Prepare for Trouble

Characters Molochai, Sigrid
Synopsis They bond. Over their mutual hate for each other. And that guy back there trying to cut his fingers off.
Out-of-Character Date April 2, 2019

Igen Weyr - Kitchens
The kitchens are located in an elongated bubble in the sandstone. Carved chimneys keep the air flowing from the cooking hearths and ovens to the outside, leaving the inside filled with only the delicious smells of cooked food. There are long tables for food preparation with shelving beneath them to store most of the frequently used pots. On the wall opposite the hearths and ovens are a layer of stone shelves carved from the rock itself and overlayed with a much harder granite and metal sinks to keep from eroding away. Water is piped in to this area and flows easily whnever the taps are let open. Sevral swinging doors lead intot he living cavern, while smaller curtained openings on the opposite end lead into storage caverns and the hydroponic gardens.

What time of day is it? Sigrid sure doesn't know. Though clad in a light shirt whose sleeves have been shoved up past her elbows and a skirt that ends at her knees, her entire ensemble has been covered by a utilitarian apron that seems to be doing its best at keeping her free of flour as she rolls a large pin over dough that looks and smells suspiciously as though it will yield cookies. Is it succeeding? Hardly. There's smudges of it on each forearm, a puff on her neck, a smudge on her upper cheek, and a long streak of it in her hair that makes it look as though she's prematurely greying. And maybe she is, because she sure seems to be upset about something, and is taking it out on the dough. "No good… Sharding idiot… Where did he learn to…" Words rise and fall, bubbling like the soup in a nearby vat, furtive glares at a candidate working over it filled with ill-disguised irritation.

WHAT'S UP, SIGRID? Did you think that you could just peacefully make some cookie dough and not have rude fingers up in this B, stealing deliciousness? BECAUSE BEEP, BEEP. HERE THEY COME. The fingers, we mean. The ones attached to Molochai, the Molochai who doesn't look even remotely repentant when he catches a corner chunk of raw dough and puts it in his mouth. While he leans against the counter. And somehow manages to make 'at ease' look cocky. Who asked this man to be born, even? NOBODY. But here he is, making a soft noise in his throat that might be a rumbled-human-purr of appreciation, or might be something a little more rude. "Probably from somebody equally no good," Molochai intones, like he was invited to partake in this one-sided conversation that he's pretty sure is an attempt at assassinating his character. "What sounds like a horrible name to you? Bastion? We'll go with Bastion. Probably from Bastion, that bastard." QUICK, SIGGY. HE'S GOING FOR ANOTHER PIECE. SMACK THE DOUGH OUTTA HIM.

Why yes, Sigrid does rather live under the delusion that one might manage to make something without having it be ruined, or so says the indignant look she flashes up at Molochai through slitted eyes and lowered brows. Don't worry. First she issued a squeak and near about jumped out of her skin at his sudden presence, not expecting nor desiring him to be close enough to catch her at the act of besmirching another candidate's virtues. "Who asked you?," she snarks like the pot calling the kettle black, because who asked her opinion either - but give it she does, blue eyes flicking back over towards the candidate tending the soup pot with a gesture of her chin. "That nimrod is going to cut off his thumb if he keeps cutting the tubers like that, and I'm going to watch," she says with subtle savagery in her tones, rolling pin thunking hard and very close to filching fingers as she slams it back to the surface of the cookie dough. THINK FAST, JERKFACE. There comes a soft snort for the naming of their imaginary terrible person, and though her lips purse and push as though she'd like to hurl some insult, she instead favors him with a, "No, it was Froedrick. Bastion is terrible, but Froedrick is useless." A beat, two, in which she rolls closer and closer to the edge he's been purloining, as though attempting to dissuade him from further attempts.

Molochai doesn't answer who asked his opinion; one does not need to state the obvious. Instead he just… makes away with another piece of dough around raised brows and a slow coming smile, as if that alone is some kind of answer. But his attention does go to the pour soul attempting to unburden himself of a finger or five, tending his soup pot in IGNORANT BLISS, unaware of the fact that just steps away, there's a candidate willing to stand by as he butchers himself. "You would watch?" Molochai inquires, as if he's disgusted by the mere implication that she'd be so utterly unwilling to help the helpless. "You struck me more as the type who'd help him along in the mutilation, just to keep the inevitable screaming from happening. And the blood." Because that gets everywhere. And there's that smile, the one that says that he's probably joking, but not enough to not be insulting (if you know what we mean). Also, HAVE YOU MET MOLOCHAI? Polite rollers attempting to hedge him away from the edge means he just reaches around that to steal from another corner, thankyouverymuch. "Ah, yes. I always forget about Froedrick." A beat, a moment to enjoy his STOLEN DOUGH-Y GOODNESS, and then: "Fuck that guy."

"I would watch," Sigrid confirms, lifting her gaze to meet him eye to steady eye, unmoved by mentions of blood and screams and plights. "And I would smugly remind him that I told him so as he bled all over the clothes the weyrlingmasters would then make him wash as punishment. We'll see how well 'his da's method' works for him then, won't we?" Fingers lift from the rolling pin's knobs to make quotes in the air before pausing and slanting Molochai a hard look. "That was supposed to be an insult, wasn't it?" Sniff. She's had worse, or so reads the haughty expression she fixes back on the dough as she rolls it, cool distance ruined by a second slash of flour that she rubs into her cheek. "You're a very rude man, has anyone ever told you that? Stop it." This time she aims to crush his fingers under the curve of her pin, not a hard blow but certainly with the intent to give him a reason to stop stealing from her profits. And yet she's smirking despite herself, a tiny thing that she fights and fights hard, squashing it each time it plays at the corners of her mouth before she agrees with a (thankfully) breezy, "Indeed. What are you doing here, anyways?"

There's a rumble of laughter, a pull of his lips at the corner as his head tilts with the sound — as if the answer was not entirely expected despite finding it a good one. "Do you think his Da' has all of his fingers, then?" Because IT'S IMPORTANT. And then Molochai is making a soft noise in his throat, as if he's actually thinking about how to answer Sigrid's question about INSULTS. "An insult? I wouldn't dream of insulting you." A heartbeat. "An honest observation, however…?" There's that hint of a smile again, as hazel eyes settle on the woman instead of her dough, and then drop away again, back to her work. Right before he puts a hand to his chest to feign a wound. "Rude? Never. I'm told that I'm quite loveable. Frequently. You're the first to wound me with your tongue. I admit that I find it rather — ow." The ow sounds MORE SARCASTIC than truly painful — a mere commentary on the state of her finger squashing right before she asks that question. It takes a moment too long for Molochai to answer, a heartbeat of time where there's just… the awkwardness of silence and soup being stirred… and then Molochai THIEVES ANOTHER PIECE OF DOUGH. "Being rude." That's what he's doing here, DUH. And just in case that wasn't enough to keep him from having to answer, he turns the tables on her: "You're a very rude witch. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Sig's lips twitch sideways in an unkind smile for his laughter, not quite managing to look pleased with herself, but it's a damn near thing. "I imagine he has them, or there would have been more cautionary tales in his life. Now, whether or not they look like that holey cheese over there, that's another question." Pin briefly abandoned, she raises her hands in a gnarled fashion, making a face as though playing up the poor boy's father as though he were a grotesque from Harper's campfire stories. "They say when the moons are low and the skies are dark, that he comes out in the night, searching for the bits of fingers he has lost. He can't rest, won't sleep, until he's repossessed them from strange men who can't keep their fingers out of my fucking dough." And there she goes, nipping hard with the edges of her nails into any bit of hand she can reach, features overcome with a rage that might be playful. Or maybe it isn't. Who can really tell, because the moment ends as quickly as it begins, as though remembering herself in that moment of silence he offers. She turns most of her back to him to find a metal ring, cleaning crusted dough from it before wedging it in to form small, circular shapes. Does she shoot him a furtive glance? Maybe. Does she add a second? Likely, followed by a soft snort and a low, "Yeah right. You were shoving more girls into closets to kiss them under the guise of danger, weren't you? Don't lie to me, this is your favorite haunt and I know it." Calling her a witch has her aiming daggers with her eyes, lips pressing together as she balls her current cookie cutter byproduct up in her fist and then whips it at him. "And you're a churlish cad." Take that.

But see, Molochai is watching her as she tells her story, brows rising towards his hairline, eyes riveted despite curled fingers as she continues and then — ATTACK! Molochai doesn't have the sense of self-preservation that has him pulling away; no, rather, he places one hand over hers as if he means to momentarily hold here there (and he does) before he leans forward. "Ah," come softly, as hazel eyes move, delineating and making note of her face as one might take in something they hadn't quite seen before. "She has a sense of humor." And despite the words, there's something gentle about them, something that's abandoned in the fraction of a second that it takes him to draw back and STEAL MORE DOUGH. "Do you have a lot of men who can't keep their fingers out of your dough?" SUGGESTION, THY NAME IS MOLOCHAI. A beat, four, five… "I think I'm jealous." But he's laughing — kind of. It's a huff of breath, a pull of lips, an amusement that lingers in his face more than being given true vocalization. And then: SHOTS FIRED. There's another rumble of laughter in his chest, his fingers STAYED while she makes use of those cookie cutters and he leans against the counter, showing no intention to leave. "Only you." A half-smile, those brows rising again, and then — actual laughter, not those hints of amusement he's so damn prone to. A churlish cad, is it? If he has an answer to that, it's interrupted by the arrival of one very harassed looking Assistant Weyrlingmaster who looks, perhaps, annoyed to find Molochai here instead of where he's meant to be, but abandons chastisement in favor of, "We're touching eggs. Come on, candidates. Get. We don't have all day." A beat, when Molochai just stares and, "Well? Come on, then. I don't get paid to having staring contests. Go. Go." Molochai glances at Sigrid again, steals another piece of cookie dough, and then rolls his shoulder at her as he pushes away from the counter with his hip and starts after the AWLM. ONWARD! TO DRAGONS!

Sigrid is quick to reclaim her hands the second he offers any release of that gentle pressure, put off by the gesture of casual familiarity and the studious delineation of her features. "Of course I do," she says in defense of her sense of humor, hands still pressed to the front of her apron, offering sass despite the obvious wary nature of her gaze as it flicks over his person, asking without verbalizing just who he thinks he is. There's a moment where she might say more, ask something, but then he ruins it with mention of 'her' dough. "UGH." Smacksmacksmack. "You are filth. A disgrace to your knot. Do you even have family or were you birthed from a herdbeast in a field somewhere? Doesn't matter, I'm sure you disgraced them too." Huff!, and a rapid slamming of her cutter into cookie dough before shoving the cut rounds off to one side. Bam, scrape! BAM, scrape! Bam…. scraaaape? She slows her rapid output to eye him for that 'only you', disbelieving to a fault but maybe, perhaps, deep down in there somewhere, wanting to believe him — but then it's too late. Her frown notches deeper, were that possible, as it fixes upon the assistant weyrlingmaster, looking down at her hands, her person, before asking, "Now?" Oh, okay, apparently now. "This is your fault somehow," she growls under her breath as she jerks the bow of her apron loose and leaves it behind on the counter as she makes to follow Molochai to the sands.

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