we'll save this earth, but into jars

Max Klein · 09-07-2012, 03:08 PM

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The Mansion was dilapidated. There was no denying this point. Everywhere the old wood looked rotted or chewed away, and despite various attempts to clean and sort things out, canines were ultimately too feral to sort of this mess themselves. While orderly and certainly lived-in, there was no cure for the lack of windows, age, or abuse suffered by the place. Faint graffiti still marred several walls, and most of the valuables had been looted long ago. Everywhere paint was peeling and plaster cracking, and the place reeked of a thousand strange things—the living bodies, for one, lead-based paint, dry-rot from mattresses and furniture, dead leaves, odd and wonderful spices from the kitchen, fire and smoke, and the dry-dust smell of old books. It was a place that should not have been standing, but here it was…and Max, stubborn as ever, sought to keep it that way (even if he refused to live in the place).

Rémy had made magic in the kitchen. It had been reworked to function with wood-burning equipment as opposed to gas or electric, and by jury-rigging vents he kept the heat as low as possible. A massive wooden table served as the central part of the room, ringed by mismatched chairs. There was only one counter, under a broad, wide window and accented by a stainless steel sink. The back door, propped open, led out towards the Greenhouse and gave a fair view of the back half of the property. It had once been a bold sunset yellow, but the paint had faded and the tile accents were chipped and broken—still, the primitive décor of bones and scavenged goods made for an interesting sight.

This was further accented by Rémy’s presence himself. Still naked, he had pulled his hair away from his face using a dark cloth, and his makeshift bandana gave him a rather low-grade appearance. Adding that with his gold tooth was laughable. Still, he moved with the speed and grace closer to a dancer than anything else (though he was a thief by trade and chef second to this), darting here and there to snatch up foggy glasses with dried plants in them. A massive pot was on the stove, and it already smelt like food. Max guessed that the coydog had prepared this earlier, as he usually did.

“...de trick,” Rémy was explaining to Asher, who had arrived before Max and Vesper made it into the room. “Is you gotta keep dis ‘ere fire nice an’ low. Dis keep de flava jus where we wan’ it t’be.” As he said this, he spilled a handful of some spice into the pot. Max sat at the table and rolled one shoulder, unhappy with the ache that had formed there. Rémy, noting this, shot him a look. “Chu ain’t done nuttin’ stupid again?”

“No,” Max said blandly, and huffed at the idea. “I’m working.”

“Oh den that all right. Maxie, he get himself into all sorts of trouble. Dis why I make all y’all learn t’use sticks propa; whack a foo on de head and he ain’t gon’ t’botha no one no mo’,” the coy-dog laughed loudly, and turned back to his stew. Clearly unhappy about the mention of his previous wounds, Max rubbed at the scar on his head, hardly noticing he was doing it.

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