( It's something of a shock, stepping into this kitchen of gleaming surfaces and seeing... magic. It's magic, or whatever someone wanted to call it, in such a different manner than anything she's run into before. Power was many things, chaos was many things, formed and compelled, while this was a synchrony of purpose that leaves Ciri blinking, staring, fingers twitching into fists.
Doesn't change the fact it smells great. Part of her notes this, her eyes flicking from the orchestration of moving objects and the man standing as he stood, before the oven, with the meat dropped sizzling into the pan. Part of her wonders at costs.
Part of her simply says, walk in. So she does, shoulders straightening, stride level and sure, as if this is fine. All fine. All very understandable, including her hand at her hip and the short blade there, in case the chopping knives get ideas. They probably won't. Still. )
What's on order?
( For the magic, she wonders, but she means for the food, knowing what it is for turns at the cookpot meaning what is the same for anyone lucky enough to eat, and gratitude (or ribald teasing, which were one and the same in places far, far from her grandmother's court) the coin offered and backed by deed.
Her stomach growls, and she keeps her shoulders from twitching, instead staring down the magic user of whatever flavour he may be. Daring him to acknowledge what she isn't, in the moment. )
kitchen
Doesn't change the fact it smells great. Part of her notes this, her eyes flicking from the orchestration of moving objects and the man standing as he stood, before the oven, with the meat dropped sizzling into the pan. Part of her wonders at costs.
Part of her simply says, walk in. So she does, shoulders straightening, stride level and sure, as if this is fine. All fine. All very understandable, including her hand at her hip and the short blade there, in case the chopping knives get ideas. They probably won't. Still. )
What's on order?
( For the magic, she wonders, but she means for the food, knowing what it is for turns at the cookpot meaning what is the same for anyone lucky enough to eat, and gratitude (or ribald teasing, which were one and the same in places far, far from her grandmother's court) the coin offered and backed by deed.
Her stomach growls, and she keeps her shoulders from twitching, instead staring down the magic user of whatever flavour he may be. Daring him to acknowledge what she isn't, in the moment. )