Arren stayed in the kitchen, fingers flying, doing at least four things at once. Bread for tomorrow, preparation for tomorrow's breakfast, tonight's dinner, tonight's dessert, estimations of rations and food supplies, as well as rum and meads. The heat of the oven and stove had made it hotter in the kitchen than it already was in the humidity if the wanning day. Throwing open a window with a small grunt, the rust red haired creature sighed as the salty breeze drifting into the galley, rolling his shoulders. It was something strange to this body, the feeling of stress from so much work. Funny enough, it was not that it was too hard, it was just that it was different. Even having been a noble, Arren had worked. Was it fair of others to sit and laze about all day when there were people just below them hurting themselves as they worked their hands raw? 

[i]A little girl sat plucking sharp feathers out a hen when the door opened and a morse looking governess rushed in. The girl frowned, but looked down, as if to avoid shame by avoiding eye contact. "Miss... Miss, please... Ye should be studying... What do ye think ye be doin' puttin' calluses on such pretty hands?" [/i]

Arren looked at one hand, the strong fingers holding the knife. Pretty? What could be more pretty about hands than the stories they told thought scars and calluses? Unworked hands were ugly and uncomfortable. Many nobles had hands like that, and it disgusted Arren. With another sigh, Arren finished up the work she was trying so hard to focus on. Shaking her head sharply she brought herself back to reality. Coarse, cold, and callus. Tough. It was Arren Viper now and that was what he had to be. And the sun was slowly sinking to the sea and those bumbling bitherheads would be storming the kitchen once more if there wasn't a meal set out on the long table. Stacking plates and mugs, it was quick work setting everything out. They weren't yet too far out at sea that it was choppy, so the heavy set stayed on the table well, as did the vast arrangement of food. Climbing the stairs, Arren set foot on the deck. With a deep in hail, Arren let out a the loudest shout he had ever had the pleasure of presenting to the youngly bound crew.

"OY! DEADLIGHTS 'ROUND RIGHT! DINNER TIME, YA SPROGS!" 

Thus with that, Arren turned right around and head back under to the galley to get his own meal. If they didn't hear, it wasn't on him. It'd be their own fault if they went hungry tonight. And he thought none of them might like that tomorrow, since that's when the real work of being on a ship might start. It would be interesting to see if any of those more suited for land would a bit sea sick. If that was the case, they'd have to eat plenty of green apples. And Gods knew they had a ton.