The following is a log of roleplay on Star Stones MOO, logged by Dallaney.
All references to the world and characters of Pern™ based on Anne McCaffrey's fiction
are copyright© 1967 by Anne McCaffrey, all rights reserved. The Dragonriders of Pern® is
registered U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, by Anne McCaffrey and used here with
permission.
Kitchens
Heat greets upon entry, be it the usual warmth of Igen or the sweltering oppressive heat
from the hearths while in use. The oblong room is often filled with red-faced cooks and
sweaty drudges caught in the grip of daily routine or taking an opportunity to rest along
the slightly cooler wall opposite the cooking fires. Heavy wooden tables showing signs of
the Turns of use they've had seem to fill the rooms middle, a center of industrious
preparation of meals. Food in various stages of readiness can often be seen being worked
on during the day and even at night there is always at least one pot of stew or soup and
small piles of fresh breads for midnight usage and meatrolls and klah are perpetually
warmed by the night hearth.
Simeira is here.
From here you can go:
Lower Caverns
It's mid-morning and the kitchens are making the careful transition from breakfast to
lunch preparations. Simeira supervises a group of workers diligently flipping omelets over
their end of the hearth. "You, you and you--that's the last omelet you'll make.
You're going to help me with the wherry after this. You two keep doing the omelets for
another hour. That should take care of the late risers."
Dallaney patters in softly, a slippery dark figure in trous as greasy as herself, leaving
the side of a taller, even thinner rider. Drudges and cooks are duly passed as the usual
kitchen population, weyrbrat slipping up to the meatroll dish. Her favourite morning
snack, yum.
Simeira just looked at you.
Simeira
Awkward angularity anoints a petite frame,from the too-sharp nose and taper chin to
spindly limbs and narrow torso. She's all skin and bones, as if the spare flesh had been
bleached from her figure. Her pale, taut complexion is heightened by dark brown eyes and
matching hair twisted into two braids. Her uncompromising posture and clipped tone suggest
sedulous severity, save when her mien is dulcified by the gentle curves of a smile.
Gawky adolescence vanishes within folds of faded fuschia that have been tailored into the
semblance of a workdress. Long-sleeved and reaching down to mid-calf, the durable cotton
shift is cinched only by an old braided belt, knotted at the waist. Tall boots of
similarly hued wherhide lightly enfold feet and lower legs, the top edges hidden by the
hem of the dress. A fillet of dusky rose crimps dark brown hair back from her face, adding
a blush to an faint complexion.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for a minute.
Watching and waiting.
Which happens to be located right by Simeira's elbow--it's the kitchen workers' breakfast,
you see. As Simeira gets a few drudges to help with the wherry, she reaches for a meatroll
herself. Isn't breakfast the most important meal of the day?
Dallaney would agree, as her own grimy fingers /grab/; clinging on to one of the largest.
Never mind that other person reaching for a 'roll, she dismisses, knot and all. The brown
eyes do slide in that direction for a moment, but the sly glance returns to the
destination she had in mind.
Simeira has already secured her own roll, but she's also used to spotting quick, furtive
movement. Her eyes fall to the spindly girl and she inquires archly, "Did they run
out of food in the living cavern?" It's a simple question--apparently.
And Dallan's reply is in no way complex. "No." Frankly, simply, she looks to
Simeira; blinks, goes back to that first grisly *chomp*. Licking her lips, she shakes her
head again. Confirmation, you see.
"Then go eat," Simeira points towards the main cavern with her free hand,
"out there. These are for us," she emphasizes, including the entire kitchen
complement with that word. Then she shouts at a man who almost dropped one of the
wherries. "Careful with that! One wherry can feed ten people!"
Dallaney snorts through a mouthful of whatever, teeth clamped on the 'roll still as
delicate nostrils lift. "Can't ya even spare one, ma'am?" The last's an insult
gladly muffled by her meal. "Mfh..." Head snaps back up nimbly, a clearing of
throat. "You bring some up anyhow."
Simeira beckons another man over, instructing him to take the next tray of meatrolls to
the cavern and see if the others are empty. "If I don't save food for us," and
she pointedly moves the plate away from the girl, closer to herself, "we'll starve
ourselves. And who would cook for you then?"
Dallaney shakes her head, drab klah curls draping pitifully over her eyes. "No, you'd
never." The retort's louder than before, more smug. Could be that the first 'roll's
down. "You could cook more couldn't you?" she challenges, eyeing the man with
his tray.
Simeira dismisses the man with a flick of her head that sends her pigtails twitching over
her shoulders, then addresses the child proper. "Even if we make more, if people like
you keep sneaking in to eat it all, there won't be none left for us." How logical.
Dallaney knits her brows. "No-o." she protests, and ponders the matter, hands
crossing over her chest. "There aren't too many of us around, most stay up
/there/." And she indicates the caverns outside with a sweeping gesture outwards.
"You can cook more after we leave."
So early in the morning, and she's faced with this already? Simeira picks up her mug of
klah from where it's been cooling near the meatrolls for the past hour--it's tepid, but
she drinks it anyway. "If I cooked more whenever I felt like it," she
interjects, "the Weyr would run out of food before winter was out." Doesn't this
child belong to someone?
Dallaney isn't budging; not yet anyway, but her eyes visibly widen in the bony skull.
"It would, ohh yeah. So that's why I can't take from here?" Innocence cakes the
look she gives to the cook, though it's a reluctant one, lips are quite firmly down in
displeasure.
"Because--because--" Simeira gives up, moving the plate to a higher shelf,
beyond the girl's reach. "--because it's /ours/." When persistent kids prevail,
sheer bluntness and brute force must intervene. "Hurry up with the wherries, all of
you!" she turns to bark at her helpers--and quite a bark it is for someone so young.
Dallaney peers at those helpers, the ones being barked at. "Do you /need/ to be so
loud?" She asks officiously, contempt edging her voice. "You're the ...
what?" Getting up on her toes, little weyrbrat preys for a knot, and wouldn't
recognise rank if she found it.
Especially since Simeira doesn't wear one. It got splattered by rogue gravy one day and
was never seen again. "Cook," she enunciates clearly to the little
one--oh-so-little one's--question.
"Only the cook." Dallan finishes with a smile, one of the smirking variety as
always. Well, she isn't clutching for anything more, if that's any consolation. She tilts
onto the sideboard beside; leans on it. Making herself comfortable, that is.
If she gets any more comfortable, she'll be given a chore to do. "Only the cook in
charge of all the desserts and a lot of your meals." Simeira can nyah-nyah with the
best of them, though she takes a break now to bring out the stuffing for the wherry and
given instructions to her workers. She pulls one raw wherry herself, checking that its
innards are cleared before she begins to stuff it.
Oh. "Is that for dinner?" Dallaney wonders some more, being the curious child
she is. Really. The kitchen work's barely given a glance, even the wherry which she passes
over. An inquisitive weyrbrat noses by, and promptly meanders out on a crinkly face made
by this one; a threat no doubt.
That face doesn't scare Simeira, who carefully scoops stuffing from the main bowl and
packs the insides of the wherry with it. "If you quit bothering me, it will be,
yes." Kitchens are no place for children--at least, not children that don't lift a
finger to help.
Dallaney isn't about to leave, particularly not when commanded to. Contrarily, she aims a
frown for Simeira. "I don't like that..." Whatever it is. A call from outside
then brings up her short, and a man in riding leathers swings in jauntily, crooking a
finger towards her. "But I have to /go/." With that complaint, she does exit.
Stage left.
And the curtains fall on stuffed wherries.