Make It Double

Characters Molochai, Sigrid
Synopsis Flour and fists fly everywhere.
Out-of-Character Date April 8, 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.


Okay, so NOW THE ROLES ARE REVERSED. This time, instead of Sigrid at the helm, it's Molochai. It's Molochai who is sporting an apron tied off at the back, it's Molochai who's hair is pulled up into a GLORIOUS (SHUT UP) manbun while the long sleeved shirt he's opted for beneath said apron has gone and collected flour. A lot of flour. It's not just his shirt, either; no, there's flour on his shoes, flour on his pants, flour swiped across his brow, the bridge of his nose, highlighting his cheeks… He's a mess. His workstation is a mess, and the few unlucky souls who either make their living in the kitchens or landed unlucky duty with him have put distance between the candidate and his flour mishaps. What are his mishaps? Those sad, oddly shaped, definitely not nearly flour'd enough somehow even though his thing of flour is suspiciously low in supply (it's because he's wearing half of it) because it's sticky, and unruly and — "Like this?" comes a soft rumble of sound, a question delivered through the distraction of concentration as one of the kitchen aides BRAVES TO LEAN OVER HIS WORK and — "No." Delivers the bad news. Molochai growls, which sends the girl skittering away again, but it would seem that the man is focused on his failure and not so much those words given (or the lack of instruction that followed — which is probably partially because he has instructions right there that HE CAN'T READ it's fine).

And this time it's Sigrid escaping whatever it might have been she was supposed to do today, though given the prevalence of ink blotches upon wrists and shirtsleeves, it's less an escape from impossible chores and moreso to attend to her craft. Brow furrowed, eyes riveted on the pages of the notebook clasped in her hands, lips moving in time with what she's reading, the candidate draws to a halt right inside the doors to the kitchen, earning her a sharp jostle from the person behind her and more than one disapproving comment. Normally polite, she doesn't even pause, pen in her hand scrawling furiously as inspiration hits at the worst moment, a moment so intense, truly, that she even lifts one leg to the opposite thigh and bends to write in a stooped crane position on her knee. Pause. Reread. Good enough. Finally coming to her senses, Sig glances up (and up) at the person she's settled next to, tensing when she realizes it's Molochai. Blue eyes stare up at his face for a moment too long, as though unable to decide which insult to throw first, and, finding none of the words brewing just behind pursed lips suitable, she instead turns her attention to the travesty he's made of his work space. "You know," she says with the careful control of a person trying very hard to be polite when they do not want to be, "when they call for those cups of flour, they mean for you to put it into the dough, not for you to toss it into the air and leap through it." HELPFUL, that's our Sig!

HELLO THERE, SIGRID. Or, well… at least once that distracted little witch finds her way towards the renegade and leans over to write, that's what his existence says (less politely). In fact, once she comes to and realizes the dire straits of her surroundings, she probably doesn't have to look that far up, because Molochai has gone and leaned on the counter to watch her in a way that smacks of cocky self-assurance, one hand on his hip, brows raised towards his hairline, eyes SHAMELESSLY FIXED on whatever it was that Sigrid was writing (even though he can't read it, but she doesn't know that). It's when her eyes slowly come up to find his that his eyes slowly retreat to find hers, holding that gaze, amusement pushing up the edges of his lips as if he just knows that she's trying to find the most horrible thinky-thought she's got stowed away somewhere in that massive brain and — "Ah," Molochai says softly, his attention turning towards measuring instruments and flour. "So then is this," he grabs a half cup, but maybe that was just intentional, and scoops up some flour, "an acceptable alternative?" Annnnnd… yep. RIP. If Sigrid isn't fast enough to get the hell out of there, he's turning it over RIGHT ON TOP OF HER PRECIOUS HEAD.

Sigrid doesn't know, and so she instinctively snatches her notebook up against her chest, gaze narrowing to two small, accusational slits. Excuse you, that look says, offended to the very last that he might presume to read her work. She doesn't want to be the first person to break their locked gazes, to show weakness or submission or whatever alpha-dog what-have-you nonsense that one might conjure, but alas she is, and woe be it upon Molochai, upon the flour, upon everything that for one beautiful second there she almost looks as though she might be helpful. Fingers reach out to test the stickiness of the dough, expression shifting somewhere thoughtful rather than derisive, as though pondering just how much they might have to add in order to salvage the mess, lifting fingertips back to her lips to give it a taste to be sure the rest of the directions were followed and— "GAH." WOE I SAY. Woe be it unto her that she briefly suspected he might be helpful in kind. Sig goes full stop as flour follows gravity and gently sifts down from blonde hair into blue eyes, where she puffs it with a single breath that sends a whole cloud into the air. A beat, two, filled with comical silence and then: "You." Tense. "ASSHOLE." You know those cartoons, the one where the tiny scrappy puppy throws itself at the great big ghoul like 'let me at him, let me at him!' This is that except, short of Molochai doing the work for himself, there's nobody close enough to keep Sigrid from physically launching herself upon the candidate's person. Pen and paper flicked to Faranth-knows-where, her hands have turned to fists, knees clenching, legs wrapping about Chai's person as they might in order to beat the everloving stuffings out of him. Okay. So it's probably about as effectual as hits from pillows because ya girl never really learned to fight, could only gauge the principles from backyard brawls witnessed in a distant hold courtyard, but she tries. Oh how she tries, whalings interspersed with screeched insults of an almost impressive variety.

Molochai is the rudest because he does, in fact, start to laugh despite the peril of doing so at this exact, precise moment. It might be that he's caught off guard long enough for Sigrid to get the jump on him, or perhaps it's just the arrogance of a natural born predator, confident that its fangs are much more capable and dangerous than the claws of a barely weaned kitten. There's a soft sound when bodies collide, a grunt that interrupts his laugh, hands that abandon measuring instruments and smear flour across her thighs when he catches them, as if he means to help her pummel him halfway to stupid, and there's only so many hits he allows her before Molochai's hands are enclosing her wrists in a tight grip, steady as he shoves her hands back from his body, apart to lessen her strength, uses height and sheer muscle to his advantage as he slams Sigrid down against the counter top a touch harder than he intended (right on top of ill-formed flour and flour alike, which makes another cloud when she hits), and then Molochai pins her there: his hips pressed against hers, his arms pinning hers by the wrists in a way that might seem effortless if not for the fact that the sudden prominence of muscle beneath his shirt means he's definitely working for it. "You are holding your fists wrong, witch. Like this." And yeah, that's no joke. Molochai literally keeps her pinned and fixes the way she's holding one of her fists before hazel eyes lock on hers, the hints of a smile coming and fleeing as he leans a little closer. "You're going to throw away your chance at a dragon over flour, witch. Calm down before the Weyrlingmaster comes for both of our knots." Though, THAT MIGHT JUST HAPPEN ANYWAY. There was a series of gasps and incoherent sounds, and then feet and doors as somebody definitely went on the hunt for somebody with much more authority.

OOF. That is the sound of a one Sigrid hitting the counter hard, breath fleeing her lungs as surely as flour flees her form, sharp exhale disturbing the most excellent cloud of white that has risen around them. Has she stopped struggling since Molochai grabbed her wrists? No, no she has not, and she damn well isn't about to start now, even at the risk of dislocating something important. "Unhand me, wretch," she snarls, kicking at shins, fingers springing apart in the wake of his education in fist fighting, reaching out to scratch, maim as best she might. "Do you think I care about my fists right now? All I care is that they find purchase on your face." Emphasis on the word comes and goes with another bucking heave against him and, finding it pointless, she finally surrenders for the moment, perhaps winded from exertion and counter-slamming both, given the huffs and puffs delivered against the half-squashy, half-floured surface. "You're going to lose me my chance at a dragon over needing to be an insufferable jerk," she grits out, panting briefly ceased for another attempted struggle. "Ask yourself if that was really necessary or if you could have done anything else in that moment, and you get back to me when you've figured out the answer. I'll be here." Clearly, seeing as how she's given up again, sagging onto the countertop in total defeat as his words and the noises behind them register somewhere past the haze of HATEHATEHATE.

And Molochai gets some of those hits, notable every time there's a flicker of what's probably pain despite the fact that his body just doesn't move. Not even after she gives up, not even after, winded, Sigrid still finds enough breath to lecture him on his behaviour. "Are you lecturing me," Molochai inquires, amusement gratingly evident in every syllable he breathes, "on thinking of alternatives when you, instead of grabbing flour and throwing that at me, decided to throw your fists, witch?" And just when it seems like Molochai's leaning might not stop, when the man is too damn close, he makes a show of unraveling fingers from her wrists and bringing his hands up alongside his head as if he means to surrender and show that he's no threat. And then his arms drop, and he starts the tedious (and futile) task of patting his clothes to shed some of that flour. A heartbeat, and then, "Do you think it would be suspicious if we covered ourselves in flour and pretended we were just innocent bystanders, then made a run for it?"

"Yes," is Sigrid's entirely blythe answer, blue eyes flicking open to glare sideways at Molochai as best she might. "Yes I am." Is she even going to acknowledge that maybe he might be right? Not a chance. Instead, she drops her gaze to the sea of ruined dough stretching out before her eyes, ignoring discomfort from his grip and intense proximity both, lips pursing right before she says, "Next time, add more flour. You want the texture to be firm without being tacky. That's what I was going to suggest." But now it's pointless, as there's a great big Sigrid shaped splat right in the middle of it, button imprints and all. She looks from it to her ruined clothing, dispirit and defeat in her shoulders as she shrugs and pushes past him, reaching for a nearby cloth. "I dunno. Let's find out." Wait, what? Maybe it's too late, maybe it isn't, but Sigrid's hand jerks right, away from the towel that was her previous destination, instead fastening around the edge of that cannister of flour. Heave, ho, and away it goes, its entire contents chucked into Molochai's pie-hole. Can tossed aside, Sigrid follows in fast, hands slapped to shoulders to pull him down in a gesture that would read very much as the Lannisters send their regards if only she had word for the candidate. She does not. Instead she aims to connect her knee with the apex of his legs before shoving him back and making a freaking break for it, tearing out the door at a hellish pace that will have her somewhere near Southern Boll by nightfall if she keeps it up.

"Noted," Molochai answers, "and since you've gone through the trouble of correcting my inability to make dough, perhaps you'll allow me to help you, witch, so that you don't break your hand next time you get feisty." IS THAT SMART, MOMO? It's… sincere enough, at least, given the amusement he usually wears like a second skin has been momentarily shed, cast away to leave only that voice: husky, a hint gruff, smooth. But just when it seems that it might be the end, Molochai realizes that it's only the end of the beginning. And here we are, Sigrid's agreement to outlandish plans earning her Molochai's open mouth, readying to answer, when she goes and throws a cloud of flour at his face. The renegade chokes on it for just a moment, coughing and already halfway doubled over with the back of one arm aimed for his nose and mouth so that Sigrid has more than enough reach to pull him as she aims for the one place it's really sure to hurt. It's immediate, the wind being knocked from Molochai's lungs, the way the man crumbles into a heap and slightly in on himself, the fist that lashes out without thought but… with enough foresight to slam it into the counter (and with enough force to split his knuckles) instead of INTO SIGRID. And then she's gone, and Molochai is left in a heap to recover, growling out on viciously loud, "FUCK!" once he's recovered enough breath to speak. What comes next? Well. Trouble in other forms, probably, but Sigrid at least has a headstart on running away from authority.

Please use the site manager to activate the Forum, or ask your admin to help
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License