Logs:Creature Comforts
| Creature Comforts | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2025-01-30 "I cannot say that I think very highly of most of their entertainments." |
| Location
<NYC> Alphabet House - Corona - Queens | |
This is a modestly-sized, not-too-old rowhouse in Queens, with four bedrooms -- two on each story, arranged around a small shared garage on the lower level and a kitchen and common area on the upper. The common area is small but open, with plenty of natural light from the windows, though -- unfortunately -- also plenty of noise from the expressway roaring overhead. There is a small breakfast nook beside the kitchen and a more comfortable seating area with a handmade rug in the living room; there are colorful woven tapestries hanging on the wall, framed prints and art scattered through the hallways, and plenty of plants livening up the plain furniture. The garage is, nominally, communal -- while it does serve as a somewhat unevenly appointed storage unit for the house's current residents, this is somewhat secondary to serving as a storage unit for past residents' forgotten and left-behind miscellany. Towels and bedding and adult school textbooks; scorched-crusty pots and pans; two tall recycling bins, for some reason; a huge suit in a dry-cleaning bag; a mattress and box frame propped against one wall. It was propped against the wall, at least, but has since grown a fifth and decidedly unapproved resident: some kind of six-legged animal, roughly the size of a mastiff, with a face full of sharp, shiny tusks and tiny, vestigial-looking wings, covered in shaggy, brightly-colored fur. Currently she is lounging on the mattress; there's a humidifier running full-bore nearby, but this doesn't seem to be helping her much -- all of her breaths have a wet, wheezy, snorting quality. Sitting in the small amount of space on the mattress next to her is Budi -- small and brown-skinned, in a long white shirt and plaid lungi, paging through a geology textbook, brow furrowed, one finger trailing down the paragraphs for any keywords he can recognize, though mostly he is looking at the pictures. "Very humid here," he says, "Probably very better for you than this cold, no? More -- water, everywhere. I was born on island, it was warmer there." Surely some door must have opened, surely in the cluttered garage another person entering would make a bump-and-clatter or let in a frigid outside draft. Somehow it's been extraordinarily unobtrusive when another figure enters, slipping in quietly to drop into a crouch at the other side of the mattress. The elegant kurta Damien wears, diaphanous gold-embroidered white muslin that flows around him like water, hardly seems fit for the winter cold that clings to his clothing; the gold silk nehru jacket he has over top can't be adding much warmth, sleeveless and unbuttoned. The blue trousers paired with it are deep, near to black and tucked into slouchy gold boots. The set of rings on his fingers are set each with small coloured stones, faintly luminous in some lights; it might be a pure trick of the eyes but the order of the colored stones seem to switch up, rotating between rings with every third glance. He's carrying a large pot -- a heavy ombre-green ceramic that did not come from this kitchen -- and some rich herby-warm smell is rising from it. "Oh! Have you been getting acquainted?" There's a light and lilting interest in his rich voice -- directed toward which of the other creatures in here, it's hard to say -- and an indefinable something about him that for all the stealthy appearance and all the unknown-person-in-the-house lends him a quiet pull more of curiosity than fear. The boarocerousaurus, at least, seems comfortable enough to see him, sharp pointy-tusked face snuffling towards him with another sneeze. "That is a delight, waiting is so much more pleasant with company." Budi's hair poofs outward with startlement, though the widening of his eyes is more confused than afraid; he leans away, for a moment, so far it looks like he would topple off the mattress if he hadn't dropped one foot to the ground to brace himself, sandal making a very faint squeak on the cold cement. The sweep of his glance, up and down Damien, is long and somewhat awkward, like it's short-circuited him somehow; blinking twice rapidly, alas, does not help. He glances sidelong at the boarocerousaurus, like, 'you know this guy?!' or, 'is he talking to you??' or perhaps 'is he talking to me???' until finally, at her eloquent answering sneeze, he ventures, "Hello thank you sir," all in one breath like this is a regular greeting. "Are you Mister Darryl? Is this your --" he rather transparently flounders for words for a moment before he settles diplomatically on, "-- friend?" "Darryl," Damien turns the name over quietly, his long fingers drumming light against the warm lid of the pot. "I have not yet been a Darryl, but you may call me that if you like. What may I call you?" He is reaching to pat the boarocerousaurus lightly between two snout-tusks. "She needed a place to rest out of the cold for a bit. I told her we've plenty of space here, no? A place for transients." Budi has been shifting awkwardly on the mattress, trying to angle more toward "Salam, Budi." Damien's small dip of bow should not look as elegant as it does, with him still in a crouch across the mattress. "Did you enjoy the breakfast? Perhaps later I might make another." His fingers flex again, drum once more lightly on the ceramic lid; the glint of his rings has shifted once more in color. His dark eyes have gone just a little wider, and he looks more curiously now, between Budi and their extraterrestrial visitor. "Transient means impermanent, passing through, staying only a short while. She hopes to be moving on -- Where did you meet another?" "It was very-very good, thank you sir," says Budi. "But you do not need to. I am learning cooking myself." He opens the plastic shell with a zzzzzzip and pulls out a wadded-up fitted sheet, fixing it with a slight frown, then trying to dig past it to the raggedy comforter. "Oh," he says, "like tourist? You will laugh." This is a little self-conscious. "We were -- another planet. Inside-out planet, it was called Mojoworld. They bring us there to play games but," with an eminently casual toss of his head, but a somewhat sheepish flattening of his large round ears, "I was not good at it. But Gary they kept on for the next round." "I know that planet. Extremely indecorous creatures, they stole away one of my people not long back. Her father was there for a time, as well, I aim to reunite them. I cannot say," Damien is saying very critically, "that I think very highly of most of their entertainments. Although there was one merriment with some inflatable animals that was quite --" He is interrupted here by another sneeze, and maybe it isn't pointed exactly, but as the creature has turned a little more towards him it makes the wet expulsion seem like an insinuation. "-- where are my manners you must be quite hungry." This is definitely directed towards the little(?) boarocerousaurus, though he is hitching his brows at Budi, too, as he rocks down to finally sit, setting the large pot in front of him. "Are you hungry." "They tried to kill me," Budi says blithely, carefully piling the comforter up in his arms to avoid letting it drag along the garage floor, tilting his torso on his too-short legs to carry it over to the mattress and drape it tentatively over the creature's back; the mattress is a queen and the comforter a twin but oh well, this is certainly blanket enough for the boarocerousaurus. "Only I do not die. Always I am hungry," he says, then blinks, like this was not what he meant to say. Though he grimaces, he apparently does not conclude that he should take this back -- instead he adds, "What have you made for her? It smells nice." "Don't die? Oh, how dreadful." Damien sounds quite earnest in his sympathies here, at once mild and yet terribly aghast, as though Budi has just told him he was deathly allergic to seasonings or unable to sense the fragrance of flowers. "They seem to have made quite a habit of that. Are you from this planet, to begin with? Or did they pilfer you from farther afield?" He is finally taking off the wide domed lid of the pot, and sets it carefully down to stand upside-down on its flat knob. It seems a precarious operation when he tips some of the rich stew inside into the lid as if it were a bowl, but the thing does not wobble, nor slosh on his fine clothes. He sets the larger pot down in reach of the young alien, and then picks up the lid-turned-bowl carefully in both hands. "It is a lamb stew. Would you like it?" Budi is creeping skittishly closer around the mattress, very light on his feet. "Yes sir," he says, "I am born in Madripoor, I just look --" he twitches his nose, then his ears, probably unconsciously before he finishes euphemistically, with an incongruously broad smile, "...like this." When he sits at the edge of the mattress, this too has an edgy nerviness to it, though Budi is already turning both hands open in his lap, eyes downcast. "I would like some," he says. "I have not had lamb in very long." "Madripoor! So very many ways to cheat death on that island." Damien's long arms extend, offering the lid-bowl out to Budi. The stew inside, heavy in lamb and sweet potato and green beans, is a spicy thing. Curryish and warm and not entirely identifiable in its specific flavors -- chili powder and cumin and cinnamon and something else a little more pungent, a little gingery and a little like the comforting safety of having a cozy hiding spot nobody else knows about. "I am planning some travel that way, soon. Indonesia -- I don't suppose you've travelled there?" he's asking, a touch hopefully, his eyes shifting brief to the young alien happily, messily slurp-snorting her meal. "I expect my search would be all the quicker if I spoke the local tongue." Budi laughs very shortly, with a sudden whooping cackle that splits his face practically in two, and is hastily swallowed back down, the corners of his smile stretching wider like a grimace. "I have found many ways," he says. Then, again, as he's taking the stew in both hands, "Thank you sir." He takes a very deep inhale first, eyes widening again, then, clearly sort of uncertain what he should be doing with it he's just raising it to his lips to lap at it with a long and surprisingly flexible tongue, angling self-consciously away from Damien. "I never been, but my mother was from Indonesia," he says. "Maybe I can learn you some. Are you looking for her father?" This is with a small tilt of his head at the boaracerousaurus. Damien's head tilts, a small curl of smile on his lips though he does not otherwise seem much taken aback by the cackle or the tonguing. He's just propping his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his laced fingers. "I am, yes, he was sold in the region last I heard. And I would well appreciate some lessons, if you've the time. If you enjoy the stew I'd be quite happy to cook some further meals for you, in exchange for your assistance in this learning." With his head bowed between his shoulders to drink the curry, it is not so easy to clock Budi's wince, at sold; he lowers the pot lid slightly, though he's still keeping his eyes down. "The pirates there are not so nice to beasts," he says, then, with a small bobbing nod, "I hope you find him. I am happy to help. The stew is very good also thank you." "No, many people are quite cruel to those who are different." This comes out more contemplative than somber, really. It's followed by a small pleased lift to Damien's posture, a delighted light in his eyes that just for an instant seems to twinkle there somewhat literally, a glint of starlight buried in their dark depths. "But with your help I have confidence we can reunite them. We have a deal, then." | |
