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Cold, the air and water flowing
WHO: Kahl-175 and you!
WHEN: Throughout December, mostly early in the month.
WHERE: The Inn and its surroundings.
WHAT: Kahl goes fishing, improvises some tableware, enjoys the snow, does some Cyborg Things™, and helps get people inside before curfew.
WARNINGS: None so far!
A. Fishing [[A relaxing pastime. Or is it?]]
Kahl's a little confused by the stick with a string on it, but he gets the idea. You put little bits of food on the hook, and that stabs the fish instead of Kahl stabbing them with a spear, right? It makes sense, but it's new to him.
So is fishing with ice. When he got deployed somewhere cold, it was cold. No liquid water anywhere. The idea of standing on a lake is weird, but it seems to be working so far.
Maybe. He hasn't seen any fish yet.
[[Either join Kahl in peaceful fishing adventures, or perhaps the ice starts making unpleasant noises under his weight. It might be about to give way...]]
B. Soup [[A primer on table manners in the Grineer Army.]]
Kahl caught fish! He'd been tempted to gut them and cook them out by the lake, but instead he brought them back to the kitchen. That would help pay for staying here.
And give him a chance to be proud of the fish.
It's not long before he's distracted by what's going on in the rest of the kitchen, though. "That smell good," he points to a large pot over a low fire. "Can eat?"
He gets the go-ahead. "Kahl thank," he unbuckles his helmet, running a hand over his bald head. That was a mistake. His prosthetics are cold.
All the more reason to have soup. It'll warm up the helmet before he puts it back on.
He ladles some soup into the helmet, grabbing a spoon on his way out of the kitchen and finding a seat somewhere near a fire to warm up.
He smiles to whoever else is nearby, gesturing with his makeshift bowl. "Good food here. You have enough?"
C. Snow [[See, snow!]]
The last time Kahl saw snow was in the army. But he hadn't really looked at it. You looked for stuff hiding in the snow. You looked for tracks that told you someone had walked through it. The snow itself was just there.
But now Kahl's thinking more about snow. How white it is until stuff gets in it, the crunching noises it makes in some places, and the way his feet sink into it when he walks.
Right now, he's just sitting outside the inn, looking at the snow. Picking up handfuls of it, trying to bring it up to his eye without breathing on it, so he can get a better look at what snow really is, before it turns into water.
There's a lot of stuff he missed in the army.
D. Maintenance [[Character deconstruction.]]
Snow is good. Ice, Kahl's less convinced about. And sand is bad. Sand got spread around on the ice, and then it gets into his ankle joints. He can feel the little grinding crunch of the grains. His hands are getting beat up too. One of his fingers hasn't been moving right since Eidris.
There's no spare parts here, so he'll just have to fix the ones he's got. He sits down in one of the big open rooms, taking out an equipment case built into his armor, laying out all the little tools on a table.
There's a quiet whirring noise from his right leg. He holds it steady and twists, his knee coming straight out of its socket. It sounded a bit loud, though. Maybe something up at the plug needed cleaning. That would be a pain.
Ankle first, though. He puts his detached lower leg on the table, leaning in to inspect the joints. Not bad. Not great, though. He'll disassemble it.
Bits of leg start piling up on the table in neat little rows, all metal and military-grade polymer. He doesn't know the names for all the parts, but he knows what they all do, and what they should look like. And they're going to be keeping him busy for a while.
E. Curfew [[Quick! An excuse for CR!]]
Curfew is easy for Kahl. Now that he's figured out how long the day cycles are here, he set a timer in his augments. No guesswork required, he knows exactly how much time they've got until the doors slam shut.
Which is why he's gesturing urgently to someone still outside. "Curfew, fifteen seconds! Ghosts coming. Get in!"
F. Wildcard! [[Got another idea? Hit me up on the planning post/CR meme, at CellarSpider#9984, or at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
PaleAntiquarian! If we've already discussed something, feel free to do your own TL!
And as a bonus for reading this far: the music from the title/cut text, We All Lift Together! I cannot be held liable if it gets stuck in your head for the next decade.]]
WHEN: Throughout December, mostly early in the month.
WHERE: The Inn and its surroundings.
WHAT: Kahl goes fishing, improvises some tableware, enjoys the snow, does some Cyborg Things™, and helps get people inside before curfew.
WARNINGS: None so far!
A. Fishing [[A relaxing pastime. Or is it?]]
Kahl's a little confused by the stick with a string on it, but he gets the idea. You put little bits of food on the hook, and that stabs the fish instead of Kahl stabbing them with a spear, right? It makes sense, but it's new to him.
So is fishing with ice. When he got deployed somewhere cold, it was cold. No liquid water anywhere. The idea of standing on a lake is weird, but it seems to be working so far.
Maybe. He hasn't seen any fish yet.
[[Either join Kahl in peaceful fishing adventures, or perhaps the ice starts making unpleasant noises under his weight. It might be about to give way...]]
B. Soup [[A primer on table manners in the Grineer Army.]]
Kahl caught fish! He'd been tempted to gut them and cook them out by the lake, but instead he brought them back to the kitchen. That would help pay for staying here.
And give him a chance to be proud of the fish.
It's not long before he's distracted by what's going on in the rest of the kitchen, though. "That smell good," he points to a large pot over a low fire. "Can eat?"
He gets the go-ahead. "Kahl thank," he unbuckles his helmet, running a hand over his bald head. That was a mistake. His prosthetics are cold.
All the more reason to have soup. It'll warm up the helmet before he puts it back on.
He ladles some soup into the helmet, grabbing a spoon on his way out of the kitchen and finding a seat somewhere near a fire to warm up.
He smiles to whoever else is nearby, gesturing with his makeshift bowl. "Good food here. You have enough?"
C. Snow [[See, snow!]]
The last time Kahl saw snow was in the army. But he hadn't really looked at it. You looked for stuff hiding in the snow. You looked for tracks that told you someone had walked through it. The snow itself was just there.
But now Kahl's thinking more about snow. How white it is until stuff gets in it, the crunching noises it makes in some places, and the way his feet sink into it when he walks.
Right now, he's just sitting outside the inn, looking at the snow. Picking up handfuls of it, trying to bring it up to his eye without breathing on it, so he can get a better look at what snow really is, before it turns into water.
There's a lot of stuff he missed in the army.
D. Maintenance [[Character deconstruction.]]
Snow is good. Ice, Kahl's less convinced about. And sand is bad. Sand got spread around on the ice, and then it gets into his ankle joints. He can feel the little grinding crunch of the grains. His hands are getting beat up too. One of his fingers hasn't been moving right since Eidris.
There's no spare parts here, so he'll just have to fix the ones he's got. He sits down in one of the big open rooms, taking out an equipment case built into his armor, laying out all the little tools on a table.
There's a quiet whirring noise from his right leg. He holds it steady and twists, his knee coming straight out of its socket. It sounded a bit loud, though. Maybe something up at the plug needed cleaning. That would be a pain.
Ankle first, though. He puts his detached lower leg on the table, leaning in to inspect the joints. Not bad. Not great, though. He'll disassemble it.
Bits of leg start piling up on the table in neat little rows, all metal and military-grade polymer. He doesn't know the names for all the parts, but he knows what they all do, and what they should look like. And they're going to be keeping him busy for a while.
E. Curfew [[Quick! An excuse for CR!]]
Curfew is easy for Kahl. Now that he's figured out how long the day cycles are here, he set a timer in his augments. No guesswork required, he knows exactly how much time they've got until the doors slam shut.
Which is why he's gesturing urgently to someone still outside. "Curfew, fifteen seconds! Ghosts coming. Get in!"
F. Wildcard! [[Got another idea? Hit me up on the planning post/CR meme, at CellarSpider#9984, or at
And as a bonus for reading this far: the music from the title/cut text, We All Lift Together! I cannot be held liable if it gets stuck in your head for the next decade.]]
no subject
Ah, but to be the keeper of an overgrown, seemingly distraught child. Excuse Lan Wangji, lord and master of the world's most intuitive frown, sketched long, deep and unwavering while he toys with the ladle as if it were a blade, twirled and balanced between his fingers.
He does not shiver, does not move, does not back down. They are as men, not animals, not infants. Possessed of manners, of lawful habits, of decorum. They might have paved bricks of misfortune on a road of otherwise benevolent intentions from Sa-Hareth to Serthica, but they can retain enough dignity to recall base kitchen manners.
"You may cleanse your bowl thereafter."
And settle this apparently gruesome mental paradigm that is shaking Kahl's world, while Lan Wangji silently points towards the mounds of freshly-washed pots, pans and bowls by the great sinks. Fetch, sir.
no subject
He doesn't get it.
But by the time he returns with a bowl, he's purged the itch of annoyance with a deep sigh. "Kahl sorry."
And he means it. "Brother Horrek say same thing. Kahl not understand." But Horrek would side against him here, and it feels bad to ignore his brother back on Earth.
...His helmet's still full of soup, though.
no subject
Other than Lan Wangji's lingering horror, faithfully measured in sighs of endless, faraway frustration. The next one threatens to tear his lungs. The one after to singe his ribs.
He gazes onto the ceiling's skies and wishes himself, not for the first time, the better man, ignorant of all the ways in which this travesty of conduct defies logic, grace or explanation. The helmet brims with thin fluid, watery and milked. He shudders, and accepts the bowl from Kahl's hand, delivering it to the great station where cauldrons and pots line the day's formation of soups, stews and frotting meat sauces.
Then, he eases in a few ladles' fill of thick-cream soup, returning to set it carefully before Kahl's end of the table, armed with a spoon besides.
"Deploy the spoon." And because this seems vital, "Slowly."
no subject
That was all he was going to argue about it. He'd done something Grineer that people didn't like, but nobody here knew Grineer. Not their fault. As long as it didn't get pushed further.
He carefully eats a spoonful of the soup. The scars on the left side of his face pull down on his lips and make it difficult to eat like this, but the effort is worth it.
"Soup taste good." He has no other word to describe it. Horrek has lots. Even Chipper has some, though Chipper doesn't eat like they do. Chipper still has opinions about the smell. Some of them were even nice opinions. "Remind Kahl of home."
He takes a bit more, glancing at the man. Kahl's seen him around, just enough to know he's with the group. He doesn't know who this is, but...
No, maybe he does. "Your name Absterge on network?"
He'd only seen text from Absterge, but nobody else here seemed to talk like that. They all talked like... people who weren't Grineer.
no subject
"A designation."
Not a name in the way of people freshly born, only a style choice, code. He cannot speak for how better men choose their appellatives on the pendant-talk, but 'absterge' suits notes of musical and moral purification — suits him, intrinsically.
He slips on the crooked, three-legged seat opposite Kahl, like a parent prepared to carefully supervise an operation and let no tremor of inappropriate misconduct pass. The chair, dutifully, flirts with its balance, swaying back-and-forth-and-back-and-forth before stilling at long last, in place.
"Wangji, clan Lan." And tender, in the way of every father who has rescued and revitalised a child torn from the shapes of starvation, "Slowly. Eat your fill."
There is no rush here, no threat of danger, of injury, of disaster. They may be pursued at every turn, but Lan Wangji's hand rests on the hilt of his sheathed sword, the kitchen hands stand close, and fresh stew coagulates, scent warm, replete with onions' sweet.
"No man gives you chase."
no subject
No one used the numbers anyway, not unless there was nothing else. Grineer used designations too, ones they made themselves. When he ran into tube brothers in the army, he was Lancer Kahl, or Eight Squad Kahl, or Shiny Kahl, once he'd gotten his new armor. Now he was Veilbreaker Kahl. And he was glad to be called that.
Names were complicated for everyone though, and this man was no exception. "Kahl know Ostron have clans. Not know much else. Clan like family? Or like..." He'd say tube, but non-Grineer probably wouldn't understand. "Like where Wangji come from?"
It's hard to miss how Wangji is holding a sword. But he's not behaving like someone who expects an attack. He's being careful. Being someone who watches out for others.
Kahl nods. "Kahl glad." He'll eat slow, giving himself more time to work around his scars.