WILSON!

Western Weyr – Kitchen

Perhaps you followed your nose here.. the cooking aromas are tempting. This is the main kitchen of the Weyr. At any time of the day or night you find cooks and drudges busy making meals and preparing foodstuffs for storage for later use. The cavern has been shaped into a huge room with a domed ceiling. The huge ovens and cooking stoves line the outer wall, their perpetual fires fueled by natural gas from a nearby well. Vent holes pierce the cavern walls, keeping the room amazingly clear of smoke. The inner wall has long counters of smooth stone, carved from the walls. You see a large, heavy looking metal-clad door. This is the large cold storage room, much like a man-made ice cave. The walls are made of volcanic rock, known for it's insulating properties. The heat exchanger is also powered by natural gas.


Ahh, dishes. Kilarden is yet again wrapped up in the pristine white of an apron that spans the length of his chest down to his knees. The matching shirt underneath has long sleeves that have long since been rolled up to his elbows - if not to protect the fabric from dish water, then surely to alleviate some of the heat. He has a similarly colored bandana settled on his brow, arcing out to lay flat across the hair on top of his head and keep scragglers from finding their way into his eyes. He looks rather bored with his tedious task of scrubbing, rinsing, drying, repeating, but he presses on like a true trooper. The things he does for eggs!

Irritation. There's one precise way to describe the emotion practically beaten with an ugly stick onto this candidate's face. It's Sororn's free day, he should be catching up on his trade since all of his belongings are neatly kept but sometimes there's a lot of little things that tend to ruin that. Nothing like a mating flight of firelizards in the barracks themselves and his own firelizard making the majority of the racket and flitting from bunk to bunk doesn't help matters in the least. "Alright, Wilson. There's gotta be something we can do to pass the time until that racket is all done and over with. Then we're going to clean and organize our stuff, and do a little inventory and designing for more trinkets and then we're going to relax." HRMPH! The gifted stuffy under his arm refuses to comment at this time. Instead, it's going to let it's head roll to the side and bounce with the man's movements. The trader-candidate pauses and peers over to Kilarden, slowly wandering over after a heavy sigh and slumping of his shoulders. "Hey, Kilarden. You need a hand over there?" He and Wilson shall help!

Kilarden lifts his head at the sound of voices, though it's long before Sororn is addressing him directly. Grey eyes go from the task in hand to the older candidate as he exchanges plans with… A stuffie? If Kilarden is staring, it's for a very /good/ reason, and it probably has something to do with the fact that sanity (or maturity, which ever one it is being open for debate) seemed to have fled the moment Sororn walked in. "Wilson?" he inquires, instead of answering whether or not he would approve of receiving help with his chores. But instead of looking as if he just might be afraid of being infected with 'The Crazy', he simply looks amused. "I think I'm good on the help for now, but what are you and Wilson doing down here?" Hey! He has a little sister. He's well aware of the fact that inanimate objects that 'talk' should always be addressed accordingly.

"Wilson and I are taking a break from free day. Was a free day til the flits decided indoors were better than out for their nonsense. Evil creatures, spilled my beads everywhere and we had to crawl around to find them all." Pif, foul winged creatures! They're cute when they're not proddy or being attracted by females. Then again, it's true with all species. Sororn places the stuffy onto his shoulder and after some fine adjusting, moves his hands into his pockets before settling down on a stool besides Kilarden. "But we got them all, didn't we?" Wilson continues to manage his stoic silent type persona, letting his human slave do all the talking and work while he supervises.

Kilarden merely nods his agreement with the talk of flits and the way they roll, even though he has no personal experiences with the tiny things. Wilson is given the eye, as if firelizards may not be the /only/ foul-winged creatures, and then he's stifling down some laughter and hiding his slip up by feigning a cough and finding the task of scrubbing dishes suddenly outrageously interesting. He finds it even /more/ interesting when the stuffie is being attached to the older candidate's shoulder in the fashion of a parrot, and he's finding it hard to refrain from bursting at the seams with laughter when the doll is addressed again. This goes on for a time, until Kilarden can finally piece together the chaos of comedy in his mind and will upon it some kind of inner calm. "Wilson doesn't talk much, does he?" he inquires, but is forced to stop there when another mysterious coughing fit has him doubling over into the sink. Cough, cough. Coughcoughcoughcough. "I ah- Did you and Wilson maybe want some, ah- Some food? I could probably find you something." Must. Remain. Calm.

"No, we already ate. Lunch was pretty good. Wilson made a complete mess of himself with the gravy so I ended up having to give him a little shower. He can't do baths, they're not good for his body and he can't swim." Wilson merely sits there upon Sororn's shoulder, peering, STARING at this nonbeliever with little eyes that DEVOUR THE SOUL. The trader is absolutely oblivious to the evil stuffy incarnate on his shoulder. He's simply beaming those bright and innocent hazel eyes while the stuffy sits under those untied dirty blonde strands that conceal him while he plots the other candidates undoing. "You alright there? Do I need to take you to the healers? If you don't wanna go, I know a good brew from herbs my aunties taught me that's good for coughs." Blink. Blink.

Gravy. Shower. Can't. Swim. It's this string of words that have Kilarden losing any semblance of self-control. He manages to look up from his chore long enough to give Sororn a /look/, a look that tries to communicate /something/, and then he's dashing away from the sink, wet hands and all, to a nearby cupboard. He throws himself inside, pulling the door behind him, and allows himself a reprieve from trying his hardest not to laugh. For a moment he feels as if he will never catch his breath again, but it finally comes, and in a reasonable amount of time to be far from considered rude. Grey eyes take to the items stored away and he picks up some dish soap before re-emerging with his unbroken facade in tact. "Ran out of dish soap," he offers, moving back to his position and making a show of pouring /more/ into the already bubbling water. "I'm good on the healers, and the brew, Sororn. Thank you though. Perhaps Wilson could use a healer, though. His head is looking a little… Y'know…" Cue canting his head to one side. There are NO WORDS!

As Kilarden moves into the cabinet, Sororn stands there and blinks, slowly bringing a hand to the side of his mouth as he scratches the edge in thought. Now, that must be some deep cabinet, one would normally reach in and just grab something. For a moment, he begins to wonder if the other candidate was trapped in there and when he took a step forward to check, Wilson's head bounces. "No Wilson? Alright, we'll wait right here. He has to come out eventually." The trader slowly removes the stuffy from his shoulder and begins to knead the material, adding some stuffing and adjusting the shape so Wilson's head remains erect in that noble stuffy posture that he once maintained. "There! All better," the trader-candidate chimes, simply beaming and smoothing out the little tag noting the creators of an epic stuffy. Wilson is reapplied to his shoulder just as Kilarden emerges with the soap. "Those dishes must really be dirty to be using that much," he says with a brow raised in question, scratching the back of his head and ruffling those dirty blonde strands in the process. Absentmindedly, he begins to slowly pat Wilson, making sure his head is comfortably in position. Now it's easier for those awkward eyes to peer unblinking at Kilarden. STAAARRE.

Storage room, cupboard, cabinet! TOMATO, TOMATOE! Kilarden merely smiles at the observation from Sororn that still, somehow, seems to miss its mark entirely. "Dirty?" he inquires, "You have no idea." Grey eyes meet the unsettling pair that the older candidate has leveled on him, but if the renegade seems at all disturbed by the gaze, he doesn't let it show. Instead he looks to Wilson for a moment, taking in the haggard appearance of the plush before he averts his attention back down to the dishes in his sink. "If you don't mind my asking, Sororn, why did you choose the kitchen of all places to escape to?" He's not particularly /interested/ in the answer, but he's always felt that the most polite thing to do in awkward moments was to induce small talk. Especially when the awkward moment is fixing you with just as penetrating of a stare as their inanimate sidekicks.

"Because this is where Wilson suggested?" Sororn blinks, completely confused about how Kilarden doesn't know about Wilson's law of absolute. It's okay, it won't be long before the non-believer is converted into their cult and the human sacrifices will begin. "I had already helped with the stables, bathed, helped with the laundry and had nothing else to do since the lizards took out my only other hobby." There's always the great outdoors but all that does is encourage Sororn to sleep or wander around to look for shiny things on the beach. He takes in a deep breath and sighs, tilting his head from side to side while the sounds of cracking and popping begin to echo in this space. Soon enough, those knuckles begin to follow and now the man begins to slip his hands into his pockets, peering down at the ground. After a few moments of chewing on his lip, those hazel eyes peer up and a wide grin sits upon Sororn's features.

Kilarden has had his hand in dealing with a plethora of personalities, but this is the first time the man can remember one in which he wasn't exactly sure /what/ his next step should be. He washes dishes diligently, but after too long of a silence between Sororn's inadequate answer (YOU WILL NEVER CONVERT HIM!!) and the redundant CLANK of shifting dishes, he finally turns from the sink. He leans his lower back into the kitchen-top, rubbing both of his hands on his apron until they dry enough to be comfortable. Pause. He's being… smiled at? "Does Wilson have some kind of idea for a more entertaining place to be? Maybe we can go for a walk and you can show me some of your wares again." When all else fails? Go for the safest topic!

Is there such a thing with this one?! Sororn actually stands there glancing at the ceiling thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side and scratching the corner of his mouth while he lets that rodent in the brain begin to run on the wheel. Whether or not it's fast enough for the light to go back on is a mystery for another day, he merely shrugs. "We could always see if the lizards took their business elsewhere and head back to the dorms?" That's where all his wares are in any case. He could always attempt to keep his mind sharp and hands busy while creating some new trinkets. Perhaps, even Kilarden could give it a shot if not give him ideas at the very least. "Wilson has no problem with it," the trader-candidate adds with another shrug of the shoulders. Not at all, his slave will continue working and making the marks necessary for world domination.

On account of the fact that Kilarden can't seem to focus on the sanitary needs of one Western Weyr's dishes, he gives up entirely - for the moment. It's rather hard to get work done when you're being stared down by Captain Crazy and his stoically fluffy side-kick, Wilson. "To the barracks it is," Kilarden agrees, chin coming up in a subtle jerk toward the door as he begins to move. He wastes no time in pulling his bandana free in one fluid motion, diligent hands reaching behind himself as skilled fingers pull the knot holding his apron together apart. Once free from the pristine fabric, he lifts it over his head and drapes it over the crook of his right arm. "I'm glad Wilson could see things my way." And somehow Kilarden is. He can't imagine how the conversation would progress if Wilson were to disagree with a suggestion or statement made. Out the door he goes, skirting around other Western occupants as he makes his way for what he hopes is sanctuary.

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