milliways_bar | (no subject)

Meg and Amy are sitting at a table, surrounded by piles of large gingerbread cookies. Some of the cookies are a little burned, some are quite underbaked, and some (and Lord only knows how they managed this) are both. The cookies are rather improbably shaped like rolling pins, tea kettles, toasters, frying pans, and egg beaters.

Amy has an icing tube and is very neatly writing with bright pink icing (which smells alarming like grapefruit) on each cookie:

Meg & Amy Cordully Invite You
To Keep Us From Cooking
Satourday, In The Kitchen

She's then handing the cookies to Meg, who has a bowl of lime green glitter, with which she is festooning each one, for that certain je ne sais quoi.

Derry is also decorated (though not so neatly) with pink icing and green glitter, and is sitting under the table, chattering happily to Simon Perryvall and Mr. Pemberthy. This may or may not have something to do with taking over the world.

Come say hello. You know you want to know what's going on.

[OOC: Tagging will most likely get you two very cheerful girls and a barely edible invitation to a party to be slowtimed this weekend. If you know either Meg or Amy, assume you're invited, but come say hello anyway. If you don't, well, this is a perfect time to meet them.]

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Bran holds the cookie gingerly between thumb and forefinger. "I hope the party is less scary than this. Not to offend you, or anything." He smiles back, but it may be noticeable that he has avoided answering the question.

Don't worry, *Meg assures him, hastily.* The party is to stop us from cooking. Which makes attending practically a public service, which means that you're nearly obligated to attend.

*Meg has noticed.

She's holding off on pressing, for now - possibly since Bran's holding a near-toxic weapon in his hand. But she noticed.*

"A party to stop you from cooking," Bran repeats. "Dare I ask who will be cooking for the party?"

"The other people at the party, of course," says Amy, cheerfully.

She gives Bran an appraising sort of look.

"Can you cook?"

Alas that Bran is too honest to lie. "Nothing special. I can feed myself and my da, that's all."

Well, you're still ahead of us, *Meg says, with a grin.*

And, you know, you don't look starving, *she adds, giving him a mock-appraising look.* Which says something about your skills -

Bran grins. "That is because Will's aunt takes pity on us and invites us to dinner, weekends."

"Well, come anyway. We'd love to have you," says Amy, cheerfully. "I've no idea what we're serving, but it should be lovely, anyway."

Much less angst-ridden than the last party she threw wound up being for him.

We hope . . .

"I'll come. For the adventure." Bran grins.

His mun hopes so too.

We're counting on you, *Meg says, seriously.*

I mean. It's going to take everyone we've got to keep us really away from the oven.

"Is it that difficult for the two of you to rip yourselves out of the kitchen?"

Amy grins and waves a hand at the piles and piles of cookies on the table.

"It's quite sad, really," she says. "We're too persistent for our own -- or anyone else's -- good."

"I see." Bran's lip does not twitch. "If the baking does not work the first time, you try and fail again."

Hey, *Meg protests,* we've gotten quite good feedback on the grapefruit icing.

*She holds a half-iced cookie out to demonstrate, proudly.*