Despite Gristav's caution, the pair meets with no mishap as they pass beneath the twisted trees on the north side of the Goblin to the small porch at the back corner. This door also is shut, but Gristav's key fits it and easily turns in the lock. As he carries the bags in, Samaritha carefully relatches the door behind them. "Well?" she looks at him expectantly, once the comestibles are laid down on the tables in the kitchen. "You're the head cook; I'm only the scullery maid. I know for stew, you cut everything in pieces and boil it for a while."
"Well?" she looks at him expectantly, once the comestibles are laid down on the tables in the kitchen. "You're the head cook; I'm only the scullery maid. I know for stew, you cut everything in pieces and boil it for a while."
"That depends upon the heat you might have...", he says, a logical look on his face until he's again caught in her eyes. A smirk hints but turns to a smile, as he turns to the emptying of the bags. "I'll confess, it's a rare camp with a brick oven, and pemmican for one is not a challenging dish. Even so... If we can get a good heat, we might favor that lamb roast with herbs to blacken through, to show us when to take it out, and then, swaddle the wee bairn. Half the cooking is in the cooling, I've been told." He wore a pondering look, considering the tableau. "That lamb is the gem of the lot, how you got it for stew-meat price... well, if I ever should see your book, I'll be looking carefully for charms."
His back to her while he rummaged for ironmongery, he said, "Enchantments, I mean... Forks? No, not forks. We'll want air..."
Gristav continues his monologue in three voices; flattering, pondering, reasoning, until Samaritha is clear on some overall points:
>> He intends to prepare the saddle as a roast, oven-seared at very high heat, until a garnish of herbs is mostly charred, then removed from the oven and trapped with its own heat as best might be done with wooden bowls, toweling, and even perhaps a saddlebag swaddle, to finish cooking outside the oven. "Although the prospect of you asking about the house, 'Gristav and I need a blanket'..., he says, as he prepares to duck.
>> Most of the mushrooms as a side dish, with the deglazed lamb drippings. The peas as another side dish. "Has the household any butter?"
>> Some type of berries (the middling on the sweet-tart spectrum) to be pasted with the rest of the mushrooms. Served beside the goat cheese and sliced tomatoes with a first course of bread.
>> The other berries with sweetened and whipped cream, chilled with plentiful ice.
>> He is making all this up as he goes along. "We're wizards. We shouldn't fall to arrogance, and assume we know everything. But we shouldn't ever despair, that we can't figure it out..."
>> He genuinely enjoys her company.
A second-story entrance at the top of a wooden staircase in a narrow alley between two buildings, it would provide both privacy and quick access from streets on either side. The ground floor of the building houses a cobbler, a milliner, and the small office of a clerk and scribe.
"I like the look of this place," Braddon points it out to Daynadrian. "It feels private. And look, hats and shoes right beside. What more could a woman want, hey?" * He grins.
Braddon's frivolity eventually fades as more and more doors are slammed in his face. As he starts to take it personally, his performance slips. He notices, tries to compensate, and after a few more is ready to call it quits."Let's head back. I'm hungry and tired of acting the fool." The return journey is possibly the quietest Daynadrian has ever seen Braddon.
Just as they reach the goblin, Braddon asks Daynadrian, "Are you any good at getting past locks? I'll ask the others as well."
Supplies and utensils are eventually found to put Gristav's plan into motion. The large oven in the Goblin's kitchen appears not to have seen use for some time. When the door is opened, it reveals cobwebs and cottony spider's eggs in the corners, and placing the wood for fuel bestirs a nest of centipedes that spill out in various directions, looking for new crevices to hide in. By the time Braddon and Daynadrian arrive at the back door of the Goblin, however, the meat is cooking, and Gris and Samaritha have turned their attention to the produce.
"Are you any good at getting past locks? I'll ask the others as well."
Daynadrian smirks and brandishes the key he accepted from Larur a few hours earlier. "I think I can handle this one." He steps forward and unlocks the door for Braddon and himself. "I've had some experience tinkering with mechanical things," he responds a little circumspectly. "Depends on how complex the lock might be, and if Lil does have magic at her disposal, she might have something more than a latch protecting that door."
As they open the door, the scent of roasting lamb wafts welcomingly to their noses; by the time they progress the few steps to the kitchen, the heat of the lit oven blasts oppressively at their exposed flesh. Gristav and Samaritha have propped open the doors to the casino floor to let some of the swelter escape and are chopping vegetables at the other end of the kitchen, as far from the oven as they can get, but they are still moist and flushed.
Samaritha has twisted her hair up off her neck, but the strands that have escaped are curlier than usual around her face. She glances up and smiles when she sees Braddon. "Any luck?"
The spidery nets and nests succumbed at once to conjured cleaning. Gristav tried to walk the fine line between appearing to show off the meager minor magics, and failing to demonstrate to Samaritha by narrative, as he thought perhaps needed to be demonstrated, due deference to domestic dweomercraft. He thought he'd managed that, and hadn't screamed too much like a girl when the centipedes had charged from, and in revenge of, their furrow al forno. Elven voices were higher, is all. If her smile were broader after, and it was... Broader, finer, more radiant...
Radiant! The heat would mean more need for ice, for the fruit and cream to be chilled. No matter, more minor magic, and more ice was made. The remains of the previous ice-watch went into a square of trail-cloth, and about Gristav's neck, a lump of ice on either side of his spine. He might be wetter, but he wasn't going to be dry, in any case.
"Would you welcome similar?", he asked Samaritha, firing another blast of cold into the now-familiar muffin tin, forging in a frosty flash another ingot of ice. The metal tin screetched with the torment of unseen stresses, as the ingot lifted itself free, but not clear, of the angled muffin-mold.
At Braddon and Daynadrian's arrival, Gristav calls jovially in Elvish, "Welcome! Would another elf and a half happen to know, for two stones of lamb, how long to sear, to seal and start, before to swaddle?"
Luck? No. Lot's of hard work and abuse. We may have a lead but we'll have to check it out. I see however that we're not the only ones working hard. Where's some ice?"
Braddon takes two pieces of ice and holds one to the back of his own neck and the other to the back of Samaritha's neck.
"For lamb," he addresses Gristav while watching the ice shrink against Samaritha's flushed skin, "I take it out before it turns black. I don't suppose either of you can see if a lock is magicked and bypass it? You know, just in case we want to break into a place and see if it's Lil's hideout. Anything I can do to help here?"
Braddon dumps his stuff mostly out the way and obeys all Samaritha's instructions and most of Gristav's.
"I suspect we might either of us see if a lock bears magic.", Gristav responded, pestleing mushroom into paste with a spoon in the mortar of a larger spoon. "Although see is the wrong sense to compare to. More like that oven. When you came in, you knew it was hot in the room. As you turned your arms and face, you knew it to be from that side of the room, and a single source. You presume it to be the oven, and you can see the flames... but it could be a single brick, and you might not discern that exactly, until you approached."
Looking up, then back to his spoons with a faint frown, Gristav continued, "... and of course a touch is most telling.", probably referring to the magic, still. If magic saddened him.
"You've a perfect right.", the half-elf said clearly. "A birthright, no less, to learn all you might. Do either of you gentlemen share an interest in, or education of, magic?"
"If it were this Lil's, might not scent offer confirmation, as it had suspicion? And ought we break in? Have we such a need, mandate, or authority?"
"If you'd help, you can peek at the saddle of lamb, in the oven, and report on the herbs it was... dredged? Is that the right word? Well, in any case, if the herbs are blackened, fetch a blanket, it's time to swaddle the roast, and mercifully, knock down that fire."
"For lamb," he addresses Gristav while watching the ice shrink against Samaritha's flushed skin, "I take it out before it turns black."
"And after it's stopped bleating, I suppose?" she jokes, smiling up at Braddon. "Very helpful. We should have fetched Drulia; no doubt, she'd know how to cook mutton."
"I suspect we might either of us see if a lock bears magic.", Gristav responded
Samaritha nods. "Telling you if the door is warded should be easy. Getting past it if it is...," she glances at Gristav and shrugs doubtfully. "It takes a great deal of study to dampen or dispel another arcanist's magic. It's not a skill I've mastered yet. Maybe Mr. Deverin...?"
Daynadrian scoffs. "If you can't do it, I'll lay even money that Fancypants can't, either. If the door's not warded, I can most likely get us in, unless she's spent a great deal of coin on her lock."
"We'll want to be sure, before any trespass... I would expect. But I'll grant, it's not my decision... Whose is it? I'm new, brief me. Who decides? Will we be discussing trespass over mushroom, berry, and goat cheese compote, spread on toast?" Gristav smiled, warming to the prospect. "Vengeance over lamb? We'll have the Calistrian say the blessing. Perhaps piracy with desert?"
"And after it's stopped bleating, I suppose?" she jokes, smiling up at Braddon.
Braddon goes to say something, then sees Samaritha's smile and goes very quiet. He notes a single strand of her honey hair drift across her bright eyes and is about to reach for it when...
"If you'd help, you can peek at the saddle of lamb, in the oven,"
Braddon starts, smiles guiltily and makes his way to the roast. He opens the oven, releasing another blast of heat into the room, then heads off to find a blanket. "I don't want to break in," he contradicts himself. "I could easily smash the door down, but if it's not hers we could get into trouble. So we use your... knowing and Dayn's talent to get us in and have a peek. Easy."
Braddon dumps the lamb unceremoniously on the table, glances at Samaritha then suddenly turns bashfully away. "Are you putting out the fire?" he asks Gristav.
Braddon clumsily swaddles the roast and continues oblivious. "It's our decision. Mister Saul is focused on results. Why trouble him with methods. Besides, he almost certainly wants Lil found before the next performance. There's nothing wrong with cutting a few corners. The Calistrian? We have a Calistrian."
He looks around as if expecting one to have been in the kitchen all along.
"If you'd help, you can peek at the saddle of lamb, in the oven,"Braddon starts, smiles guiltily and makes his way to the roast. He opens the oven, releasing another blast of heat into the room, then heads off to find a blanket. "I don't want to break in," he contradicts himself. "I could easily smash the door down, but if it's not hers we could get into trouble. So we use your... knowing and Dayn's talent to get us in and have a peek. Easy."
"I never bet on easy...", Gristav cautions.
Braddon dumps the lamb unceremoniously on the table, glances at Samaritha then suddenly turns bashfully away. "Are you putting out the fire?" he asks Gristav.
"Am I?", Gristav echoes the question, as he thought he'd already answered it. Turning to see Braddon's already got the lamb out of the oven, he exclaims in something like horror, "No no no, oh no no!", rushing to get the cooling lamb back into the oven-hot pan, and the pan on the blanket, and the pre-heated crock-lid on the pan, and the blanket round the lidded pot, all with small forks or tongs or scalded hands, as circumstances presented. The handy ingots of ice draw his hands and attention just after the swaddling of the lamb, but Braddon is just after.
Gristav smiles, and draws a slow breath. "It's not done cooking yet. It's to finish there, in the pan, in the blanket."
Braddon clumsily swaddles the roast and continues oblivious. "It's our decision. Mister Saul is focused on results. Why trouble him with methods. Besides, he almost certainly wants Lil found before the next performance. There's nothing wrong with cutting a few corners. The Calistrian? We have a Calistrian."
He looks around as if expecting one to have been in the kitchen all along.
"So, once found, what becomes of this Lil Scarlet? Crimson? Funereal Black? Black and Blue? A hood-wink of pink? We could just turn a bonnet around backwards, it'd be fetching..." He was being either casually dark or blithely light. Or perhaps both.
Setting aside the ice ingots, Gristav pokes about in the base of the oven, breaking up the mounded fuel, and opens wide the flue, letting the heat draw itself out of the kitchen, as much as it might. Then he sets to an experimental whipping of a small portion of the purchased cream.
"No no no, oh no no!", rushing to get the cooling lamb back into the oven-hot pan, and the pan on the blanket, and the pre-heated crock-lid on the pan, and the blanket round the lidded pot, all with small forks or tongs or scalded hands, as circumstances presented. The handy ingots of ice draw his hands and attention just after the swaddling of the lamb, but Braddon is just after.
Gristav smiles, and draws a slow breath. "It's not done cooking yet. It's to finish there, in the pan, in the blanket."
"Ah, sorry." Braddon looks miserable and takes a few steps back out of the way.
"So, once found, what becomes of this Lil Scarlet? Crimson? Funereal Black? Black and Blue? A hood-wink of pink? We could just turn a bonnet around backwards, it'd be fetching..." He was being either casually dark or blithely light. Or perhaps both.
Braddon shrugs. "Gather evidence, take her to Saul. He may want us to take her to Shorafa. They'll sort something out. If he wants her dead I'm sure he'll let us know. I'd rather kill Bott though."
"Ah, sorry." Braddon looks miserable and takes a few steps back out of the way."No no no, oh no no!", rushing to get the cooling lamb back into the oven-hot pan, and the pan on the blanket, and the pre-heated crock-lid on the pan, and the blanket round the lidded pot, all with small forks or tongs or scalded hands, as circumstances presented. The handy ingots of ice draw his hands and attention just after the swaddling of the lamb, but Braddon is just after.
Gristav smiles, and draws a slow breath. "It's not done cooking yet. It's to finish there, in the pan, in the blanket."
"No, no... please, Braddon.", Gristav apologizes at Braddon's embarassment. "Not your error at all. Mine. I should have instructed more clearly. I'll confess: my eyes were filled with green. I can think circles around most men, but I often don't see what's in front of my face..." Gristav smiles at Braddon and Samaritha, shaking his head in self-reproof.
"So, once found, what becomes of this Lil Scarlet? Crimson? Funereal Black? Black and Blue? A hood-wink of pink? We could just turn a bonnet around backwards, it'd be fetching..." He was being either casually dark or blithely light. Or perhaps both.Braddon shrugs. "Gather evidence, take her to Saul. He may want us to take her to Shorafa. They'll sort something out. If he wants her dead I'm sure he'll let us know. I'd rather kill Bott though."
"Who is Bott? The daughter's endangerer? For that matter, who is Drulia?"
"Do you really desire to kill this Bott?", Gristav asks. "You can be who you like, I just want to understand, who that is."
"Oliver Bott," Samaritha explains, taking advantage of another chip of ice before it melts in the heat of the kitchen. "He's a tiefling who works for Shorafa; used to be a sailor, I believe. And Drulia's a girl who worked in the kitchen with me Sunday night," she smiles. "She knows a lot more about cooking than I do."
She turns back to Braddon. "If you find Lil, don't you have to tell General Mescher about it? It's more than just Saul looking for her, isn't it?"
"The Calistrian? We have a Calistrian."
Dayn frowns and clears his throat. "Believe I'll go see what Thuvalia's up to," he says, exiting the room rather suddenly.
"Maybe he doesn't welcome being the token Calistrian in the room. But I was referring to Phillip. And no disrespect was intended. The world has so many fools; the gods must therefore be forgiving.", Gristav reasoned aloud. Then he addressed the other two half-elves:
"We've perhaps an hour or most of one, before the trapped heat does its work. Time enough to have the rest ready, and time to freshen beside. Might we find a table set, or should we plan for that time, as well?"
"Oh! And yes, if we have an actual cook near-to-hand, let us not fail to have her guidance, at least, in future."
"Upstairs," Samaritha informs him, "where we were having tea this morning. Although I think that table only seats ten; it'll be a tight fit if everyone's back for dinner. There's plates and mugs and utensils up there, and some more down here if we need them."
"I'm gathering this is an inaugural event, and we don't know how it's done because we haven't done it? Well, twelve at a table for ten? Or twelve in the taproom? Wait, which twelve? Saul, Larur, you two ladies, Braddon, Myself, Daynadrian, Malkith, Phillip, Tendal, Bojasc... does he count twice? Or perhaps the halfling?", Gristav joked, but continued more seriously, "I suppose any of them might bring a guest. Good, then, that Saul and Larur had the plan of their usual trolling of the cartmen's remnants."
"We all ate together early Monday morning after opening night," Samaritha replies. "Of course, you weren't here then so we were ten. Meals have been more of a first-come-first-served forage for snacks than a formal sit-down dinner, though." She blows away the stray curls that are sticking to her face. "In this kind of weather, I can certainly see why people prefer a cold supper to firing up the kitchen. It must be pleasant to have the heat in the winter, though." She moves a little closer to Gris and lowers her voice, glancing over her shoulder as if afraid someone might be eavesdropping. "The halfling ... Phil ... had an overnight guest last night. I don't know if she'll be back -- or worse, someone different." She makes a face. "He is a Calistrian."
"We were hardly wise, nor wisely dressed, to choose bakery.", Gristav agrees at her citing the heat.
When she steps closer, she has his full attention, though she had had that from the pursing of her lips and the blowing of the curls. At her whispered gossiping, he nods, and smiles, his mind running in many directions at once. "If it's someone different, how can you know that it's worse?", he asked with a smile, rhetorically. It was almost a koan; he had nearly asked it in Tien.
"But you know what's really interesting?", he hissed more softly, drifting across the inches left between them, his eyes flicking toward the door, as part of the protocol, "I mean, to me...", he hushed. "I hope you'll find it as interesting. Or even, worth celebrating."
He waited for her prompt, his eyes set on hers, knowing it would come. And when it did, he observed, "How closely we're standing, now.", with a faint but growing smile.
"We were hardly wise, nor wisely dressed, to choose bakery.", Gristav agrees at her citing the heat.
"Perhaps that's the real reason the farmer was willing to sell the mutton at so steep a discount," she smirks. "No one else was foolish enough to consider roasting it on such a hot day."
She leans her head closer to catch his last whispered words, then flusters, flushing. Her already hot skin has not far to go on the spectrum, but he is close enough, and connoisseur enough, to catch it. "I'm still angry with you," she murmurs with a stern glance before stepping away to devote her attention to the boiling peas.
"Do you really desire to kill this Bott?", Gristav asks. "You can be who you like, I just want to understand, who that is."
"You'll understand if you ever have the chance to meet him."
She turns back to Braddon. "If you find Lil, don't you have to tell General Mescher about it? It's more than just Saul looking for her, isn't it?"
"I'd probably tell the general. Though Saul is paying me."
Braddon watches the banter between Gristav and Samaritha then steps up to her as she turns away.
"Are you okay?" He eyes Gristav warily. "Is he causing trouble?"
"Do you really desire to kill this Bott?", Gristav asks. "You can be who you like, I just want to understand, who that is.""You'll understand if you ever have the chance to meet him."
Gristav nodded, remembering other odious individuals. "So long as you don't kill him, first?", Gristav grinned. "I'm no great judge of men, but some creatures, I'm told, only paint themselves with flags of poison. I trust I'm not flattering you, when I imagine you'd regret causing a death un-earned."
---
"We were hardly wise, nor wisely dressed, to choose bakery.", Gristav agrees at her citing the heat."Perhaps that's the real reason the farmer was willing to sell the mutton at so steep a discount," she smirks. "No one else was foolish enough to consider roasting it on such a hot day."
"Well, true, but I think we two wizard-fools have punched well above our weight in this fight. The proof will be in the... except we didn't make any pudding."
---
She leans her head closer to catch his last whispered words, then flusters, flushing. Her already hot skin has not far to go on the spectrum, but he is close enough, and connoisseur enough, to catch it. "I'm still angry with you," she murmurs with a stern glance before stepping away to devote her attention to the boiling peas.
Braddon watches the banter between Gristav and Samaritha then steps up to her as she turns away.
"Are you okay?" He eyes Gristav warily. "Is he causing trouble?"
Starting at the second or third of Samaritha's whispered words, Gristav grinned, and laughed as she finished. He remained smiling even under Braddon's wary eye. "Not causing, no.", he chuckled, with a wave of a half-hearted warding hand. "No more than the stream-panner causes gold. But I'm enjoying it's glint, as much!"
Explaining, Gristav leveled his tone, "She is angry with me, and rightly so. I acted with stealth, subterfuge, and haste, and did what she could not have done, would not have done, for herself. What she would have refused, if offered. What was probably wrong, in any case. I had no right to do it without asking, no time to ask, and no space for delay if it were to be done. So I did it, and she is angry, and rightly so, and has not yet forgiven me. But...", Gristav grinned, "She did just say, that she could. So, against that eventuality, I intend to lay in a stock of words worthy of whisper."
Braddon watches the banter between Gristav and Samaritha then steps up to her as she turns away.
"Are you okay?" He eyes Gristav warily. "Is he causing trouble?"
"Not now he isn't, but if you'd been at the Cypherlodge some hours ago, I'd have been grateful to anyone who would have bound and gagged him and carried him away," she concludes tartly, with a glare over her shoulder at Gristav that's only half jestful.
Braddon furrows his brow as he tries to take in Gristav's extended verbosity. He seems grateful for Samaritha's more concise summary.
"Well, I still have those manacles if you need them," Braddon informs Samaritha. "I'm finding more uses for them every day."
Braddon turns to Gristav. "Sam's real smart and quite capable of looking after herself. If she wants your help, she'll ask. She's also nicer and kinder than me. Which is why I'm the one saying if you upset her again, I'll smash you one."
His threat delivered, Braddon smiles not unpleasantly. "Now, what else needs to be done in this stupidly hot and uncomfortable kitchen, or can we get ourselves an ale or two?"
He turns to Samaritha. "If it was like this in here on opening night, you should be getting paid more than me. All I did was smash some thugs around."
"Not now he isn't, but if you'd been at the Cypherlodge some hours ago, I'd have been grateful to anyone who would have bound and gagged him and carried him away," she concludes tartly, with a glare over her shoulder at Gristav that's only half jestful.Braddon watches the banter between Gristav and Samaritha then steps up to her as she turns away.
"Are you okay?" He eyes Gristav warily. "Is he causing trouble?"
"Not in favor of that...", Gristav mutters seriously. "But before you give this strapping batman a casus belli, let me give him a belieing question: Braddon, ask her. Her opinion is the one that matters, as you said. Ask her, does she believe that when I acted, I did so to harm her, to help her, or to help myself? Or some other cause? I've asked, but had no answer, through a closed door.", Gristav recounted, the memory of the moment's pain plain in his face. "And if she judge it just, I'll take one of your best. And then, pour three, and shots for the morrow."
Braddon shrugs. "I don't think you were trying to harm her, or I would've smashed you already," he explains.
"But if Sam wants you bound and gagged, I'd do it. I like her more than you. No offence." Braddon grins.
Gristav roars with laughter. "And I like you more for it! And no defense. Unless you were to try such. Then you may find defense such as with which you are not familiar." Inspiration struck. "Oh, but you should... What say you, to an exchange? Magi are arrayed against us. Lil, you suspect? And not a day ago, a Garundi witch spelled a deck crew from the docks. A handful of men, not staring as men might, but ensorcelled, as if they were hens, with lines drawn for them. You're a better battler than I, most likely. Share that; yoiu'll find me an apt student, and I'll work with you, perhaps not to teach, but to test, for you'll agree, I expect, the second strike, the third, and a man might be more prepared for it. What say you?"
"Garundi witch?"
Braddon turns to Samaritha. "Is it always this busy in Riddleport? Or is something happening? What are the chances that none of these events are linked?"
He turns back to Gristav. "Yeah. We can go a few rounds. It'll be good to know what each can do if we're gonna be working together."
Braddon turns to Samaritha. "Is it always this busy in Riddleport? Or is something happening? What are the chances that none of these events are linked?"
Samaritha gives a bemused smile and shrug from where she is moving the boiling peas to a cooler section of the stove. "All the weeks I've been in Riddleport until now, I haven't run into unusual events and vast conspiracies. But then, until now, I haven't been working for Saul Vankaskerkin. You mentioned a Garundi witch this morning," she turns to Gristav. "What was all that about? Anything to do with this business with Thuvalia and Lil and the General's daughter?"
"My links to the Goblin were very thin, at the time, and known to none, I would think. Oh, I had seen your intelligent eyes, and left my book in your hands, while I played at being beggared by Zincher's new badges. But the point of that ruse was no one knowing it."
"I think it more likely chance, or fate, that I found in my false beggary the true pastorage of the Publican, where I was sat at table with a captain who would lend me a hammock on the deck of his ship. The fastest ship afloat, I later surmised. The vessel's speed having drawn gentle and ungentle and wholesome and unwholesome interest, this captain set a deck watch. As a guest, I slept. I awoke from a dream, the details of which are unimportant to this conversation, to find the watch entranced, with the evident source of that enchantment being the puerile promises heard from the docks, some yards away, in a voice unmistakably female, and, to my traveled ear, Garundi."
"A grapnel settled on the ship's rail, opposite this titillating entrapment, and, in the spirit of defense of the house, I repelled the boarders, striking the first man up the rope once, to set him swinging, and again, to have him falling, into the boat below, where the second man... elected not to try to his odds." Gristav smiled grimly.
"Reasoning in similar fashion, I elected not to try my odds against the spellborn sexy sibilance of this Garundi girl, and, carefully not laying eyes upon her, and crouching so that she might not lay her eyes upon me, I approached the deck watch, and..." Gristav pantomimes a gentle prod, as if his hand held his staff. "...poked the bend of a knee, and another, until they'd fallen from her sight, and risen from her spell."
"I had a glimpse of her then, as she ran from the scene, a woman's curves in a sailor's garb, and dark enough in hair and skin to be Garundi."
"As to the question of how related that is to other events... I would say that's a question for Malkith. I could build such a thoughtwork, but it would be only a house of cards."
"In any case, practice rounds, against all manner of art is... sound practice. As Braddon observes, we will all partner better, if we understand each other's card-in-hand. I believe I have no need of secrets from you, and will lay my hand open upon the table."
"Having said that, you will find I say more of the previous tale at dinner. Expecting I would have to, and that you would both be there, I did not cover every point. I apologize for that brevity."
Braddon looks to Samaritha and raises an eyebrow.
"Brevity?"
"It means, a paucity of words, perhaps to a degree of insufficiency, but usually intended to mean a reasonable curtness. I left out names and such, descriptions of individuals, and the like.", Gristav says, slicing mushrooms now.
Among the three of them, the half-elves complete the preparations for the side dishes, bread and compote, and berries and cream, the last nestled lovingly in a nest of magical ice and swaddled in a woven basket to insulate it from the summer night. Braddon and Samaritha carry the dessert course upstairs with them as they go to set the table in the dining room, further removing it from the residual heat emanating from the bricks of the oven, while Gristav collects the lamb drippings to season the sliced mushrooms.
As Gristav puts the finishing touches to his bill of fare, the dwarf wanders into the kitchen through the open doors to the floor, led by his nose. He seems unperturbed by the heat, and Gristav reasons that a brick oven must suffer by comparison to the subterranean workings of the Gas Forges.
"Mushrooms," Larur notes with pleasure, before spying the peas and frowning. "I never trust green things, unless they're pickled. You can't tell when they've gone bad. Here." He off-handedly removes a small key from his pocket and holds it out for Gristav to take. "Had a copy made at the locksmith today. When the time comes, the packet for my brother is in the bottom drawer. This the meat?" he immediately changes the subject, pointing at the swaddled roast. "Ready for me to carry it upstairs?"
"You can tell when they've gone bad, if you see them in the sunlight where they grew...", Gristav says as he takes the key, reflexively. He holds it as though it were about to bite him, though, as he learns its purpose, then puts it away for the business at hand.
"It's in no hurry. It cannot actually overcook, by this method. As for if it's ready... I have no idea. When I try to do the maths, I hear them in Samaritha's voice, and become distracted." Gristav smirks at the humor, shaking his head at his own... not failing. Foolishness? Falling?
He met Larur's eye. The dwarf stood with the lamb in hand, brows raised in the asked-you-a-question posture. Gris smiled. "Yes. I'll finish deglazing, and be up with the mushrooms."
He watched Larur go, then took out and glared at the key. New-cut and bright, it still, to Gristav, wore a shroud of shadow.
Upstairs, Samaritha directs Braddon to set the berries and cream atop the buffet as she rummages for dishes and cutlery. "Do you think they washed these after breakfast or just put them back in the cupboard?" she asks with a worried frown. With the same incantation she used to flavor his wine like ale, she points to each plate and utensil in turn, as if keeping a tally, before handing them to him to set out on the table.
"They?" asks Braddon. "Malkith and I left not long after you. Fancypants wouldn't do it. Neither would the Harpy. The halfling and Gristav don't seem the type. And Larur and Saul have underlings. That only leaves Dayn and Bojasc. I figure Bojasc would clean them if he could leave Saul's side. But since he can't that'd leave Dayn. So, I'm betting on 'just put them back in the cupboard'."
Braddon takes the plate Samaritha hands him and inspects it carefully, fascinated. He places it on the table as Samaritha hands him the next, and then the next. Braddon is quiet for a moment, as if in thought, then wonders aloud.
"Sam? That language everyone speaks. Could you tell me about it? I mean... if everyone speaks it, then I probably should too. Especially if I'm staying here. I'll probably need it. Do you know anyone... I mean... can you teach it to me? When we're not busy. Whenever you have some spare time... to spend... with me?"
"Varisian?" she smiles. "Of course. I suppose there aren't a lot of Varisians down in Andoran."
As the two half-elves are setting the table, Braddon hears heavy and delibarate footsteps approaching the room. His hand going to the weapon at his belt automatically, he takes a half-step to glance out the door into the waiting area and relaxes as he sees Larur, carefully carrying the canopied roast.
"Like it's a damned parrot in a cage," the dwarf complains, setting the tented pan down heavily on the table, "and if you uncover it, it'll start in screeching. Is it safe to undress the dinner?" he asks sardonically.
Below in the kitchen, Daynadrian and Thuvalia enter the room heading for the stairs. The Varisian woman exhales a huff of complaint at the heat still radiating from the cooling oven and ostentatiously fans herself with her open hand. The elf crosses toward Gristav in a conciliatory fashion. "Anything we can carry up as we go?" He looks back over his shoulder to see Thuvalia already starting up the stairs. "Anything I can?" he amends, with a grimace.
"Varisian?" she smiles. "Of course. I suppose there aren't a lot of Varisians down in Andoran."
"Andoran?" asks Braddon, confused.
He is saved by Larur's arrival.
"I guess there's only one way to find out," Braddon responds to the dwarf and peeks under the canopy.
"Looks all right."
He takes a deep sniff.
"Smells all right."
Watching Samaritha with a mischievous grin he goes to slide some fingers inside the cover.
Gristav chuckles at the scene, and speaks in Elvish, "Carry her up the stairs, over your shoulder, and be laughing. Celebrate her, make her feel to be tall enough a tree not to need to bitter the earth for the rest of us." The peredhel is smiling, and not just at the twist of the 'Tall tree, sweet earth' wisdom. "Or if you're not that familiar, or not admitting, then the mushrooms are ready, there on the table. I've a shirt to change into.", Gristav said, bellowsing his shirtfront. "Some fool decided to make a roast..."
Gristav magics himself presentable, returning to his room and his effects there for a change of shirt. On his way up, he locks the front and back doors of the Goblin.
Upstairs, the door to the owner's office opens, and Saul walks out and through the waiting area to the dining room, sniffing the scented air appreciatively. He is followed by Tendal and Bojasc. "What is that heavenly aroma?" he asks jocularly. "Fresh meat? Not something salted or pickled or cold on a stick that hasn't been sold all afternoon? Larur, what is today? Some dwarvish festival or other that we're celebrating?"
"Sent Gristav to market," the dwarf replies stiffly. "He might have ... gotten a little carried away."
"He said," Samaritha puts in with a smile, "that if the Goblin is a house, we should behave like a household, not a collection of strangers. Although having worked in the kitchen while the roast was cooking, I wouldn't mind sticking with meals perhaps a little less celebratory, at least until the autumn. Mr. Deverin," she asks, turning her attention to the Magnimarian, "might I have a word before dinner?"
"Carried away? Not at all," Saul protests as Tendal and Samaritha move to a corner of the room. "The lad's earning his keep. If I'd known he cooked, I'd have hired him before you had the chance. I haven't had a home-cooked roast of mutton in years, not since the last time I employed a cook anyway." Braddon removes the canopy, releasing an aromatic cloud of steam which Saul leans forward to sniff appreciatively. "Do we have a large knife for carving?" he asks.