What it Used to Be

What it Used to Be

Players

- Tyree

- Dagda

Salamandastron: Kitchens

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The kitchens of Salamandastron are the center of much activity, charged

with feeding all the inhabitants of the mountain. Countless cooks in

white apronsscurry about, brushing hurriedly past the obviously uninvited

non-culinary hares. Food is everywhere! Some tables, covered in flour,

fruit juice, and cutting boards, are apparently used for food preparation,

while on others sit cooling cakes, well-tossed salads, and other finished

products. Though the numerous ovens occupy the side of the room farthest

from the door, their combined heat is enough to substantially warm the

whole room and all its occupants. And with the heat come the scents, as

the aromas of various foods, spices, and seasonings waft around the room,

enough to tempt even the most stoic beast.

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Though Long Patrol officers generally try to stick to some sense of decorum, sometimes they just have to let themselves go. That probably explains the moving pile of food that's currently scootching along a kitchen table, wearing hare ears. On occasion a paw reaches out and snatches things here and there: a scone, a tomato, some nice dressing, salt and pepper...

It's to deal with the stress, of course. No job is more stressful long term than a post in the LP, and the hares eat vociferously to compensate. It's not even a meal-time, really, but that word has a different meaning at Salamandastron. Dagda makes his way through the door, still toting his healer's satchel, and humming pleasantly to himself. "Kitchennnn.... kitchen kitchen kitchennnn..."

The ears perk. Tyree's face pokes around the mini-feats. "Who's that then?" he barks in his most authoritative voice. He is an *officer*, so maybe he can scare whoever it is before they see him taking all this scrumptious stuff and decide to do... something... about it.

Blast these uppity officers. The mess hall should be the one place where a hare can't be... well... messed with. Dagda springs to attention, paw flying to his brow in a quick salute. "Dagda, sah! Healah, sah! Jus' about t' fetch some delicious vittles, sah!"

Tyree grumbles and mumbles from behind his food palace. He picks it up with only a huff of effort and starts to walk... teeter really... "Eh, well, just leave enough for the rest of us, eh, wot?" he says, one of his eyebrows raising up. "Dagda? Izzat you, boyo?"

"...wouldn' wanna get in th' way of y'r seconds, there, sah..." Dagda mutters smartly, then glances up at his name and grins as recognition hits him like a farmer's cart. "Tyree! How are you, sah?" The buck goes to clap the other on the shoulder, regardless of the food pyramid of Giza the officer is carrying.

Tyree's eyes bug out and he braces himself for the incoming collision. The top of the pile wobbles - a few confections come dangerously close to dropping - but Tyree recovers. "Protocol, Dag," Tyree grumbles. "Bad form to nearly make a hare drop his food, I say. M'doin' fine otherwise. You look..." He looks the other buck up and down. "Healthy."

Dagda shrugs easily, no great burden of food in his own paws as of yet. "'m keepin' fit," he replies, moving towards the food tables and pulling out a large tray, onto which he arranges a trio of plates and a pair of bowls. Options. "Jus' lookin' ahead, y'know, sah?" Tongs splash down into a large bowl of salad, and leaves begin to migrate from the wintry north of the table to the cheery south of Dag's tray. "Nevah know when trouble'll pop up."

"It often does, an' without warning," Tyree says, glancing suspiciously back and forth. "Good on ya keepin' your eyes open. Things *have* been quiet, haven't they?" He shakes his head. "I hate quiet," he grumbles. He's good at grumbling.

"Sure it'll change, sah," Dagda notes, loading increasing quantities of food onto his tray, arranging breadsticks like a log cabin and filling in the middle with some sort of cheese, then dumping in a large handful of almonds over it. "Only question's when. Usually only quiet 'cause we 'aven't 'eard it yet," he adds.

Tyree sniffs. He needs to start eating. "Right. Well. I'll take even an army of king crabs over this," he says, marching upstairs. "I'm a fightin' hare, Dag! I was made ta' fight! When was the last time we had an actual *Long* Patrol, eh? Too long. I see recruits gettin' winded just from jogging five laps round the mountain. Five! It's shameful, it is."

Dagda shakes his head at the horrendous shape of the current generation. "Recruits these days," he mutters in shared consternation, emptying a bottle of dressing atop his salad before selecting a roll or three and half a trencher of pastie. Thus armed, he follows the officer. "M'instructahs 'd tanned my fanny if 'd been been that slow." Nothing is ever what it used to be.

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Groups:

• Long Patrol