RP: Poly Want An Answer Who: Renly Baratheon and Jon Snow When: 3 August 2013 Where: House Baratheon, Los Angeles, Ca. Status: Complete Word Count: 2,823
There was something genuinely dissatisfying about the gentle plink! of an electric kettle which made Jon long for steam whistles and soppy English weather. Peacefulness of ancient ritual castrated by modern convenience not at all as useful or pleasing as instant access knowledge, speedy aeroplanes and automobiles transporting individuals in comfort rather than the dusty, oftentimes harrowing journey of a covered wagon. Nevertheless, a kettle was a kettle and hot water could be had at the touch of black plastic lever, depressed with a begrudging curl of whiskered lip before slouching at the peninsula counter upon which the device sat. A triplet of wriggly lines glowing cobalt indicated the element had begun heating and with nothing better to pass his time, Jon stared at it, soldier at the rounds, this single, lonely light in Renly Baratheon’s kitchen.
Architecture a long, long ways away from quaint countryside feel of 915 South Van Ness, he felt evermore the foreigner in upscale accommodations. Even the grand kitchen at Duren Downs - reserved for use at holiday feasts, fundraisers, special occasions and the like - seemed far less imposing as memory served.
His current surroundings were spotless; counters, basin, cupboards and appliances all finished with sharp, clean edges. Contemporary layout designed with organization and space optimizing techniques in mind, opening up the room from overhead soffit cans to the large bay windows overlooking the very elite of San Fernando Valley. Everything was white and stainless, highlights of pitch an induction-based hob and crystal glass bowl filled with dark red apples, cherries, and blood oranges, fruits invoking sin and decadence.
Everywhere his eyes wandered in the dark reminded Jon of their host. High-tech gadgets boasted monied pockets; tasteful modern art, erotic in form, cultural in function, added an air of queer effeteness; sharpest knives queued and oiled capable of slicing, dicing, mincing, and cutting, displayed across a magnetic strip over the counter some darkly crooked surgeon's instrument tray.
Simply put, the house itself made him feel uncomfortable, much less a guest and more like the scullery maid who’d snuck above stairs for a midnight cuppa.
Best be quick about it. Bung a tea bag and tiptoe back through the maze of similarly themed oppressive rooms and crawl beneath black satin sheets. Return post haste to the arms of the one comfort to be found inside House Baratheon.