Featuring: Roger and Valens
Date: March 9, 2005
IC Date: May 25, 3931
Summary: Not all battles are conducted with strength and sharp weapons. Even humble cooks have weapons of their own.

Makara -- Open Seas

The Makara is kept tidy and clean, her rails and deck well tended and oiled, her elegant sails trim and whole. Her rigging is kept clean and open. She sports three thick masts, iron bolstered for strength. The center and largest mast holds the largest of the fan-shaped rigs and above it flies a black flag decorated with a red heart framed by white wings on either side - the same flag that flies above the Amarada.

It's just after lunch, and Roger's chores are done for the moment. The ships are moving nicely northward, thanks to a steady breeze from the southeast, and it's a bit chilly on deck. Roger doesn't seem to mind much as he emerges from below, his apron slung over his shoulder. He watches the activity for a while, then chooses a spot near the tallest mast. He grunts a little and twists his hulking shoulders, trying to get rid of some twinge or other.

Heavy wool doesn't impede the weapons master as he spars with another sailor with wooden swords. Although the mongrel sailor is a bit larger than the bulky Empyrean, the poor man almost looks confused as Valens deftly moves with ease and power. The mongrel's misguided charge allows Valens to simply knock the sword out of the other man's hand and deal the 'death blow' with the tip of the sword. Spitting to his side beyond the ship's railing, he wipes glistening beads of sweat off his brow and admonishes the other man, "You haven't improved at all. I'm not going to waste my time teaching you 'til you've proven you're worthwhile." With that, the dejected sailor and the weapons master part ways, the latter seeking out his bowl of soup and tea - both probably gone cold a long time ago.

The hunchback chuckles at the humiliated sailor departs, and he shakes his head, causing his mass of hair to blow slightly in the breeze. "Damn fool, he is," Roger mutters to the world at large as the wind carries his words onward. He gives a great sigh and wanders heavily over to the side of the ship, looks briefly out at the waves, and then toddles back on over to the galley.

Crew's Quarters and Galley - The Makara

The crew's quarters are rather sparse out of necessity, for space is at a premium on this ship. Hammocks are strewn about here and there for sleeping and relaxation as they move easily with the ship. Bolted trunks are beneath for personal storage. There is a ladder that runs up to the deck and an entry way to the galley. The galley is just two long tables with benches, melded into the wood of the floor for stability and strength. The kitchen is just behind, stocked with a wide assortment of tools and utensils in a small space. Many sailors in colder climes spend their leisure time lingering in the galley, for the heat of the kitchen stove often keeps it warmer than the rest of the ship. The space is mean and modest, but by no means unsightly or unclean.

Valens adjusts his cloak a little, for despite all the training he did, he's not particularly fond of the brisk air as they head north. Picking up his mug of tea that he had prepared a few hours ago, he takes a sip of the lukewarm and oversteeped liquid as he heads over to the galley for his lunch. He gives a nod to Roger and says, "'Afternoon. Hopefully you have some lunch left other than rock hard biscuits?"

"Eh, we ain't got no bread now, we got the rest o' this here stew, we do, that's 'bout it," Roger says as he makes his way back to the kitchen. One of his shoulders brushes a sailor who recoils. "Mmph," Roger grunts, and then he mutters a barely audible and less-than-heartfelt apology. He indicates a gigantic pot sitting on the stove with one hand, and as he passes a shelf he grabs a wooden bowl and a spoon and tosses it on the counter.

Valens nods as he picks up the bowl and spoon, moving towards the giant pot, waiting to be served by the cook. If Valens is disconcerted by the Makara cook's appearance, he certainly doesn't show it, as he replies, "I don't mind not having bread. At this point in the journey, everything including the bread tastes a bit too salty," he says in jest with a smile on his face.

The ladle is enormous, and Roger actually has to stand on a stool to be able to scoop out some of the viscous concoction, but he is used to this particular endeavor and manages quite well. He expertly pours some into the awaiting bowl and the savory smell fills the immediate area. He sniffs at Valens' comment and adds, "Yer on board a ship, aren't ye. We're all a l'il salty, yes we are, mm hm." Half of his teeth show as he maneuvers his face into a grin. A particularly salty mongrel sitting in a berth nearby chuckles at Roger's comment.

A chuckle escapes from Valens as he nods, "Aye, at least we're headed back to a port soon..." His concentration is broken briefly when a reckless sailor accidentally runs into him. He turns, a displeased look on his face, before offering a smile, a terse nod, and a playful push away. Sitting down on a nearby bench, a slight wrinkle of his nose could be perceived as a certain disagreeable scent of the concoction, or at least an exploratory whiff before he downs it with no complaint. If he's learned anything traveling in sketchy taverns and with sailors is to wield caution before whole-heartedly eating whatever is offered.

The hunchback raises an eyebrow at the speed at which the Empyrean downs the stew. "Ye'll be wantin' some ale now, I reckon, yes?" Any minute now, the heat from the spices should kick in. If Roger's brow weren't so bushy, one might be able to see his forehead wrinkle in an expression of concern. He frowns pointedly, then spins around and reaches for a tankard set on a shelf behind him.

Valens raises a brow at the concern. Contrary to rumors, not /all/ Empyreans enjoy weak, bland, and tasteless food. He takes a deep breath as the heat of the stew kicks in, as beads form on his forehead again. A few sailors nearby await the weapons master to crack as he scratches his head and looks around at the marveling sailors and the cook and asks, "What?" He takes a sip of his tea and awaits his ale, "Aye, some ale would be nice." If there is any sign of discomfort, there's nothing apparent, except perhaps a slight twitch of his wings. Even he's a little surprised at the ferocity of the spices.

The mongrel cook grins at the Empyrean's valiance and pours a draught from the nearest keg. "Y' like m' cookin' then, eh." He can't resist toying a little with his latest victim, and he holds the tankard just out of reach as he gestures with it. "I reckon'd only them 'ratis liked it hot. Didn't think no Empy could handle it like y' did, no sir, didn't think so." The ale sloshes around a bit, and some sprays Roger's apron, which is still draped on his shoulder. "Oh, lookit that, I ferget to put me apron back." He sets the mug down on a counter just out of reach of the Empyrean and starts to adjust his apron.

His tea is finished - and it probably just made the spices worse by spreading around their oils. Valens chuckles softly at the cook as the other sailors quietly wager how long the Empyrean will last before he snaps. "It was pretty good, I reckon," Valens says with a grin as he leans against a hand on the counter, waiting for the ale to be served. There's a slight hue of red on his cheeks, his wings tensing up a little as the heat of the spices shows no signs of subsiding, but he simply asks, "Will ya give me another bowl while you're at it? Didn't eat much breakfast today."

Roger can barely conceal his smirk as he realizes that he's losing the game. Even so, he's ready for another round. He shrugs his enormous shoulders and mounts the wobbly stool to retrieve another bowlful of stew. Suddenly, a gust of wind causes the ship to lurch, and he has to step down off the stool swiftly to avoid being tossed. The ladle is lost in the pot for the moment, and Roger curses as he hunts around for something with which to fish it out. In the meantime, about half the ale ends up splashing out of the tankard. "I'll get ye yer stew, just wait a minute," he mutters as the ship straightens itself out.

A low growl can be heard from Valens, as he's forced to wait, seeing half his saving ale spilling onto the wood of the galley. Rivulets of sweat now fall down onto his cloak and shirt as the heat of the spices reach a point of nearly unbearable levels, having surpassed uncomfortable a while ago. Wiping his face off with a handkerchief that he takes out from a side pocket of his cloak. "Yeah, I'll wait..." He finally says, as a few sailors who've betted for an early loss for Valens start to grumble already. "Have some faith!" He shouts out, gnashing his teeth as he awaits the next batch of soup. He's chugged Varati rotgut and firewater in his youth - a few spices can't be half as bad.

The gloves are off now, apparently, and there is no facade of gentility left. Roger grabs another long ladle hanging from a nail on the wall and perches himself on the stool again. "Gotta get me a new footstool," he mutters as he serves up another bowl for the Empyrean. He cocks his misshapen head to the side inquisitively and asks, "Hey, you wouldn'a happen t' wanna try m' new spices, now, would ye?" There, the gauntlet has been thrown. He climbs down off the stool and strolls to the counter with a new steaming bowl and a beaming grin as he waits for the other's response. He sets the bowl down and, perhaps with a hint of mercy, refills the tankard and places it before Valens.

Valens doesn't reply as he maintains his composure, taking in spoon after spoon of the stuff before looking up, "Not today... need to rest up for my night shift later. But I'll be up for it some other time." To the amazement of the sailors, Valens virtually quaffs down the rest of the stew. Taking a deep breath as he braves through the climax of the spices, he quaffs down the ale just as fast, letting the malty liquid help quench the heat. Despite his calm, composed face, his damp shirt and gleaming face attest to the power of the spices still lingering in his mouth. Bets are traded as he stands up, "Good stew," he remarks with a smile, taking some time to get his bearings back before heading for an afternoon nap.

The mongrel cook offers a disappointed grunt as his quarry gets away. Roger clears away the bowl and the tankard, then offers one last remark before continuing on to his cleaning duties: "Well, it'll be here when ye're ready, it will, yes it will." He shrugs his bent shoulders, totters over to the sink, and grabs a firm wire brush and starts cleaning out the dishes. "Must add more nex' time, yes sir, mm hm," he mutters, eventually fading out into incoherence as the bustle of the galley begins to return to normal.