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Fellowship: The Heart

Jackdaw opened her eyes, and chewed her spoon thoughtfully. “...I could use a refresher on the eggs.” She admitted.

"That's fine, the next bit's more important anyway." This bit's easier to do than to teach. Crack with one hand, throw and catch the yolk between the two halves of shell until all the whites are in one bowl, all the yolks in another.

“...Lucien? Can you keep a secret?”

Lucien doubles over laughing so hard his ribs hurt. He wipes the tears out of his eyes, straightens himself. Fiddles with his collar as he clears his throat. "Yes. Yes, I can keep a secret. I had friends who used to call it 'defusing ticking blackmail'. Here," Pass the whites and the whisk to Jackdaw, "Beat these until your arms are about to fall off, and while you do, tell me what's on your mind, so you don't have to worry about me finding out." The reassuring smile he gives is effortless, because it's sincere.

Here's the other thing about raw eggnog - the superior eggnog - as a choice of recipe. Once the eggs are seperated there's no skill to it, no noises to raise your voice over, nothing to concentrate on. Just lots and lots of repetitive motions. Nothing to get in the way of talking.

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien passes the bowl to Coleman, and hesitates. He looks back towards the kitchen.

"Actually, I should probably help Jackdaw with... dessert. Yes. This is going to take a while."

He takes his bowl back with him, swearing to himself. Where's he going to pull a bloody dessert from? Almost everything nicer than a cornflour custard is made of perishables, which-

Lucien smiles to himself. Eggnog. Sugar, eggs, rum (or brandy or both) to flavour and disinfect, and the closest to heavy cream you can get from boiled nuts and cornflour.

And, of course, whipping and mixing until your arms are about ready to fall off. If anyone tries to bother them again, he can threaten them with meringue duty...

When he's back in the kitchen, Jackdaw's just kind of being very still with half the spoon stuck in her mouth. First thing's first, then, ladle her second helping into her bowl without asking.

"We could stop here, you know. Or... maybe not here, but somewhere. Somewhere more peaceful, in the up-ahead. If you wanted to, I'd be happy to stop with you. Just as if you want to keep going, I'll keep going with you." Lucien rubs his jaw, and frowns when his fingertips scrape stubble. An annoying symptom of a too-long day. "No matter what you decide. Either way, how good are you at seperating eggs?"

Fellowship: The Heart

In a blink, he takes their last breadroll, cuts the top off, and digs some of the stale innards out with a spoon. He ladels hot soup into the rest of it, and holds it out the kitchen door for Ailee. A traditional way to serve it, with an emphasis on giving her something chewy.

"Coleman can have his in a bowl in a second. This was the last bit of bread." He closes the door again, plates Coleman's next to his own bowl. Then, to Jackdaw; "I'd best take these out, then. Enjoy the quiet while you can."

Time to see what all the excitement was about, then.

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien draws a ladle of it himself, making sure to sip slowly. He keeps his mouth full while Jackdaw tries to find words - so as not to pressure her any more than what she provides for herself.

"I'm very glad you're still with us too." Another long sip, and a mischevious twinkle in his eye. "I should probably tell the others that supper's ready... but it'll keep warm. What say we enjoy the quiet for another, ooh. Minute or so? All good things come to those who make others wait, so take as much time as you like."

In his mind's eye, he sees Jackdaw feeling guilty at first for eating slower than everyone else, then later for not spending more time savouring it. And he's just happy for the quiet, for the moment - too much trying to negotiate hostile audiences today. The soup's helping him get the taste of his foot and Flood out of his mouth, first.

Fellowship: The Heart

"Tourist" isn't a new affectation. Lucien's a culinary geek with a globe-spanning record. Personal hobbies include recreating dishes from far-flung corners from memory, instinct, and inspecting what he can nick from well-stocked spice cabinets. (Kitchen staff have a high turnover rate, and most of his targets never look twice at service. More importantly, if you're good enough at it, none of the other staff are going to call you out. Not until end-of-shift.)

That means a lot of gutter food and traditions too. He's well-versed in soup kitchens and the perpetual stews of Jackdaw's youth, a comfort food for a friend in dire need of comfort. He's not going to recreate it as it was, but as it's remembered.

Tonight, he's Lucien Roux.

Three whole pouches of three kinds of dried beans in a big pot of water to soak. The starch will be vital. Normally he'd add some fermented sauces to it - soy, worcestshire, etc - but those are a distant memory at this point. He's lucky to have as much as he does.

A big pot, low heat until the solid knob of tallow melts like a candle and covers the bottom of the pot. Diced onion and garlic in first, while he dices the carrot and celery into cubes as fine as the desert sand. In the pot, encouraging Jackdaw to keep stirring quickly to prevent the fat from burning.

A battered tin of dehydrated vegetable salts, his last jar of minced surface mushrooms - not truffles, but he could never stand the things anyway. Keep stirring. A half-cup of molasses only when he's sure Jackdaw isn't looking. Black pepper and a hit of rosemary and sage - forget parsley and thyme, only ever pick two of four, no matter what the bards sing. Scrape the fond and deglaze with brandy, don't tell Ailee that's where it went. Our secret. Throw the rind of some parmesan in - he thinks this is parmesan, anyway. Break a nibble off - it was, thank goodness.

No fresh tomatoes, not for a long time. A mason jar of sun-dried paste, a holy relic - he's willing to sacrifice two tablespoons of it for the cause, but he winces as he tastes what's there so far and realizes he needs to commit to adding a third. He does.

Keep the cheese aside and ask Jackdaw to smell. Good? Keep stirring. You can switch to cheese grating duty in a second. The grating's not important - Jackdaw having something to hide the shaking of her hands is though.

In goes the water and the beans and a cheerful glug of red wine vinegar - bought as wine for a special occassion that never came, but had a resoundingly successful trial the other day in a vinaigrette. Don't tell Jackdaw that, though.

Normally the molasses would have been a whole pumpkin. The tomatoes whole and fresh, and the umami from the paste would have been brought with something richer like a soy sauce or kombu. What ingredients he did have weren't farm fresh, to say the least. He'd used far too much of a treasured reserve that was irreplacable, down here.

Even so; it's salty, and sweet, and warm, and rich, and drapes the back of a spoon with a black-flecked red coat. A bisque on the tongue and a stew in the stomach. It's one of the only recipes he's ever considered writing down - the closest he's ever gotten to something that tastes how a warm hug from your grandparents feels. Like a fondly remembered winter from childhood, whether or not a fond childhood memory exists. Like getting healthy from sickness.

It is without exaggeration the best he could possibly do.

"I made more than we can eat, but it'll keep in the jars we have - it'll taste better the longer you leave it, up to a point. So no worrying about running out, and no worrying about wasting any. There's enough for ten servings here, and I'm making sure you take at least two of them - and the first one."

Fellowship: The Heart

EDIT: Misclicked

Fellowship: The Heart

[Overcome 2d6 - 1, 3 + 0 = 4]

Lucien holds his gun close to his head and fires up. He's not even aiming yet - his first plan is to deafen himself for a bit, or drown out the singing.

Click, click, click.

Powder wet.

What was he trying to do again?

Fellowship: The Heart

"I didn't think that would stick," Lucien admits, glancing behind them. "Missed the train, but still punched the ticket. As it were."

He's looking at the clown as he says this, and not Sasha.

Fellowship: The Heart

Traveling with him is like traveling with a growing bear: very useful until-

Ah! Ah! All I needed to hear! The pins out on this grenade - I'm happy to try to keep my hand on it long enough to throw it at someone.

The rest of the party probably needs a sales pitch, and the Professor needs a motivation...

First thing's first.

Lucien feels a deep spiritual connection to donkeys. They keep ending up in places they shouldn't be. They're smarter than horses and don't startle nearly as easily, but nobody would ever think about putting them in a cavalry regiment. They refuse any order they think is stupid, and they're only as loyal as they feel their master deserves.

The fact that this donkey was being led by an overeducated clown gone mad in the pursuit of power - well, most people would see themselves reflected in that one, and Lucien was no exception.

"Of course you can. I'm sure it'll beat Ailee on stubbourness and smell." It's at this point, of course, that Ailee stops trying to kill their one ally and actually does something clever and useful against the Wreck instead. Credit where it's due. "Well. Smell then. Flood water, in our defense. Me and Jackdaw would love to host you. The other two..."

[Talk Sense using Wisdom: Appeal to Desires - 3, 4, +2 = 9]
[They do what I ask, but I owe a favour]

Lucien points to the blasted-out way down. "If you can stop that thing long enough for us to make it out, or kill it, I'll make sure Aille forgives you for your crime of being an authority figure at some point in her life. She likes useful people, and right now," - Lucien wiggles his bleeding, pie-scorched fingers and points to his still-stinging and watery eyes - "You don't have much competition." Pause. "Actually, scratch that. You're going up against the train team for brownie points. Harder ask. Clowns I understand*. But trains? Train crews?" Lucien shakes his head. "Now, those are terrifying. The things they know... I try not to think about it, you understand. Makes them very slow to trust; paranoiacs the lot, and Coleman's no exception... Might be a lot harder for me to put in a good word with him, unless you really impress him right now."

Lucien crouches low with his back to the statue, preparing to move silent and barefoot. "I've got your back, but the spotlight's on you. I'll stay out of sight, ready to tag in for anything. Just give the word, loud as you like."

*This is what we in the business call 'a lie'.

Whatever happens next Lucien's gunning for that way down, quick and quiet. He plans to be true to his word on backing the clown - sorry, Grail Questant - up if the call comes.

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien!

Well, isn’t this a merry farce? You and the clown go one way, everyone else goes the other. At least this way you’ve got time to chat, and a clear shot at its nigh-impenetrable back, if you had a clever plan.

@Tatterdemalion

"If". The plan was the time to chat - Professor Pagliacci seems to have been a lot more successful dealing with the Flood until now, and Lucien would like to keep him as an ally in spite of Ailee's best efforts. Let's do our best to keep this fight 5 on 1, not 4 on 2.

Also?

Oh god. You’re getting recruited for a cult. By a clown.

Words cannot express how much I wish to subscribe to this man's newsletter. I am all about that deep clown lore. Probably not going to join, but Lucien's not lying when he promises to be a very enthusiastic listener.

[Speak Softly - 5, 3, +2 = 10]
[What can they tell me about killing the Wreck, what should I be wary of when dealing with them, What do they want, and how can we help them get it?]
[Fast Friends, emphasis on "Fast" - I gain a Bond with them. Now, no matter how much the rest of the Fellowship antagonizes him, we're buddies. Aren't we? Of course we are.]

Lucien smiles, this one takes a lot less effort on his part. He grips the hand on his shoulder and gives it a friendly, reassuring squeeze with his own soggy-sock-gloved one - the one not holding the pistol, at least. His words have a laminar flow to them - smooth, clear, hypnotic. Polite pauses that just aren't long enough for the other speaker to get a word in, but imply they could have.

"I'm considering my mortality right now. Awful stuff. But enough about me! A clown collegiate! Wonderful! Becoming a clown doesn't seem like an impulsive decision; Hardly an idea you just get in your head while you wait for the kettle to boil, is it? I'm sure you have some interesting reasons I'd love hearing all about. Fascinating ones."

An awkward clearing of the throat, a very apologetic glance towards the Wreck. "It's a bit loud to talk properly though, isn't it? Should probably fix that. And you're obviously here for your own reasons, I'm sure; I promise we'll help you however we can once this is sorted out. At the very least, I'll stop Ailee from getting in your way. I hope. I am an honest man; I can only promise my best, on that one."

Dreadfully rude to interrupt a conversation to go kill a horrific zombie crab artillery bunker, but needs must I suppose. "What's our clever plan?"