Post by Idleness on Jun 6, 2016 15:07:19 GMT 10
Title: The Art of Manliness
Rating: G
Word Count: 1200
Summary: Dom takes a recent recruit under his wing and teaches him how to make porridge.
City merchants were all the same, when they joined the Own. Though in a way, not too dissimilar to younger sons of the nobility, Dom thought. They didn’t want for anything, until they were old enough to realise that their older brothers would inherit everything. Then they found themselves in need of an occupation, and often this transition was a very rude shock indeed.
Yes, poor young Wilmer Herring, Dom thought. A promising soldier, but also to Dom’s experienced eye, a mere boy in need of mentorship on his way to manhood. And what better example could Dom give but his own?
“Herring,” Dom called, beckoning to the younger man. “Come and watch a master at work. I’m going to teach you the fine art of cooking porridge.”
The bleary-eyed youngster strolled over, hands in pockets. They were camped in the Royal Forest, and the men were just beginning to stir.
“Corporal Wolset already showed me, sir,” mumbled Wilmer, crouching down by the fire pit anyway.
“Psh! Wolset! He only knows how to make vile gruel with burnt lumps.” Dom fossicked around in his bag and found his trusty tin mug. “What I will show you is how to make smooth, hot, stick-your-insides, warm you to your toes, wonderful, porridge.”
Wilmer shrugged. “It’s just oats and water, right?”
Dom pointed his mug at the young man.
“That’s where you’re wrong. Yes, the basic components are oats and water, but well-made porridge is so much more than the sum of its parts. Pay close attention.”
He scooped the mug into their sack of rolled oats and emptied it into a large pot, and repeated until he had enough oats for the whole squad. “Now, I have allowed half a cup of oats per member of our squad. The golden ratio of fine porridge is one part oats to two parts water. How many cups of water do I need, Herring?”
Wilmer sighed. “Ten cups of water, Sergeant Domitan.”
Dom grinned and scooped the water into the pot. The lad was now wearing a look of long suffering. A couple more men trickled out of their tents as Dom hooked the pot over the fire pit and began to stir.
“Now, you keep the fire burning well,” Dom instructed, pointing to their pile of dry wood. “I’ll keep stirring this gently every few minutes until it starts to boil, then I’ll stir it constantly. This is the key, Herring. Never let lumps form, and never let it stick to the bottom.”
“You take this very seriously,” commented Wilmer, hurrying to stoke up the fire.
“You have no idea,” drawled one of the men, nearby.
“Still, at least he’s a little better than Wolset,” remarked Corporal Alwin, Wolset’s offsider.
Dom looked at Wilmer. “Ignore these philistines. They don’t really deserve this porridge we’re making.”
“Here we go,” said Alwin, rolling his eyes. “Has he enumerated all of the virtues of his porridge yet?”
Wilmer grinned and shrugged, but looked as if his interest was piqued. Dom fixed the corporal with his loftiest glare.
“You may make light of my mastery, but let’s hope Wolset never attempts to impress that Rider in Group Askew that he’s all sad for with his gruel. What’s her name again?”
“Sod you, Dom. Her name’s Bess an’ I’m not all sad for her.” Wolset had come to warm his hands, and pretended to ignore the grins and snickers from the other men around the fire.
“The lesson, young Herring, is that making decent porridge is an essential skill in the art of self-sufficient manliness,” explained Dom. He leaned over to stir the pot. “If you hope to woo a Rider lady, she already knows how to make porridge and she won’t be impressed if you can’t. These ladies are very practical women, and they don’t have patience for hopeless men.”
“As if you have ladies falling at your feet,” scoffed Wolset.
“It’s the lot of a younger son,” Dom said, shaking his head sadly. “For all my charm and handsome person, as soon as the ladies learn that I have not one, but two older brothers, I might as well be a beetle in the dirt.”
“What about Lady Kel?” someone called out.
“No, she doesn’t even notice him pining,” joked Wolset, laughing. “Is that why we’re rushing back so quickly, Dom? So you can sigh after her?”
“Maybe he'll kiss her for Midwinter luck this year,” added Alwin.
Wolset and Alwin then proceeded to mimic silly voices and make kissy faces.
Dom suppressed a grin at their ribbing. It was so routine he’d stopped blushing long ago, and now it usually only amused him. He caught Wilmer’s eye. The boy belatedly hid his own grin.
“Back to the lesson at hand, Herring. There’s no excuse to be slack in the arts of manliness. A true gentleman must always be ready to put his best foot forward. He must be at all times prepared, self-sufficient, well presented, and conduct himself with dignity,” he glared at his corporals, “and, of course, he must always be gallant to ladies, whether in their presence or not.”
One of the men snorted.
“Don’t listen to him, Herring. He’s just full of himself, an’ something else too,” drawled Wolset.
Alwin cut in before Wilmer was required to formulate any kind of response. “Still, didn’t Bess only talk to you after he made you shave and get your dress tunic properly tailored?”
Dom grinned as Wolset swore at the other corporal and returned a rude comment.
“I just love mornings like this,” he sighed, stirring the porridge more vigorously. It was beginning to thicken, and steam rose steadily into the icy winter air. “The soothing ritual of making porridge, the crackle of the fire, the aroma of wood smoke, and my corporals behaving like little boys.”
Wilmer grinned and stoked the embers.
“Will you teach them the art of manliness one day?”
Dom grinned—at last, a scrap of humour from Wilmer.
“Perhaps one day,” he said, affecting another lofty look. “I’ve been trying for years, but much depends on the student’s eagerness to learn, as well as the raw material I have to work with. But I must say, you already show some promise.”
The younger man snickered and Dom turned his attention fully to the porridge. It was starting to make big fat lazy bubbles that hissed when they burst, demanding his careful attention. Another minute of vigorous stirring, and it was removed from the fire.
“All right boys, line up with your bowls please,” he called. “No pushing, there’s enough for everyone.”
The sounds of eating prevailed after the clamour to be served, and the dates and honey pot had been passed around. By the time they finished, the squad had all woken and moved into their usual routines to clean up and break camp. It was not until late, after they arrived back at the barracks that Dom remembered to check up on Wilmer. To his surprise he found him chatting to Kel in the mess. Their backs to him, he was able to overhear Wilmer telling her about how Dom made the best porridge in all of Third Company.
Grinning, he fetched a mug of mulled cider and joined them.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1200
Summary: Dom takes a recent recruit under his wing and teaches him how to make porridge.
City merchants were all the same, when they joined the Own. Though in a way, not too dissimilar to younger sons of the nobility, Dom thought. They didn’t want for anything, until they were old enough to realise that their older brothers would inherit everything. Then they found themselves in need of an occupation, and often this transition was a very rude shock indeed.
Yes, poor young Wilmer Herring, Dom thought. A promising soldier, but also to Dom’s experienced eye, a mere boy in need of mentorship on his way to manhood. And what better example could Dom give but his own?
“Herring,” Dom called, beckoning to the younger man. “Come and watch a master at work. I’m going to teach you the fine art of cooking porridge.”
The bleary-eyed youngster strolled over, hands in pockets. They were camped in the Royal Forest, and the men were just beginning to stir.
“Corporal Wolset already showed me, sir,” mumbled Wilmer, crouching down by the fire pit anyway.
“Psh! Wolset! He only knows how to make vile gruel with burnt lumps.” Dom fossicked around in his bag and found his trusty tin mug. “What I will show you is how to make smooth, hot, stick-your-insides, warm you to your toes, wonderful, porridge.”
Wilmer shrugged. “It’s just oats and water, right?”
Dom pointed his mug at the young man.
“That’s where you’re wrong. Yes, the basic components are oats and water, but well-made porridge is so much more than the sum of its parts. Pay close attention.”
He scooped the mug into their sack of rolled oats and emptied it into a large pot, and repeated until he had enough oats for the whole squad. “Now, I have allowed half a cup of oats per member of our squad. The golden ratio of fine porridge is one part oats to two parts water. How many cups of water do I need, Herring?”
Wilmer sighed. “Ten cups of water, Sergeant Domitan.”
Dom grinned and scooped the water into the pot. The lad was now wearing a look of long suffering. A couple more men trickled out of their tents as Dom hooked the pot over the fire pit and began to stir.
“Now, you keep the fire burning well,” Dom instructed, pointing to their pile of dry wood. “I’ll keep stirring this gently every few minutes until it starts to boil, then I’ll stir it constantly. This is the key, Herring. Never let lumps form, and never let it stick to the bottom.”
“You take this very seriously,” commented Wilmer, hurrying to stoke up the fire.
“You have no idea,” drawled one of the men, nearby.
“Still, at least he’s a little better than Wolset,” remarked Corporal Alwin, Wolset’s offsider.
Dom looked at Wilmer. “Ignore these philistines. They don’t really deserve this porridge we’re making.”
“Here we go,” said Alwin, rolling his eyes. “Has he enumerated all of the virtues of his porridge yet?”
Wilmer grinned and shrugged, but looked as if his interest was piqued. Dom fixed the corporal with his loftiest glare.
“You may make light of my mastery, but let’s hope Wolset never attempts to impress that Rider in Group Askew that he’s all sad for with his gruel. What’s her name again?”
“Sod you, Dom. Her name’s Bess an’ I’m not all sad for her.” Wolset had come to warm his hands, and pretended to ignore the grins and snickers from the other men around the fire.
“The lesson, young Herring, is that making decent porridge is an essential skill in the art of self-sufficient manliness,” explained Dom. He leaned over to stir the pot. “If you hope to woo a Rider lady, she already knows how to make porridge and she won’t be impressed if you can’t. These ladies are very practical women, and they don’t have patience for hopeless men.”
“As if you have ladies falling at your feet,” scoffed Wolset.
“It’s the lot of a younger son,” Dom said, shaking his head sadly. “For all my charm and handsome person, as soon as the ladies learn that I have not one, but two older brothers, I might as well be a beetle in the dirt.”
“What about Lady Kel?” someone called out.
“No, she doesn’t even notice him pining,” joked Wolset, laughing. “Is that why we’re rushing back so quickly, Dom? So you can sigh after her?”
“Maybe he'll kiss her for Midwinter luck this year,” added Alwin.
Wolset and Alwin then proceeded to mimic silly voices and make kissy faces.
Dom suppressed a grin at their ribbing. It was so routine he’d stopped blushing long ago, and now it usually only amused him. He caught Wilmer’s eye. The boy belatedly hid his own grin.
“Back to the lesson at hand, Herring. There’s no excuse to be slack in the arts of manliness. A true gentleman must always be ready to put his best foot forward. He must be at all times prepared, self-sufficient, well presented, and conduct himself with dignity,” he glared at his corporals, “and, of course, he must always be gallant to ladies, whether in their presence or not.”
One of the men snorted.
“Don’t listen to him, Herring. He’s just full of himself, an’ something else too,” drawled Wolset.
Alwin cut in before Wilmer was required to formulate any kind of response. “Still, didn’t Bess only talk to you after he made you shave and get your dress tunic properly tailored?”
Dom grinned as Wolset swore at the other corporal and returned a rude comment.
“I just love mornings like this,” he sighed, stirring the porridge more vigorously. It was beginning to thicken, and steam rose steadily into the icy winter air. “The soothing ritual of making porridge, the crackle of the fire, the aroma of wood smoke, and my corporals behaving like little boys.”
Wilmer grinned and stoked the embers.
“Will you teach them the art of manliness one day?”
Dom grinned—at last, a scrap of humour from Wilmer.
“Perhaps one day,” he said, affecting another lofty look. “I’ve been trying for years, but much depends on the student’s eagerness to learn, as well as the raw material I have to work with. But I must say, you already show some promise.”
The younger man snickered and Dom turned his attention fully to the porridge. It was starting to make big fat lazy bubbles that hissed when they burst, demanding his careful attention. Another minute of vigorous stirring, and it was removed from the fire.
“All right boys, line up with your bowls please,” he called. “No pushing, there’s enough for everyone.”
The sounds of eating prevailed after the clamour to be served, and the dates and honey pot had been passed around. By the time they finished, the squad had all woken and moved into their usual routines to clean up and break camp. It was not until late, after they arrived back at the barracks that Dom remembered to check up on Wilmer. To his surprise he found him chatting to Kel in the mess. Their backs to him, he was able to overhear Wilmer telling her about how Dom made the best porridge in all of Third Company.
Grinning, he fetched a mug of mulled cider and joined them.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!