You find yourself a professional chef around here, you let me know. I'll be sure to make friends.
[And it's another joke, and another piece, fit together. Nothing shocking, Sturmhond knew fancy dances and wore fancy clothes so all her sarcastic quips about pirates aside she'd bet he's something a lot more noble than that. Not like she was an expert in that sort of thing. What was Corvo? A lord? Something like that maybe, but younger, a lot less fucked over.
She takes the tin neatly, settles down on her heel to place it on a semi-level surface, opening the pillow case and slotting the thin fabric over the top, fingers pressing down, some sort of wholly disgusting pie.]
Might be a problem, this stuff probably looks enough like wine to fool someone desperate enough.
[And the charming, quietly sad gentleman seemed, frequently, desperate.]
Alright, lets see if this stuff is thin enough to pass.
[She doesn't ask before picking up the dye-filled tin, just taps her thumb and forefinger over the rim a couple of times to make sure she wouldn't burn herself before bringing it back over the makeshift sieve and pouring, carefully. It filled up the depression in the fabric and managed to not slosh over the edge. Then it was a very, very delicate task. Gathering the edges of the material up into a single point and lifting, slow, out of the lower container, leaving mostly clean dye behind. Up until he was completely out of it, hanging over. Still a little drippy but she fixed that quick, wrapping her hand around the sodden mess and squeezing out the last from where it was mingled with fabric and flora. Leaving her with a very, very purple hand.]
Well, you can't make an omelette. [Shaking drips off of her finger. Watch out pal, it stains.]
no subject
[And it's another joke, and another piece, fit together. Nothing shocking, Sturmhond knew fancy dances and wore fancy clothes so all her sarcastic quips about pirates aside she'd bet he's something a lot more noble than that. Not like she was an expert in that sort of thing. What was Corvo? A lord? Something like that maybe, but younger, a lot less fucked over.
She takes the tin neatly, settles down on her heel to place it on a semi-level surface, opening the pillow case and slotting the thin fabric over the top, fingers pressing down, some sort of wholly disgusting pie.]
Might be a problem, this stuff probably looks enough like wine to fool someone desperate enough.
[And the charming, quietly sad gentleman seemed, frequently, desperate.]
Alright, lets see if this stuff is thin enough to pass.
[She doesn't ask before picking up the dye-filled tin, just taps her thumb and forefinger over the rim a couple of times to make sure she wouldn't burn herself before bringing it back over the makeshift sieve and pouring, carefully. It filled up the depression in the fabric and managed to not slosh over the edge. Then it was a very, very delicate task. Gathering the edges of the material up into a single point and lifting, slow, out of the lower container, leaving mostly clean dye behind. Up until he was completely out of it, hanging over. Still a little drippy but she fixed that quick, wrapping her hand around the sodden mess and squeezing out the last from where it was mingled with fabric and flora. Leaving her with a very, very purple hand.]
Well, you can't make an omelette. [Shaking drips off of her finger. Watch out pal, it stains.]