[ OPEN ] Il Sogno Va Nel Tempo

[ombranera]

WHO: Zevran Arainai
WHERE: Inn, Fountain Park, Fishmonger
WHEN: December 4th
OPEN TO: OPEN TO ALL
WARNINGS: Mentions of fish gutting and cleaning, Google Translate Abuse (hover over Antivan/Italian for translation), Spicy Storytime will have some sexual content. A lot. Mostly sexual content.

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INN - The Barber of Antiva

It's early in the day when Zevran finds not one, but three boxes with his name written upon them well, he assumes Satinalia came early, especially once he gets a look at the contents. One has him grinning, fetching the store of shaving kits he'd found in the Inn, packing a bag before setting up with a message offer to the whole of the village.

Need a shave, trim, conditioning, scalp massage or styling? Perhaps you wish your hair braided in a fetching manner, or your nails filed and buffed. I will be in the Inn near the fire offering these services all morning.

It took a trip or two to find a kettle and platter from one of the abandoned houses, a large bowl for steamed water and towels from more of the same, folded and steaming with water as he bustles about a chair. An arrangement of lotions, oils, creams and soaps are set on the table next to him as he whistles a bright tune, straight razor scraping in a steady rhythm against the strop on his thigh. This is simple, relatively wholesome work- and an excellent way to learn all the village gossip. The fact that it would earn him some favor with the locals doesn't hurt either.


FISHMONGER- Fishsticks!

The second of the boxes prompts him to risk the cold, bundled up by the dock, floating a line in the water. He has done this before in sunnier weather, the height of summer- it takes stillness, patience, and a keen eye. Awaiting the proper opportunity. It works well enough, pulling fish up from the river, setting them in a bucket to carry back to the building for cleaning and descaling- bloody work to cut open and remove the guts and blood from the succulent meat. Guts to one bucket, fillets to another, Bones and heads to yet another for use in a stock later. It would be a simple enough past time if not for the mice that keep running across the boards and freezing his fish solid.

Once or twice he could ignore it, but by the third? He's swearing, swatting at the tiny mice, trying to protect his hard won spoils."Ho intenzione di trovare te e tutti i tuoi piccoli bambini grassi e bollirli!"


INN - Kitchen Takeover

"Andiamo a vedere alla spiaggia mentre splende la luna piena," Bottle of wine uncorked and at least a glass in his system to start (to cook is to drink is to cook, it's a rule. One cannot be done without the other.) which makes singing all the easier. He is warm, he has a box full of spices with which to cook, a collection of flour and eggs, vegetables and fresh fish. Perhaps someone else intended to handle cooking the lunch today but Zevran will offer any that sweep in with the intent of doing so off to the side, offer them a cup of wine and a chance to rest as he sets about kneading fresh pasta, stewing vegetables and garlic, measuring out spices and oil for a shallow fry.

He might be dusted with flour and have a smear of sauce on his jaw, but he's the brightest, happiest he's been since he woke in the frigid fountain. Flitting from where he is working the dough to where he is stirring sauce to where he is marinating fish to where he is mulling wine is less a jog and more a dance from surface to surface, singing all the while. "E tiritùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – ttù. E tiritùppete – ttùppete – ttùppete – la tarantella la llara lla llá!"


FOUNTAIN PARK - Fire Dancing

Something he'd learned (on accident, he didn't mean to set part of the table on fire and he put it out QUICKLY so that must count, yes? Yes) was despite the strange mice and their freezing, skittering feet; he now has magic. Fire. And well, never let it be said Zevran ignored a skill. One must practice with their magic to learn to control it, yes? Yes. Or there will be demons. He starts simply enough, holding a flame in his palm, lighting a stick, dunking it in the fountain and attempting to light it again. Here is safe since, well. There is water right there in case anything goes wrong. As the day winds on he manages to direct balls of flame like spinning poi, carving quick circles as he spins around the lip of the fountain. Because he likes to live dangerously, of course-

Or be able to dunk himself in if he sets something on him on fire.


INN - STORY TIME With Zevran (option for Mild or SPICY)

The end of the day (a marvelous day, a wondrous day) has Zevran, full, warm, cup of mulled wine in hand, feeling far more conversational than he has been since his arrival. There are no Crows. No one has any reason to wish him dead, elves are strange but not lesser, the people here are as lost and lonely and bored as he. Why not take advantage and spin a few tales? He gestures as he speaks, plucking from stories of his latest grand adventure.

Mild

"So there we are, trapped in a cursed forest, mist to one side that only ever turns us about, werewolves on the other penning us in, and who offers us aid? Not the Dalish, no, they were tending to their sick, not the dwarves we won allegiance from earlier, they were preparing for the battle to come. But a Tree. A rhyming, living, breathing oak!" He crackles brightly, hands flicking up to measure the height and breadth of the thing. "Everything he said. Insult or assistance or question, all came in rhyme. It was charming for the first five minutes but then grew terribly dull."

Spicy

"This is- I mean normally a gentleman does not kiss and tell, yes? But you and I my friend-" A few cups of wine in while warm, loose, and feeling quite safe? Anyone could be his friend. He lists forward, hair spilling over one shoulder, eyes glimmering bright in the firelight, voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You and I both know I am no gentleman."

Zev's nose wrinkles as he snorts, a half stuttered giggle. "But this Contessa, ah- she had strange tastes no? She promises 'oh my husband does not satisfy me, oh he does not know what burns in my blood' and I, well, I have tried many a thing and heard of even more so whatever it is this lovely, and I do mean lovely woman with eyes like embers and a chest like two melons straining against her bodice? I am more than willing to try. Normally when nobles say 'oh this thing it is so kinky' usually it means 'tie me up and call me names' which, well. You do you, I suppose. But the Contessa? Had far more dangerous tastes."

Comments

[ombranera]

"E tiritùppete – ttùppete-" He pivots on one heel, turning to go back to rolling out more of the gnocchi as his audience makes herself known. With great emphasis. "Ah, cooking? Making pasta, specifically."

He rolls off yet another of the small dumplings, setting it next to it's brothers as he carefully dusts his arms clear over the table where it might settle on the pasta, rather than go to waste on the table or the floor. "You are the lady that usually prepares our meals, yes? Marvelous! Today you get to take a rest, I will handle the lunch. It is a bit different from the usual hearty stews, and they are quite hearty and delicious but-"

As he speaks he sweeps to the mulled wine, ladling out a cup, collecting a chair to offer both to her. "Sit, drink, enjoy the warmth."

[lastofthekellys]

That wine is nowhere strong enough for what she wants, and it certainly won't do anything if Kate were to, oh, say, grab it and drown in one gulp, but God help her, she's tempted. Instead, she stands her ground, arms crossed and eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

Dimly, she's aware of the care he's using to make sure the flour doesn't touch the flour. Dimly.

"A rest," she repeats, flatly. She just manages to bite back a rather childish, I don't want to rest. Instead, her eyes move from dumplings to the pots, trying to take in everything he's doing.

[ombranera]

"Si, Mia Dama-" Chair set before her and cup held carefully level he sweeps into a courtly bow- the longer skirt, the corset, and her stern demeanor speaks to status even if her accent places her more to the Marches or Ferelden- which would explain why she is bothering to cook at all. Such women are still fair and fine and fierce but- more hardworking than the average untouchable woman of Antiva.

"While I prepare Dragon on a Stick, Fish Chowder, gnocchi, mulled wine and I think I shall have enough pasta dough for a good sized pot of fettuccine- a little garlic and oil, a little egg, perhaps some pork. Simple enough and quite filling." He beams, terribly proud of himself despite the stern face.

[lastofthekellys]

At another time, the idea of anyone mistaking her as a lady would make Kate laugh herself sick. Oh, she's pale enough thanks to the judicious use of hats, but a closer look at her hands and wrists would show a lifetime of hard work. And then there's her voice, showing all the tangled mess of her background which marks her as working class and undesirable. But this man, this.... Italian dandy with those strange, strange ears can't flatter her and flirt her into submission. This is her domain.

The smells in the kitchen are making her hungry. It's just something different, and isn't that a pampered thing to complain about. Different, and nice, and someone else has done the work and it isn't one of Fair Folk who've taken them all prisoner. All of which just makes her angrier, with her body betraying the principle of the matter.

"No pork." She says it as if that's a line in the sand, the last straw. "None, don't you dare touch it. We'll need it later."

[ombranera]

"Mmm...I suppose it can be done without- unless you'l allow me to take trimmings of the fat? Truly that is all that is required." Fat and the barest traces of meat for flavor, but most of the work will be done with the oil and the egg, perhaps a bit of the cheese he'd gathered on his way over. It could work. It would.

"Please. Sit, drink, perhaps I can treat you with something sweet for your indulgence." There is, well. Flour and eggs and he has his own bag of sugar he has yet to crack into, ginger and the oil for frying. Something simple and creamy shouldn't be difficult to whip up. "Perhaps I can explain what I am making? So you know what I have used. On my name I have not taken anything that was in low stock or scarce, you have my word."