Cascabel's question an answers them with a weak shrug, "Ain't so bad right now. Just hungry. And people ain't being so charitable lately." Almost halfway done her bowl, she reaches in and plucks out another piece of meat and chews it with a loud hum of satisfaction. "And when it gets real bad I just sleep up on the roofs now the weather's good," she'll add as she licks the lingering broth off her fingers.

"At least it doesn't snow here," says Cascabel wistfully; not the kind of wistful that denotes particularly fond memories. Who would have thought that a freckly blonde would find the desert sun such a nice change (albeit one that comes with sunburns; a close glance at her face will show redness under the dots on her nose). "I'd imagine you might end up sliding off a snowy roof if you even had enough blankets and things to make it comfortable … Are people ever particularly charitable?" She has the unusual perspective of being often around the bazaar's elite, but not really included in what they do — and other than Topiltzin at the Dustbowl, she isn't aware of particularly kind proprietors (yet).

"It did snow once, couple turns back when that queen laid her clutch," the girl pipes up remembering the event with a touch of awe in her voice, "The whole bazaar looked so clean, as if the whole world had disapeared and all that was left was something new." There's something almost haunting in her words, they ring hollow as if disconnected from the wonder of the memory. With another loud slurp, she downs the last of her soup, masticating thoughtfully before swallowing and holding the bowl out to Cascabel. "Thank you ma'am. I'm as stuffed as a wherry at Turn's end." And she smacks her lips for good measure. As for charitable people, "They can be, sometimes. Like today." she gives the woman another pinched lip smile, before bobbing her head, "I gotta get goin'." she states simply as she notices the sidelong glances she's getting from some of the less kindly women gathered.

Ah, right, that. Cascabel stayed inside and hid during that debacle, not wanting to have to put on every shawl she owned for night time desert trawling in the middle of the day, and managed to completely block that out! "Oh. Yes. That did happen. I — don't like the snow, so I think I stayed indoors." A hesitant little smile, more friendly than her Charitable Politeness Hat had been. "You are always welcome to ask for food, if you see me with any. Good luck finding somewhere better to sleep," she adds as a parting comment — while she doesn't know the source of the girl's 'clumsiness,' she can always hope anyone else can get away. More easily than her own plan. Which is getting tuned out for the time being, her focus remaining on perfecting the already street-urchin-approved soup.

With another bob of her head in thanks, the girl in yellow shuffles off as quietly as she'd come, her hand reaching up once she's around the corner and well out of sight. With a muffled curse she slips a hand up under the line of her hair and scratches furiously, the wig moving unnaturally. Once settled again, the girl straightens a bit and heads off in the direction of the nearest alley before she finds her way onto the rooftops, disapearing from sight.

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