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Snippet #2580075

located in Eastford, a part of Project Dragonfly, one of the many universes on RPG.

Eastford

None

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Vincent Character Portrait: Gil Ashburn
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ImageThe Pirate Pies foodcart was in its “weekday-daytime location” at the junction between a small pedestrian square which connected a residential district with Greenwood City Park. In the center of the square was a small fountain, and along the edges were concrete benches made to look like stone to match the fountain (which was thankfully more quant than garish). The day was partially-cloudy, but not actively raining or sun-shining and in Gil's opinion: the perfect temperature for layers. Greenwood City Park was a nice little patch of green grass, complete with a small poorly-cared for flower garden and a shallow creek that had a single wooden bridge across it. There was some older, unused playground equipment at the far end of the park (currently unoccupied).

ImageIt had been a relatively slow morning (after the usual breakfast "rush"). Gil had cleaned the cooking area, he had inventoried the inventory, he had polished the menus, scrubbed the windows, and was left at wits' end. Gradually, he slumped forward onto the high counter--his chin resting against the cool plastic as his eyes followed the world outside of his small prison.

Gil watched the white-haired young man meander over to the square and sit down, he appeared to be reading a small paperback, and as Gil watched, he started to lazily skim it. Gil considered the young man from his position in his ‘cart. He could call out, maybe entice the man with a succulent pie... But the punk was giving off especially potent, "Fuck off" vibes today, and Gil had an ounce of self-preservation. Sometimes. Once in a while. ...Just an ounce really. When it suited him. Kinda. Alright, not really.

Gil grabbed his--now orange--hair in one hand and tugged on it as he considered the "kid" across the square. Gradually, his expression changed from one of extreme consternation to one of excited energy. He dove under the counter for the small oven (he refused to acknowledge that it may have one time been an "easy bake ®" oven), and then began to excitedly clutter his once-clean counter with jars, bags, and tins. As his hands moved easily amongst the myriad ingredients, his gaze returned again and again to look at the shock of white hair, the open book, and the brooding expression. He began to smirk happily to himself as he worked. The tiny pie--no more than two inches wide--began to take shape. In his excitement (and with that renown self-preservation), Gil completely forgot himself and shouted across the square at the subject of his intense scrutiny,


"Hey, do you like black licorice? 'Cause I don't really, but I need something black--and I think if I used dark cherry it'd end up being sorta red, and I don't really want it to have a mottled or bruised thing going on, but if I use coffee ... actually coffee might work. I just need to make sure that I balance out the flavor with..."

Gil's eyes went wide, and his mouth snapped shut abruptly. He looked down at the small masterpiece in his hands and then back over to Vincent Hunter, and then back down to the pie. Slowly, carefully, he set down the unbaked pie and smiled sheepishly. He ran a flour-covered hand through his hair and shrugged minutely.