“And Vaia shall be the cook...”
Then Galen asked for questions? Opinions?
Oh, Vaia had several, all filled with expletives and colorful adjectives but she held her tongue. Her gaze was temporarily fixed on that man, what was his name-- Eladar? He was the weapons expert and it made sense for the crew to have already filled such a position. Naturally, Vaia figured, people will pick those they were familiar with rather than a stranger. Of course. Yet she was furious. Her anger was the sort that very few would understand. To put a Rhemora caste woman back into the kitchen, when she had trained and fought against such a place, was to give her quite the grievous insult indeed-- but Vaia ground her teeth silently instead. She found herself thankful that only her eyes were showing, that she could regain her composure from such a blindside under a cloth mask, but she still had to take a moment to ease away her venomous glare.
“Warriors and work are made by the meal-- the kitchen a place of honor,” Vaia remarked very calmly, translating a common saying among lower caste women. “Though it was not what I came to do, I will try my best. I am no cook,” Vaia concluded in that still-water calm manner. She bowed her head then tuned out the rest of the crew, the conversation, the world in it’s entirety. Already she was wandering the corridors of thought, making plans, suppressing rage, and most importantly, recalling just how much everyone knew about her. With deliberation, Vaia made sure she never mentioned she could cook during the interview, and this was going to play a key part in her plot. Already, Vaia had this “cook position” in mind as temporary and leverage for vengeance.
Regardless of someone speaking with her or trying to get her attention, Vaia remained silent, and once the crowd was sent to disperse, Vaia headed to the ship’s kitchen. So fine. She would feed them. Her skill in cooking was minimal so that was another advantage-- she didn’t have much clue what she was doing in the first place, so it would be easy to make edible garbage.
Every single day for breakfast to start, she was going to serve porridge, varied only slightly by the presence of meat sometimes, salted slightly too much or sweetened awkwardly, and a bit too watery. For midday there would be “stew”, with a deliberate absence of spices or the presence of far too much spice, and the same stew for dinner, only overcooked or lukewarm. Over and over again she was going to serve these meals. Without change and with only slightly not enough for everyone-- which would force the portions to be small. When asked about the quality of meals, Vaia figured she would nod and listen, perhaps even entertain their suggestions, then change nothing about the cooking. Vaia knew very well the effect a good meal could have on morale, so she was going to drive that morale into the ground, then grind it beneath her heel. This was what they forced upon themselves and the fault was with their choice, with the person that chose the cook, and Vaia was going to make that abundantly clear.