futaille | Open Post: Who invented this calendar anyway?

How unfortunate.

Yes, Grantaire was fully aware that the year being longer at the mansion would logically cause seasons to drift when someone kept track of the old calendar, or at least what had been pinned down as the old calendar for convenience sake, which was almost necessary when people's arrivals weren't necessarily tied to the day they left. He hadn't given it too much thought last year, when his birthday, such that it was, arrived in spring like he was used to.

Dark, though, was unfortunate. Not inappropriate for the next notable anniversary coming up, but for this one, not at all. Of course, it wasn't as if he would have been planning much in the way of an event, Dark or no, but it would have been nice to treat himself to something or other, regardless.

Instead, he has installed himself in the game room, where he is carefully balancing dominoes on their ends to make a domino rally on the billiards table. It's a nice large flat surface, so it should work nicely. Have to keep entertained somehow.

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"At least eating the fast cake will take up a lot of the waiting time for the slow cake."

"I hope it's not too sweet," he muses, just as the microwave dings.

"I can think of a good way to find out!" He goes and hits the button to open the microwave door.

The cake is suspiciously spongy and wobbly when Sagramore turns it out on the cooling rack, but it smells chocolatey, too. He places fifteen cherries on the top and then shakes oregano flakes over that. "There!"

"It looks delicious. You're truly a master of random ingredients."

"My thanks." A sweeping bow. "Wouldst thou do the honors?"

"Of course." He grabs a knife and goes to cut a slice. He pauses fairly quickly. "This doesn't... feel quite right."

"How not right?"

"It... Come feel this. It doesn't feel sponge-y in the same way as a regular cake. It's almost like rubber?"

Edited 2025-06-16 22:02 (UTC)

Sagramore approaches, frowning, and as soon as he can squishes the cake with one finger. "Interesting. That's not quite what I expected."

"Ah well. Try nothing, get nothing." He cuts a piece of the cake and somehow manages to maneuver splooping it onto a plate before going to grab a fork.

"That's right, we've been brave enough to drink everything we've made, we can't disdain eating. I'll try after thee."

He grabs, in fact, two forks and hands one to Sagramore. "We can go together." He gets a bite from the slace on his own fork with a grin.

"That's so ominous," as he takes his own forkful.

He holds up his fork, the bite of cake wobbling a bit on it, and pops it into his mouth.

Sagramore follows suit. The cake is... not good, texturally. Flavor-wise, it's not bad -- it's chocolatey and dense, the oregano is barely noticeable, and the cherries are perfectly fine -- but the cake is both wet and rubbery, yielding and a little creamy, like the most unfortunate steamed pudding in the world.

He chews slowly. "It's. It tastes good! But I think we've discovered why they still have ovens."

"Perhaps we're not actually geniuses."

"It's all in the spirit of scientific inquiry." He takes another bite. No, he doesn't know why.

"So we're still geniuses, it's just in the things we've learned by failing."

"Precisely. Experience is the greatest teacher."

"Paint that on the wall of the café."

"Do you think? It's a bit trite..."

"Aren't all wise things a bit trite?"

"That says quite a bit about the wise. But you're right! It will go on the wall." He looks at the cake. "Perhaps alongside a picture of that."

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sagramore - 2025-06-19 15:01 (UTC) - Expand

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