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Work on the train is nearing its final stages. Two days left, Syrene guesses, maybe just one if this enthusiasm keeps up. She’s done plenty of work herself. They needed carpentry yesterday and alchemy today. It’s been a long time since she’s worked with more firesand than fits in her gunblade. There's no way in hells this won't crack the barrier open.
Right now, she’s on her way back from a one-woman patrol, dragging the carcass of one of those flying scalekin she can’t recall the name of behind her. She’s not sure they’re edible, but someone’s got to have a use for it. Leather? Claws? A figurehead for the exploding train, mayhap?
Most of her friends sit around the same campfire, conversing over supper. Erenville gives her an odd look when he sees what she’s brought. He opens his mouth to speak, shuts it before anything comes out, and sighs. “It was getting too close to the Pelupelu’s alpacas,” Syrene explains.
(Not to mention the Pelupelu themselves, now that she thinks about it.)
“What were you planning to do with it?” asks Wuk Lamat.
Syrene looks around the camp. “I was hoping someone else would have ideas,” she admits.
“I’ll ask around when we’re done eating,” says Wuk Lamat. “For now, come over and eat! It’s delicious!”
Syrene drags the carcass a few yalms away, takes off her soiled gloves, rinses off her hands with what’s left in her waterskin, and starts with a whole cob of roasted corn. There are a few grilled fish on skewers left that look just as good.
It’ll be evening soon, and while some of the work’s slowed down, a few holdouts are still at it. It’s starting to cool down, but right now, Syrene thinks the temperature is perfect.
…Now, the dust, she can do without. The stuff gets in between her scales if she’s not careful. She reminds herself to give her tail an extra scrub when she has the chance, just to be sure.
“Krile was just telling Raha and Y’shtola about the Rite of Succession,” explains Alisaie.
Sounds like they’re talking about Yak Tel right now. Syrene listens, mostly, adding details here and there. “After that, we went back to Iq Br’aax and put the meal together,” explains Krile. “It takes quite some time to make properly, but it’s well worth it. The judges were quite impressed with ours.”
“Those banana leaves are not optional,” Syrene adds.
“I’m sure your help didn’t hurt. Your cooking’s always incredible,” adds Alisaie.
She sets the last of her fish aside, skewer stuck back into the dirt. “You helped too?” G’raha remarks. “’Didn’t hurt’ would be an understatement. Are the rest of you aware of Syrene’s most unique culinary accomplishments?
Oh, dear. “Which accomplishment do you mean?” asks Alphinaud, between bites of corn.
G’raha answers before Syrene can say anything. “Tell us, are you really the only culinarian in history to receive a perfect score from Eorzea’s most discerning critic, or was that embellishment?”
All eyes are on her. “Is this true?” asks Krile, obviously intrigued.
There’s no point in denying it. “It is. It’s been some time, and I’m still not convinced that the circumstances didn’t influence things, but it did happen.”
“Well, you cannot leave it at that,” says Y’shtola, who’s been quiet this whole time. “What were the circumstances?”
It ends up being a longer story than Syrene expects, stretching past the end of the meal. “And that’s how we stopped that pompous arse from taking over the Bismark,” she concludes.
She pauses, taking a moment to think back on it. “I don’t recall his exact words, but the way Dellemont talked about it, you’d think I’d spiked it with something illicit. Really, it wasn’t my recipe, and the folks at the Bismarck provided all my formal training, so it feels wrong to call the achievement mine alone.”
“No need to be so modest,” says Alisaie. “The way you talk, one might think think you were embarrassed about it.”
Syrene wouldn’t say that. “I just don’t see the need to brag about it, that’s all. I like cooking for its own sake.”
“Yes, yes, it’s just a hobby,” replies Alisaie, hands in the air. “Just like the alchemy, and the carpentry, and the goldsmithing.”
“All three major schools of gathering,” adds G’raha.
“Not to mention three martial disciplines and two magical, all at an expert level if I recall correctly,” adds Alphinaud, who is recalling correctly.
“All right, all right! You’ve made your point,” Syrene grumbles. “This is why I don’t talk about it all! You’re my friends, not my loyal subjects!”
Everyone’s silent for a while after that. “Apologies,” says G’raha, eventually. “I should not have pried.”
“No, it wasn’t just you,” says Alphinaud. “We all wanted to know. I offer my apologies as well.”
“Thank you,” says Syrene.
She adds her corn cob and fishless skewers to the pile that’s formed next to the fire. It’s getting dark by now, and chilly. She tucks her legs in closer and speaks again. “It’s been nice, lately, not being the center of attention,” she admits. “Not that I mind when I am, but when it’s so difficult to take breaks from it, it wears you down eventually.”
Wuk Lamat’s eyes shift towards the dome looming in the distance. “I’d like to say I can handle whatever’s in there myself, but that wouldn’t be true. I probably will need your help,”
“And you’ll have it,” says Syrene. “If anything, the break’s left me more ready.”
She punches her hand. “You lead, I’ll follow, and I’ll pick up the slack if you need it.”
“Thanks, Syrene. That means a lot,” Wuk Lamat replies
Erenville, who’s barely said a word this whole time, decides to change the subject. “What about the things you’re not good at? Surely, there are at least a few.”
“Turning in reports on time,” says Y’shtola.
“Only when I was new! I’ve gotten better!” Syrene protests, though there’s no real tension in it.
She gives it some more thought. “I’m awful at drawing. Sculpture has always come more naturally.”
“Your chocobo’s a bit spoiled,” adds Alisaie.
Syrene gasps in mock outrage. “You leave Saffron out of this! I’ll have you know he works very, very hard for all those treats!”
She gestures towards Erenville. “And, as you well know, I don’t make an especially convincing toad.”
Y’shtola flashes a smile so innocent that it wraps back around to ominous. Erenville just sighs. “Erenville did mention something like that,” Wuk Lamat adds. “How’d that happen again?”
Syrene clears her throat. “Well, it all started on my first visit to Old Sharlayan…”