[MODERATED: PLAYER MEMORY] [CRITERIA: Max 3 Players (due to space constraints), defeat NPC]
Wizard kitchens are so weird. You open a cabinet, and the space inside is bigger than the kitchen, itself. How many cans of baked beans does one man really need? Apparently a lot. There's rows and rows of them, stretching back almost infinitely.
"Dad, this is going to go bad before you eat it all," says a young Winter Carmichael, no less frank in her opinion for being just thirteen years old.
Steve Carmichael hums an 'iunno' while shoving frosted flakes into his mouth from a rainbow bowl. Really, he should be eating beans. Why on earth did he buy so many beans?
This galley kitchen is small (smaller than the damn cabinets, that's for sure). Narrow enough that it's hard for two people to stand side by side and get much done, but it's just about right for a dad and his almost teenaged daughter taking their first steps into a more permanently magical life. Not everything's been set out yet, but the important things are here: the plates, the glasses, some pans and a skillet. The knife block's got the one knife they use in it, and the sharpener, too. There are potted plants everywhere, which is nice. Green life hanging from baskets, flowers on the table, creeping vines climbing up the wall. A pothos makes a curtain for the window above the sink. Outside, the town of Elflock Falls, and beyond that, the very tops of the largest buildings at good old Peckenpaugh.
Mr. Carmichael is tucked against the wall, leaning against the stove, a bowl in one hand and spoon in the other. A gallon of milk sits on the peeling veneered counter beside him (why can't he put the milk away when he's done?). The slight smile he points at his daughter is both full of both sugar corn cereal and care, like he's trying very hard not to taint his daughter's opinion of their new home with his own reactions.
"And we really don't need a fridge?" Winter asks, uncertain.
Steve Carmichael shakes his head, "Nah, I mean. We can, honey, but with magic you can just pop your food in any box so long as it's got freezing charms."
"What the shit," Winter replies, bewildered.
Steve Carmichael nods at his thirteen-year-old daughter, head bobbing up and down animatedly. "I know."
A phone rings somewhere. A black rotary phone, sitting on the counter near Winter. Very loud. She ignores it.
"I have my own room? They don't put that in a box, do they?" she asks.
Steve Carmichael laughs. "Yeah, kiddo, you got your own room."
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Winter tips her head to the side. "And I don't have to go back home anymore...?"
MEMORY: New Kitchen
[CRITERIA: Max 3 Players (due to space constraints), defeat NPC]
Wizard kitchens are so weird. You open a cabinet, and the space inside is bigger than the kitchen, itself. How many cans of baked beans does one man really need? Apparently a lot. There's rows and rows of them, stretching back almost infinitely.
"Dad, this is going to go bad before you eat it all," says a young Winter Carmichael, no less frank in her opinion for being just thirteen years old.
Steve Carmichael hums an 'iunno' while shoving frosted flakes into his mouth from a rainbow bowl. Really, he should be eating beans. Why on earth did he buy so many beans?
This galley kitchen is small (smaller than the damn cabinets, that's for sure). Narrow enough that it's hard for two people to stand side by side and get much done, but it's just about right for a dad and his almost teenaged daughter taking their first steps into a more permanently magical life. Not everything's been set out yet, but the important things are here: the plates, the glasses, some pans and a skillet. The knife block's got the one knife they use in it, and the sharpener, too. There are potted plants everywhere, which is nice. Green life hanging from baskets, flowers on the table, creeping vines climbing up the wall. A pothos makes a curtain for the window above the sink. Outside, the town of Elflock Falls, and beyond that, the very tops of the largest buildings at good old Peckenpaugh.
Mr. Carmichael is tucked against the wall, leaning against the stove, a bowl in one hand and spoon in the other. A gallon of milk sits on the peeling veneered counter beside him (why can't he put the milk away when he's done?). The slight smile he points at his daughter is both full of both sugar corn cereal and care, like he's trying very hard not to taint his daughter's opinion of their new home with his own reactions.
"And we really don't need a fridge?" Winter asks, uncertain.
Steve Carmichael shakes his head, "Nah, I mean. We can, honey, but with magic you can just pop your food in any box so long as it's got freezing charms."
"What the shit," Winter replies, bewildered.
Steve Carmichael nods at his thirteen-year-old daughter, head bobbing up and down animatedly. "I know."
A phone rings somewhere. A black rotary phone, sitting on the counter near Winter. Very loud. She ignores it.
"I have my own room? They don't put that in a box, do they?" she asks.
Steve Carmichael laughs. "Yeah, kiddo, you got your own room."
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Winter tips her head to the side. "And I don't have to go back home anymore...?"
Everything freezes.
Except for that phone.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ring.
Ring.