|Once Jack, now Will. (jumpingpast) wrote in bellumlogs,|
@ 2010-06-21 15:46:00
|Entry tags:||jack of all tales, john seward, plot: tempus, plot: xi|
Who: Oliver and Will.
What: Well royal kitchens don't tend to themselves!
Where: The palace kitchen.
When: Post clothes gathering and temporarily hiding out.
Warnings: Will swears. Unless either of them decide to knife a random worker it shan't be any harsher than that.
Notes: Since it says "kitchen/dining workers" they may randomly appear on the floor from time to time depending on the angry French yelling. Just a heads up for anyone who will be in the dining area on the second night.
Will's second day in the Russian hellhole was only getting worse. Normally loud and obnoxious, he had spent the better part of his time here rubbing the base of his skull and silently demanding the buzz that would ebb and flow depending on what actions he took to just simply go away. It was giving him a massive headache to the point where he would find himself clutching his ears for no reason while it threatened to incapacitate him.
In the early morning of the second day, Will was forcibly woken up by that very same sensation gaining enough force to cause pressure all over his head. Not wanting to wake any of the others (why, he'll never know), he snuck away, boots and all outside into the bitter cold. He wasn't aware how long he stumbled for, only that he found himself grasping the trunk of a tree as the buzz demanded his complete attention. It was too much.
"SHUT UP!" he screamed, trying to stay upright.
It worked. The buzz faded to a more passable hum.
It also attracted the attention of two members of the local authorities who upon seeing Will had their rifles aimed at his head. While he had his hands up in surrender, there was a rapid exchange of words between all three: first to each other, then to Will, then back to each other when they realized Will couldn't understand them. Whether it was the way he was dressed or something else, they saw fit not to shoot him but instead forced him along, back to the giant building with the gates he was standing in front of yesterday.
They herded him deep inside to the dining room, then behind the scenes to the kitchen area itself where he found his jacket removed and an apron wrapped around his waist. Because he didn't speak Russian, one of the chefs simply sighed, muttered something and then pointed him toward a pile of dishes. This, finally, he understood even though he was less than enthused with his new job. Swearing and muttering under his breath about how there wasn't even any decent vodka for him to touch, he set to work scrubbing the dishes clean. "I better get back home soon cause this is bullshit," he griped.