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etrayamemes2024-11-11 03:04 pm
etrayamods) wrote in etrayamemes2024-11-11 03:04 pm
Entry tags:
TDM 005
 ⏵ arrival ⏴ Arrival goes as anticipated. Characters awaken in a sterile hospital bed in a clean, white room to the hum of machines under the unnatural lighting common to well-kept institutions. Every bit was designed to be comforting and calming, even with the jarring undercurrent of this situation. The first face they see is Aurora's: her smile appears to be warm, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. She might offer a quick explanation, or leave characters to figure it out for themselves depending on their approach. The door to the room swings open, revealing a hallway that stretches out ahead of them. There’s noise from outside and strong pumpkin spice scents coming from the lobby. Ah, muffins and tea. Grab one and head into the crisp, sunny fall morning ahead.  ⏵ potluck ⏴ Cutthroat Iron Etrayan Bake-Off As you step out of the arrival holding area into the main thoroughfare, the entire street has been turned into tents and chef stations to accommodate the activities of thirty people at once. There’s seats, trailers, and robots bustling about to make sure everyone is ready. A couple of cheerful robots in aprons and colorful sweaters approach and redirect you as you step towards the cooking area. There’s gas ranges, ovens, grills, blast chillers, mixers, and set walk-ins and pantries with just about every ingredient you can imagine. There are cameramen (also robots) patrolling the area to capture all your best moments and to broadcast them directly to your fellow citizens’ devices. Your instruction? “Make your signature dish. You have one hour, chef.” It can’t just be straightforward, can it? The land itself is held together with pure chaotic energy. If you’re lucky, all goes as planned. If you aren’t… well…
* All kittens disappear at the end. ** These however, stay.  ⏵ share a meal ⏴ As all the cooking concludes, you will be invited to plate your meal into one of many casserole dishes, regardless of what was made. A ladle will be tucked into the corner and placed on the table with a folded bit of cardstock declaring the chef’s name and the name of the dish. A helper camerabot will come around to each participant and ask for their thinking and their process. Even if you got away without having to cook, even looking towards the table of dishes will spur a helper bot to start making you a plate with one of everything. The helperbot will insist that it is rude to not at least try what their peers have made. In fact, if you are to fill out the score card for each person, you really must taste everything! The robots can’t try the food, so it’s up to you. The cards look like so. The grading system is opaque. Is it meant to be numbers? Stars? Letter grades? Well, you’re the judge. You figure it out. Chef: ___________ Dish:_____________ Judge:___________ Overall Rating:_______
 ⏵ tummy ache survivor ⏴ No matter how well your compatriots cooked or baked their dishes, there are… factors. You see that carrot? It’s really just condensed chaos in the shape of a carrot. No matter how powerful you are, these particular ingredients may not mesh with your being. …And even if it is truly a carrot, do all the chefs know the proper cooking temperature of chicken? Even chickens are aliens to many. (Optional) Roll a Die
Please direct all questions to our mod queries comment! |
no subject
[Barnabas asks rhetorically and with mild disinterest. Yet, there appears to be enough to inspire him to almost tease at his hypothetical. However, nothing about him implies any humor, even how he stands has been stock still, as if he is emulating a statue more than a man. Honestly, it's hard to tell if he is even breathing, were it not for the fact he's talking.]
The helpers, as they are commonly named, will certainly allow you to alleviate yourself should you require it, but when we are given missions, we are meant to complete them. To the best of our individual or collective ability.
[His eyebrows raise, even so slightly as he continues to stare down at Till. He's a lively sort, and he cannot deny the slight fondness he holds for those with spirit, even should they prove foolish.]
What measure of our worth is taken is not always so obvious. [Finally he moves, gesturing with his hand towards the kitchen some few yards away.] Come.
no subject
“Mission…”?
[feels more like a task… Till steps back, a snarl on his face at the sight of Barnabas’s gestured hand, like it’s some kind of threat, or there’s something disgusting.]
Seriously?
[Till’s shoulders drop with defeat, and he rolls his eyes. maybe he can just sabotage it in a hurry and get himself disqualified or something. hopefully the stakes aren’t as high as live execution for fucking up a casserole.]
Fine, if it’ll get you off my back and I can go have some goddamn peace. —What happens to me if I do a bad job? That lady didn’t say anything about this…
Maybe I shoulda just stayed in the medical room…
no subject
A young human is nothing compared to wrangling Dominants and Eikons, after all.]
As stated: what measure of our worth is taken is not always obvious. What our warden is like to gather from this is not our culinary prowess, but something else entirely. It is not quite a matter of doing well, for that would be too simple.
[Willingness to comply, effort put forth towards the task, subservience, and so forth. Barnabas is well aware of the ambiguity of such measurements, that these things are hardly ever so straight forward. His own willingness to guide others towards compliance likewise is fueled by this awareness of the possible abstract nature of the measure.
Still, that does not answer his question about what will happen if he is to fail, and Barnabas seems content to let it stay unanswered. Or, at least, he makes no further effort to answer it.
As such, Barnabas then begins to walk to his own station, each step precise and measured, light and deliberate. He looks over the implements and taking stock of it all with distant interest. He is not...greatly familiar with these modern appliances, but he is more familiar than he was moons ago...]
wait. trims this mb
[Till’s (perhaps obviously) not all that bright—this is just all too familiar. being so aware of these things his whole life is exactly why Till’s always been so obstinate. not because it’s useful, but because he just can’t stomach it.
Till is guided by one of the robots again to his station, and Till scowls, lifting his leg high to give the thing a rude shove with the bottom of his foot.] Back off.
As if I am bothered by long tags <3
We are not privy to such details, only that we are to prove our worlds worthy of salvation.
[Which is absurd to think about, when they are presently meant to act as chefs to do just that. Thus it is about the abstract, and not the literal. A world will not be saved by a well-cooked meal, it is everything else that surrounds it. Barnabas is all too familiar with being given such impossible tasks as proving the worthiness of mankind's continued existence, and what tasks he might need to undergo in order to achieve it.
Others are less disciplined in such matters.
Barnabas picks up his knife, eyeing the blade with dulled interest.]
What believe you of your world—is it worthy of being saved?
I KNOW.. it just felt kinda busy… lol…
why would this place pick him of all people? it was hard to find a pet human so hatefully defiant to his dying breath as Till, even if he’d kind of had his spirit worn down and frayed towards his final day. probably the shittiest representative that could have been selected. maybe it was random.
bad luck for them, then. Till scoffs as he rolls the older man’s question in his mind, thinking he’ll delight in all the Segyein blowing up or being sucked into a black hole or something.]
No.
It’s a horrible place. I’m probably lucky I’m dead.
[…well. maybe not. Till stills somewhat, leaning away from the mattel pink mixer.
his heart twists, remembering the feel of Mizi’s warm, gentle hands against his face. his last memory, on that place.]
I…
no subject
Barnabas cannot say that he does not agree with the sentiment from his own perspective. His own world is one of suffering, of ceaseless misery, strife, and prejudice. The endless toil of the willful living, clawing and trampling one another to reach for the heavens, for perverse godliness which will remain forever beyond their wretched reach...yet, it is worth saving.
The folly of youth is to believe such personal feelings, such as hatred, matter.]
Death is a mercy few recognize.
[He offers coolly, before returning to his task, grabbing a pot to fill with water before placing it on the stove.]
This place respects it not.
no subject
[Till hadn’t thought about it that way. he fought so hard to survive, to find meaning in living, even knowing that his time was going to be scarce and futile. maybe that’s why he’d pushed for it at all. but that wasn’t innate worth; that was worth that Till had forcibly made in an unkind, poisonous world that had so guaranteed such a miserable life. for him and all the people like him, which was most of humanity.
Till experiments, rummaging through the tools. he looks around to see if there’s a recipe book, at least.]
What do you mean?? It doesn’t respect death?
[…unless he means it some other way, Till guesses he might mean the way that…you know, Till was executed—he remembers the experience of dying vividly, but here he is, feeling like he had 12 hours of sleep and a massage. being forced to…cook.
yeah, Till thinks he gets what he means…]
no subject
[Barnabas asks, setting the burner to high as he then gathers some potatoes from the produce offered near their stations. Setting about to peel and grate them as he talks.]
You may find succor in the fact you are not alone in your circumstance.
[Barnabas was ruefully taken before his promised reward of mercy. Now he is here, peeling potatoes to make dumplings which he doesn't even eat. He has long since foregone such basic needs.]
Death has lost its permanence.
[As the Dominant which wields death as his sword, it does feel a little insulting. Or would, if he cared about such things.]
no subject
Die to get out of being made to do what other creatures force you to do, just to end up somewhere else where you do the same thing, but stupider.
[Till jumps when he turns on the mixer, yelping a little.]
Agh!
no subject
[Well, okay not entirely foolish, but more irresponsible and cowardly. Sure, Barnabas himself has longed for death more than he hasn't his whole life, but he's held out as was required of him. One cannot simply die for the want of mercy, it should be earned.
The yelp pulls Barnabas' gaze over to Till, but he isn't startled by it. Good luck finding anything capable of startling Barnabas, honestly.]
You are unfamiliar with the device.
no subject
And yeah, I’m unfamiliar with all this crap, honestly. [Till mumbles with a sore, bashful ego.] There’s a reason why I tried to avoid all this altogether…
no subject
[He sounds less interested in that, though he hasn't sound particularly interested this whole time. He really gives the general vibe that not much really captures his interest at all, even his own task seems a little beneath his focus. Though his work does not suffer for it.]
You are opposed to learning.
[For all the sentence might seem accusatory, it almost seems more a statement of curiosity. Barnabas does not move from his spot as he continues to work on his own dish, mixing the ingredients as he knows the recipe by heart. Perhaps it is odd that a king would know how to make something most might liken to commoners, but if one knew of his roots...it would clear the matter up rather quickly.]
no subject
[Till rolls his eyes with a snarled lip. he’s not annoyed beyond capacity, or anything, but he finds the older man’s attitude obnoxious—as he would with any human much older than him, probably… it’s just that Till’s never encountered them, before. he’s never even seen a beard, but he’s been mindful not to stare. one of the many forced cosmetic procedures forced on Till and his industry peers saw to it that he’d never grow a lick of facial hair.
Till kind of leans over his work station to peer at some of the neighboring stations, trying to get an idea of how to make…something. honestly, even most of the food that had been prepared for him wasn’t really food for humans made by humans, in most cases; Till’s not even familiar almost all earth foods.]
There’s plenty of stuff I like learning…
no subject
[His voice is even and uninspired as he returns from collecting some ham to be cubed. Taking his knife in hand, he cuts perfect and exact portions. This is done effortlessly, like he's a machine, his gaze bored in their focus on the task.
He doesn't look up as he speaks again.]
If you require assistance, all you must needs do is ask.
[Cooperation is likely to be viewed favorably. Order is not always the answer, chaos for the sake of assistance has its merits.]