paradoxcase (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
paradoxcase) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2025-03-25 04:14 pm
paradoxcase) wrote in rainbowfic2025-03-25 04:14 pm
Entry tags:
Nacarat #5 [The Fulcrum]
Name: A Small Dinner Party
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Nacarat #5: Fika (Swedish): Gathering together to talk and take a break from everyday routines; either at a cafe or at home often for hours on end.
Styles and Supplies: Panorama
Word Count: 1752
Rating: PG
Warnings: Alcohol use
Characters: Setsiana, Mosetai, Qhoroali, Liselye
In-Universe Date: 1911.8?.?.?
Summary: An opportunity arrives.
About three weeks had passed; Setsiana had lost track of the days when not much seemed to change for her. She had learned something about what was on the other side of the locked door in the living room, though. One day, Peatäro had reappeared, and she and Qhoroali had disappeared into that room for a time, only for them to come back out a couple hours later immediately following the sound of an explosion. Both were wearing some kind of comically large, clear spectacles and Qhoroali was dusting something off of her clothes.
“I told you not to do that,” Peatäro had said. “I’ll bet Cusäfä told you not to, too. Why don’t you listen?”
“I had to know what would happen,” Qhoroali had said, simply. “Anyway, that might be useful.”
“Nope,” Peatäro had responded. “You don’t get to use this stuff anymore, I’m confiscating it.” She had been holding up a stoppered vial of something above Qhoroali’s head, which she then put into a pocket on her trousers. “Mosetai will back me up, she doesn’t want you blowing up the apartment. You are practically worse than Talamäcuti.” That had seemed to be the end of the conversation, and that door had not opened again since.
Some time later, another dinner had been arranged in the apartment, but this time it wasn’t Liselye who brought the tray of food, but a short, somewhat plump middle-aged woman with her short dark brown curls mostly covered by a bright red Dlestan handkerchief, slightly darker-skinned than Liselye, who herself was already on the darker side for Vrel. In her left ear hung a traditional, unadorned marriage hoop - actual gold, or something that looked close enough to mimic it. She greeted Qhoroali and Liselye, who were already sitting in Qhoroali’s living room chatting.
“No Reitsia tonight?” asked Liselye, after the woman had set the tray down in the kitchen and returned.
“No, unfortunately,” said the newcomer. “She’s got work. I told her she could do it some other time and come to dinner anyway, but she declined. Sometimes I think she prefers work to companionship.” The woman sighed heavily. Her QuCheanya was competent, but heavily accented, about as good as Setsiana would ordinarily hope for from a layman.
“Oh, bad luck,” said Liselye. “I’m sure we’ll catch up with her later.”
“No Cyaru, either? Don’t tell me he’s working overtime, too. Doesn’t seem the type.”
“No, he just didn’t feel up to it tonight,” said Liselye. She made no mention of whatever reason Cyaru had for not wanting to be around Setsiana that he’d discussed with Qhoroali before.
They filed into the kitchen and sat around the table, and the new woman passed out the plates. They contained Dlestan-style corn-breaded steaks (except for Qhoroali’s, which seemed to be a fish fillet) covered in a dark sauce, with coarsely chopped squashes of various colors on the side. Qhoroali had retrieved silverware from a drawer in the kitchen, but one set had been brought in with the tray: sharp knives for cutting the steak. Setsiana immediately came to attention; they were much bigger than the scissors had been.
Setsiana carefully sat away from where Qhoroali and Liselye had seated themselves, but when the new woman had finished passing out the plates, she seated herself next to Setsiana with intention. She extended her hand in a friendly way, and Setsiana reluctantly took it by reflex. “Nice to finally meet you,” the other woman said. “I’m Mosetai - I manage these three buildings and hopefully some day a fourth! All thanks to a lucky break I had in my youth that put me in charge of the café, but it’s the rent that brings in the money these days. You must be Setsiana, correct? I’ve heard a bit about you. How are you liking it in my building so far?”
Setsiana just stared at her for a moment. Then, in a sudden moment of inspiration, she blurted out, “Did you know your renters are stealing things from temples of Sapfita?”
Mosetai laughed. “Oh, I know all about what they are doing, don’t fret. I don’t involve myself so much… but I like to know where my money comes from. Well,” she amended, “I don’t think the money comes from that so much. But we don’t have secrets between us.”
“It doesn’t bother you that they are doing something illegal?”
“Which of us hasn’t done something illegal at some point?” Setsiana was about to object that she hadn’t, but Mosetai did not seem to be waiting for an honest answer. “When I was a teenager and my parents had just come here, escaping the plague, you know, well, the priestesses helped some, but when push came to shove, we sold and traded in what we had to to survive. Laws are imperfect standards, and sometimes you have to break them for a worthy cause. Don’t you agree?”
“What ‘worthy cause’ is served by stealing temple documents?”
“Oh,” Mosetai said, seeming to remember something. “I’m not allowed to tell you, actually. But trust me, there’s a good reason.”
They lapsed into silence for a while. Setsiana picked up her knife and began to use it to cut the steak. While doing so, she considered it; she was surprised they had given her something sharp. She looked back at the other end of the table, but the other two were well-engaged in their conversation. If it wasn’t for Mosetai sitting so close…
The sauce on the steak was different than what she’d been expecting — usually such a dish would be served with a regular tlichrún sauce, but this wasn’t like any tlichrún sauce she’d ever had. She remembered that Liselye had said Mosetai made the food, so she turned to her and asked about it.
“It’s the traditional sauce, actually,” said Mosetai, clearly preening at a chance to talk about her cooking. “The traditional sauce in Dlesta. So many people here make it with the wrong sauce. This is the essence of Vrel; you take a nice Dlestan meal, and you put the wrong sauce on it, and you sometimes remove the meat, or replace it with fish, or add rice, and you call it yours. This is what Vrel is, it is Dlestan culture with Cheanya sauce.”
“So when you made the sándrev some weeks ago, with the meat in it,” Setsiana said slowly, “you’re saying that’s actually Dlestan food that’s served like that in Dlesta? It’s not Cheanya at all?”
“Obviously not! Here’s an easy test: anything with corn, or cornmeal, cornbread — any of that — all of that food comes from Meandhshen somewhere. Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “we did the same thing, back when I still lived there — a lot of rice dishes I grew up with, I discovered that they came from here and we had been making our own versions of them back home. And no one really knows the traditional versions, except those of us who’ve lived on both sides. It was how I lucked into the café, you know. The original owner, well, he knew where the corn dishes came from, he sold them as Dlestan food. I had to tell him he wasn’t quite right, and I made some food for him in the traditional style, and after trying it, he hired me to transform his menu. He fell too ill to run the place some, oh, twelve, thirteen years ago now, and I was in charge for a while… and then he willed me the place when he died without children. Couldn’t ask for a better windfall — we never had to sell anything illegal again, we never again had to go to the priesthood for help. My parents are living out their old age in a luxury we couldn’t have dreamed of in Dlesta.”
Setsiana ate in thought for a while, thinking of all the Vrelian dishes she knew of that involved corn. All of them, Dlestan? Really? She took a break to cut the remainder of her steak into small pieces, and then carefully placed the knife near her so that it was hidden by the lip of the plate, but not obviously so. She watched the conversation at the other end of the table become more animated, and then Liselye called out: “Mosetai! Come settle an argument for us! Rou is spectacularly wrong about the Solstice Festival in Dlesta but she won’t take my word for it.”
Mosetai laughed again, and moved her chair further over to hear them better. Sensing her moment, Setsiana quietly slipped the knife into her lap and covered it with a napkin. She placed the fork haphazardly on the plate, to hopefully make it less clear that the other utensil was missing.
She patiently waited for the conversation, and the dinner, to wind down. The empty plates and utensils were collected; nobody counted to make sure they were all still present. The others withdrew to the living room with a bottle of wine that Liselye had brought. Qhoroali made a half-hearted attempt to invite Setsiana to join them, but when Setsiana simply shook her head, she shrugged and went with the others.
Setsiana gripped the handle of the knife with her right hand, and held it with the blade pointing upwards so that it was hidden between her body and her right wrist and lower arm, and carefully and casually left the kitchen, walked past the gathering in the living room, and back to the bedroom she’d been given. She then went into the bathroom and used the spigot on the bathtub and the small lump of soap there to clean the knife as best she could with just her hands. She regarded her prize: it wasn’t very big, as far as knives went, not something that would be used as a true offensive weapon, but it was still sharp, and its smaller size might be to her advantage. She held it next to the right side of her skirt to do a rough measurement, and then reached her hand into the pocket to see just how far down it extended. Not far enough by half; she’d need to make some modifications. Not right now, though — the sewing supplies were in the living room, and the others were still out there. She’d have to do it tomorrow morning, before Qhoroali rose.
For the time being, she carefully placed the knife under the mattress where the nurefye was still hidden, and made an early night of it.
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Nacarat #5: Fika (Swedish): Gathering together to talk and take a break from everyday routines; either at a cafe or at home often for hours on end.
Styles and Supplies: Panorama
Word Count: 1752
Rating: PG
Warnings: Alcohol use
Characters: Setsiana, Mosetai, Qhoroali, Liselye
In-Universe Date: 1911.8?.?.?
Summary: An opportunity arrives.
About three weeks had passed; Setsiana had lost track of the days when not much seemed to change for her. She had learned something about what was on the other side of the locked door in the living room, though. One day, Peatäro had reappeared, and she and Qhoroali had disappeared into that room for a time, only for them to come back out a couple hours later immediately following the sound of an explosion. Both were wearing some kind of comically large, clear spectacles and Qhoroali was dusting something off of her clothes.
“I told you not to do that,” Peatäro had said. “I’ll bet Cusäfä told you not to, too. Why don’t you listen?”
“I had to know what would happen,” Qhoroali had said, simply. “Anyway, that might be useful.”
“Nope,” Peatäro had responded. “You don’t get to use this stuff anymore, I’m confiscating it.” She had been holding up a stoppered vial of something above Qhoroali’s head, which she then put into a pocket on her trousers. “Mosetai will back me up, she doesn’t want you blowing up the apartment. You are practically worse than Talamäcuti.” That had seemed to be the end of the conversation, and that door had not opened again since.
Some time later, another dinner had been arranged in the apartment, but this time it wasn’t Liselye who brought the tray of food, but a short, somewhat plump middle-aged woman with her short dark brown curls mostly covered by a bright red Dlestan handkerchief, slightly darker-skinned than Liselye, who herself was already on the darker side for Vrel. In her left ear hung a traditional, unadorned marriage hoop - actual gold, or something that looked close enough to mimic it. She greeted Qhoroali and Liselye, who were already sitting in Qhoroali’s living room chatting.
“No Reitsia tonight?” asked Liselye, after the woman had set the tray down in the kitchen and returned.
“No, unfortunately,” said the newcomer. “She’s got work. I told her she could do it some other time and come to dinner anyway, but she declined. Sometimes I think she prefers work to companionship.” The woman sighed heavily. Her QuCheanya was competent, but heavily accented, about as good as Setsiana would ordinarily hope for from a layman.
“Oh, bad luck,” said Liselye. “I’m sure we’ll catch up with her later.”
“No Cyaru, either? Don’t tell me he’s working overtime, too. Doesn’t seem the type.”
“No, he just didn’t feel up to it tonight,” said Liselye. She made no mention of whatever reason Cyaru had for not wanting to be around Setsiana that he’d discussed with Qhoroali before.
They filed into the kitchen and sat around the table, and the new woman passed out the plates. They contained Dlestan-style corn-breaded steaks (except for Qhoroali’s, which seemed to be a fish fillet) covered in a dark sauce, with coarsely chopped squashes of various colors on the side. Qhoroali had retrieved silverware from a drawer in the kitchen, but one set had been brought in with the tray: sharp knives for cutting the steak. Setsiana immediately came to attention; they were much bigger than the scissors had been.
Setsiana carefully sat away from where Qhoroali and Liselye had seated themselves, but when the new woman had finished passing out the plates, she seated herself next to Setsiana with intention. She extended her hand in a friendly way, and Setsiana reluctantly took it by reflex. “Nice to finally meet you,” the other woman said. “I’m Mosetai - I manage these three buildings and hopefully some day a fourth! All thanks to a lucky break I had in my youth that put me in charge of the café, but it’s the rent that brings in the money these days. You must be Setsiana, correct? I’ve heard a bit about you. How are you liking it in my building so far?”
Setsiana just stared at her for a moment. Then, in a sudden moment of inspiration, she blurted out, “Did you know your renters are stealing things from temples of Sapfita?”
Mosetai laughed. “Oh, I know all about what they are doing, don’t fret. I don’t involve myself so much… but I like to know where my money comes from. Well,” she amended, “I don’t think the money comes from that so much. But we don’t have secrets between us.”
“It doesn’t bother you that they are doing something illegal?”
“Which of us hasn’t done something illegal at some point?” Setsiana was about to object that she hadn’t, but Mosetai did not seem to be waiting for an honest answer. “When I was a teenager and my parents had just come here, escaping the plague, you know, well, the priestesses helped some, but when push came to shove, we sold and traded in what we had to to survive. Laws are imperfect standards, and sometimes you have to break them for a worthy cause. Don’t you agree?”
“What ‘worthy cause’ is served by stealing temple documents?”
“Oh,” Mosetai said, seeming to remember something. “I’m not allowed to tell you, actually. But trust me, there’s a good reason.”
They lapsed into silence for a while. Setsiana picked up her knife and began to use it to cut the steak. While doing so, she considered it; she was surprised they had given her something sharp. She looked back at the other end of the table, but the other two were well-engaged in their conversation. If it wasn’t for Mosetai sitting so close…
The sauce on the steak was different than what she’d been expecting — usually such a dish would be served with a regular tlichrún sauce, but this wasn’t like any tlichrún sauce she’d ever had. She remembered that Liselye had said Mosetai made the food, so she turned to her and asked about it.
“It’s the traditional sauce, actually,” said Mosetai, clearly preening at a chance to talk about her cooking. “The traditional sauce in Dlesta. So many people here make it with the wrong sauce. This is the essence of Vrel; you take a nice Dlestan meal, and you put the wrong sauce on it, and you sometimes remove the meat, or replace it with fish, or add rice, and you call it yours. This is what Vrel is, it is Dlestan culture with Cheanya sauce.”
“So when you made the sándrev some weeks ago, with the meat in it,” Setsiana said slowly, “you’re saying that’s actually Dlestan food that’s served like that in Dlesta? It’s not Cheanya at all?”
“Obviously not! Here’s an easy test: anything with corn, or cornmeal, cornbread — any of that — all of that food comes from Meandhshen somewhere. Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “we did the same thing, back when I still lived there — a lot of rice dishes I grew up with, I discovered that they came from here and we had been making our own versions of them back home. And no one really knows the traditional versions, except those of us who’ve lived on both sides. It was how I lucked into the café, you know. The original owner, well, he knew where the corn dishes came from, he sold them as Dlestan food. I had to tell him he wasn’t quite right, and I made some food for him in the traditional style, and after trying it, he hired me to transform his menu. He fell too ill to run the place some, oh, twelve, thirteen years ago now, and I was in charge for a while… and then he willed me the place when he died without children. Couldn’t ask for a better windfall — we never had to sell anything illegal again, we never again had to go to the priesthood for help. My parents are living out their old age in a luxury we couldn’t have dreamed of in Dlesta.”
Setsiana ate in thought for a while, thinking of all the Vrelian dishes she knew of that involved corn. All of them, Dlestan? Really? She took a break to cut the remainder of her steak into small pieces, and then carefully placed the knife near her so that it was hidden by the lip of the plate, but not obviously so. She watched the conversation at the other end of the table become more animated, and then Liselye called out: “Mosetai! Come settle an argument for us! Rou is spectacularly wrong about the Solstice Festival in Dlesta but she won’t take my word for it.”
Mosetai laughed again, and moved her chair further over to hear them better. Sensing her moment, Setsiana quietly slipped the knife into her lap and covered it with a napkin. She placed the fork haphazardly on the plate, to hopefully make it less clear that the other utensil was missing.
She patiently waited for the conversation, and the dinner, to wind down. The empty plates and utensils were collected; nobody counted to make sure they were all still present. The others withdrew to the living room with a bottle of wine that Liselye had brought. Qhoroali made a half-hearted attempt to invite Setsiana to join them, but when Setsiana simply shook her head, she shrugged and went with the others.
Setsiana gripped the handle of the knife with her right hand, and held it with the blade pointing upwards so that it was hidden between her body and her right wrist and lower arm, and carefully and casually left the kitchen, walked past the gathering in the living room, and back to the bedroom she’d been given. She then went into the bathroom and used the spigot on the bathtub and the small lump of soap there to clean the knife as best she could with just her hands. She regarded her prize: it wasn’t very big, as far as knives went, not something that would be used as a true offensive weapon, but it was still sharp, and its smaller size might be to her advantage. She held it next to the right side of her skirt to do a rough measurement, and then reached her hand into the pocket to see just how far down it extended. Not far enough by half; she’d need to make some modifications. Not right now, though — the sewing supplies were in the living room, and the others were still out there. She’d have to do it tomorrow morning, before Qhoroali rose.
For the time being, she carefully placed the knife under the mattress where the nurefye was still hidden, and made an early night of it.
no subject
no subject
Thank you! Sketching out the details of what comes from where and where cultural influences come from has been pretty fun, but sometimes I worry that I am putting too much gratuitous worldbuilding in some of these, haha.
no subject
no subject
Thanks! I'm not sure how much of recurring character she will be, but she was fun to write here.