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[molotov]

[Molotov has spent all day cooking.

Sort of.

Well, trying to cook. She's not very good at it.

But she's finally finished. After determining that the vast majority of her friends are actually gone, and she's been so withdrawn into herself that she's failed to make new ones, she figures that the food might as well not go to waste, and just announces into the journal.]

If you are not already attending someone else's dinner, the Cocktease-Samsons are having dinner in room 509. You are welcome, all of you.

Dinner is ready.

Comments

Arriving

[molotov]

[Showing up? Best knock, or Molotov might accidentally punch you.]

[speak_and_listen]

[She's just arrived, and while her own city was gearing up for a festival, she finds herself in the middle of an unfamiliar holiday here. She'll show up, in her school uniform instead of her combat gear, her weapons tucked safely in her room.]

[She knocks on the door and offers a meek,] Hello?

[molotov]

[The door swings open, and an incredibly tall, redheaded woman in a cocktail dress (she tries) and eyepatch peers out.]

Are you here for dinner?

[speak_and_listen]

Oh!

[Pyrrha's taken aback, and needs a moment to take int he other woman before replying. She crosses one arm over her chest.] Yes, I am. I'm new, and I'm afraid I don't quite know what people are celebrating. I can leave if it's an inconvenience ...

[molotov]

Nyet, come in.

[Molotov steps out of the doorway to make room.]

It is Thanksgiving, an American holiday mostly for eating. My husband is American. I am Molotov.

[speak_and_listen]

[She nods her thanks and steps in, listening with interest but without recognition.]

I'm afraid I haven't heard any of those. I am a student at Beacon Academy, in Vale ... on Remnant. My name is Pyrrha Nikos. Thank you for letting me join your dinner.

Molotov's really horrible food

[molotov]

[It's Thanksgiving! Surely you'd like some turkey -- it's raw on the inside and burnt on the outside. The green beans have cashews instead of slivered almonds. After all, Molotov likes cashews better, and a nut's a nut, right? The sweet potato casserole is undercooked and the marshmallows are raw, sprinkled loosely on top. The mashed potatoes seem to have a lot of skin on them still, and also there's probably about a half-stick of butter sitting unmelted in the center of the bowl. The rolls are black, though Molotov has clearly made an effort to scrape off the burnt parts, like one might with toast. She even made some stuffing! With Russian black bread, so it's terribly mushy and unappetizing.

But dessert has to be good, right? Of course it is, if you like pumpkin pie! It's full of seeds and stringy bits, and the whipped cream is more like soup than anything else. Molotov does not know the difference between carving and cooking pumpkins, or also between milk and whipping cream. They're both white, they can't be that different!

Enjoy.]

[assassino]

[Ezio sits at the table, smiling to hide what would otherwise be a grimace.

Sweet Mary, mother of God.]

Well... this is certainly unexpected, to see you have cooked...

[molotov]

Da, I was at it all day! I do not know how people do this every year.

[Molotov is not eating. Molotov is drinking her dinner. She's got nerves. Wine calms nerves. Lots of wine.]

[assassino]

It is one day a year, it is not very difficult.

[He guesses, anyway –– he's never spent the whole day in the kitchen, as he is not a woman. He isn't even sure what the cloudy white chunks on the orange puree is, either. He pokes at it experimentally with his spoon.]

[molotov]

Nyet, it is very difficult, all this food! Shut up, what do you even know? Eat your sweet potatoes.

[assassino]

[He picks up a spoonful.]

I know what a proper feast looks like, I'd imagine...

[samson]

[Brock sits down heavily next to him, holding a glass of wine that is comically full. He's gonna need it.

He also surreptitiously attempts to pass some food to Ezio under the table. Food that is the kind that comes prepackaged and covered in cheese-flavored orange dust.]

You should have pretended you weren't home.

[assassino]

[Ezio takes the food like a pro, almost like he has experience with this stealth crap. Go Ezio.]

Why is that?

[samson]

[Putting that Assassining to good use, good job!]

Because she can't cook... at all. And wouldn't let me help.

Mingling

[molotov]

[And trying not to throw up.

The Samsons don't have a big dining room table or anything, but they do have a sofa and chairs, and plenty of room to stand around drinking. And considering the food -- well, there's probably plenty of drinking happening.]

[eaglet]

[Connor has tried some of the food -- he doesn't want to be impolite -- but he can't actually tell if it's supposed to taste like this or what. So mostly he is just kind of looking around the living room curiously and also avoiding the alcohol because alcohol is grosser than the food, let's be real about this.]

[molotov]

[ALCOHOL IS NOT GROSS, it's magical, Connor.

Molotov appears next to him, and offers him some cider.]

Here. I am sure this is different than what you are used to, but this is American thanksgiving.

[eaglet]

[Patently false, alcohol tastes horrible and burns on the way down. Why anyone would willingly drink it is beyond him.]

I was expecting more... giving thanks. [He takes the cider, peering at it maybe a little warily. What's in it...]

[molotov]

[Nothing, it's just apple cider!]

Giving thanks to who?

dictated;

[dgaf]

Cocktease?

[molotov]

[It takes a while for Molotov to answer. She hasn't had one of these in a while, actually.]

My name. Do you have a problem with that?

[dgaf]

No. [ There's an almost giggle in her voice though. ]

Wish it were mine.

[molotov]

Be Russian, then.

[dgaf]

That's Russian?