“You want me to do what?”
The undead grimaces looking from the detective to the items that had been set out. Pots, pans, ingredients… certainly quite a bit more than perhaps was needed to fry eggs.
When Holmes had insisted he’d needed help, Illanya had just assumed it was some heavy lifting or something. Not that she’d be teaching this man how to cook an egg of all things. “Are you sure this is what you want? Like I can help you with other things if you…” No, he’d insisted. The undead runs a gloved hand down her face and groans. Her ability to cook in life had been somewhat limited. Sure, she’d enjoyed it, but it wasn’t like she was a chef or baker. Nowadays, she technically doesn’t need to eat, so cooking just hadn’t been on her mind.
“Uh, let’s start by getting clean? That’s important since you can get sick.” She mutters to herself and removes her gloves and walks to the basin. Stiffly washing her hands and gesturing to Holmes to do then same. Certainly, there was probably a way to do this that wasn’t so… methodical. But if there was, Illanya couldn’t grasp the concept of it.
Most of the impromptu cooking session goes similarly. With the undead pausing to try and remember steps, gesturing for what Holmes is to do. There’s little small talk as they work together, with the sizzling egg the only sound between them both for a a significant while.
“So erm… why do you need help to fry an egg anyways? Like, it is a simple meal, but it’s not like you need two people to….” she trails off as her gaze goes to the smoking pan. Smoking?!
A string of curses leaves the undead’s mouth and she grabs and yanks the pan from the fire. A rather extremely overhard egg comes flying out of the pan and hits the opposite counter with a thud. Illanya freezes, looking from the detective to the egg she’d thrown across the kitchen.
Turning away, Illanya sets the pan down roughly and turns off the stovetop, her face not exactly visible from where she’s standing. The egg sitting on the counter has a hard rubber texture and if anyone were unfortunate to taste it they’d find it severely under seasoned . The undead hangs her head and rubs the bridge of her nose.
“You know what, maybe you can help me with something? Ordering takeout over the phone… I think that’ll go way better than both of us trying to fry an egg. Even if a phone is a foreign concept to me.” She says, picking up the abnormally tough egg and tossing it in the trash. At least they didn’t set the house on fire. Plus a phone call couldn’t be as bad as their really badly fried egg… right?
Np: Illanya needs help getting through a really busy city without causing a panic. Being a walking corpse kinda puts a target on her back and she needs any help she can get to get through without any problems. The last things she wants is to get chased out.
(AAAA HELLO AGAIN GIMME A SEC HAHA)
If there was one thing Illanya knew, it was that she was probably landing herself in hot water by being here. Before she’d died she never would’ve imagined seeking help from someone like this. Or in a place like this. Dying had changed a lot of things though, and she didn’t have the luxury of options anymore.
White eyes follow Jabber’s movements carefully, a healthy dose of weariness clear in her posture. One never truly knows what exactly someone like this is going to ask in exchange for help.
Unseelie magic? Illanya makes a face at Jabber’s words. “I am familiar with the term, yes.” She replies quietly, renewed caution returning to her gaze. Visiting the Feywild had happened often when she was alive, and though she’d forgotten many of the rules and customs, she recalled the different courts at least.
Still, Illanya watches him work with silent interest, only really responding once in a while. An amused huff leaves her at the mention of a three headed horse, and she nods. “I see. Well I can certainly see why a fae would have a use for something like this.”
It must’ve been clear that Illanya was having concerns about the strength of the Glamour via her body language alone because Jabber is quick to explain what this particular batch will do for her. Any relief she might’ve demonstrated is tinged by bewilderment at what he says next. “D-do people often buy Glamour that powerful?” Her eyebrows raise. The idea that in this city of all things… if Glamour is more well circulated in the area she might need to be weary of erm… particularly attractive men or women.
Regardless of her own concerns, the undead accepts the velvet bag, tipping it ever so slightly so she can view its contents.
An immediate scowl tugs down at her lips at the nickname Jabber calls her, and she looks like she wants to say something. Wisely though, she keeps her mouth shut when Jabber mentions they’ll discuss payment later. An open check so to speak. She hated being indebted to anyone… but she didn’t really have a choice. A gloved hand is extended to Jabber. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to keep in contact, not to worry. Thanks for the help.”