Amid'st Appalling Archaicism

[Sh4dE]

((Ulrich Stanley Astley, Embarkation))

Anectdote: Stan along with his gregarious partisan presences of calculus were venturing through the château de nationale sommet académie to reach the halls of commissary.

The massive man himself swiftly primed a recliner without much punance. Sitting on the chaise longue, he emanated carbon dioxide. Like a velociraptor, he devoured his carnum put inbetween the provender by his female procreator. The rest of this so called "sandwich", which had no actual trace of soil, was insignificant; aloof the meaty nourishment was significant.

Stan was entitled to it. After all these hard working days, he needed a reward. After seemingly elongated hours of math, his assiduous mind could be relieved with the enjoyment of gourmandisation.

The discordiously cacophony of the cafeteria decreased as the memoria of Stan's cerebellum began to play Vaults of Heaven from the Musical Whistle Down the Wind. Mindlessly masticating down the sandwich.

[The Honeless Beard]

((Trace Carver, commence))

A development: Whilst Stan was engaged in his feast upon the unsuspecting concoction of meat and bread, another being of flesh and blood entered opposite the flattened surface of wood make that rested between the devouring predator and the bipedal bunching of atoms who's consciousness referred to itself as Trace.

Trace demonstrated his mobility in a direction forthward, his trajectory taking him towards the sandwich-mauler, his fore-limbs and digits comfortably clasped around a polypropylene disc carrying various foodstuffs from mammals - sliced, produced, milked from. Bending his hindquarters over a commissary seating arrangement, a horrid thing of vinyl and metal, Trace placed the plastics upon the horizontal shelving, oculus dexter and sinister both trained on the other being of human description.

"Mind if I sit?" the bipedal murmured through vibrations in the vocal chords, producing a sound that would be construed as a query by the other.

[Sh4dE]

To Advance: As he gobbled he descried a fellow fellow inquisitively catechizing for a seat while holding unveiled nutrition.

Cheers!

"Of course!"

Trace was unquestionably a noble person Stan had no bickering with. Stan firmly grabbed the chair to allow Trace to be seated; a gesticulation to underline the case that Trace is by all means a pleasurable person. An inquiry was cordially expressed.

"How was your day?"

With the self-satisfied express as expected, Stan grinned while continuing to chew with perricilitor till the remnants of the sandwich darkly disappeared.

[MurderWeasel]

"May I?"

Erik Bell had also made his way to the table, currently occupied by Trace Carver and Stan Astley, who were both good enough sorts in commendable enough ways but just a little too up their own asses for Erik's tastes. The country needed eggheads and sensitive people probably and that was fine. Erik was glad they were on his side. Lots of that sort weren't. But it meant they weren't part of his inner circle. He wouldn't call them and ask if they wanted to go on a hike. He wouldn't invite them on a camping trip. He doubted they'd want to work out with him.

But they were perfectly acceptable companions for lunch, and Erik was feeling like a little company today. He particularly wanted those who wouldn't grind his gears, and so he stood a few feet away, food tray held one-handed, smile at the ready, gesturing to an empty seat to Stan's left.

[The Honeless Beard]

As Trace made small talk with the smart but soft Ulrich, Erik Bell walked towards their table, a rather intriguing young man in a snobby, uptight sort of way. Trace had no quarrel with Erik, despite a vague sense that Erik wouldn't engage Trace in a conversation about airplanes. Trace doubted Erik knew the difference between bobcats and tiger class engines. He doubted Erik would care to know. But the world needed those who preferred brawn to brains.

"Good!" Trace said to Ulrich, giving Erik an absent smile. He nodded with his chin towards the empty seat. He hoped the gesture conveyed how little he cared in the matter of Erik choosing to sit with them.

[Sh4dE]

Hearkening to the answer of Trace, Stan swiftly added.

"How was class?"

With vigilance Stan, caught the new approacher drawing near. It was the longanimous Bell, essentially implying to join the Banquet. Eye contact was acquired.

"How are you doing, Bell?"

Bell was a good egg.

[MurderWeasel]

"Pretty good." Erik sat, dropping into the chair with a bit more force than he'd intended. "You?"

Stan was shooting off questions left and right like he was Erik's mom, which wasn't really great for Erik trying to eat his lunch. He'd almost swear the menu hadn't changed since first grade; the square of pizza was the same sad floppy mess as always, three and a half under-cooked circles of pepperoni dotting its rubbery cheese. The pizza had been Erik's favorite back when he was seven, but now that he knew what actual good pizza tasted like he wasn't so keen on it. And a plastic cup of peaches in syrup was a plastic cup of peaches in syrup. He was pretty sure they even still had those little cartons of milk for dweebs who wanted them, but he brought his own drinks these days, either a can of coke or a bottle of Gatorade. Empty calories, but he had few vices and it forced him to work them off.

He took a bite of the pizza. It wasn't very good. He gave Trace a nod and raised his eyebrow, because he didn't have much in common with these guys but everyone hated the cafeteria, right?