Looks Like They're Blasting Off Again

Characters Molochai, Sigrid
Synopsis This time a mop gets thrown, and no progress is made with along-getting.
Out-of-Character Date April 9, 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.

Ah, hubris. It's a lovely thing in the moment - less so in those that follow, the likes of which find Sigrid, in the kitchens, with a bucket. Alas this is not a murder mystery, though one might be hard pressed to tell, given the thundercloud veritably hanging over the candidate's head. Her expression is no less stormy than her demeanor, movements jerky as she thunka-thunks a mop up and down inside a bucket and slaps it to the floor with a marvelous splat. For once there's no mumbled irritations spilling from the harper's mouth, but judging by the way one cheek pinches inwards as though she's literally gnawing on it, this is likely managed through sheer force of will. Thunka-thunka, splat, swishy swishy swishy. Thunka-thunka, splat, swishy swishy swishy. Repeat.

And Molochai is silent for once. Absent is the desire to pursue the provocation of Sigrid's ire, void is that quiet, infallible humor that usually hints at its own persistence in the corners of eyes and the edges of mouth. Molochai is a wraith now, one borne of violent energy, spent with precise control aimed only at the flour he's finding gets more impossibly defiant as it accumulates wet. Still he moves; he moves around Sigrid without a word of acknowledgment, he moves from sink, to counter, to sink, to floor without a glance, without a word, without so much as alluding to the fact that Sigrid occupies the same space that he does — not even when he brushes up against her, a hint of elbow or hip or knee or shoulder, it doesn't matter. He doesn't apologize, he doesn't stop to ask if she's okay or make her endure the lowest form of his intelligence: wit. No, he just… keeps moving, keeps cleaning, keeps ignoring her, adding to the awful pervasiveness of silence broken only by rags and mops and the way Molochai's breath sounds in his ears.

It's entirely possible that Molochai's persistent silence is just serving to make matters worse. Every near-collision of two dissonant forms attempting to do the same work causes a bristle to ripple the length of her spine, every careless touch earning a soft hiss and an angle of her body as far away from the offending appendage as is possible without removing herself from the task entirely. "There's an entire kitchen," comes on the tail end of that sharp intake, and though one hand gestures expansively at the vast field of space around them with as much sarcasm as can possibly be mustered into one movement, her voice remains as neutral as she can possibly make it. "How are you managing to bump into me?" Entirely-necessary commentary dispensed, she rinses her mop again, splats it to the floor, and, angry momentum broken, wilts somewhat as she stares at the soupy white mess that seems to be spreading more than cleaning itself. "This is impossible. Every time I look there's more."

And Molochai doesn't answer, doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't even stop what it is that he is doing long enough to look at her as she speaks. The man just keeps going at a task that was CLEARLY MEANT TO BE SOME CORPORAL FORM OF TORTURE. Even when Sigrid wilts and stares and comments on the impossibility of the task, Molochai keeps moving in silence, in a distinct unwillingness to even engage her as he moves, and keeps moving, and this time seems to move just far enough away to tackle goopy mess without the possibility of another brush of body to body. It's basically forever before that husky voice breaks a rather persistent silence with, "Then go and run, Witch." But there's no humor, nothing soft, nothing to make the words kind, or friendly, or teasing. It's the malice of warmth frozen over, a touch of a growl placed with emphasis at certain intervals that says he's angry and maybe he doesn't want to speak with her. And that's it. He leave it at that, and he cleans without missing a beat.

Does Sigrid care? She does not. Molochai can have his long sullen silences, followed by a mean remark, followed by more long sullen silences. She'll just mock him with a cruel crook to her lip, voice warbling through multiple octaves in a vocal rollercoaster to deliver a sardonic "Thun goo en ruhn, Weeehtch" right back at him. Because she's mature like that, you guys. "And let you whinge on about how you were the one to do it again? Fat chance." And so she leans her mop against a counter and goes to refresh her bucket, jerky, halted movements renewing themselves as though remembering she's supposed to be mad. "Besides, I tried that already, didn't I? The running. Went great." Thunka-thunka-thunka goes the water in her bucket as she attempts to drown that mop and then strangle it within an inch of its life before she smacks it to the floor half-dry in an attempt to maybe soak up some of the white-washed mess. It's entirely possible she hasn't mentioned what occurred between her mad dash out of the kitchens and their arraignment before now, but judging by the brief flicker of guilt that crosses her face, perhaps it wasn't good. Wait. Angry. Right. Furiously she scrubs, brow notching, lips pursed, as content as he is to indulge in mutual brooding.

It's quiet right up until the moment it's not, right up until Molochai is suddenly there in Sigrid's space, gripping the handle of her mop with one hand while the other catches at her wrist to jerk her arm up above her head as he stalks them back, back, back, "What," until Sigrid either breaks free (good luck), "the fuck," or her back makes contact with the first available surface, "is your problem with me, witch?" That mop is thrown, cast away sideways with force, clattering noisily to the ground as his other hand catches Sigrid by the jaw and he leans in close, close, much too damn close. "Do you want this candidacy for yourself?" comes with venom, and Molochai is jerking back, ripping that white knot free from his shoulder to shove into Sigrid's hand the moment he frees her wrist. "Are you mad because I kissed you? Because it wasn't bloody good for me either." And then he's shoving himself back and away, retrieving the rag he'd discarded at some point to wipe at a spot and then… chuck that into the sink, leaning against it as muscles tense beneath clothes, as he attempts to reign in his temper and maybe, just maybe, attempts to reconcile himself with the fact that he even did just lose his temper. "I will clean the fucking kitchen and I will even protect your precious fucking reputation, now please go." And he doesn't look at her; no, Molochai gestures with one hand open-palmed towards the door.

Does Sigrid even know how to be afraid? For a second it doesn't entirely seem like it, the hand above her captured wrist clenching into a tight, defiant, appropriately curled fist. She stumbles backwards under his forcible guidance, lip curling with a sneered, "What's my problem?" Her mouth opens, perhaps to explain, perhaps to retort, when suddenly there's a wall at her back and a hand upon her jaw and menace rippling through Molochai's form and there it is. Her body tightens, raising onto tiptoes in an attempt to raise her chin out of his grasp, eyes going wide and breath stilted as fear finally cracks through her visage. Too far. She pushed him too far, and now there's nothing for her to hold, nobody close enough to help, and a handful of cord that she doesn't understand until he's stalking away from her and words can finally sink in. Blue eyes follow him though her body does not, hardly dropping from its high pose against the wall, breath coming short and fast before it becomes one sharp, strangulated sound that's neither laugh nor scoff, yet somehow both. She slides sideways along the wall, regarding Molochai as the stranger he is, even as she says, "Maybe I'm just mean." It comes out in low, wretched tone, gaze nervously dropping to the knot in her hand before tilting to look at hers. There's a second's hesitation, and then she strips hers loose as well, considering them both in her palm before letting them tumble to the floor. She regards their presence there for a long moment, as though letting the reality of that decision sink in with a heavy weight pressing on her shoulders. A beat. Two. That's all she allows herself before she backs for the door, slowly at first, then faster, until it takes a palm catching on its frame to carry her around its edge and into the hall beyond.

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