Taaban Qestir

Soft sizzling and popping sent little spots of marinade this way and that, dotting the flat cooking top as the soaked meat cooked. The center of each chunk came up to that perfect, desired temperature, while the edges crisped to complete the contrast of texture. A few slivers of green were cooking not a few ilm to the side, these from the hottest batch of peppers the cook had. Further still, a couple of rounds of pressed cornmeal mixture, going from brittle-ish to a warm, pliable state from the heat.

It wasn't alone, of course. The entire fulms-wide cooktop had a wealth of meats and assorted toppings cooking away. They appeared and disappeared in waves as orders came in, and came in they did. It was never ending from the moment the doors opened, until well past the posted closing time after sunset. But the sizzling rroneek was up next, and in a flash, the tortillas were plated, gilded with the meat, then topped further with peppers and the slightest bit of salty, crumbly cheese. Beyond that, it was up to the customer to top, but a variety of salsas, shredded cabbage, even roasted corn was available and plated up to go with the tacos.

When they landed on the table, the server bowed her head and then departed. "There, happy now?" The Au Ra and Hrothgar looked at the large spread, then at each other to share a nod, before giving the atoning, two-headed Mamool Ja a second nod each.

It was a sight most gruesome.

On the floor of the kitchen the masked man lay on his back, head to the side, eyes empty. Beside him a smattering of shaved cabbage, sliced tomatoes, and a wealth of other prepared foodstuffs were scattered, and mixed in with the solids, was what appeared to be a pool of blood, stemming from the wound on his chest. More accurately, the ten inch chef knife wedged into said wound! He was still, silent, unmoving even as the footsteps approached.

"T-T-Ta-" The stuttering voice of shock was cut off cold when the Au Ra sat up with both arms upright, and his fingers imitating claws. He loosed a fearsome growl in an attempt to add to the fright. … They stared at each other, Tataru frozen, white as a sheet with mouth agape, and the man, expecting something, anything!

And then her eyes started to well up, before she broke into a full on sob. Well this wasn't how it was supposed to go! Had he misheard those children discussing the point of the holiday? Pranks and treats, right? He panicked and waved his hands, pulling the prop knife away from his apron, showing it to be nothing but a farce. It took a moment, of dots to be connected, before their eyes met again.. And then he was the one feeling a chill..

White knuckles were quite a sight on someone so revered for their strength and accolades, but there he sat atop the Falcon. The thing was no bigger than a canoe, and surely made for someone far smaller than he. He clutched at the steering controls, as if he had any say in where the thing was going. Wedge had told him it would be on automatic pilot, with smart stabilization at first, so he could get used to it, but the man was so terrified, the words were lost on him.

And landing! The first time he brought the thing down, he hadn't opened his eyes for a cool three minutes afterward, despite the stout, be-goggled man trying to rouse him with a shoulder shake! It was enough to make him miss the ocean and the horrendous travel upon it that sent his stomach into flips. At least with the regular sea, one just fell in, and could swim while they waited to be rescued..

The Au Ra sat on the edge of his bed as he shook with another rolling heave of coughs. A covering hand born out of politeness tried and failed to muffle the sound, but instead, exposed the true nature of the fit. Dotting and streaking his worn palm was an eerie white that had a low glow of its own. He turned his hand over and wiped at his mouth, then swiftly wiped the streaks on the bedsheet beside him. Improper, perhaps, but the mild worry that was developing into a healthy fear pushed aside any decorum in that moment.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?"

He looked up and matched eyes with the axe-clad specter, and swiftly narrowed his. "Glare all you want, you're just going to encourage wrinkles." He'd been near danger and death before, but this was far different. This was something that could consume him in one swoop, while preserving him to consume everything else. His friends, his interests, this shard.. Not to mention what it might do back on the Source. He began to quake with cough again, this time rising and rushing toward the sink. He made it, but only just, as a heave saw to more of the sickness splattering the porcelain basin.. He hung off the counter and had just enough sense to turn it on long enough to hide the evidence..

The man's mind was a steel trap!

Names, locations, likes, dislikes, even the measurements to a muffin recipe he made five years ago. Maybe it was all in the practice of being more on the input side of things, than the output side, but he could always drag up the littlest details. Good things were great, it meant never forgetting a customer's regular order, or a comrades birthday or favorite type of sweet he'd make for it..

But the bad ones were equally unforgotten. The cackle of a foe, how departed friends liked to top their cocoa, the last words of the select few that had given the ultimate sacrifice in hopes of buoying his journey. It could sour his mood in an instant, and it was never predictable. A passing scent from a boutique, or a mention of activities grand or miniscule. It was a source of constant frustration, but ultimate one he had to weather silently.

Clenched eyes relaxed slowly, then parted to take in their surroundings. Gone was the mild, controlled climate, replaced with an odd warmth. But that aside, he felt fine. Perhaps the predictions were wrong, perhaps there were to be no side effects.

And then he moved to take a step.

The man collapsed to his hands and knees instantly, then to the ground on his side, before curling up like he were trying to imitate a pillbug. To his left, a victim clad in trench coat, that had gone moments before him, was doing his best to remain on his hands and knees. He looked as though he were simultaneously trying to defy gravity and not fall over, while also hoping to not get sucked up and off the ground and away into the air. To his right, a man draped in gown was equally compact, though in his misery, he had managed to prop himself up against a wall. The last.. The last was nowhere to be seen.. Had he been twisted into oblivion in transit? Lucky sod..

No one spoke a word, but then again, maybe none of them could speak. They were there in a flash, but who knew how long they would be indisposed. His stomach turned, but it was far from the only ache. He was stuffed and starving at the same time, and the very idea of food made him clench tighter on the ground. Maybe he could pass out soon, and wake with less severe symptoms!

Tired, now-old eyes stared at the orange crystal sitting on the table before him. It was a wonder in itself, a beacon and boon both that aided him for so many years since it had fallen into his possession. Countless decades had passed since the focus was created, and countless more would pass before it ceased existing, but what of the interim?

He wouldn't be around forever, obviously, so what of an owner? What of him, for that matter. Would his soul resurface? If so, would he even be aware of what he'd gone through now? He couldn't remember anything before this life, so he suspected not. Not that he'd cherish memories void of those that made them special in the first place. The very idea seemed like a nightmare. No, when he was gone, he wanted to be gone.

One would have thought the match was made in heaven, the quiet, masked man and the spot behind the bar. Mixing drinks and filling orders were a simple task, but more than that, he could provide the kind of conversation one needed while getting moderately to severely wasted. That being absolutely nothing!

Woes and woes could be endlessly trotted out, only to die at the end of a tongue, soon to be forgotten. Advice, too, was sought, only to remedy itself by way of echoing in the space between patron and barman. He didn't do it very often, but it took on a sort of cathartic experience for him, allowing him to exist in a noisy space where he wasn't obliged to fill any gaps with sound. No one expected you to talk in a noisy club, or sophisticated lounge, both of which he had worked.

In front of the Au Ra sat an empty plate, flat, white and round. Empty like a fresh canvas waiting to be filled. Beyond it, a wealth of paints in the form of dishes as varied as there was room. A bowl of popoto salad to the left, a mushroom sauté sat next to a spinach one to the right. There were at least.. five different types of rolls in a basket, two plates of salad with different toppings and dress, a boat of gravy, and two different dips.. Three if he counted the one obscured by the star at the center of table, a large roast of beef. And that didn't count the plates out of his reach beyond.

None of it had been made by his hand.

It was his delight, his pleasure to toil in the kitchen. To experiment and create brought him endless joy, but every bit here was done by the hand of someone else sitting around the perimeter of the table. Each of them had worked in secret, together in some cases, he suspected, to prepare the surprise. It was a truly impossible to overstate how much the gift of food meant to the man, especially given the care he took for it, and knowing what went into the act. He always insisted that they not do anything for his nameday, that a quiet, uneventful day was best.

A day off was a day off, and a day off called for one thing. Doing nothing! It wasn't something he was able to do often, but he'd give it a shot. A little angling of the chair, turned toward the canyon nearby, a slight angling of the umbrella poised to guard the occupant beneath, and- Oh! He disappeared into the building nearby, but only for the briefest of moments..

When he re-emerged, the man was holding a small bowl in one hand and an already-weeping cup in the other. It wasn't very hot today, nor did the sun get a chance to emerge completely from behind the occasional cloud, but it would have to do. Setting the new additions down on the table first, let him turn and sink into the low chair, permitting him to lean back and exhale. In the bowl beside him, little cubes of melon, which he plucked up one at a time and popped into his mouth..

By the second cube, the offending sun was all but snuffed out by the clouds..

By the seventh, a distant rumble was lost on him..

By the twelfth, the first drop hit his ankle and made him pay attention..

It had started innocently enough, with an innocuous question. 'When was the last time you got some rest?'

How it had spiraled into the exchange of silent stares that now felt like it had been going on for hours, he wasn't sure. He could vaguely remember hearing the approach and then retreat of someone or something at some point. But before one half of the siblings could inject himself into the situation, as he was wont to do, his sister muffled him with a hand over the mouth and a firm drag out of the room. Wise and very possibly lifesaving!

The accused stood, several head over his accuser. Surely he could handle his own affairs, right? But by the twelve did he look positively run ragged. If he stayed still any longer, he might've drifted off to slumber right then and there! Though the eyes that peered up at him were oddly vacant now, glazed over with a pearly-white tint, they were no less capable of assessing the situation! He was sufficiently prideful, and sure of himself, but had grown increasingly susceptible to the woman's brand of insistent concern. It was caring at its core, and despite the frightful lining it was encased in, came from a genuine place.

It happened every year, inevitably. One of the scrawnier youths, from a smaller tribe would try to lift a free meal from one of the stalls. He was part of the defense of that, to stop the pilfering of unpaid-for goods, but what was the point? To feel good about reporting the theft of food? Besides, it was only a stolen piece of buuz or a handful of unshelled nuts now and then.

He always stepped in when violence or more serious acts of disruption came about, but when a small figure would creep in, and then scurry away with a little prize, he couldn't help but find amusement in it. If it was one of the less fortunate vendors, they'd always find a few random coins left on the table at the end of the day, courtesy of the guard, but the well-off salesmen, especially those with chips on their shoulders or uppity attitudes?

On and on, they had come, one after the next, regurgitating the same confusion and empty words. 'Your loss..' 'Unfortunate..' 'Unfair' 'Tragedy'.. It was slightly different each time, but not too dissimilar, and usually void of real concern of action. It also always ended the same way..

I'm sorry…

When he managed to find the Count alone, for a mercy, he suddenly found himself at an even bigger loss for words. He hadn't so much as shared a word with his would-be savior yet, the man that had taken him and his in when they needed friends. How he composed himself was made clear at the outset, and it was never questioned. But the bile that turned in his stomach was threatening an escape, if his voice didn't spill forth first..

"I'm…"

A pause allowed those tired, broken eyes to look up with a noticeable spark of surprise, while ears unfamiliar with the sound focused in to his so-far silent guest. Could he echo the sentiment? Repeat the somber, empty platitude? No, of course not, not when action needed to be taken.

Reds and blues and greens and yellows, some black for the lining, whites for highlight.. Fabric of all colors filled the small room, looking far more like a coeurl had gotten into the fresh bolts of cloth and had itself a wonderful time! At the center sat the Au Ra, hunched over a table with a sewing machine, his foot occasionally depressing the pedal beneath it. Tak tak tak tak tak tak tak tak The machine sucked in various colors and spun them into a tight, tough sleeve.

The order was simple, and from a nearby town. Fresh coatings for the bell-tower ropes, themed for the annual festival, to be awarded to those charged with pulling. He could have done it in his sleep, but then he'd be sleeping, and surely letting all his worries catch up to him! And so he lost himself in the task. The man's work would be impeccable as always, especially given the precise order and pattern. The creative side of the craft wasn't really his thing, but he could follow a creative mind quite well..

They had even invited him to attend the festival, wouldn't that be a treat!