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It was fun for a long time but towards the end it just started to drag

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I wish I could have joined in.

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Total Members Voted: 28

[wierd]

"Fluffballs?" He asked incredulously. "Has somebody been screwing with the raws again? There'd better not be thermonuclear fluffy wamblers in there!"

"'Fraid so." Said corai.  "You could always see for yourself! Course, I can't let you use the doors.. but if you fell in from above or something, I wouldn't mind. Your screaming in pain would suit me fine. In fact, why dont you go do that?"

"Why don't you go crawl in a hot oven, and save the dragons some time in roasting you?" Weird chided.  He wasn't about to be badgered by a 20lb glorified iguana. Business suit or not. "I bet you'd taste like chicken."

"Not helpin mate!" Interjected one the dwarves. "Can't ye call up some dead cats like uz'all or sommit?"

"I don't sense any unanimated corpses nearby. Roead or Eric must have them already. If you want me to raise a corpse, I need a donor."  He smiled wickedly at corai.

"Need 'im alive mate. Need 'im alive."

Weird felt let down. The idea of finally killing corai once and for all brought such a sense of sublime satisfaction from the back of his mind that it was hard to qualify. He knew he shouldn't feel such a thing, but there it was. He *really* wanted to kill him. Horribly. With predjudice.

He shook it off. This wasn't like him, and he didn't like it. Giving in to base lusts like that was just plain gross.. no matter how delicious the experience promised to be.  The little shit was certainly good with that dagger, as many scars on his torso, hands, and legs would attest to.... maybe just a rash, or some boils?.....that wasn't lethal.....

He shook it off again.  He really should see eric about a hard limiting compulsion to not be evil.

"if you really want him around, he can be your problem." Weird said after supressing yet another wave of sadistic impulses that begged to be sated at corai's expense. He had to get away from coorai before his sensibilities succumbed. "But if he pulls that dagger on you, don't hesistate to club him. He's vicious."

"Only to YOU, Joykill." The imp spat as he was leaving.

Rouding the corner, he shouted over his shoulder. "He's just saying that to take your guards down! Take care, and if he causes trouble, kill 'im!"

That would have to do. It *was* sound advice, as far as corai and his inane throatslashing was concerned. He'd kill his mother for a shiny. The sadistic urge settled, but wasn't satisfied. He really would have to see eric.

His stomach growled. Damn he was hungry.

He headed for the kitchen.

What he saw defied explanation.  On the counter for "today's special' was a bowl of pure lard. Next to it was a rubbery looking offwhite glob, labled "turtle roast", featuring "turtle, turtle, turtle, and yes, even more turtle." The odd man out, was the "strawberry biscuit".  It was a glob of lard with red slime on top.

Whoever was in charge of cooking needed his head examined.  Clearly, none of this stuff was edible.  And if he didn't eat, his stomach was gonna eat its way out of his gut from the inside.

With disgust, he cleared the counter of its vile contents, and dug some ingredients from the stockpile. He was gonna eat damnit, and it wasn't gonna be minced lard.

[I actually am a good cook, with a weakness for making deserts. Sadly, I only know how to cook to feed an army, growing up with 3 siblings. From the usual food stocks in a dwarven fortress, i'd probably be able to make some really awesome stuff, and even some 'realworld comfort food', like macaroni. Its just egg noodles, milk, and cheese.  Egg noodles are just flour, eggs, and salt. Add in meat, mushrooms, a barrel of milk, and fruit like strawberries, and I could well end up cooking a 4 course meal for an army if I lost track of priorities from being too hungry to think straight.  For the purposes of the narrative, I plan on my character using the kitchen t make creme of mushroom soup, beef tips and noodles with sauteed mushrooms, a strawberry shortcake, and be elbow deep in bread dough before having somebody interrupt him]

[WillowLuman]

I can make brownies from scratch, but we'd need some real sugar. Probably have to distill it from dwarven syrup. Then again, I don't have any hands.

[Corai]

-I made good sammiches. I could make a nice sammich.-

[wierd]

Dwarves already make sugar from sweetpods.  Dwarven sugar biscuits are a staple in some fortresses.

the reason I don't usually cook is that I live by myself.  On thanksgivng though, I cook to feed an army, and all is well.  I literally can't cook small meals and still have them come out right. I live on TV dinners, despite knowing how to cook heavenly herb roasted chicken.

I don't think the other fortress residents will complain about real food suddenly being available in bulk just because my char got hungry.

(With the ingredients listed by eric earlier, I could make turtle soup, cream of mushroom soup, chicken noodle soup, maccaroni and cheese, cake, pie, puff pastry, cookies, pudding, bread, roast beef, grilled steaks, marinated chicken, baked chicken, fried chicken (with crispies), saltine crackers, wheat pottage, and quite a few other things.  Sadly, the fortress is sorely lacking on vegetables. I don't know if a bloated tuber is more like a potato or a turnip, or if a kobold bulb is more like an onion or a tulip bulb. So, I am hesitant to include them in culinary creations.)

Regardless, today's new menu is roast beef tips with noodles and sauteed mushrooms, creme of musroom soup, strawberry shortcake, and fresh baked bread. (Which may end up becoming deadly dayold french loaves by tomorrow.)

Clearly a step up from minced lard, and "turtle".

[Corai]

-Your doing that just to kill my charecter, arent you? Little sadistic screwall. xD-

[Gizogin]

[I can do Mexican food.  Tacos, quesadillas, enchiladas, burritos, nachos, that kind of thing.  I can also do scones, and I whip my own cream for them.  I'd have to improvise to get them to work with common fortress ingredients, but most of my recipes are flexible enough that I could manage.]

Gizogin (the one in the hospital) checked all his patients again.  Most were unconscious, whether naturally asleep or sedated.  Cog Wrathhammer was awake, but still groggy.  His recovery speed was impressing Gizogin; he was healing faster than any patient he'd ever seen.  He'd be ready to leave in just another day or two (not that he could go anywhere, what with the siege and all).

The other Gizogin was wandering aimlessly around in the safe area, not really sure what to do.  He wasn't the only one; a lot of dwarves were milling about uncertainly, not sure what was going on.  They hadn't received any official word on the status if the siege, and were growing anxious.

[wierd]

The lack of spices makes things hard.

You can marinate chicken with wine and stuff like heather, which is in the stock raws as a grass.

What isn't there are things like ginger, black peppercorns, cumin seeds (absolutely essential for mexican food), curry, peppers of any kind (how do you intend to make chilli, without chillis?), etc.

The things I listed could be cooked with the limited supplies.

[WillowLuman]

I don't think we'd have any plump helmets yet, having only been here a few weeks, but probably other mushrooms gathered from the nearby woods.
HugoLuman, seeing that the army was distracted in watching for negotiators to come out, ran away, circling back around through the remaining tree cover to the other side of the fort. Here he found a gap in the incomplete wall, and ducked in, headed for the hole where MrHappyFace's shack once stood. He ran down the hall, tripped, and skidded to the end to crash into the wall. Looking back he saw a pole sticking out of a doorway at foot level. The pole fell to the ground, and a figure wrapped in white stepped out. "My mistake. Heard about an invasion of dragons, y'see."

"Ow... No hard feelings..."

Roead walked past him and took the left fork of the junction, on his way downstairs. HugoLuman got back up. "Weird! Zanz! Either of you around here?" he called as he went along.
Roead came to the lower levels of the fortress, unable to find the entrance to the bunker due to it being sealed off and him being unfamiliar. "Hey moron! Do you have any thralls skulking about here that can hear you? Give me some sort of signal if you hear this! I assume you know about the bloody army on our doorstep, which is why you and everyone but a handful of people scuttled off? Well, they're calling for negotiations, and I think I'm going to take this one. Anything you want me to say for the sake of your miserable hide?"

[wierd]

The kitchen was alive with delicious smells.

Flour and salt littered the stone countertop, strips of freshly cut homestyle egg noodles pushed up in a pile while the last batch blanched in a pot of boiling water.

A sweet and sublime scent wafted from the oven, and a bowl of strawberry compote rested impatiently nearby to smother the baking cake in its love.

The pan was sizzling with sliced tips of beef, a fine glaze forming in the bottom of the pan, anticipating the arrival of fresh lion's mane mushrooms from the forest.

Weird had completely forgotten about the impending invasion. Maybe having spent so long in this universe as a dwarf had started to affect his mind... obliviously, and while humming a tune from "the red barn" he had learned in highschool for the state vocalist competition concerning the various kinds of strumpets you could find in new york, he lovingly carressed the slightly sticky wad of flour and water he had coaxed into rising with a splash of beer from one of the booze barrels. It'd be a little flat, but the beer had been quite foamy, so he held out hope. Brewers yeast made alcohol, not carbon dioxide you needed for proper bread.

"In dear old new york its remakrable very; the names on the lamposts are unnecessary! You merely have to see the girls to know what street you're on!"

He released the rising dough, and glided over to the brazing pan, and tossed in the sliced mushrooms, and stirred.

'With velvets and laces, and sables enfolding them, really you'll nearly fall dead on beholding them! Lucky's the earl that can marry a girl from fifth avenue, new york!"

He lifted the lid on the dutch oven that the cake was baking in, and poked it gently with a fresh stick of longland wheat straw, seeing that it came back clean.

"In old new york, in old new york, the 'peach crop's' always fine! They're sweet and fair, and on the square! The maids of manhattan for mine!"

With care, he decanted the cake from its baking pan, and poured the compote on top.

"No you cannot see, in gay pair-ree, in london, or in cork, the queens you'll meet in any street in old new york!"

Whirling around dramatically at the close of the first verse, reaching to remove the noodles from the blanching pot to put them in the brazing pan with the beef and mushrooms, he caught sight of a stunned, and bewildered Hugo.

[Gizogin]

[Ooh, a dutch oven!  You can cook anything in one of those.  ANYTHING.  I've done lasagna, cobbler (lots and lots of cobbler), stews, and all manner of other delicious foods in dutch ovens with the BSA.  You must share some of your food with Gizogin!  He will not stand to be denied!]

[wierd]

[Ooh, a dutch oven!  You can cook anything in one of those.  ANYTHING.  I've done lasagna, cobbler (lots and lots of cobbler), stews, and all manner of other delicious foods in dutch ovens with the BSA.  You must share some of your food with Gizogin!  He will not stand to be denied!]

You must be older than I am.  When I was in the BSA, they had already beccome a super beureaucratic clusterfuck. They wouldn't even let me make a fire, because I hadn't earned that badge yet, and the waitinglist for the approved class to get it was backfilled a whole year.

I hated the BSA. I could already do everything they were supposed to be teaching me... and refused to just let me demonstrate those skills to bypass the BS.

I had been feral camping with nothing but a knife and my clothes for years before joining. (Or rather, being signed up without being asked.)

[Gizogin]

[Ooh, a dutch oven!  You can cook anything in one of those.  ANYTHING.  I've done lasagna, cobbler (lots and lots of cobbler), stews, and all manner of other delicious foods in dutch ovens with the BSA.  You must share some of your food with Gizogin!  He will not stand to be denied!]

You must be older than I am.  When I was in the BSA, they had already beccome a super beureaucratic clusterfuck. They wouldn't even let me make a fire, because I hadn't earned that badge yet, and the waitinglist for the approved class to get it was backfilled a whole year.

I hated the BSA. I could already do everything they were supposed to be teaching me... and refused to just let me demonstrate those skills to bypass the BS.

[I'm actually still in the BSA.  I age out next year.
As for the "beureaucratic [sic] clusterfuck," I never really noticed it.  It might be a troop-by-troop thing, but I never felt like I was being unduly restricted in what I could do.  Every scout in my troop would have his Totin' Chip by his first year, and his firemaking equivalent not long after.  Not that we ever actually checked to see who had his and who didn't.]

Gizogin (hospital) could smell something delicious wafting through the great hospital doors.  His stomach rumbled, which was odd, considering that he didn't actually have one (oh no, I've revealed which Gizogin is which!).  Old habits die hard, he supposed.

[That's actually an interesting concept.  A human mind inside a mechanical body would react differently than a completely organic human would in certain situations.  Fear, for example, has a rather important physiological aspect (the fight-or-flight response), which might be completely absent in a machine (no adrenaline, for example).  A mechanical human would likely have no biological clock or circadian rhythm, because it has no need to eat or sleep.  It really comes down to how much is in the mind and how much is in the body.]

[wierd]

I just hated having to sit through demonstrations that my instructors clearly were not profficient in, and that I could have actually taught myself better, and being told that it was to make absolutely sure I knew such things.

I could bake a cake in a campfire, with a fire made with a firebow, long before being signed up. Totin chip? Really?! I could MAKE a damned knife! Lol! 

I think I mentioned that my dad prepped all of us kids for the doomsday apocholypse earlier, right?  LOL.

It sounds like bragging, but its really painful intellectually being told about how you should and shouldn't handle a 1 inch long rubber knife, when you know how to make a real one with a rock and a deer antler, and had been skinning rabbits and cleaning fish for years.

Its like going from moby dick to dick and jane.

After the scout camping trip of utter doom at the quivera scout ranch, and getting the scours from their hyperchlorinated water treatment system that turned green scout socks orange (not an exageration) and 112 degree heat, coupled with the fact that *nobody* in our troupe had a firing chip, and so we had to eat the foul camp food, and anal retentive and officious camp stewards checking badges for violators making fires, I decided that the BSA was just not for me.

[WillowLuman]

[eh, I would be a bit surprised but for personal reasons. My little brother is a very good singer with an almost Frank Sinatra ring to his voice, and he sometimes sings that. Usually he's singing some swing song or other, though. I guess it would have been a very long time in the story since I'd have seen him.]

[BSA? I never really wanted to be in that. Kind of fell out of it after getting knife safety. Some of the safety tips seem fairly obvious, but then again, human nature. Troop never did much of anything, though.]

"Are you..." HugoLuman stammered. "Eh, should have known. Survivalist and chemist and all that. Did you get those books somewhere safe?"

[wierd]

Weird stammered.

He wasn't used to people walking into the kitchen while he was cooking and singing. And least of all, used to seeing dragons being the ones walking in.

Like an avalanche the present situation with invading dragons hit home, and for a gut-wrenching moment, he wasn't sure if that was hugo or not. He actually had to look hard for the H he had painted on him earlier before the adrenaline stopped.


"Ye...yeah.  got em right here... in the bag."

His previously fluid movements now resembled the jerks of a disabled child as he stammered and pointed at the backpack built into the suit.

He had to break the ice.

"Want some cake?"