Elendor
Full of beans
One of Oskar's young apprentices makes a mistake - and Broddur suggests a new task for the Dwarven cook
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Dwarven camp (High Moors)
Game Date: November 3046
IC Time: Morning
Description: Southeast Camp
The bulk of the wagons of the caravan, providing living space for the greater part of the Dwarves, are situated in a horseshoe formation here. Enclosed within the wagon-wall of protection many tents and small fires are set out, where Dwarves linger before returning to work or travel. At the curve of the horseshoe is the Warder's wagon, placed in a position which commandeers a view of both inside and outside the camp. Near the entrance to this section of the camp are two wagon's set up for healer's. Each wagon is fit with comfort to let wound's heal, and let dwarves rest up from battle. Away from the line of protection that is the wagon's, is a mobile-forge. Even the wagon that carries it when not lit is far enough away so nothing gets set ablaze. About the immense heat that is the forge are smiths pounding away to create and repair both weapons and armor for the rest of the dwarves.
Obvious exits:
Out leads to Dwarven Caravan.
[Nob(#16122)] It's early morning, and the day is not at all promising. Endless dripping moors undulate away in every direction, and a few of the younger dwarves have been grousing in corners... 'hope /somebody/ knows where we're going'...
But overall, there is an air of excitement, for the Ereborian dwarves have been unexpectedly run into. And way out here! Some folks are showing off their axe skills, at the risk of a chopped off leg or two - others are huddling in wagons or under tarps and drinking and boasting, and asking after relatives.
Oskar, as usual, and looking grumpier than ever, is crouched down beside a cookfire, overseeing a few youngsters who stir things and chop things and run errands at his barked out orders.
Broddur has been having a word with the weaponsmith, muttering darkly about 'ore' and 'waste' and suchlike. Now he marches up to the cookfire without further ado to demand of Oskar, "Got anything to eat, have you? I'm famished."
[Nob(#16122)] "What's it look like?" Oskar snaps back. He waves a ladle at the kettle. Stew. Again.
"NO!" the one-eyed dwarf howls, suddenly, and surges up, whacking one of his assistants on the head with the spoon. "Don't put that in there now!" The lad tries to duck, but is too late glowers at Oskar, and says sulkily, "How was I s'posed to know? Y'says chop it up for the stew, y'never said don't put it in."
"No?" Broddur takes the loudest part of Oskar's reply at face value and stares, into the pot, looking quite outraged. "What d'you mean, no? You were hired as cook for this little expedition, weren't you? And," he pauses for effect, "cook means food. What is that, anyway?" He peers at whatever the assistant had been holding.
[Nob(#16122)] "Not you, you idiot," Oskar says to Broddur, without turning away from the chastisement of his helper. The second lad has backed quietly away, out of reach of Oskar's wooden ladle, and now he comes up and taps at Broddur's arm, pushing an empty bowl at him wordlessly.
With exaggerated irritated patience, the cook explains. "You put these in at the very beginning. They are for tomorrow. People who eat them now will crack their TEETH!" His patience, such as it was, gives way to fury fairly swiftly.
Oh dear. Broddur, ignoring the polite attempts of the second assistant to make peace, steps squarely in front of Oskar (well, as near as he can with that unfortunate cook's apprentice in the way) and folds his arms. "Who are you calling idiot?" His seamed face is set in a sour look, and his calloused hands are clenched into fists.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar flashes him a look from his one eye, reaches out and grabs the apprentice's arm and yanks him a few steps away. "You don't think, do you understand me? I took you on with the strict understanding that you would do exactly what I say and nothing more and nothing less! Now go start fishing them out!"
Clearly horrified, the unfortunate lad bleats, "ALL of them?" for which bit of impertinence Oskar thumps him again. Rubbing his head, the hapless assistant trudges back to the stew pot and starts stirring around in it, staring glumly into the depths.
Oskar watches him moodily, then notices Broddur. "Well?" he asks impatiently. "Have some stew, man. Or are you going to stand there in the rain all day?"
Broddur grunts, and moves to stand between Oskar and the stewpot, his back to the miserable assistant. "Going to stand there until you apologize for calling me idiot," he tells Oskar, his arms still folded. Rain is dripping down his beard, but the irritated dwarf doesn't seem to notice.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar stares at him incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous," he says with entire sincerity. "Of course I didn't call you an idiot. Got no reason to, now have I?" He directs a malevolent glare towards the mostly-hidden figure of his apprentice. "Not like that creature now, always doing something wrong. You wouldn't believe the things he's pulled!"
The taciturn Broddur does not smile. "But you said ..." He hesitates, and lets the words fade into the mist that envelopes everything and everyone in a damp cloak. Perhaps it's not in everyone's best interests to make enemies right now. "A misunderstanding, cousin," he pronounces, unfolding his arms. "This wretched rain makes it hard to hear right - and the racket those youngsters are making." He glances toward a pair of young dwarves earnestly catching up on the latest news from Erebor. "What did he put in the stew, then?" He sounds merely curious - but it's noticeable that famished or no, he has not yet reached for his bowlful.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar nods brusquely and dismisses the matter. He is turning back towards his seat when Broddur asks his question. "Eh? Oh... naught." He lowers his voice and winks. "Don't be a-worrying on it, tis just some beans. Won't do a body a bit of harm, and they're all broke up like."
Just some beans? It sounds so innocuous. Broddur gives Oskar a gruff nod, then lifts the bowl the second assistant had provided for him and goes to scoop himself out a bowl of stew, not bothering to pick through it for 'bean bits'. "Heard anything interesting from those Erebor folks?" he asks Oskar as he drops the ladle back with a splash.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar shakes his head. "Nary a thing. What have you?" He sits back down, drumming his spoon on his knee and scowls at his assistants. A few at a time, dwarves drift up, get a bowl and leave again.
Broddur snorts at that and shakes his head. "Got better things to do with my time than hang around gossiping with foreigners," is his assessment. And he's a Barazin - he's /supposed/ to be friendly with their kin under the Mountain. He tilts the bowl to his mouth and takes his first swig of stew. "Uh - hot," he mumbles, fanning his mouth. He waits a little longer - just enough for the falling rain to cool the stew down a bit - then tries again. His features screw up, his expression pensive. "Suppose it is a bit crunchy."
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar's face compresses into a deeper frown. "Boys," he grunts. "Think they know it all." The first assistant, the one who has not gotten into trouble this time, hears him and grins cheekily. "Have some stew, Oskar," he says, bringing a full bowl over. The old dwarf grunts, takes it, and idly begins to eat. "Ah well," he tells Broddur. "Don't bite down hard."
Broddur appears to be trying to take Oskar's advice, for he chews his next few mouthfuls very carefully. At one point he grimaces and then swallows. "Speaking of boys," he wonders idly, glancing round camp, "whatever happened to that young feller? The one that was going to go off with Fas and find glory, or summat.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar isn't bothering to take his own advice - or perhaps he does, in a way - for it seems like he doesn't chew at all, but gulps wholesale. "Mm?" he mumbles, mouth full. And then his face goes very still. Anger to cover sorrow, "Blas' orc drug off wi' him." He swallows. "Idiots, all of them. Thinking fighting is some grand thing, until they gets their arms whacked off."
Broddur stops chewing altogether at that point, then clears the contents of his mouth in a single swift gulp. "Oh. Mahal rest his soul." He takes another swallow of stew, then mumbles around another rather-too-hard bean that he's not going to admit he's having trouble with, "Course it is! Grand, that is. Nothing better after a hard day than sinking a mattock into stinking goblin-flesh."
[Nob(#16122)] "Sure, sure," Oskar says dismissively. "Tisn't /fighting/ I argue against. But them young fellers going off so sure they know everything and nobody else ever stood up under /their/ axe. Bah!" He spits.
Broddur considers that - or considers something, for his mouth is twisted. Eventually, after a pained swallow, he speaks again. "Maybe you should train them. Someone has to, eh? And you've the experience in teaching youngsters-" He gestures round to the two assistants.
[Nob(#16122)] The cook snorts. "Haven't we got weaponmasters?" he asks. "Let them do their job!" But it might be noted, he hasn't said no... and was that a gleam in his crusty old eye?
"Mmm." Broddur is nearly finished his stew now, though the discerning eye might note one or two small kidney-shaped lumps left in the bowl. "Weaponmasters are for teaching folks as know what they're doing. Most of them don't have the first idea about knocking younglings into shape! Whereas you ..." He lets the words trail off, surreptitiously emptying the remnants of his bowl into the fire before setting it down upside down to dry for the next dwarf.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar shrugs nonchalantly. "Whack 'em good about the ears," he says casually. "Got to get their attention b'fore you can teach 'em anything." He slurps down the last of his stew, belches, and surges off his seat again to go shout at his second apprentice. "The fire, man, the fire! How'd you think stew will cook with no flame??"
The bulk of the wagons of the caravan, providing living space for the greater part of the Dwarves, are situated in a horseshoe formation here. Enclosed within the wagon-wall of protection many tents and small fires are set out, where Dwarves linger before returning to work or travel. At the curve of the horseshoe is the Warder's wagon, placed in a position which commandeers a view of both inside and outside the camp. Near the entrance to this section of the camp are two wagon's set up for healer's. Each wagon is fit with comfort to let wound's heal, and let dwarves rest up from battle. Away from the line of protection that is the wagon's, is a mobile-forge. Even the wagon that carries it when not lit is far enough away so nothing gets set ablaze. About the immense heat that is the forge are smiths pounding away to create and repair both weapons and armor for the rest of the dwarves.
Obvious exits:
Out leads to Dwarven Caravan.
[Nob(#16122)] It's early morning, and the day is not at all promising. Endless dripping moors undulate away in every direction, and a few of the younger dwarves have been grousing in corners... 'hope /somebody/ knows where we're going'...
But overall, there is an air of excitement, for the Ereborian dwarves have been unexpectedly run into. And way out here! Some folks are showing off their axe skills, at the risk of a chopped off leg or two - others are huddling in wagons or under tarps and drinking and boasting, and asking after relatives.
Oskar, as usual, and looking grumpier than ever, is crouched down beside a cookfire, overseeing a few youngsters who stir things and chop things and run errands at his barked out orders.
Broddur has been having a word with the weaponsmith, muttering darkly about 'ore' and 'waste' and suchlike. Now he marches up to the cookfire without further ado to demand of Oskar, "Got anything to eat, have you? I'm famished."
[Nob(#16122)] "What's it look like?" Oskar snaps back. He waves a ladle at the kettle. Stew. Again.
"NO!" the one-eyed dwarf howls, suddenly, and surges up, whacking one of his assistants on the head with the spoon. "Don't put that in there now!" The lad tries to duck, but is too late glowers at Oskar, and says sulkily, "How was I s'posed to know? Y'says chop it up for the stew, y'never said don't put it in."
"No?" Broddur takes the loudest part of Oskar's reply at face value and stares, into the pot, looking quite outraged. "What d'you mean, no? You were hired as cook for this little expedition, weren't you? And," he pauses for effect, "cook means food. What is that, anyway?" He peers at whatever the assistant had been holding.
[Nob(#16122)] "Not you, you idiot," Oskar says to Broddur, without turning away from the chastisement of his helper. The second lad has backed quietly away, out of reach of Oskar's wooden ladle, and now he comes up and taps at Broddur's arm, pushing an empty bowl at him wordlessly.
With exaggerated irritated patience, the cook explains. "You put these in at the very beginning. They are for tomorrow. People who eat them now will crack their TEETH!" His patience, such as it was, gives way to fury fairly swiftly.
Oh dear. Broddur, ignoring the polite attempts of the second assistant to make peace, steps squarely in front of Oskar (well, as near as he can with that unfortunate cook's apprentice in the way) and folds his arms. "Who are you calling idiot?" His seamed face is set in a sour look, and his calloused hands are clenched into fists.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar flashes him a look from his one eye, reaches out and grabs the apprentice's arm and yanks him a few steps away. "You don't think, do you understand me? I took you on with the strict understanding that you would do exactly what I say and nothing more and nothing less! Now go start fishing them out!"
Clearly horrified, the unfortunate lad bleats, "ALL of them?" for which bit of impertinence Oskar thumps him again. Rubbing his head, the hapless assistant trudges back to the stew pot and starts stirring around in it, staring glumly into the depths.
Oskar watches him moodily, then notices Broddur. "Well?" he asks impatiently. "Have some stew, man. Or are you going to stand there in the rain all day?"
Broddur grunts, and moves to stand between Oskar and the stewpot, his back to the miserable assistant. "Going to stand there until you apologize for calling me idiot," he tells Oskar, his arms still folded. Rain is dripping down his beard, but the irritated dwarf doesn't seem to notice.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar stares at him incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous," he says with entire sincerity. "Of course I didn't call you an idiot. Got no reason to, now have I?" He directs a malevolent glare towards the mostly-hidden figure of his apprentice. "Not like that creature now, always doing something wrong. You wouldn't believe the things he's pulled!"
The taciturn Broddur does not smile. "But you said ..." He hesitates, and lets the words fade into the mist that envelopes everything and everyone in a damp cloak. Perhaps it's not in everyone's best interests to make enemies right now. "A misunderstanding, cousin," he pronounces, unfolding his arms. "This wretched rain makes it hard to hear right - and the racket those youngsters are making." He glances toward a pair of young dwarves earnestly catching up on the latest news from Erebor. "What did he put in the stew, then?" He sounds merely curious - but it's noticeable that famished or no, he has not yet reached for his bowlful.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar nods brusquely and dismisses the matter. He is turning back towards his seat when Broddur asks his question. "Eh? Oh... naught." He lowers his voice and winks. "Don't be a-worrying on it, tis just some beans. Won't do a body a bit of harm, and they're all broke up like."
Just some beans? It sounds so innocuous. Broddur gives Oskar a gruff nod, then lifts the bowl the second assistant had provided for him and goes to scoop himself out a bowl of stew, not bothering to pick through it for 'bean bits'. "Heard anything interesting from those Erebor folks?" he asks Oskar as he drops the ladle back with a splash.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar shakes his head. "Nary a thing. What have you?" He sits back down, drumming his spoon on his knee and scowls at his assistants. A few at a time, dwarves drift up, get a bowl and leave again.
Broddur snorts at that and shakes his head. "Got better things to do with my time than hang around gossiping with foreigners," is his assessment. And he's a Barazin - he's /supposed/ to be friendly with their kin under the Mountain. He tilts the bowl to his mouth and takes his first swig of stew. "Uh - hot," he mumbles, fanning his mouth. He waits a little longer - just enough for the falling rain to cool the stew down a bit - then tries again. His features screw up, his expression pensive. "Suppose it is a bit crunchy."
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar's face compresses into a deeper frown. "Boys," he grunts. "Think they know it all." The first assistant, the one who has not gotten into trouble this time, hears him and grins cheekily. "Have some stew, Oskar," he says, bringing a full bowl over. The old dwarf grunts, takes it, and idly begins to eat. "Ah well," he tells Broddur. "Don't bite down hard."
Broddur appears to be trying to take Oskar's advice, for he chews his next few mouthfuls very carefully. At one point he grimaces and then swallows. "Speaking of boys," he wonders idly, glancing round camp, "whatever happened to that young feller? The one that was going to go off with Fas and find glory, or summat.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar isn't bothering to take his own advice - or perhaps he does, in a way - for it seems like he doesn't chew at all, but gulps wholesale. "Mm?" he mumbles, mouth full. And then his face goes very still. Anger to cover sorrow, "Blas' orc drug off wi' him." He swallows. "Idiots, all of them. Thinking fighting is some grand thing, until they gets their arms whacked off."
Broddur stops chewing altogether at that point, then clears the contents of his mouth in a single swift gulp. "Oh. Mahal rest his soul." He takes another swallow of stew, then mumbles around another rather-too-hard bean that he's not going to admit he's having trouble with, "Course it is! Grand, that is. Nothing better after a hard day than sinking a mattock into stinking goblin-flesh."
[Nob(#16122)] "Sure, sure," Oskar says dismissively. "Tisn't /fighting/ I argue against. But them young fellers going off so sure they know everything and nobody else ever stood up under /their/ axe. Bah!" He spits.
Broddur considers that - or considers something, for his mouth is twisted. Eventually, after a pained swallow, he speaks again. "Maybe you should train them. Someone has to, eh? And you've the experience in teaching youngsters-" He gestures round to the two assistants.
[Nob(#16122)] The cook snorts. "Haven't we got weaponmasters?" he asks. "Let them do their job!" But it might be noted, he hasn't said no... and was that a gleam in his crusty old eye?
"Mmm." Broddur is nearly finished his stew now, though the discerning eye might note one or two small kidney-shaped lumps left in the bowl. "Weaponmasters are for teaching folks as know what they're doing. Most of them don't have the first idea about knocking younglings into shape! Whereas you ..." He lets the words trail off, surreptitiously emptying the remnants of his bowl into the fire before setting it down upside down to dry for the next dwarf.
[Nob(#16122)] Oskar shrugs nonchalantly. "Whack 'em good about the ears," he says casually. "Got to get their attention b'fore you can teach 'em anything." He slurps down the last of his stew, belches, and surges off his seat again to go shout at his second apprentice. "The fire, man, the fire! How'd you think stew will cook with no flame??"
Players: Oskar, Broddur
Located in: Ered-Luin
