A Troubled Soldier 01

[theriflespiral]

I: Delivery to Elysium
Elysium-the-city was far larger than Natalia had first assumed. Not that this was a problem for her-- a day or two among the rooftops, and she would know this place as well as anyone who lived here.

For now, though, she was momentarily relying on a map she kept carefully tucked away, and an address on a box with a memorized order form (and countersign, and counter-countersign, easily handwaved).

Being a delivery girl was hardly a novel cover, but it was precisely because such things were ubiquitous that it was easy to slip into the role as she came around the service entrance. Add perhaps a touch of bitter expression at the cold-- she didn't even have to try for that one-- and things would, hopefully, work just fine.


II: Blames Her Tools (Vault)
Natalia, after spending the better part of a day hitting targets from as extreme a range as the Vault could afford, was now overhauling her rifle, first cleaning the inside of the barrel with a cloth and a cleaning rod, and then disassembling it, screw by painstaking screw.

The casings were drying on a separate cloth nearby, with the scent of soap and water, waiting for an oven to finish getting up to the proper temperature.

It took up an entire gunsmith's bench, between the disassembly and the casings waiting for annealing and rolling and fitting and loading, but there was something to it. A peace, in an artisan's craft.

She looked at the tool rack above her and clicked her tongue.

She would have to go hunting for that particular tool.

Okay. Smooth hair. Stand properly. Act like you're supposed to be here.

Time to go among the other workbenches. Or workshops, if she had to.


III: Wildcard
Bug Natalia because she looks suspicious or because you need something.

Comments

[newmemorywhodis]

"Like...crepes?" Link says, naming the closest dish he knew to what she described. But he's still frowning faintly, because it doesn't seem quite right...

Link knew plenty of recipes. But he didn't know all of them.

[theriflespiral]

"Mn-- yes, but make the batter a little thicker. Less liquid. Or more flour, I'm not your grandmother."

[newmemorywhodis]

Link makes a soft noise in the back of his throat - and then pulls out his communicator and starts typing out a few things in the notes app. More flour. Less liquid.

Sure, it's not a complete recipe. But Link clearly still plans to experiment with it anyway.

[theriflespiral]

"Otherwise, a lot like a crepe-- bake in a pan with a good oil-- butter will burn, try lard or something-- flip when the edges bubble, add something nice in the middle, fold it up once the bottom's solid, wait juuust a little, flip to get the heat even, is done."

[newmemorywhodis]

More notes, dotted down diligently.

"Thank you," he says. Then shifts his feet, just slightly.

Link can - and does - stay still in one place for long periods of time. It's a bit of a necessary still, as a Royal Knight. But that doesn't mean he wants to, and at this point he's itching to get up and move again.

So he reaches back, to lightly tough the bow on his back. Gives her a questioning look. Does she want to shoot more things now?

[[ooc: shall we wrap up about here? Have them go back to more shooting training together, etc]]

[theriflespiral]

[[ooc: Sounds good.]]

She nods, reloading, and steps back to let Link take his turn...