Who

Bailey, Prymelia

What

Plans are made to deal with the wildling hygiene. Or lack thereof.

When

It is midmorning of the nineteenth day of the seventh month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr, Kitchens

OOC Date

 

bailey_default.jpg prymelia_default.jpg

kitchens.jpg

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.


It's just FREAKING RAINY. Southern in winter: it is as it always is. Depressing. Overcast. Causing plenty of poor schmucks seasonal affective disorder. Southern. The S stands for "SAD". Bailey, however? Not unhappy. She's making herself a sandwich at one of the big butcher-blocks, carving off tiny shavings of medium-rare roast to go with cold, carmelized onions on the hardy bread she's already picked out. She has a slightly manic look to her. BLEED BEEF, BLEED TASTY GOODNESS. (It shouldn't come as a surprise that the whole kitchenstaff is giving her a wide berth.)

Try being a trader effectively trapped in the Weyr due to muddy, slushy, roads that only a fool would try to navigate. Booze helps. Though the sun doesn’t currently exist to cross the yardarm. More’s the pity. And so comfort eating it shall be. Which is what draws a somewhat soggy Prymelia kitchenward and apparently oblivious of the little firebreak of humanity avoiding the goldrider. Nicking a bubbly pie from off of a tray and earning herself a look from a kitchen aide, she meanders on over Bailey-ward.

Comfort eating is where it is AT, though. "You should have a sandwich," Bailey comments to her fellow redhead without looking up from her MANIC CARVING. "Do you like onions and rye?" That may as well be the motto of single people everywhere. Or just people who never have to worry about kissing people or sharing close air with anyone. "I'll make you one if you'll get me one of those pies. They smell excellent. I'm amazed we can," and Bailey's face TWISTS, "Smell anything but RAIN." It's the zombie apocalypse and Bai is the first vic.

Cue the owlish blink, with teeth sunk into pie when Bailey offers to make her sandwich followed by a flaky grin. Chewing and swallowing without saying a word the trader crosses No Man’s land and flipping the kitchen aide a challenging look, swipes another two pies. Said aid’s mouth opens, closes, opens, she glances at the junior weyrwoman and then snaps it shut and is rewarded with an impish waggle of brows from Prymelia. Setting the pies down on a plate near the goldrider amusement shows through. “I bet if you growled when you did that,” pie hand gestures to the slicing going on, “they’d back away far enough that I could probably lift an apple tart and a fresh jug of cream too. And yes, please. That looks positively delicious!” There’s a wrinkle of nose and a little sniff. “All I can smell is mud and damp and…..something that smells suspiciously like wet canine.” A drudge lingering nearby is given the long eye. Is it you!?

There is a moment of THOUGHTFUL CONSIDERATION that Bailey bestows upon Prymelia. "You think so?" She didn't even notice there were apple tarts. Up stretches that long neck of hers, ivory throat bared enough to display an old scar on the side of her neck here throat meets shoulder, knife-straight. "YOU." She brandishes her cleaver at one poor, poor kitchen worker. "I would like an apple tart and a jug of cream, please." She even makes it sound like a pleasant request, which may make it MORE frightening. Then she goes back to carving, pausing only to POINT at Prym. "Wet canine. That's what it is. I kept saying mold, but it wasn't quite right."

Keen eyes that rarely miss a thing take note of that scar but with the way Bailey is brandishing that knife, Prymelia isn’t about to ask about it. Perhaps a previous altercation over a side of rare roast beef? Munching on the remains of her juicy bubbly, a thin trickle of it slipping down her chin, amusement lights hazel eyes when two kitchen aids both jump up at the same time to fulfill the request and wind up smacking their heads together. There’s a pie choked giggle from the trader followed by a wrinkle of nose. “Mmmhmm. I think its those hillfolk with their furs and hides and…You know, I don’t think I’ve seen any of them in the bathing caverns. I bet that’s what it is. You should get a couple of the big strong blokes to round ‘em up and toss them into the pools. Make them bathe.”

Rare roast beef is WORTH getting a knife to the throat for, right? Or a knife to the neck, generally. Bailey would think so. She finishes her pile of beef - it's more like a tower - and starts in on Sandwich #2. "Are they not bathing? Really? I bet if it were summer we'd have noticed by now," she mutters mostly under her breath. "Fine. You are in charge of wildling bathing from here on out. Tell Renalde I invested you with the powers to pressgang any idle hands of his workforce to accomplish this." Because 'removing that wet dog smell' is obviously mission CRITICAL to at least one goldrider. "And maybe," she pauses, slivering off one little, tiny, perfect piece of beef and considering it, "Maybe we should confiscate any improperly-cured hides from them. Replace them with civilized gear."

Licking flaky pastry from her fingers, Prymelia throws a wide-eyed look at the goldrider. “What!? Wait…I didn’t…” But the weyrwoman has spoken. There’s a muttered, ‘crap’, under the trader’s breath who steals a hand toward that tower of beefy goodness – just one taste. “And do something about their hair. Some of them look like they’ve been dragged through a bush backwards and trundlebugs set up nests in there. They could have LICE!” And that for one who is rather vain when it comes to her hair, is an unacceptable travesty. There’s even a light shudder to go with that. “Redwort. They should be bathed in redwort. If we take their clothes away and burn them, they’ll have to wear whatever we give them or walk around naked.”

"Wait nothing," Bailey pish-toshes Prymelia right along. That's right, Prym! NO ONE IS FREE OF THE GOLDRIDER AFFLICTION which is otherwise known as insanity in most areas? Oh well. She narrows her eyes at Prym's advancing hand but apparently is in a generally decent mood since she doesn't lop the thing off at the wrist. Accidents have been known to happen. Bai's eyes go WIDE and ROUND though: "Not lice." It's a quiet kind of horror. "Shave them all. Shave them bald. We can't have lice in the weyr." That's right. Now Prymelia is Weyrbather AND Weyr Exterminator.

“Yes, ma’am,” spoken with the undersigh of a teenager giving her parent the desired response. Successfully filching a juicy morsel from the pile, the idea begins to grow on Prymelia until little flickers of wicked delight are firing across her neurons. This could be FUN!! “Yes ma’am!” That said with far more feeling than the first. “Bathing and shaving it is! I’ll speak to Renalde and see how many big fellas we can rope in. And long-handled brushes. We’ll need those too.” Because she sure as flame isn’t gonna be doing a hands-on scrub down. Into her mouth goes the stolen tidbit, the moan of pleasure that erupts earning a startled look from a lad who has dared to venture close enough to sweep up the bits of pastry that had dropped to the floor. “So good! Like an orgy…in my mouth.” Ahem.

"You should ALSO," Bailey declares, "Wrangle Maosa into the thick of it. She could translate if nothing else." Like the poor wildlings don't use the same language they do. Second-class citizens the whole lot of them. "Long-handled brushes will be a must. You don't want to get lice." If Bai still had her braid she'd be clutching it over a shoulder and petting it to make sure her hair was okay — but it's still pixie-short, with a rakish length to the front. "We could make it an orgy in the kitchens," Bailey idly comments, but there's not a whole lot of heart in it. She's starting to put the sandwiches together now, spreading a liberal layer of spicy mustard on hers and then canting an eyebrow at Prymelia in QUERY.

“Oh right. She’s the…strange one that came out of the jungles.” Not that she’s personally met the odd bluerider but she’s heard things and seen her around. “I’m going to need two headscarves.” Prymelia goes on to note, another little grossed out shiver slipping down her spine. SO GROSS! The one subject is happily set aside for the other of far tastier topic, served with an impish grin. “I have a feeling that Ardstelle might object but if we made it a midnight feast…” Words trailing off as if she might actually be giving that serious thought. The look coming from Bailey is caught and a firm nod of head given. Yes, please. “And some cheese too. For the creaminess. If that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

"She's the excellent rider than Hannah and I rescued from the mindless savagery of the wilderness, you mean," Bailey SCANS a look over towards the trader, a smirk slowly playing about her lips. "Osweith is the strange one," she mutters more to herself, and says SOMETHING under her breath that may or may not sound like 'bodily fluids'. What? Nevermind. Bailey has a far more arch look for the trader when she actually runs with the idea of an orgy. "I normally don't go for redheads," blithely condemning her own species even as she slathers on mustard and cheese — something that goes on her own sandwich too, after a minute of deliberation. "But for a midnight orgy, I could probably make an exception." She passes over the FINISHED MASTERPIECE, voila.

“Uh, yeah, that one.” Prymelia will agree on the matter of Maosa almost perfecting a look of innocence though it doesn’t quite make it to those expressive eyes of hers which state quite clearly that the perhaps the goldriders had been out in the sun for too long when they’d rescued the strange wildling girl. With hip leaned against the counter, watching closely as Bailey builds a sandwichy block of DELICIOUS, she shoots a look the junior’s way. “Uh….” Blink, blink, blink. “No offence ma’am but uh…” Is it getting hot in here? “Women aren’t my thing. I mean, if they were, I’d totally go for you. You’re hot. I mean…” Buggerit!! Said masterpiece is received with eyes downcast to the creation and cheeks flaming a lovely shade of rose.

"Listen, Maosa is a fine young woman. Don't let Hannah hear you talking ill about her, she'll," Bai wafts a hand around vaguely, "Exile you to the Southern Wastes." Are there penguins there? Pern should have penguins. Bailey's grin spreads, crooked, across her face. "Well, that's a damned waste." Everyone halfway in the know would be familiar with the fact that while Bailey takes home an eclectic assortment of one-night-stands, they are more often than not of the feminine variety. Men just are never pretty enough. "If you ever change your mind, you should stop by." Shameless is the wink Bailey bestows upon Prym before hefting her own sandwich and bubbly and ambling towards the exit, brandishing her sandwich in a general wave. "Back to the grind. Yell at me if you have any problems with the wildings!" The last bit, unsurprisingly, is sugary-sweet.

While Prymelia executes one of those nods that offers empty agreement, there is now a glimmer of interest piqued, a sliver of genuine curiosity sparked for when she tracks Maosa down to engender her help. Is the trader aware of the weyrwoman’s proclivities? More than likely via the gossip vine, however, its not something she’s lent a lot of thought to. Before now that is. “I uh…” the usually confident young woman now completely out of her depth, “…thank you?” Lame, Prymelia. Real lame! Stuck dumb all she’s capable of doing is to track Bailey’s departure, her gaze falling unwittingly to the sway of departing derriere only to catch herself and blush furiously. There’s a snort and the pair of girls now giggling behind their hands are sent a narrowed look before she scrapes what dignity she has together and attempts to make a similarly grand exit with her sandwich. Failing miserably as more titters follow her.

Add a New Comment