Who

Artolome

What

A few days before the Big Score, Artolome takes over the Kitchens. He was never there.

When

It is afternoon of the second day of the eighth month of the fifth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date 13 Aug 2015 07:00

 

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"Oh, yes. I could get used to this."


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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.


How he managed it is a mystery. After overcoming a wave of nigh-sexual arousal upon entering Southern's well-appointed kitchens, Artolome has by dint of a true Chef's demeanor — namely, force of will and the assured crack of a voice expecting obedience in this, His Domain — managed to take over the Weyr's kitchen. He hums a sea-chanty to himself as he prepares a wealth of hearty winter vegetables the likes of which he hasn't seen in Turns for nothing more fancy than a soup stock.

The kitchens, as they often are, are bustling with competent apprentice Bakers and kitchen workers. They scurry to and fro jumping to the whipcrack of his voice. The whip that he, in truth, wears at his hip while 'on jobs' is tucked under the heavy wool coat hanging in a cubby that's bigger than his entire galley. The warmth of the ovens bring sweat to his brow as he works, truly contented. "I could get used to this," a quick flip of his wrist has a mirepoix simmering beautifully fly into a colorful arc and land again sizzling as new sides touch the shining bowl of a fine and almost-brand-new-copper pan. He tips the bottle held in his other hand back, guzzling a few long swallows of wine that is stored in the damp coolness of well larded stores just a short flight of stairs away. He tips the bottle into the pan and fire flares as the fumes of alcohol flare into brightness.

"Oh, yes. I could get used to this." He grins and looks around for the cradle into which he can drop the bottle off and tend to-

"That's him. Yes, Sir." A young and nervous looking weyrbrat points at the happily humming chef as he turns. The happy flutter in his stomach turns to a leaden pit. Playtime is over.

"Who?" a guard scowls over to where the lad points and there's no one. Faintly disturbed apprentices, whose startled looks are all trained out and away indicate that someone was there. But there's no one there now. Fleet is this man of fifty Turns. One doesn't get to be that age in his game by sticking around when things start to go pearshaped. Discretion, as they say, is the better part of staying the fuck alive.

As footfalls beat the narrow halls and startled drudges leap out of the way, Artolome envisions that broth. Glossy and rich with fat skimmed away, rich with herbs and spices and the earthen heartiness of fresh root vegetables. The soup that it would become. Suculent roasted wherry in mouthwatering chunks. And the noodles. Fresh noodles. Made by a boy Scrappy's age and signficantly less likely to impart some sort of parasite.

He wheezes as he breezes out the doors into the Bowl, whipping the coat around his shoulders and ducking into the shelter of a cluster of outbuildings to fasten the whip at his hip as he catches his breath. Stars dance in his vision.

Ahhhh… that soup. Those pots. The knives. Visions he will carry with him back to his dank galley. Back to the 'Cross. Back to the 'Cross and Creighton and the blood Oath he'd sworn the smarmy bastard decades gone and the Big Score that would see them all hip deep in women and wine for the rest of their days. That's what Creighton ALWAYS said.

He settles the weight of the whip with a shove of hands and sets out again, beating feet down the road out of the weyr to the docks. "I'm getting too old for this shit."

Unless someone is minding it, the mirepoix will be burning now.

He hopes it isn't.

He hopes.

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