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Ok…. Time for the morning.
Wilhelm
Fog was rolling through the gardens out his window. Wilhelm sat in the deep sil. The feel of solid stone under him, around him, comforted him like a familiar blanket. He rested his head against the leaded pane and watched his breath cloud the glass.
His prayer beads lay in their box on the floor beside him. Rest and a return to routine had done more for him than the promise of breakfast could.
As did the letter he had found delivered to the tiny mailbox outside his door.
Wilhelm, his brother had written with all the mixed importance and rustic simplicity of a 17 year-old bachelor squire of the body. I received your note this evening, and hope that you are safely arrived at that heathen school by now. I would think a fortnight after crossing the sea would be more than enough time. It has certainly been a long time here.
There is a new Knight in the region. Father says he is one of the false orders and forbids any close friendship. It is a pity . He has a son my age with a real skill for hunting. You would like him. Father even likes him, although he says the whole family talks like low borns. As if we would care about figurative nobility by inheritance over real nobility of heart. They are sincere enough, though they do not know the first things about the Teachings. We shall see. I am not making any firm decision for the time being.
Speaking of Noblity… I dare say common folk rarely have this delight. Your lady love has asked me to tell her when you arrive and where she can direct her letters. I am sorry. I had to tell her. But perchance you need this test in gallantry. You must write in reply, but Mother taught us how to do that well enough. I have full confidence in your chivalry.
Still, I hope this letter reaches you first, before all others. Our lessons are maddeningly tedious without you to shake up the lectures with your questions. You always ask the best questions. May you find some good answers.
Always,
Otto Kemp, Esquire
ChaosGremlin™
Callum
Callum rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn. He rubbed his eyes, tracing his hand over the colorful decor of his bedroom walls to find a lamp. He lit it, shook his head hard enough to strike his own face with his hair beads, and let out a tired groan.
In the hall, outside his room, hardly anybody was there. Most of the doors were still locked. The lamps were dead, but a cool gray light shone in from the windows. A few servants travelled back and forth across the lush carpet.
“Excuse me? Um… hello.” Callum got the attention of a boy servant. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“What?” the boy asked.
“Can we… switch clothes?” At the look on the servant’s face, Callum dug around in his pocket and held out a few beads. Ozcrijan currency. “This is enough to get yourself out of the academy on a break day and enjoy yourself in the nearest town.”
A few minutes later, Callum stumbled out of his room again, this time in a white tunic and black pants. He had removed any trace of gold from his fingers and hair, and his feet were clad in durable leather shoes.
He slipped down the hallway and walked off, towards the dining hall. He avoided showing other people his face. But it seemed like no one recognized him or cared.
Callum was just a nameless servant now.
The other students were probably going to start studying politics, economics, and every important subject accessible in the library and classes. This was their first day, after all, and everyone wanted to push themselves to the highest excellence.
Callum would study those things too… eventually. The truth was, he knew next to nothing about royal affairs. His family must have known that when they took him in. They probably expected him to catch up with his peers. But where was he supposed to start?
Imbecile. Callum insulted himself under his breath. Why hadn’t he asked his family about this before leaving?
But that didn’t matter right now. Today, he was going to do the singular thing he was good at.
Callum crossed the dining hall. He steeled himself and slipped through the kitchen door.
The scents of warm, sizzling breakfast struck him in the face. The scents belonged to pastries, fresh bread, jellies, tomatoes, sausages encased in thick, pooling sauces, and herbs crushed into melted butter. A colorful mixture of them – spicy, sweet, and comforting – filled Callum’s nose as he breathed in and out.
Cooks dashed to and fro. The preparations were in full swing, and one man was at the helm. He stood in the center of the room – uniform spotless, eyes glittering like two cocktail cherries.
Master LeQoi.
Callum gazed at the master chef for a full thirty seconds. Every thought of concealing his identity – and acting like every other servant in the kitchen – flew out of his head. His mouth opened and shut wordlessly, like a fish.
This was a man who sculpted taste. A man who made pictures out of flavors. A man who was never afraid of pressure, but instead rose above it, and took hold of the food world by storm.
“Hey, boy,” one of the cooks snapped. “You’re late. The baking pans need to be scoured as soon as they’re out of the oven. And start lugging some more cooking oil out of the pantry, will you?”
“Y-Yes, sir.” Callum shuffled off. Just like that, he was part of the crew. A small, lowly crew member, at least.
Now he just had to keep the ruse alive.
…
Oh. OH. oh dear.
LeQoi
Nations. Kingdoms. Empires. Heirs to them all in his own masterful fingers.
A pity, really. A delightful pity.
“Hey, boy, you’re late.” A voice rose above the ordered murmurs of his dominion. LeQoi shifted his molten chocolate gaze to the offender. Said chef did not notice. “The baking pans need to be scoured as soon as they’re out of the oven. And start lugging some more cooking oils out of the pantry, will you?”
A boy, a servant child, scurried to follow the chef’s demands, mild concern and confusion etched into the youthful though unfamiliar contours of his face. And no wonder. LeQoi took one step towards the white capped tomato. What was his name again? Ah, yes. His white gloves hand dropped on the man’s shoulder.
The pleasant bubbling of sound died.
“Ma chère tomate, do we use a touch more cayenne than my recipe decrees?”
The man’s unfortunately red face burned redder. LeQoi smiled.
“Then do not over season the air with your voice. And, tomate,” the master cheff’s voice dropped to a simmer. “it is olive, or linseed, or whatever other oil my recipe calls for.”
The man blanched. LeQoi gave his shoulder one icy pat before stepping back to his place at the center of his realm.
La tomate avait été tranchée. L‘enfant serait surveillé.
A cup of tea is cheaper than therapy.
The French internal dialogue is my fav
Callum
Callum only half-listened to the conversation between LeQoi and his cook. LeQoi was an all-knowing master and knew exactly how to restore order. The best way for Callum to be worthy of this job was to hold his head down and do as he was told.
He had to be fast. Efficient. Thorough.
He carried out jugs of oil, flour bags, meat, and other pantry items, and distributed them where people wanted them. Heavier dishes required help, and he helped carry them out the door or to a better place. When the slightest bit of sugar or salt was spilled, he cleaned it up and double-checked the cleanliness level with another rag.
Callum had never owned a strong heart. Now and then, someone spoke to him, and his pulse pounded in his ears with sudden nerves. Every time he tried to speak, his words were drowned out by the sizzling pans. But he wanted to work. and he would never do a halfhearted job.
He ran back and forth, eager to please. Whenever someone called for an extra hand, he was the first to volunteer.
Callum soon found himself at the washing station. Towers of pots and pans surrounded him, and his hands were sore from scrubbing metal. He could see the whole kitchen from his position.
One of the cooks walked away from his post, probably to check on something. Callum paused his work to study what was being made.
Croquembouche. Requires perfectly hard and brittle caramel to support its structural integrity.
The pot of melted sugar sat, bubbling merrily. Although a normal person would have thought everything was okay, something was timed wrong. The burner was a touch too hot. The sugar in the pot was reaching a high temperature, and if it was left alone for the few seconds the cook was away, the caramel would not have the right consistency.
No one was around. Callum hurried over and turned the heat down a notch. He quickly went back to his pots and pans.
…
@anyone
EllisEllis woke up with a headache. He rolled over, buried his face into the pillows, and groaned. He had had the strangest dreams all night, but the memories were beginning to fade. He tried to hold onto them. There was a farmhouse at night, windows glowing warm and innocent, being surrounded by men on horseback. At some point he had been fighting with someone while standing on the bank of a frozen river. And there had also been… giant worms? Ellis groaned again and rolled out of bed. He got dressed and washed his face. The cool wet cloth on his forehead soothed the headache a bit, but it still stung whenever light reached his eyes. Would anyone care if he wore a blindfold to breakfast? He shook away the idea and headed out into the hall. Lucian was hovering right outside the door, about to knock.
“Good morning. How did you sleep?”
“Ah. Hi. Yes. Good.” Ellis grimaced and stepped around his brother, making a beeline towards the dining hall. Lucian followed, brow furrowing.
“Headache?”
“Hm.”
“I’ll… let you be, then.”
The dining hall was much less crowded than last night. There were a few small groups scattered around, chatting quietly, while an equal number of people sat alone with their breakfasts and cups of coffee. Ellis sat down in a corner and ordered some peppermint tea from a passing servant. Then he waited, holding his head in his hands.
There, he’s up. Whenever I don’t know what to write, I just inflict my current suffering onto my characters and have them deal with it.
Any paint can be finger paint if you don't care enough
Ah, poor Ellis. I hope he and his author are feeling better soon.
A cup of tea is cheaper than therapy.
XD
LeQoi
The child was certainly not a known member of his domain. He was too helpful, too…skilled. The master of the kitchen watched the boy’s head dip over the pans he’s just returned to.
LeQoi’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Perhaps the school had hired another servant without first consulting him. Similar offences had occured before. This time, however, they appeared to have picked up someone with intuition. Or expirence.
An odd combination.
He took a slow step towards the scullery, then stopped. There were twenty minutes left before the main breakfast must be out. He really had no time to interview a new hireling. That would have to wait till afterwards.
Perhaps, if the world turned in his favor, the child would even stay around after the interview.
LeQoi smiled.
La peur est un outil qu’utilise un bon empereur.
A cup of tea is cheaper than therapy.
Wolfgang
His eyes opened and the next moment he was on his feet. Throwing back the curtains he opened the window and gulped in a breath of fresh air like a man in the desert would drink water. A moment later he was flinging off his night shirt and tumbling into his clothes. He splashed soap and water on his face, brushed his teeth, and shot out the door, swinging it closed with a bang that shook the hall. He cartwheeled twice in a row, then raced to Wilhem’s door. He slid to a stop and pounded on the wooden frame. “Wilhelm! Let me in! It’s morning!”
And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who couldn't hear the music
@anyone
It has come to my attention that Wilhelm has no idea what he’s doing.
Wilhelm
He had found the dining room without becoming hopelessly lost again. Somehow, that felt significant. Wilhelm entered the place with a smile on his face.
Rather than a cacophony of voices like last night had thrust at him, the place was filled with a myriad of hungry smells. A servant bearing a pot of some herbal drink left a swath of spicy steam in his wake. Sleepy mutters asked for various small favors – a cup of hot tea, a piece of toast, buttered eggs. And over everything, a fog of contentment drifted.
He found a seat near some other boys, but not so near they would feel obligated to include him in conversation. That was easy enough. Half the room was empty chairs.
It struck him then, as I am sure it has struck you before, that he had no idea how to proceed.
A porcelain plate was set at his place, its hilt edges and transparent quality enough to buy a horse in all likelihood. There were strangely shaped utensils beside it. The knife was recognizable enough, as were the three spoons. What made no sense was the tined things that were laid out beside them. He picked one up. It was silver and weighed heavily in his hand. He poked experimentally at the cloth folded beneath the horde of silverware. The utensil left tiny holes in the fabric where each tine distorted the weave. They weren’t sharp enough to cut without ample force.
“Would you like anything to drink?” A voice spoke to his left. Wilhelm dropped the contraption and turned to look at the owner of the voice. One of the serving maids stood there, a vaguely pleasant look in her gray eyes.
“Whey, please. And water.” He dipped his head and turned back to the table.
ChaosGremlin™
Hehe. You got that in while I was typing. I shall respond because Wolf is hilarious. Lol.
ChaosGremlin™
Although it would also be funny if Wilhelm went down before Wolfgang. Wolf would have a mystery to solve.
ChaosGremlin™
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