Someone's in the Galley with Skulley, and Sundry Other Tales

[Thiyenn]

"Milady, the galley."

Lafoot's theatrical bow and flourish did absolutely nothing to enhance the appeal of the ship's tiny kitchen, a dingy three-foot-square patch of floor with a grim, narrow cabinet set to either side. A tiny bowl-shaped sink flecked with rust sat in one of the bare wooden countertops, sink and surface alike scuffed and scoured a no-color gray. The cabinets overhead were just as grimly functional as the ones below, with worn leather straps wound around the stubby knobs and fastened to the sides. Skulley unhooked one and pulled open the door. A scruffy black knee-boot fell off the shelf and she snatched it out of the air before it had a chance to clock her.

"Y'eat boots?"

He chuckled, the sound reverberating in his barrel chest. She wasn't sure how such a large man could seem so comfortable in the cramped and narrow space, but it fit him like a glove. "Seems like it sometimes, aye. Looks like one of Jerijah's dress boots made it in there. Safekeepin' maybe? He wears 'em when we go ashore. Y'nno. For the ladies." He tipped her a wink. The footwear thudded dully against his chest, and he caught it before it fell to the floor. Ducking her head into the lower cabinets, Skulley took inventory of the contents. It didn't take long.

"One boot, one dead rat an' a bloody huge spoon." She held up the offending utensil. It was, indeed, bloody huge. "Reckon I need supplies."

"Cap'n's got a fund fer that...." Lafoot tilted his head at the lanky woman. Her narrow form was bent at curious angles with itself, nearly crammed inside the cabinet she inspected, and her smoke-tinged voice was muffled through the wood.

"Y've not even got a stove."

"The likes of us ain't allowed to set fires on a boat, Captain's orders."

He watched her unfold upward from her crouch, wondering how she'd managed to pull out a cigarette and light it without him noticing. She leaned against the counter, long auburn ponytail skimming its surface, and inhaled thoughtfully. At last she spoke. "A'right. Y'got a toolkit on board? 'Course y'do. Set me up a spanner, a micro-adjuster, a hammer and a cup a' screws while I head up an' make m'self useful. An' fer th'love of all that's holy chuck that rat off the deck."

She grinned as she slid past him in the narrow hallway--a very tight fit--and blew a puff of smoke in his face. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black, and in her boots, very nearly at the level of his own. "Reckon y'might want a bath before we sail, bucko."

[Thiyenn]

Jerijah didn't quite know what to make of the sight before him. Miz Long Tall n' Creepy was sprawled, somehow, horizontally across the galley, one long leg braced on the patch of wall just above the sink, the other hooked under the edge of the upper cabinet by one polished black bootheel. On the opposite counter, she lay looking up at the underside of the cupboard with a half dozen screws and a lit cigarette in her mouth, screwing something into the wood with the micro-adjuster grasped in her pale, dexterous hand.

His eyes followed the reinforced leather strap encircling her narrow hips up to a hook in the ceiling, where her makeshift sling hung by a heavy thorium ring. When he looked back at the woman, she was returning his stare with a level gaze of her own, hardware-studded mouth turned up at the corner. He shivered.

"Mmmph." She spit the screws into her free hand, ass swaying slightly in the sling as she caught the cigarette between two spidery fingers. "Bit of a project, this place. Need somethin'?"

Aware that his mouth was open slightly, Jerijah closed it and swallowed. Something about the new mess wench gave him a right cottonmouth, and it was starting to get on his nerves. "Well what d'ya think yer doin', missy?"

"Buildin' a fuckin' spice rack, what's it look like?" Cigarette deposited safely back in her mouth, Skulley thumbed a silvery, circular object off her workspace/chest and screwed it to the underside of the overhead cabinet. Just a few quick turns and it was added to the neat row of threaded metal lids clinging to the wood like man-made barnacles. She set down the screwdriver and looked up at her handiwork among the curls of smoke.

"Mustardbeard didn't need no fancy spice rack."

Skulley pushed off the countertop and swung gracefully to her feet, slipping both hands into her pockets as she went vertical. Propped on the edge of her swing with her ankles crossed, she regarded him gravely while puffing on her smoke. "Do I look like Mustardbeard t'you?"

He thought about it a bit too long. "... Nay."

She only raised a bemused eyebrow in response, and he found himself clearing his throat. Fucking drymouth. He was a little disturbed to find himself offering a hand, even if it was a bit grudging. Skulley grinned. "Aye, there's a crate of foodstuffs up on deck an' a pressurecooker. Looks like somethin' straight outta fuckin' Gnomeregan, y'can't miss it. Bring 'em on down for me if y'would, love."

[Thiyenn]

The phosphorus grit caught with a hiss, wooden match flaring as she scraped it over her belt buckle. Salt air was slowly taking a toll on her remaining match supply. She wrinkled her brow, thinking she ought to pick up an actual lighter before they launched, and sucked the tip of the flame into her cigarette. Drawing in a lungful of exotic, spiced smoke, Skulley closed her eyes briefly before surveying her work.

Alien and almost frightening in appearance, the pressure-cooker dominated fully half of one counter and was screwed tightly in place, various odd gauges and knobs poking out of the screw-locked lid at strange angles. Small glass jars filled with salt, pepper, herbs and spices dotted the underside of the cupboard, and a bizarre metal trap fastened to the side of the cabinet had already proved itself to be an effective ashtray.

The cupboards contained a single heavy skillet, a saucepan and a normal fuckin' stirrin' spoon; a spatula and a stack of tin bowls and plates; a handful of spoons and forks. One large and one small knife, sharp as blazes and buckled to the inside of the cabinet just above the portable gas burner. Small burlap sacks full of dry rice, beans and tiny black-and-white peas; a crate of glass jars packed between an ample stock of clean, rolled bar towels, crammed in next to a tapped metal tank full of fresh water and a jug of bleach. The cabinets were stocked and secure, everything battened down for rough seas, leather sling and a heavy apron hooked to the wall for convenient access. Maybe a bit excessive for a voyage slated to last less than a week, but it was better safe than sorry.

All that remained was a net bag for vegetables and fruit, and she'd fill that at market shortly. They sailed tomorrow.

Skulley smoked.

Draped in coils of rope, Alejandra stomped down the tiny stairwell and stood next to the new mess cook, arms folded and face sour, to survey the galley. It was almost comical to see the disparity in size and demeanor between the two. One pissy, one serene; one tanned and one pale; one short and one long, they stood shoulder to shoulder (well, more like shoulder to elbow), staring at the spruced-up kitchen. The little black-headed swabby scowled. "What's for lunch?"

"Sandwiches." Skulley exhaled a stream of smoke and looked sidelong at her company. Alejandra took one last look at the kitchen, snorted, and headed off to the hold without another word. Dropping the stub of her cigarette in the steel trap, Skulley gathered up her shopping bag and went up on deck.