2nd of Summer, 515AV
Orin sighed, not at all happy. Surveying his small domain filled him with equal parts dread and exasperation. Even though he knew that his new kitchen would be severely limited, it was one thing knowing it intellectually and another thing entirely spending a few days and realizing just how lacking it really was. Especially since The Rearing Stallion’s facilities had everything a cook could want for. A full stove and an enormous oven, a well stocked pantry, a spice cabinet that was to die for, two hearths with built in spits and bars to hold pots, and, though Orin didn’t always appreciate this, two other fantastic chefs to help shoulder the load. He never thought he’d feel this way, but he even missed Rondo. The older man was irascible and had done everything in his power to ruin Orin’s life but he was amazing in their shared profession and Orin had ended up learning a lot from him, despite Rondo’s best efforts to the contrary. And the floor there had been solid stone.
Here, none of that was true. Obviously the ship was made almost entirely of wood. And to add insult to injury the floor was unsteady and so Orin had to be doubly sure of every movement. The slightest rocking of the deck and he could potentially spill whatever dish he was currently working on everywhere. Fire was obviously a hazard although the kitchen was uniquely set up to minimize that particular risk. There was a small brick oven in one corner, opposite from the entrance. And the center of the room was taken up with a most curious contraption. If Orin hadn’t had it explained to him, he would’ve been completely mystified. Now it made sense, even if he was still entirely unsure if it would actually function as it was supposed to. It was a raised wooden box filled with sand. In the middle of the sand was a tripod that currently held a pot. Ashes littered the sand directly underneath the tripod. Essentially the sand was to prevent fire from spreading to the wood and the tripod kept the pot from falling over if there was a gentle swell or wave. It looked precarious but Orin had been assured that it was safe. He still had severe doubts and was unwilling to actually test it until he absolutely had to.
That was only the beginning of Orin’s dissatisfaction. More than half the time he wouldn’t even be able to or allowed to cook. Only when the sea was relatively calm was it possible, since the risk of fire was too great otherwise. They’d have to rely on long-lasting rations that would be stale and practically inedible. Their supplies reflected this. There was quite a bit of root vegetables, salted and smoked meat and fish, and alcohol, all of which would keep. They had almost no spices since the captain didn’t want to bother with the expense. Finally, fresh fruit was highly limited and Orin hadn’t been informed when they might get more. He wasn’t even sure if it was worth making it last, since it would eventually spoil anyway. In the summer, Orin didn’t know how long it was stored. This was an aspect of being a cook that he unfortunately didn’t have a lot of experience in. The ingredients that came into The Rearing Stallion was usually used almost as soon as it was acquired. Any leftovers usually were just tossed into a soup pot and served the next day. Orin hadn’t had to worry about making sure they had enough to last them until their next landfall. He hadn’t had to think about when it might all start going bad. He didn’t know enough about preserving food so that it wouldn’t spoil, especially at the height of summer. And he certainly didn’t have a lot of time to actually learn. Usually people’s lives didn’t depend quite so much on Orin’s ability to serve them food. If the meals at the tavern were a bit subpar, the customers would just complain. They definitely wouldn’t starve to death. Still Orin knew a lot about food, and was certain he could figure out this particular aspect of it if he was given enough time. Time just unfortunately happened to not be on his side.
Orin slumped down, sitting on his hammock, which stretched on the opposite corner from the oven, almost right next to the door. His weight pulled him downwards and it sagged as he approached the middle. He slept in the kitchen, with Sylvette who currently was out and about, doing only the god’s knew what. Apparently sailors stealing rations for themselves wasn’t unheard of. That was another part of this job that wasn’t exactly sitting well with Orin. He didn’t want to fight people off and the crew, while friendly, seemed much tougher than the general populace of Syliras had been. He didn’t want to make trouble. And while nobody would get too out of hand considering the presence of the Order on board, Orin didn’t want to rely on anyone’s protection but his own unless he had to. He was too used to being a pushover, and had decided that he wasn’t going to take it anymore. Of course those were strong words from someone who took years of abuse from his father and did nothing and let his former boss treat him like shyke for two seasons before he finally snapped.
”Never again.” It was just a whisper, but it had weight to it. Picking up one of his throwing daggers, Orin stood up and weighed it. It was the one Sayana had given him a while back, and it still was chipped. Orin brought his hand back then threw it forward releasing the knife at the end. It thudded into the wall, entering in at a downwards angle. Orin frowned. He’d thought he’d gotten better than this by now. But still, that just went to show he had a long way to go before he could defend himself physically. And if he couldn’t protect his person, then he also shouldn’t very well go standing up for himself either. Staring darkly at the wall, Orin made a decision then and there. He’d leave that blade until he felt that he’d earned the right to pick it up again.
Now, though, he’d procrastinated long enough. After all, he’d been hired to do a job and Orin never shirked his duty as he saw it. Today he was planning to make some biscuits, that were also called hardtack. They sounded dull and awful, but Orin got the recipe from a cookbook the captain had handed him. It belonged to the ship not to the man who’d formerly had Orin’s job, so now it temporarily was Orin’s. He’d leafed through it and had been appalled at the bland status of so many of the dishes. Still, there wasn’t exactly a choice here for him.
Going to the shelves that took up the wall that the door was on, Orin began pulling down the few foodstuffs he'd need. Essentially, it was flour with a pinch of salt and water mixed in and that was it. Orin took out a mixing bowl, one of the few that he had. That was another aspect that Orin disliked immensely about his current quarters. His old kitchen had everything, pots, pans, bowls, plates, cutlery even the weirder more obscure utensils that no one ever actually used because half the time to purpose was unfathomable. This kitchen had only the bare necessities. Next, Orin opened the sack of incredibly coarse flour. He started muttering unhappily to himself. "Would it have killed them to pick up something slightly higher quality?" The ship's captain seemed obsessed with profit at the expense of everything else. While there were merchants like that in Syliras, they at least made an effort to disguise it. Of course Orin might have been acting rather uncharitably and viewing Captain Piggy through the lens of his own twisted worldview. The flour went into the bowl, and the remains were set aside.
At this point Orin realized that he was forgetting one rather important step because his current dark mood was preventing him from thinking clearly. He had to light the fire in the oven, obviously. Sighing, Orin went and pulled the oven door open. There was a stack of wood nearby, which got thrown in, then carefully rearranged. Like everything else, Orin had to made do with small amounts of firewood, so making a long-burning fire was important. The kindling made a small pile on the bottom, followed by the twigs, and finally the larger logs, stacked in such a way that when one burned through, another would fall to take its place. Taking out his flint and steel, Orin began striking them together. His hands were shaking so much, either with rage or depression or fear, he couldn't tell what, that it took him almost ten tries before a spark actually managed to end up on the fire itself. So far he was making a rather great showing.
The door shut, and Orin straightened up. It curved slightly before opening high in the side of the ship to let the smoke escape. There was another opening, this one which could be sealed in the event of a storm, to let the smoke from the other fire out. Still it was likely to pool on the ceiling if Orin wasn't careful. Returning to his bowl, Orin was about to start adding some of the preciously hoarded water, when the door creaked open. Startled, his eyes flicked to the now open entrance. Automatically, his body responded to the visitor by straightening up and slipping a cheerful mask on. "May I help you?" The words came out without even a hint of the stress Orin had been feeling earlier. He'd had long practice disguising his inner turmoil from strangers and saw no reason to stop now. And nearly everyone on board was a stranger.
