She couldn’t forget. She just couldn’t forget. It’s just-

It hurt. The breathing, it hurt. Hurt her middle, hurt her head, it made her want to fall over, and not get up again. Then there was her...other thing. The two things for holding. One of them hurt too, there were these little dotted lines of...color? What color is that? Red? A little loop of bad red spots, and they hurt. And the smell, the smell! The smell was like the...wet, below them, but here, and worse, bad, very bad, and all she could remember was that she couldn’t. Forget. With a frustrated...frustrated noise, she held herself with both arms until they crinkled and-

Wait, hold on?

She thought she remembered arms not crinkling, usually. No, they didn’t, but this little bit of paper in her...paw? That did. How’d that get there?

Unfolding it carefully, she saw somebody’d drawn a little picture on it. A thin, scrawny figure wearing a big thing; was that supposed to be her? She was wearing a big thing, after all. And look, here, there’s an arrow pointing to one of its pockets, no, something inside the pocket? What a coincidence, she had something in that pocket too! Then, another arrow, and the thing from the pocket flying at those...bird things.

Signed, Jackdaw.

...was that her name? She couldn’t remember. But...if that was her name, and she made this, then it must’ve been important, right? If this was all she’d written down, then…

Slowly, Jackdaw reached into her pocket, and pulled out a book. Though she felt a strange, perilous pull to open the cover and see what was inside - the thing she couldn’t bear to forget, perhaps? - the note was clear. The book was not for her. The book was for over there. It was important.

With a pang of regret, she threw it to the antisirens.

[Rolling to Finish Them with Sense: 6 + 6 + 2 = 14]

In the train, a kobold sits, staring blankly at a bit of... bit of whatsit. S'hard, he thinks. S'got squiggles on, and he wishes he knew what they mean. It seems important.

S'gotta be, right? He wouldn't just--

The things outside are singing again. Sounds awful. Like drinking a cuppa without

Without what, though? For that matter, what's a cuppa?

Gingerly, he holds the whatsit close, and lets a claw drag across its face. Whatever it is, it's pretty. All shiny. S'got pictures on--and there's a thrill that runs through him. Pictures! He knows what those are!

His seat rumbles, and he almost looks away from the-- the. Whatsitcalled? Something this shiny and with so many pictures feels like it ought to have an important name. He oughtta know what the name is. Something like this is worth remembering.

EDIT: Misclicked

Team Train!

The song snaps into cessation as the antisirens throw themselves upon the thrown book. The whole Heart shudders from the moment the cover is swung open, or so it feels. They don't notice, gorging themselves upon the pages. It would be a good idea to get down before whatever happens to them catches you up in the crossfire.

One terrifying train rappel later, you've managed the Descent. At the bottom of the drain the world opens up into a desert. Each grain of sand is a bit of rust, and out of the dunes jut hideous iron buildings clawing at the sky. (The sky is false. It is yellow-white, and the glittering stars are black. It bulges like the shell of an egg.) Off in the distance stand the feet of a statue; there is a plaque beneath it. Doubtless it is telling you to look, ye mighty, and despair.

At the other end of the desert is a riotous jungle that will allow you to Descend, if Jackdaw's maps are correct. Now you must simply cross these dunes. Other than the Worms, all you must worry about is starburn and heat exhaustion, dwindling supplies and sand madness, not to mention the mirages.

Jackdaw, Lucien, tell us about the night that you spent cooking together.

Ailee, Coleman, tell us about the petty argument you had.

"Tourist" isn't a new affectation. Lucien's a culinary geek with a globe-spanning record. Personal hobbies include recreating dishes from far-flung corners from memory, instinct, and inspecting what he can nick from well-stocked spice cabinets. (Kitchen staff have a high turnover rate, and most of his targets never look twice at service. More importantly, if you're good enough at it, none of the other staff are going to call you out. Not until end-of-shift.)

That means a lot of gutter food and traditions too. He's well-versed in soup kitchens and the perpetual stews of Jackdaw's youth, a comfort food for a friend in dire need of comfort. He's not going to recreate it as it was, but as it's remembered.

Tonight, he's Lucien Roux.

Three whole pouches of three kinds of dried beans in a big pot of water to soak. The starch will be vital. Normally he'd add some fermented sauces to it - soy, worcestshire, etc - but those are a distant memory at this point. He's lucky to have as much as he does.

A big pot, low heat until the solid knob of tallow melts like a candle and covers the bottom of the pot. Diced onion and garlic in first, while he dices the carrot and celery into cubes as fine as the desert sand. In the pot, encouraging Jackdaw to keep stirring quickly to prevent the fat from burning.

A battered tin of dehydrated vegetable salts, his last jar of minced surface mushrooms - not truffles, but he could never stand the things anyway. Keep stirring. A half-cup of molasses only when he's sure Jackdaw isn't looking. Black pepper and a hit of rosemary and sage - forget parsley and thyme, only ever pick two of four, no matter what the bards sing. Scrape the fond and deglaze with brandy, don't tell Ailee that's where it went. Our secret. Throw the rind of some parmesan in - he thinks this is parmesan, anyway. Break a nibble off - it was, thank goodness.

No fresh tomatoes, not for a long time. A mason jar of sun-dried paste, a holy relic - he's willing to sacrifice two tablespoons of it for the cause, but he winces as he tastes what's there so far and realizes he needs to commit to adding a third. He does.

Keep the cheese aside and ask Jackdaw to smell. Good? Keep stirring. You can switch to cheese grating duty in a second. The grating's not important - Jackdaw having something to hide the shaking of her hands is though.

In goes the water and the beans and a cheerful glug of red wine vinegar - bought as wine for a special occassion that never came, but had a resoundingly successful trial the other day in a vinaigrette. Don't tell Jackdaw that, though.

Normally the molasses would have been a whole pumpkin. The tomatoes whole and fresh, and the umami from the paste would have been brought with something richer like a soy sauce or kombu. What ingredients he did have weren't farm fresh, to say the least. He'd used far too much of a treasured reserve that was irreplacable, down here.

Even so; it's salty, and sweet, and warm, and rich, and drapes the back of a spoon with a black-flecked red coat. A bisque on the tongue and a stew in the stomach. It's one of the only recipes he's ever considered writing down - the closest he's ever gotten to something that tastes how a warm hug from your grandparents feels. Like a fondly remembered winter from childhood, whether or not a fond childhood memory exists. Like getting healthy from sickness.

It is without exaggeration the best he could possibly do.

"I made more than we can eat, but it'll keep in the jars we have - it'll taste better the longer you leave it, up to a point. So no worrying about running out, and no worrying about wasting any. There's enough for ten servings here, and I'm making sure you take at least two of them - and the first one."

"I get why it's in the interests of the community to create a whole stifling raft of laws," said Ailee. "I don't get why it's considered a moral good for exceptional members of the community to obey them."

She's not snappy, authoritative, demanding. There are no dramatic finger-points or declarations. She's got her arms folded on the rail, looking out at the desert with a pensive expression. Her hands twitch - twitcha twitcha, tappa tappa, conducting some imaginary symphony or playing air piano. She sometimes tilts her head like she can hear the invisible music.

"Once you get a group of seven or more somebody has to be in charge," said Ailee. "And that somebody then immediately does everything in their power to make sure they're in charge forever. In extremis they'll sell their souls to the clown god to make sure that it really is forever. Hereditary monarchy is just a primitive form of immortality. It's this fucking brain-worm that grows inside the head of anyone who so much as joins the student council. And then all the garbage that pours out of their mouths becomes tradition and morality and law - and none of that shit even prevents crime or civil war, it just means that when those things happen the new guy is chained by the same bullshit. Exceptional people," pause to admire herself in her hand mirror, "have to spend so much effort figuring out how to game the system in order to make even the smallest improvement. It's why civilization advances at a crawl."

"You'd rather it advanced like a wildfire?"

Coleman burnishes Sasha industriously, but it's immediately obvious that it's purely to have something to do with his hands. There's certainly no thought involved; this is the third time he's buffed that patch and--hold on--wait--yep, fourth time.

"Because that's what you'd get if you decided that rules shouldn't apply to, ugh, exceptional people. People would go around deciding, 'Well, I'm exceptional, so the rules don't apply to me.'"

It shouldn't be possible to pronounce 'exceptional' as if it's something scraped off your boot, but Coleman manages.

"And who decides who's exceptional? Is there a standard test? Anyone scoring above 95% gets to ignore the rules? Is it a matter of being better at magic? Is it about being better at stealing money? Or do you just wake up one day, head full of spirits, and decide 'rules are lame?'"

Coleman's not really looking at the scenery. Oh, he's looking out towards the desert, certainly, but he's focusing several million miles past it.

"Let's follow that thread. You're exceptional! Congrats! The rules don't apply to you anymore! You get to rebuild society in your image! And now you're the king. You decide which rules to make, secure in the knowledge that you'll never have to follow them because, after all, you're exceptional.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm with you on hereditary monarchy. Being in charge shouldn't be a matter of 'my dad was a bigger bastard than yours, so you need to do what I say.' But even if we made sure the leader was the best person for the job, you'd still want a way to hold them accountable. Otherwise, like you said, the exceptional people get to make the rules that say they don't need to follow the rules, and then they're in charge forever. Or at least, until the next exceptional person rises and wages bloody civil war to show how exceptional they are and how they should get to make the rules."

"Try again," said Ailee, "but arguing against my actual position this time. I didn't say that there should be no laws or enforcement. Like you illustrated, having laws is in the interest of the community because otherwise it's just strongmen. But say the Duke d'Nauvair starts that civil war at last and overthrows the King of Grand Jelt. From what Lucien says that might already be happening. He'll have proved himself through politics and warfare an exceptional individual - or at the minimum the most competent of the closed circle of land owning magnates who have a voice in the political system. The laws by definition won't apply to him, what with him being the king and head of a massive army. And yet his reign would immediately be constrained by laws he had nothing to do with! Laws that weren't far-sighted checks and balances placed upon an incoming magnate by a visionary founder-figure, but shit like 'the clerical estate has a veto over legislation' and 'thou shalt not regulate intercolonial tariffs'."

She leans down through the railing, stretching out her hand - and the gleaming magical talons that extended from it - and ran them through the sand as it raced by. She withdrew a handful of silver sand and looked at it thoughtfully.

"I mean, what's the point of having that civil war in the first place if the new king is exactly identical to the last king? Why are the laws vested with any sort of moral authority if they can't even perform their basic function of stopping a usurper? When an individual so exceptional they can single-handedly overthrow society arises, why would anyone hold to old, failed laws and traditions as inherently moral? Why not totally remake society in that instance?"

She's watching the sand fade through her fingers.

She's worried.

She's not arguing this in the abstract. She's arguing this while she's thinking of her family at home, trapped in a nation on the verge of civil war.

The word is steady.

Hold the bowl with both paws. Always both paws. No shaking, no matter how long it’s been since you had a proper sleep. If you must shake, let your toes and tail do it for you. When you nod and smile to your friend, you think about it first, then you do it. Slow and deliberate. No risky moves. None.

Jackdaw took a long smell of her portion. There were flavors there, sure, but...well, of course there were flavors. There’s always at least one, what did she think there would be? But she never had the nose for picking out the particulars of food. To her, everything blended together into a mouth-watering, rumbly-inducing scrumptious.

And the first taste was hers.

“Thank you, very much. I really appreciate it.” She gave him a weak smile and regretted it immediately. She ‘really appreciated’ it? No! That’s what you say when somebody loans you a pencil, not, not, this. “Um, I mean it, it’s...truly, it means so much-” Oh, sure. Be vague about it. Nothing said gratitude like tired platitudes, right? “Everything’s very hard down here, and, this makes it a little easier…” But you didn’t see anyone else complaining about it, did you? “I’m, very glad, of all the groups travelling here, this is, the, um...” Off-topic! Hurry! Get it out! You’re ruining the moment! “It’s...I...”

She tucked her head low, letting her cloak fall over her stupid face. Slow and deliberate, of course.

That, at least, snaps Coleman out of it midway through his fifth pass over the same mirror-finish spot. He considers it in silence, before turning at giving Ailee the same consideration.

"Let me ask you this," he starts slowly, tucking away the cleaning supplies with practiced care. "Is this a philosophical question, or a practical one?"

"If you're asking philosophicaly, wondering whether we should give laws moral weight, the answer's hell no. Laws're only as good as the people enforcin' them. Laws't can't or won't be enforced, don't exist, and rules that are enforced have the same effective weight as law, even if they're not on any books.

"I don't think that's what you're askin' about, though. Think you're asking about the law because you got some other questions in mind. If the laws can't be counted on to protect people you love from people more powerful, what's even the point of 'em? And more importantly, when the time comes for you to overthrow the Duke, will those same laws get in the way of the changes you want to bring around?

"Am I on the right track there?"

"Philosophy is bullshit," said Ailee. "I'm interested in results. And I just want... urgh," she rubs her eyes, then swears as she realizes there was still sand on her fingers. She starts rubbing a lot more fiercely with the back of her hand. "I just want something to change. I just want..."

She sighs, but it settles into a smile. "I thought about it. You know, plan A, take my fucking shot at the king and see what's left standing at the end of it all. But an answer like that is both too slow and too short term."

She finished rubbing her eyes, one of them quite red and watery from the sand. The other... not much better. She gives a confident little smirk through it all. "So I'm down here instead. Going to solve the problem at the Heart."

Coleman digs in a cabinet and tosses a canteen towards Ailee. Right tool for the job is water, not another sandy fist.

"Hate to admit it, but makes sense. Soon as you die, or as soon as someone more powerful rises up, you're back to square one.

"So what's the plan, then? Paint me a picture, Ailee. What's the world look like after you go to the Heart? Is the very concept of monarchy done away with? Killer plan, can 100% get behind that. Or is it an immortal god-king Ailee? Or maybe you want to invest laws with an actual force behind them, to prevent the problems that civil wars present?"

Lucien draws a ladle of it himself, making sure to sip slowly. He keeps his mouth full while Jackdaw tries to find words - so as not to pressure her any more than what she provides for herself.

"I'm very glad you're still with us too." Another long sip, and a mischevious twinkle in his eye. "I should probably tell the others that supper's ready... but it'll keep warm. What say we enjoy the quiet for another, ooh. Minute or so? All good things come to those who make others wait, so take as much time as you like."

In his mind's eye, he sees Jackdaw feeling guilty at first for eating slower than everyone else, then later for not spending more time savouring it. And he's just happy for the quiet, for the moment - too much trying to negotiate hostile audiences today. The soup's helping him get the taste of his foot and Flood out of his mouth, first.

"That," said Ailee airily, with all the haughty pride available to one splashing water in their eyes, "is classified."

Her finger taps one of those dyed fur-patterns on her shoulder - one of the ones shaped like a bright and terrible eye.

She tosses the canteen back to Coleman - totally whiffing the throw and sending half of it splashing onto the ground - and then pretending she didn't notice that she'd done that she walks past him and bangs loudly on the door to the kitchen. "Hey! Idiots! Hurry up! Or else I'll come in there and show you how it's done!"

Who the fuck had time for a meal that took more than two minutes to cook anyway?

In a blink, he takes their last breadroll, cuts the top off, and digs some of the stale innards out with a spoon. He ladels hot soup into the rest of it, and holds it out the kitchen door for Ailee. A traditional way to serve it, with an emphasis on giving her something chewy.

"Coleman can have his in a bowl in a second. This was the last bit of bread." He closes the door again, plates Coleman's next to his own bowl. Then, to Jackdaw; "I'd best take these out, then. Enjoy the quiet while you can."

Time to see what all the excitement was about, then.

Gone. Gone a little too soon for her to work out how to say thank you. Not for the soup, no, she’d already messed that up, but for the everything else. The chance for some quiet. The fact he was glad she’d not disappeared forever. (That’d gotten a crooked smile out of her.) The camaraderie. Unless...unless she could use this quiet, and work out how to say thank you, and she’d have it ready to go for when he came back! Yes! Good thinking. Good use of time. As she set herself to thinking, she carefully navigated a spoonful to her mouth and-

Didn’t let it go.

It was the secret, last taste. She’d licked the bowl clean. She’d gotten the bits stuck to her nose and whiskers. There wasn’t any left, none left at all, but the spoon tasted like soup, so, so, there had to be some soup there too, right?

“Eh, what’s this? Do we have a spoon-grubber on our hands? Planning to eat up all our good cutlery?”

The matron of the stew towered over her, wielding the great Ladle of Authority. But Jackdaw was tough! She wouldn’t be cowed into confessing false spoon-grubbery. She shook shook shook her head furiously.

“So you say...” A wide grin split her face. “But I’m not gettin’ my spoon back, am I?”

A shake shake shake of her head, and a happy kick of her paws.

“Ha ha ha! A tough negotiator! Well, what do you say for a trade? A story for a spoon?”

A nod! Many nods! So many nods!

“It’s a deal, Jackie.” She sat herself down with a laugh and a pat to the ground beside her. “Best get comfortable, this is a long one. Told to me by my mother’s mother mother, it was. This was long ago, when the seas could be kind and the moon knew the way of words…”

Jackdaw nestled up close, resting her head against her as she listened. The matron touseled her fur and hugged her without even breaking stride. Soon it would be dark. Soon, she’d have to find her way back to her hidey hole, when no one else could see her go. Soon, she’d have to sleep, to be awake before the dawn, when the carts came in from port and treasure could be found by the loose cobblestones. But for now? For right now. She was warm. She was full.

She was safe.

Jackdaw set the bowl down with trembling paws. Clutched the spoon still held tight in her mouth. Screwed her watering eyes shut. And just

didn’t let it go

Lucien passes the bowl to Coleman, and hesitates. He looks back towards the kitchen.

"Actually, I should probably help Jackdaw with... dessert. Yes. This is going to take a while."

He takes his bowl back with him, swearing to himself. Where's he going to pull a bloody dessert from? Almost everything nicer than a cornflour custard is made of perishables, which-

Lucien smiles to himself. Eggnog. Sugar, eggs, rum (or brandy or both) to flavour and disinfect, and the closest to heavy cream you can get from boiled nuts and cornflour.

And, of course, whipping and mixing until your arms are about ready to fall off. If anyone tries to bother them again, he can threaten them with meringue duty...

When he's back in the kitchen, Jackdaw's just kind of being very still with half the spoon stuck in her mouth. First thing's first, then, ladle her second helping into her bowl without asking.

"We could stop here, you know. Or... maybe not here, but somewhere. Somewhere more peaceful, in the up-ahead. If you wanted to, I'd be happy to stop with you. Just as if you want to keep going, I'll keep going with you." Lucien rubs his jaw, and frowns when his fingertips scrape stubble. An annoying symptom of a too-long day. "No matter what you decide. Either way, how good are you at seperating eggs?"

Coleman tucks away the canteen with ill humor. Oh, sure, splash it around, Ailee. It's not like we're in a desert. Don't come begging to him later on, asking to open Sasha's little boiler to rob the water sloshing inside.

But, his humor is significantly improved by the addition of food. And the promise of desert! He's not sure where the man's going to pull it from, but then again he'd kind of chuckled when Lucien had initially promised dinner at all.

"Gramps always said you don't fuck with three people in your life," he said, sipping from the bowl. "Your doctor, your lawyer, and anybody preparing your food."

"Your grandpa sounds like one of those idiots too cowardly to do medicine on himself," said Ailee, taking the soup and throwing a disgusted look at Coleman for sipping directly from the bowl like a cavekobold. "This fucking sense of learned helplessness people have - ooo, trust a professional Ailee, representing yourself is a bad idea Ailee, there's no way you can pull one of your own teeth Aye-leeeeeeeeeeeee." She's a razor hand with her chopsticks if nothing else. "It's not hard, Coleman! People have been pulling their own teeth for thousands of years before we invented dentists and put them in charge of everything."

"And you sound like somebody who'd rather die of septic shock than ask for help," he retorts mildly. "There's always someone knows better'n you at something. Why wouldn't you go to someone as knows more'n you? You wouldn't tell me how to run my train, and I'm not gonna tell you you're doing your hoodoo wrong. I can understand if you're out in the middle of nowhere and need to do what you can with what you have, but if you got the chance, seein' an expert's just common sense."

He stares at her eating for a few seconds before adding, "Common sense also says sieves don't make the best cups. What, they don't teach you how to use spoons at your fancy college?"