RP:The Battle for Breakfast - Daisy Versus the Thorne Estate
The Thorne Estate
A neatly paved path wends through native weeping hemlock trees, leading to a pair of wrought-iron gates decorated with a distinctive thorn design. Beyond the gates is a subdued but stately manse set among banks of trumpet lilies and oleanders. The entrance hall's double doors lead directly to a parlour. This room, comfortable but with an air of business about it, is furnished with antique high-backed armchairs, their faded scarlet bright against walls panelled in black pine. Large windows, barred with scrolled ironwork, look out onto the perpetually moonlit garden. Beside a leather chaise longe, potted begonias bloom on a claw-footed table on which are also stacked various eldred tomes of lesser necromancy. Immense bookshelves, set on either side of a dark marble hearth, are laden with magical works; several are heavily locked and possibly guarded by creatures of the owner's unique reanimatory design. Toward the kitchen lies a trapdoor that opens to a narrow set of descending stairs. What the rest of the lower floor might be employed for is a mystery; its doors are also locked and most often remain so, though several upper floor rooms of the eastern and western wings appear to be accessible. Guests should be warned, however, that wandering about uninvited may prove hazardous to one's health.
Flower Power versus a House of Horrors
The Thorne Estate || There is an old local saying, regarding the Thorne Estate, that 'when the witch is away, the house will play'. The building's reputation for a perverse sense of humour came from the frequent poltergeisting in which the estate indulged itself when unsupervised. Tenebrae had been gone from the estate for a small while now, and the house was getting ideas. All it needed, really, was an 'appreciative audience' to perform for. Or on. Verbs are such a hassle to keep track of when you're a large building packed to the rafters with supernatural energies and entities. Several windows open outwards suddenly as the house silently sneezes in sympathy with one particularly sensitive creature - that the thing looked like a spiky nose on little legs just added extra pathos to its plight. The house really had to do something about all this. Hadn't there been some new and precocious pet of the Mistress scampering around recently? The house went hunting for clues.
Daisy has been spending a lot of time sleeping off her, what Tenebrae calls, magical hangover. There really isn't much else a girl can do than just wait it out. She rolls over beneath a bat-fur blanket she has been snuggling in and spots that bottle of liquid death there on the table. There is a shudder and the wrinkling of a nose. Whisker twitch and maybe there might be a bit of a gagging noise. Medicine. Ha! This druid knows medicine and that is... well you do feel better, right? Coincidence! The feline nods, sits up, and then hops off the daybed. Hungry kittens are hungry and she was promised access to a kitchen. Feeling better, tiny feet pad her through the house. The kitchen is found! Looking around, she steps into the middle of it. Kitchens are mostly universal, so finding things will be a breeze. Seems she is taking too long, though. That newly acquired tail taps her on the nose then points at her mouth. 'Feed me' it seems to say, only to be swatted away. "I am."
The Thorne Estate || It was Professor Redhale in the Library with the Dragonbones! No, no it wasn't. The house searches the hallways, the corridors, the closets, the water closets. No judgments, please, this is serious housekeeping business. Who knows where the deuced flowerfiend is hiding? The Mistress likes her pets weird, brings new ones home all the time, but is the house ever consulted? No sir. Would its opinion be considered if it was? Probably not. The kitchen hearth puffs ash as the house takes a sniff. Aha! The kitchen! It would recognise that cat-monkey-floral scent anywhere. Well, then. Commence delegation: the house declares kitchen duty for some of the resident haunts. The Mistress had always been very explicit not to kill or cripple the pets, but considerations regarding 'scaring the hair off 'em', or 'roughing them up a little' had always been delightfully vague. The kitchen spirits waited, old hands at this kind of thing. When Daisy goes to open a cupboard, it will open ahead of time, aiming to smack her hand. Whichever item the kitten grabs for will suddenly sprout little shadowlegs and scuttle away. There may have been some truth to the suspicions that Valentin's mischievous shadow had been swapping trade secrets with the local critters when the Mistress wasn't around.
Daisy 's tail swats right back at her before jerking a bit and then hiding beneath her skirt as if it knows something the kitten does not. Coward! This doesn't bother Daisy. Nope. Not one bit. That tail has only been a nuisance since she got it. 'Bout time it took a nap or something. Since tails can nap and all. Now! Time for food finding. A stool of convenience is pushed over to the cupboards and climbed up on so she can actually reach to open the door. Eeep! Her smacked paw is jerked back and held to her chest with a yelp. What the? Hrm. Leaning against the counter, she tilts her head to look beneath the cabinet. Tricksy cabinet. She swats at the door twice and gives it the stink eye before reaching inside for a jar that doesn't seem to want to be grabbed. Slowly, she backs down off the stool.
The Thorne Estate || It was Gardener Daisy in the Kitchen with a Potted Plant, after all! The hideous reek of flowers wafted from the fiendish fuzzmonster in a fashion that screamed 'guilty of crimes against the house's horror-filled ambience'. The jar of pickled plums Daisy had been reaching for scuttles along the side of the cabinet, up the wall, and disturbs the serenity and spiderweb doilies of some aristocratic arachnids where they'd been having a high tea of fly and juices. A stool-pigeon betrays Daisy. Literally. The stool Daisy is stepping from flies across the room, in an attempt to bowl over the kitten, before skidding to a halt just before the wall. Rules, alas, prevented wholesale smashing of things just to cause mischief. Unless it was particularly funny.
Daisy can be clumsy at times, but this is ridiculous! Does it really count when a house seems out to get you? Oh don't be silly. A house can't be out to get you. Houses don't feel things like spite or mischief or - was that a cackle? She stumbles back a few steps from the flying furniture and lands on her monkey tush. "Be nice, kitchen." Green eyes narrow as she looks about. This would totes be a hidden camera show if cameras and shows were a thing right about now. But they aren't and this isn't so the druid reminds herself -and- the kitchen that she has permission to be here. "Tenebrae said..." No need to finish thoughts, I suppose. Kitchens can't hear. Taking advantage of being on the floor, she kneels over by some lower cabinets and opens one. Crackers! Those are harmless. Finally a little smile curves the kitten's lips and she opens the box.
The Thorne Estate || 'Tenebrae said'...? Ahahahaa... but the Mistress isn't -here-, little floral disaster... so tough bikkies! And speaking of which: an aetherial laugh would fill the air as out of the box comes a fluttering swarm of shadow-winged crackers. They have all the grace and aeronautic ability of drunken bumblebees, but there's enough of the crackerbees to be a nuisance. It's a distraction, of course, for the shadowcritter's partner in poltercrime has found the rotary eggbeater. Quietly, like a pixie assassin, the utensil responsible for the destruction of countless eggs homes in on its target. The twist in the tale comes with a sudden whirring sound as the handcrank spins, setting the beaters whirling as it launches a flanking assault: omelette you imagine how well monkeytail and mixers would mesh if the two should meet.
Daisy swats at those crackerbees with a squeal before just throwing the empty box at them. Yolks on you, kitchen! Daisy's tail happens to be curled safely beneath her skirt, avoiding the dangers of being bested by beatery. So while your distraction is quite distracting, it isn't distractive enough to disturb a floral disaster. A disaster with an army of flora at her disposal! A stalk of heather is produced and jabbed at the beaters in a gesture even Kuzial would be proud of in hopes to put a kink in their spinning. Maybe you should just find something in your bag, kitten. It would probably be safer. Oh, an icebox! Dangerous things couldn't possibly live in an icebox, thought the girl who frequents Frostmaw as she crosses the room to open the door for peeking inside.
The Thorne Estate || The deuced flower fancier just wouldn't let up, would she? Fine. Time to get clever. Fight flower with flower, as it were. The eggbeater drops to the floor, while the crackerbees continue their bumbling assaults on Daisy's hairspace. For some strange reason, the icebox would prove bizarrely difficult to open. From within would come a faint "....elp me... ..m stuc...n here...plea...elp me." If curiosity causes the kitten to continue her attempts to open the impossibly strong icebox lid, a container of flour will be dumped on the kitten's head. Try that on for 'flour power', nuisance redecorator! (For those curious, as this is a household belonging to a necromancer, it is safe to assume the flour is self-raising.)
Daisy is having quite the time trying to get that door open with one paw while the other continues to shoo the crackerbees away. Regular bees could just be told to go on somewhere else. "Stoooop!" These bees are a different story. One of them are actually snatched out of the air and bit into with a glare that promises she will eat them all! Patoo! And she spits it back out. "Stale..." She goes back to opening the icebox -or trying to, rather- and that voice is heard. Nope. Not going to mess with that one. Both paws are held up in the air as she takes a step back, but the step isn't quick enough to dodge the shower of flour. Poof! Antiqued kitten! She coughs and shakes her head, opening one eye at a time. Would the kitchen respond to threats? What exactly do you threaten a kitchen with? Gaudy curtains? Flooring that doesn't match the countertops? Still pondering, the flourey feline tries to brush off the dusting. She is so not cleaning this up. What she will clean up is that bowl of fruit on the table there. Why didn't she see it before? How thoughtful of Tene to leave it out for her. <3 Be wary, kitten. Warnings are waved off and she reaches for the bowl without taking the chance on that stool again. Luckily, she can reach the bowl and pulls it close. "Come here, apple." And the golden delicious is picked up.
The Thorne Estate || Cutlery rattles in amusement at the floury kitten. But, oh no, the two critters on duty didn't take into account fruit. Delaying tactics would be needed while they got someone else to lend a hand. The mouse. Yes. THAT mouse. It would be perfect. There was no way they were going to let this greenthumbed gardengrubber have breakfast. Not while they were on the job. After all: with breakfast she might end up feeling energetic enough to ...ugh, it did not bear even thinking of... grow MORE flowers. A roasting fork shoots through the air, spearing the apple and carrying it from Daisy's hand to the other side of the kitchen, where it is impaled to the wall with a 'splathunk'. Elsewhere, a cute little wight housemouse scurried with decaying paws through the warren it had made for itself after creation, approaching the kitchen at the Thorne Estate's promise of an unhindered fruit breakfast.
Daisy oh so quickly jerks her paw back, wondering if the kitchen was aiming for her her or the apple. She turns around to glare at =everything=. There seems to be a problem here. Daisy wants to eat. The kitchen doesn't want to feed her. Fine. You want a war, kitchen? She pushes the sleeves up on her sleeveless dress then raises a tiny fist in the air. "To battle!" Snatching up a rolling pin, she wields it against her foe. Another lower cabinet is opened so she can peek inside. Come at me, bro! Because this kitchen has to be male. Or something.
The Thorne Estate || The house gets huffy, curtains billowing, with the continued impertinance of the ridiculously stubborn seed-sprouter. Battle, was it? Oh, it is -ON-. The opened cabinet launches a can-onade of well-sealed steel canisters at Daisy, mostly containing the more unpleasant things Tenebrae had been gathering for her experiments in 'undead tea blends'. They wouldn't pack much of a punch, but the assault would hopefully distract from the arrival of 'Squeaky', the wight housemouse dropping from a hidden mousehole above a pantry cupboard. Fruitbowl, meet Squeaky. Squeaky, meet... oh dear gods, do undead mice have no manners?! Like an undead ratapult, Squeaky launches itself at the bowl. The peach Squeaky lands on shrivels as the mouse entropically converts the apple to a more palatable aetheric foodstuff.
Daisy isn't much of a fighter, but she does swing a mean rolling pin. Smack! Smack! Smack! Those cans are greeted with a friendly hello. Each connection makes the kitten take a step back. Her tail actually comes out of hiding to see what all the fuss is about and catches one of the cans. The can is shaken and banged on the floor as a warning to all the other cans. "Good job, tail!" Finally! Someone on her side! Ah, maybe not. While praising, Daisy takes a cannon can to the belly, doubling her over. She groans and decides maybe trying the fruit again is a better idea. She has a weapon now after all. "Hey mouse!" The druid peeks over the side of the table and shakes the rolling pin. "Would you please be so kind and share those? A clawed digit is wriggled at the bunch of grapes and she hopes upon hope they are not the angry sort. Especially as the vine they are on grows towards her paw, sprouting more fruit as it travels across the table.
The Thorne Estate || Alas, kitten, the mouse isn't the sharing kind, but it does appreciate the sudden improvement to the quality of the food on offer. Squeaky hops out of the bowl, leaving a shrivelled peach, lemon, and pear in its wake as it begins gorging on the grapes. Shrrp. Shrrp. Shrrprrprrprrprrp. Like deflating balloons, Daisy would find her vine withered of fruits when it reaches her. The only vintage one could get from that would be a flat glass of whine. But that is just Squeaky's effort: the Poltergeist Pair get busy too. The spent tins suddenly sprout spiderlegs and scurry back to the cabinet, another visual distraction as the vicious rotary eggbeater is suddenly in the air again, chasing after Daisy's tail with a menacing crankwhirrrwhirrrwhirrr.
Daisy has just about had enough! Her little foot stomps at the ground. Creepy little mice should really learn to share! As should haunted kitchens. She just wants some breakfast. That is all. Not too much to ask, really. A bit of toast and jam. Maybe pancakes. She looks down at her rumbling tummy only to see those legged cans scurry on by. How does everything have legs?! Oh no. Not the beaters again! This time attacking her tail, which is swinging the still held can at the mixing device. It misses twice and fails to dodge, dropping the can as it gets tangled up between the beaters. Now just because the tail looks like it belongs on a monkey, does not mean it is not still Daisy's tail. She yowls in that stereotypical cat-like screech, yanks the beaters from her tail -pulling some fur along with it- and chucks it across the room.
The Thorne Estate || Housemouse Wight in the Kitchen with the Fruitbowl! And yet the kitten seemed even more energetic. This plant-loving pet of Tenebrae's seemed rather resilient and perniciously stubborn. Still, the Mistress had somehow got it into her head to add 'scones' to her high tea offerings, thanks to some loudmouth: as a result the kitchen had a large quantity of cream in a rundlet cask, plenty of eggs, flour, jam, and some failed efforts at scone-making. It was time to eggscalate. He Who Dairys Wins. This cat wouldn't be happy to get the cream. The house got rather distracted with the creation of blistering one-liners for a few moments before getting back on task, while Squeaky takes the opportunity to consume the rest of the fruit and scurry off. As Daisy wrestles with the eggbeater, the kitchen decides to whip up the kitten's just desserts: eggs pelt at her to begin with, followed by half-burned scones and bowls of blackberry jam. But the cream on top is, well, the whipped cream. A white wave of dairy doom comes sailing through the air at Daisy! Will Daisy be washed up on the shores of the Kitchen like a bedraggled, dairy-licked ship's cat?
Daisy winces as she is beaten by the unborn. Payback for being scrambled for all these years, and it is all being taken out on Daisy. Retreat, kitten! Retreat! She scurries towards the door, but only makes it to the middle of the kitchen before everything else is dumped on her. Jam smothers her arms and dress. Tired. Hungry. Whipped worse than the cream dripping from her nose, she falls to a slump on her tush. Hn. What's that? Her lips twitch with a smirk as she picks up one of the scones. The once defeated looking kitten lifts her chin with pride. Using the scone, she scrapes some jam from her arm and some cream from her face. "Thank you, kitchen." And she finally has a bite of breakfast. Victory is hers - burned yet sweet.
The Thorne Estate || Having obtained defeat from the jaws of Victory, the Thorne Estate gives up for now: the Battle for Breakfast ends in the feline's favour, with Daisy added to the list of 'Dangerous Pets to be Tolerated'. It seemed there was no way to scare away the horrid little blossom-botherer within the rules of play established by the Mistress. But that didn't mean the war was over, oh no. There would be other days, other rooms, other tools at the Estate's disposal...