Title: Cookin' Up Trouble
Location: Stacy; The Sensoriums





The quiet.

Sometimes, it's a nice thing to think in a peaceful spot but sometimes, the quiet can get bloody oppressive. With his mind going down roads part of him would frankly, not rather go down, the bluething chastises himself.
Better to not think on those things.

Crawling down the hallways he knows, the Renne's mind turns again and for once, he smiles. A thought later and he's turning through to the Sensoriums. Hm. Too much thinking on what-is-not.
Chirp.

Yes. Time for a little creation.

Although not telepathic, the emotion-being opens himself up just enough to learn, to work in harmony (or try to) with this massive ship and the area around him. Work with it, and form a more hospitable atmosphere. Yes. There. Warm oak, teak and mahogany. Pinch of salt... A pot-belly oven.
Perfect.

With a jaunty little sea-shanty sung from his voice, the oddity pulls from his past (literally) a few beginning ingredients. The Stacy-sludge likely isn't too appetising but he'd understood nutritional value. So a bit of that hidden, yes...it might work.
It's not too long before this part of the Sensoriums, with its oceanside-tavern atmosphere, begins to smell.

Something's definitely cooking.

Rhiow sat in the middle of the main concourse of Grand Central Station, occasionally turning her head to speak into her omnicomm. She waited patiently, her tail curling slowly as she switched it, for people to arrive.

She hoped they would gain as much strength from the mantra as she did, but she was certainly willing to explain some of the theology behind it in case they didn't understand the more pointed references. It came from The Gaze of Rhoua's Eye, of course, which was the strictly feline rendition of The Book of Night with Moon.

She twitched her ears back and forth and waited.

She was fully dressed in her Rogue Squadron gear, her helmet under her arm and her hair braided tight and coiled to lay as flat as possible, the cloth cap snugged down over her head as she tugged at a buckle and frowned into the Sensorium before striding in.  Centering herself, she brought up the flight deck and strode to her X-Wing before promptly leaning her head forehead against the cool metal.  A short flight.

Very short.

She jammed her helmet on determinedly and snugged the chin-strap in place.

Just some take off and shooting practice.  Maybe drones.  Maybe something.  She took her walk around her fighter, gloveless hands sweeping the metal for anything out of place, as much habit by now as anything.  When she came back around, she tugged her gloves back on and they found the ladder.  She let out a soft grumble as she started her climb into the cockpit.  Practice makes perfect.

Arha began pre-flight and sat there, staring at the all green read out.

San had, in her agitated boredom, in distress over the nightmare, begun hunting through the too-dead city like a pup after squirrels. 'Exploring' was too harsh a word, but after enough miles of semi-paved streets and decrepit, abandoned human dwellings, she had begun overturning paving stones to let the soil underneath breathe. A few times, she'd turned one to find no soil, only the gently pulsing flesh of Stacy herself.

Those she turned upright again and replaced.

Still, her nose and instinct turned her feet and eventually San found herself among the green, living Temple the Garou had claimed. It wasn't the forest, there were no Kodama here, but there was enough life that she could almost close her eyes and pretend for a moment that nothing was so terribly wrong.

But, only for a moment.