sixthiterationlogs | 002; and if you sing this melody, you'll be pretending just like me

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002; and if you sing this melody, you'll be pretending just like me

WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: Vegetable patch behind the Town Hall/The Inn
WHEN: September 1st
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open

VEGETABLE PATCH

When Benedict learned that there was a vegetable patch that had been set up behind the town hall, he had been nearly overjoyed. Finally, something he could do! Stripped of his gauntlet and his sword, unable to use many of the so-called weapons that had been dubiously provided for them, and never having hunted a day in his life -- frankly, he finds the whole idea more than a little off-putting, killing an animal and then eating it like some kind of barbarian -- he's been feeling rather useless since he popped out of the fountain. He's been spending his time doing what he can around the Inn, helping Miss Kelly with her lunchtime preparations, stirring pots for her and cleaning up after all is said and done. But even that can only take up so much of his time, and he's felt uncomfortably idle once all the washing-up had been completed.

And then he found out about the vegetable garden, and finally, there is something he can do.

Growing in soil is highly uncommon in Spires, mainly because the logistics of getting soil in which to grow plants so far off the ground is a nightmare. However, the monks at the Temple of the Way managed to acquire many things that the general populace did not, and Benedict remembers many long hours spent carefully tending little green shoots in rich, dark soil being part of his novitiate training.

The soil here isn't quite the same, not nearly as loamy between his fingers, but it is still cool and damp, and settling to his knees between the little plants to pluck the weeds and make sure nothing is growing that shouldn't be and no critters are eating anything they shouldn't is nearly meditative in nature, and for the first time since he crawled out of the fountain, he feels at peace. Even being down on the Surface isn't enough to dim his good mood.

THE INN; front steps

His excitement at discovering the vegetable patch was nothing compared to his excitement when he learned that the head gardener -- Mister Watney, according to Miss Kelly -- was intending to establish a bee hive. He'd seen a few fat little yellow and black insects bobbing around the late-blooming wildflowers that still dot the valley in which their habble is set, but the idea to try and collect them into a hive of their own hadn't occurred to him until it was suggested, and then it was all he could think about.

He's going to build a skep or two for the bees to live in. That, more than the occasional shift weeding, will be one of his more helpful contributions to the habble, he thinks.

There is not much hay with which to work as there don't seem to be any fields that have been cultivated for that purpose, but Benedict likes to think he's able to problem-solve as well as anyone else, and he's decided to supplement what dried grasses he was able to collect with the reeds that grow along the riverbank. Along with the reeds, he discovered a beautiful willow tree that supplied exactly the kind of branches he needed so that he could split them into three thinner sections to "sew" the twisted reeds and hay together. It's a somewhat messy job, which is why he's set up shop on the front steps of the Inn, off to one side so he can spread out his materials without making a huge mess in the common room (which would, of course, mean running the risk of getting scolded by Miss Kelly for increasing the need for sweeping).

Whistling to himself, Benedict takes one of the thin, supple willow branches and starts to whittle down one end, smoothing it out before he makes a cut with a knife at the end and starts to carefully split it down its length.

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It was hard not to feel useless sometimes here when your skill set didn't really fit with the tools available. He had sort of taken to being a jack of all trades and learning as many of the skills to survive as he could. That's not to say that he didn't already possess them to some degree, after all he'd been trained by the military to survive a lot and then that had been supplemented by training with the Avengers. However, even most of that training relied on some tools that they simply didn't have or were limited here. Sam had learned to adapt in the two months he was here and had taken on the role of scout, trapper, gardener, and cook.

It was possible he'd spotted the new guy around if he spent time with Miss Kate, since Sam had been keeping an eye on her ever since her accident in the gardens. He liked to help in the kitchen too, since that was the one place he DIDN'T have to improve his skills. Still, he hadn't really had a chance to talk to the new guy yet and, since it was Sam's turn in the garden, now seemed like as good a time as any.

He approached the garden dressed in his usual garden work attire: overalls, tank top, and ball cap. He was carrying a bucket of water and nodded to the young man as he approached, "Morning. Any signs of sprouts yet?"

Benedict looks up from his poking about in the dirt when he senses another presence beside him, lifting his head just in time to hear his new companion greet him as ask about the garden.

"No, not really," Benedict admits, brushing the dirt that's clinging to his hands off to the ground at his feet, not even bothering at this point in time to say anything about the lack of introduction. It seems to be par for the course for this habble. "The seeds were planted too recently for much to have grown."

He just likes getting his fingers into the soft, dark soil. It's cool and comforting, and when he's down on his knees like this, he can almost pretend he's back in the Temple with the monks, even though all the noises and smells are wrong. There are strange birds here, and a distinct lack of incense, but the garden feels homey and comforting, and that's worth a lot in this day and age.

"True...wasn't much of a gardener before this so I guess I have unrealistic expectations about how long this is supposed to take," Sam remarks. He sets the water down at his feet, eyes scanning the garden to see what areas are needing water. They'd been pretty good at not over watering thanks to the guidance of people who were much better at growing plants. Sam is glad they have people who know what they are doing and, even more importantly, are willing to share that knowledge with others.

"Can't wait to start seeing some results--Watney said we'd be cutting it close though and that's without taking into account we don't know what new curve balls this place will throw at us," he continues, figuring he'll keep talking while he starts getting ready to water the garden. It's a little more difficult to do without a hose, but it's another skill he's learned in his time here. He's probably learned more survival skills in the few months he's been here than he ever did a year in the military, though that might be a bit of an exaggeration or, at the very least, a different kind of survival.

Right, he should probably introduce himself. The village is still small, but that doesn't mean Sam's actually gotten the chance to speak to everyone, especially if they're freshly arrived. "Name's Sam, I don't think we've really run into each other yet."

Cougar has been aimless for some time. He wishes he could pretend he doesn't know why, but he does. Though he and Jake have reached a detente, they're still fraught with a tension that marks his daily life. He spends more time out in the fields hunting and tracking, which means he avoids having to come home and sleep some nights. It makes him tired and starts to lend to frustration, but he also knows that he needs to make the move to fix things and he's not sure how to do that yet.

When he comes across a new face at the front of the inn, he frowns, but the whittling takes up his curiosity. Pointing to it, Cougar nods to it with his chin. "What are you doing?" he asks.

Benedict is about halfway through the first willow branch he's got, peeling the bark off and removing any bumps or leaf knobs that might catch on the straw when he begins to sew, when a man approaches him.

He looks like he might come from Spire Aurora, which automatically puts up Benedict's guard, but that moment goes as quickly as it comes, and he forces himself to look up to meet the man's eyes and smile politely at his question, not showing any indication of how frustrating he finds the habit of this habble of not offering introductions.

"I am preparing to build a skep," he explains, gesturing down to his collection of materials. "For the bees. Miss Kelly tells me Mister Watney would like to cultivate a hive. They will need a place to live, so..."

Cougar tips his head to the side, studying the item in question. He's never heard of it, but he also doesn't spend much of his time tending to bees, mainly because there was very little cause to tend to bees in the army. It's not like he could have used them for assaults. "How does it work?" he wonders, because even though he didn't know about bees before, he could stand to learn about them now.

After all, who knows when he might need to help?

The man's curiosity seems genuine, for all that he doesn't seem inclined to introduce himself, and so Benedict discards that one formality and focuses instead on the opportunity to educate someone about the skills he actually does possess.

(Benedict is a little sore about how unuseful he is around here. He's a fair fighter, even with unfamiliar weapons such as these, but farming? Hunting? Cooking? He's out of his depth.)

"The straw gets coiled tightly," he explains, gesturing to the pile of materials at his feet, "and the willow is used to sew or weave it together. Eventually, a skep is formed, in the shape of a basket, or a bell, and the bees will take up residence and colonize it."

Cougar steps closer and tips his baseball cap up just enough that he can get a good look as to what's going on with the threading. His attention is careful, his eyes assessing every single thing they can. "Can it be used for other things?" he wonders, because he only has limited wire and he wants to make a netting or sorts for the eggs to fall into, when they hatch.

Then, they could just collect them without worrying of breakages.

A new face hanging around the inn hasn't escaped Jess' notice; truth be told, as unfortunate as it is that their numbers are growing, having an extra set of hands around is nice. Giving himself time to think is dangerous and he does what he can to keep occupied most days, working from sun up to sundown, but he's just one person. There are a lot of moving parts to eking out a life like this, more than he'd ever guessed when he'd had modern conveniences to fall back on.

Jess has taken a particular liking to the axe plundered from the color-coded crates. Mind you, not because of any real predilection for the weapon--it's too heavy for his tastes, allowing far less agility than would a knife--but because if he can't drive a blade into the faces of their disembodied overlords, he might as drive it into a tree and collect firewood at the same time.

He's just finished dragging a load back and stacking it against the inn when he comes around the corner, axe balanced on his shoulder and sweat still glistening on his brow. Jess gives a loose salute of greeting at seeing Benedict's head of dark hair. "Hey. How's it going?"

The other looks hard at work with whatever he has going on. Had Frank come along and dumped some work on Benedict, too, or had Jess just been the lucky one to braid some grass for him?

It has not escaped Benedict's notice that the other inhabitants of this habble — those he knows and those he doesn't — have all seemed to give themselves jobs to do. This is excellent, in his opinion, and part of the reason he's decided to build the skeps. He has experience in beekeeping, and while he hasn't gone around asking if the others have too, it appears he might be the only one. Ergo, he might as well be the one to get started with creating apiaries in which the bees can live.

The muffled sounds of activity have become normal for him, so he does not find the noises of wood being dragged to and fro alarming enough for him to break away from his work, which means he is still engrossed in what he's doing when Jess comes around the corner, sweaty from his hard work.

He smiles as he looks up when Jess calls out to him, inclining his head in greeting. "It goes well, so far," he says, looking down at what he's got in his hands, taking Jess' slang literally. "I am going to build a skep for the bees."

Jess brushes aside a comma of hair stuck to his forehead with the back of his hand and comes to lean the axe against the porch banister, giving his muscles a break. He doesn't mind Benedict's various formalities; his size and his speech sometimes remind Jess of Thomas, and if that makes his heart ache, he thinks it's a good ache. It means he hasn't forgotten.

Pain keeps a person focused.

"A beehive?" he echoes with an academic curiosity, leaning an arm on the rail. You can take the postulant out of Scholar training, but you can't take the Scholar training out of the postulant; he recognizes the word, but he hasn't seen one outside of a book before.

"You're into beekeeping now?"

"Yes, a beehive," Benedict replies, returning to his skep-building since it seems Jess won't interrupt him beyond simple conversation.

He shrugs, lifting one shoulder elegantly as he skillfully strips the bark and any leaf nubbins off the wood in his lap. "When I was younger, I had thoughts to join the Order of the Way. There were bees at the monastery, and it was part of my duties as a novitiate to learn care for them. The monks taught me how to build a skep and how to tend the bees once they colonize it."

It's a little late in the season to collect much honey, he thinks, but it wouldn't do to let their little bee colony drift away to greener pastures, or worse, die over the winter months that are apparently on their way.

He blinks at this piece of news and tries to imagine Benedict's tall, brawny figure in a set of robes. "I wouldn't have guessed you for a monk."

But then, is that really any more surprising than a book smuggler wanting to keep books and ending up in the service of the Library? Jess doesn't know what he looks like to others--the street rat he'd once been? a soldier? a spy? all of the above? none?--or if he fits into any mental category. He hadn't had a choice in what to do with his life, so it would be difficult compare the person he'd imagined himself to be and the person he is now, like Benedict.

He's always been a Brightwell, and that's always had to be enough.

"What happened? You said you had thoughts. You didn't go through with the vows in the end?"

Raven's spent too much time indoors. Holed up in one of the rooms she's taken for a workstation within the inn, she's determined to stretch her legs — her two good legs — and get some sunshine, and perhaps even steal something from an abandoned bungalow again. The state of her grey scrubs, slightly stained with black and charcoal, tell the tale of great adventures others would find dull and perhaps useless.

The most exciting parts of her day often occur within her own space, or when she's breaking the law and taking what isn't hers. But there's no police within the town to arrest her, and so Raven barrels down the inn stairs with a skip to her step, looking forward to doing something illegal once more.

The front door to the inn opens wide, and the skip to her step stops along with her. There's someone unfamiliar sitting on the front porch, making a mess of the entrance to the inn. She studies the back of him for a quick moment, determining she hadn't seen him inside of the inn when they'd discovered those ridiculous crates and weapons.

"Who are you?"

Benedict hears the steady thunk of footsteps before his new visitor even gets close, which is one of the reasons he doesn't jump when a voice demands, rather harshly, to know who he is.

Glancing up at his new companion, he gives her a rather bland smile. "I am Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster," he replies, and inclines his head to her a little in what passes for a bow since he's sitting down and his hands are full. He's come to realize, in his short time here, that most of the people in this habble are not as much a stickler for propriety as he (and Miss Kate) can be, so he's allowed himself to unbend slightly. But even so, a lady deserves respect, so his following question is not quite as harsh as hers had been.

"And you might be?" He's not sure he's seen her before, but then again, there aren't many people living at the Inn itself, and even those that do tend to keep their own hours. When he's busy in the kitchen assisting Miss Kelly, he's not really paying much attention to who might wander in and out of the common room.

His name's a mouthful.

His manners aren't so much. She recognises the little tilt of his head, and finds it to be slightly foreign to her. There'd been propriety on the Ark, with some men standing when a lady stood at a table, men opening doors for women, pulling out their chairs, but it hadn't been ingrained into the society of the Sky People. It's still missing in Arkadia, and they've got more space and more people to hold open doors for now.

"Raven Reyes," she replies. She lets the door of the inn close behind her. Steps small in stride, she approaches him, arms folding over her chest as she glances at what he's doing. "What are you doing?"

This morning's breakfast at the Inn? Burdock root patties, flavoured with herbs and flowers. Kate's getting better at this, she thinks. Taking what she learns from Watney, applying it. Finding out what is palatable and what isn't, and what even tastes decent. Nice. It's work, of course, but so is everything here. And those at the Inn are...

Are, well, more her people than anything else here. They are ones who live with her, and if she's making breakfast for herself, she's making enough for everyone. Today, there was enough for later. To be reheated for a light supper before bed, and it'll be one of the rare days where they have something to eat at three parts during the day.

Or maybe four, because when Kate walks out at mid-morning (as the sun rises, not as any clock would have it, but then, she's never really paid much attention to those things) there's a plate with three of the patties in her hand.

"Hungry?" she offers, sitting down on the steps next to Benedict and holding the plate out to him. She'll ask what he is doing in a moment, and ask if she can help. But first...

Food.

He's a big man: he needs to eat.

Benedict can hear someone approaching him from behind, though he's not sure who until they get close enough that he can hear the muted swish of skirts. There is only one woman who wears skirts in this habble, and that is Miss Kelly.

Sure enough, he hears her voice shortly, and he's already smiling as he glances up to see her appear beside him.

"Only if there's enough to spare," he replies, eying the plate she's got in her hands. It's what they had for breakfast, and he was surprised how much he enjoyed it the first time, so he's not going to complain about being offered it again. Even if he's not quite as ravenous as he'd expect to be by this time of day. "And only if you share it with me," he adds, arching an eyebrow at her in challenge.

Miss Kelly is a slight woman, far smaller than he, but even she needs to eat to sustain herself. Not to mention, Benedict would rather like to engineer a reason for her to stay with him a little bit longer.

He sets down his willow branch, split carefully in two, and wipes his hands on the legs of his trousers — they were called overalls, he'd been told, a name that makes a certain amount of sense even if the garment itself is wholly unfamiliar — before reaching out to accept the plate Miss Kelly is holding out to him.

"Oh, you do drive a hard bargain, Mr Sorellin," Kate says in reply, catching his eye and holding it as she very deliberately picks up a patty and bites into it. Her movements have all the casual slyness of a cat stealing some food - oh, no, this isn't stealing, this is all for me, look at how clever I am for not!stealing this food.

Internally, though, there is a bit of a difference. A bit of, Catherine Ada, what are you doing? You're flirting.

She shushes it.

Why shouldn't she flirt with a pretty man who brings her flowers? And who doesn't know who she is and what she's done and who her brothers were?

Benedict would like to say that there's nothing wrong with flirting, but he's not exactly very well versed in the art. And he's certainly not used to pretty girls flirting with him.

"Do I?" he asks, watching her take a bite whilst looking up at him through her lashes.

It's only when she starts to chew that he realizes he's staring and looks away, hoping he's not blushing. He can feel his ears growing warm, though, so he's pretty sure that hope is useless. He distracts himself by taking a patty for himself, nibbling on the edge. "These really are very good," he says, sort of hoping that focusing on the food will keep her from focusing on what a fool he's making of himself. "Did you cook much back home?"

Oh he is delightful, this man. She's enjoying talking to him. Getting him to blush and look at her like that. It makes her feel warm and... And noticed. In ways that have nothing to do with hard work, or any notoriety.

"Thank you. And, yes, I do. Or used to. Before I left the farm, I either cooked all the helps, or helped out Ma cookin'."

She takes another bite, glances out over the dirt road and all the foliage growing around them.

"I'm used to cookin' for a lot people. Makin' sure everyone's fed. Got their share."

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002; and if you sing this melody, you'll be pretending just like me

Vegetable Garden

OKAY LET'S DO THIS

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The Inn

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inn!

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