#saltrice

[dirty-bosmer]

10 years that I've been pronouncing saltrice "sal-treese" like "Patrice." Didn't even pass through my brain that it could be SALT RICE

[ambarys]

Sujamma and saltrice kinda day today

Geldis Sadri, owner of the Retching Netch cornerclub on Solstheim, and maker of the best damn sujamma you’ll ever taste. ~Talviel

Screenshot: my own

[sothas]

I made @tastesoftamriel’s salted caramel puffed saltrice treats! This went a lot better than my attempt at Azura’s star bread :,D

They’re absolutely delicious, just the right amount of sweet and there’s a slight kick of spice on the tongue which is nice. I made mine with Rice Krispies, so they’re pretty crunchy, which pairs well with the stickiness of the caramel! My arms also had a good workout combining everything, so I’m feeling pretty hench rn 😌

I rate this 10/10 sujammas, highly recommend trying it for yourself!

(Also please ignore the fact I cut mine into massive squares, it was a happy accident :,D)

Recipe: https://www.tumblr.com/tastesoftamriel/717098624707854336/salted-caramel-puffed-saltrice-treats

[vidvana]

I know that nobody asked, but here's some Telvanni lore for all the foodies.

Before you begin this culinary journey, check out this post about ash yams it's essential.

-----------------------------

Telvanni Cuisine

It’s obvious that Telvanni have an extensive knowledge of fungi.  After all, they live in huge mushrooms and collect and plant numerous species from all across the Tamriel to use them in their potions. It goes without saying that their cuisine is also quite fungal. The commonfolk at Telvanni settlements as most of the Dunmer source their protein both from fungi* and insect meat. But Telvanni nobles love nurturing peculiar worldviews and traditions that differentiate them from other races - or even other Dunmer. One of them is their distaste for anything that doesn’t grow in soil. They frown upon hunter traditions of Ashlanders and stock-raising of house Redoran and regard them as “primitive” in contrast to the delicate art of growing fungi. The alchemy ingredients are an obvious exception from this rule, but in general as their occupations don’t usually include menial work, their light and low-calorie cuisine perfectly matches their lifestyle. This resulted in traditional cuisine of the nobility being solely plant-, or more specifically, mushroom-based**, that contrasts sharply with the cuisine of Skyrim that is rich in venison and other animal-based foods***. Noble Telvanni shun debilitating ingredients such as alcohol and moon sugar in their everyday cuisine, as keeping their minds sharp is their main priority. In order to get an indulgent sweet taste marshmerrow is used instead. Telvanni rarely import vast quantities of vegetables from other provinces as house Hlaalu does. They use commonly grown foods like saltrice, ash yams or mushrooms as the base ingredients of the dishes. In some aspects they prefer to stick to the Dunmer traditions. The nobles, though, indulge themselves in expensive imported berries - not only because of their magic-enhancing abilities but also because of their extravagant taste. As the Telvanni ranks feature numerous alchemists the import of alchemical ingredients is obviously very common. Telvanni chefs gradually incorporated some of the exotic spices into traditional cuisine. Especially valued are the most characterful of them that fancy up the bland taste of mushrooms, such as juniper, ginseng or garlic****. * In real life mushrooms are a rather poor source of protein compared to legumes like beans and lentil. But since there are no legumes in TES universe (at least as far as I know) let's suppose there are some protein-rich mushrooms Telvanni can plant. ** It’s also worth mentioning that I’m a Telvanni-fixated vegan ass myself so that’s a more probable reason why I made my beloved house also vegan xD *** A lovely example of that contrast you can encounter in @thana-topsy ‘s fanfic “Breathing Water”. This would nicely explain Neloth’s preference for apple cabbage stew. **** This recipe for example resembles Telvanni cuisine, it was one of the inspirations from my imaginary dishes above.

Above I’ve come up with some examples of what noble Telvanni would eat on a daily basis.

Thanks for reading that and take care :3

[jiubilant]

how hot do the Vvardenfellian Dunmer serve their food. (racial 75% resistance to fire damage.) how does the scarcity of timber impact their mealtimes: are we sitting on chairs from imported wood, or on cushions on the floor. what do they age their alcohol in? shein is comberry wine, if you're fermenting wine you have to accept that sometimes, the cask will explode. are wooden and corkbulb barrels meant for bougie greef aged for fifty years before it's first served. what are we brewing shein and sujamma in. ("liquor made from fermented saltrice" is sujamma Fantasy Sake.) what are we using to fuel our cookfires and our pottery kilns. does "chitin" behave like eggshells when exposed to vinegar. I am losing my mind

YOU. KEEP TALKING

i've put a bit of thought into that first question...i don't always interpret game mechanics as canon but i think that the velothi resistance to fire is a fun detail so i've folded it into my worldbuilding to an extent

my take is that only a dunmer's skin is resistant to fire (so eating scalding food would hurt), and only somewhat; dunmer can't walk through infernos unscathed, but they can reach into the hearthfire to snatch out something important that was tossed in (the fire would still burn their hands, but not as quickly and painfully as it would burn ours). ravi does this in the wip at least twice and both times is like "it's all right dears we're born with oven mitts on in deshaan—oh god oh fuck"

[allthingstamriel]

Bal Foyen

ESO region aesthetic board  More >

Bal Foyen, on the southern coast of Morrowind's Inner Sea, was a wild expanse of marshland until recently. Now much of it has been turned over to the Dark Elves' former Argonian slaves, who plant saltrice and herd guar in the former wastes...

“Go to the watchtower, just past the village of Dhalmora. Tell the soldiers there to light the signal fires along the coast. The fires will warn Davon's Watch that war is upon them." - Captain Rana 

[x] [x] [x] [x] [x]

[vosh-rakh]

Tear was hot, but at least it wasn’t so dangerous. In Dres country there were always guards and soldiers around, usually to keep the slaves in line, and they scared away any wildlife from attacking the farmers and herders. But here in the West Gash of Vvardenfell, the protection was sparse. Drulene had had to petition the Redoran in Ald’ruhn the first time this happened. 

Today she hears that pair of footsteps and it all comes back to her:

She had been eating her midday saltrice porridge amidst her guar by her hut when she heard the skittering of many legs fast approaching. She turned towards the sound to ascertain the threat. Cresting a nearby hill came crawling two large mudcrabs, their pincers snapping hungrily. 

Drulene was accustomed to fighting off monsters like rats and foragers, who nibbled at her guar’s ankles like common pests. She went into her hut and fetched her chitin bow and quiver of corkbulb arrows. Once back outside, the mudcrabs were uncomfortably closer. 

She took aim and loosed towards the forward crab, but it bounced harmlessly off its rock-hard shell. She attempted a few other shots this way, all to the same effect. 

Panicking, she fled to her hut and slammed the door behind her, and sat back against the door, pressing it tightly closed. 

The skittering increased until it was terrifyingly close. She heard (and felt, the vibrations carrying through to her back) the mudcrabs clawing at the door for what felt like hours. She prayed to the Tribunal, and to Saint Llothis, for protection. Eventually, the mudcrabs abandoned the door, and she thanked the Crosier with tears streaking down her face. 

Then she heard her guar begin to cry. Judging by the high-pitched squealing voice it was her favorite, Demthi. She clutched her mouth with her shaking hands as she wept, while the cries grew louder and louder, and then quieter and quieter, until they croaked out completely. Then the skittering began to retreat, until it disappeared completely. 

She waited an hour before daring to move. Then she waited another hour before she opened the door. 

Outside the surviving guar were still huddled up against the hut as the sun descended through the evening mist. She squinted, as though seeing the corpse with half-closed eyes would spare her the gruesomeness of it. But all she found was a bloody patch, spotted with viscera, and a bloody trail leading southwest. 

The next day Drulene went to Ald’ruhn to inform her friend Neminda, who was a member of House Redoran. Neminda apologized and told her she’d have the mudcrabs taken care of. This excited Drulene more than she thought it would: she wanted vengeance for Demthi. 

A few days later a Redguard came and asked about the attack. Hearing her clinking armor approach had sounded almost like many skittering legs, and made Drulene panic, but the Redguard was kind and understanding, and made her feel at ease. Drulene showed her the trail and told her she thought they made for the coast that way. Not a few hours later the Redguard returned, two pairs of severed pincers in hand. 

Drulene thanked the Redguard profusely. “But what of Demthi?” she asked. 

“Your guar?” the Redguard asked in return. “It’s dead, I’m afraid. They probably killed it here and then dragged it away. I’m sorry.”

Drulene wiped a tear from her eye and nodded solemnly. There was nothing the Redguard could have done.

Now a pair of footsteps approaches again, and Drulene’s bowl of saltrice porridge falls from her hands onto the rough West Gash dirt. 

A Breton and Bosmer approach from the east. “Shit,” whispers the Breton just barely loud enough for Drulene to hear, “she’s here.”

“Hail, herder,” the Bosmer says, pushing the Breton aside and smiling wickedly as he draws a short sword. “We’ll be relieving you of your valuables, now.”

But Drulene has finally snapped out of her frozen stupor, and bolts for the door to her hut. Once inside she pushes the shelf in front of the door, sending a pot of saltrice crashing to the floor. With all her might she presses herself against the shelf, but she’s shaking like shivering Sheogorath. 

Through the sweaty pounding in her chest she could hear the sound of footsteps in the dirt outside. One of them banged on the door, and she jumped, pressing her back harder into the shelf. “C’mon, lady. Just give us what you got and we won’t even hurt you that much.”

“Gab, shut up and get out of the way.”

There was some shuffling on the other side of the door, and then a great bang, rattling the door and shelf. Drulene screamed.

The bandit tried to barge down the door for several minutes, but somehow it held firm. “Dammit,” gasped one. “Won’t…budge…”

“Let’s just grab a couple guar and be done with it,” Gab said. “Look healthy enough. Might be worth something down south.”

“Or at least we can feed the bastards to those tomb rats. Maybe then they’ll leave us alone.”

The two bandits laughed, an innocent sound like pranking schoolboys, that nevertheless struck Drulene as completely sinister. It hadn’t been a whole month since the mudcrab incident, and now, as she listened to the bandits lead the beasts away, she was down to just one guar. She somehow couldn’t tear herself away from Tear no matter how hard she tried.

Any other day, she would have chuckled at the accidental pun. But a deep weariness was seeping into her bones, just like the depths of southern Morrowind’s heat drenching one’s entire being.

Drulene waited in her hut an entire day, anxiously still watching the barricaded door, before she developed the nerve to saddle up her last guar and race to Ald’ruhn to beseech Neminda once again.

- - -

This poor guar herder just couldn’t catch a break, Qismehti thought as she followed the road from Ald’ruhn, trying to find her hut again. First mudcrabs, now bandits. Mehti kept an eye out as she approached, making sure neither beast nor guar-thief lingered nearby. It almost unsettled her, that they could be causing havoc so close to the city. But unless there were more than the reported two, they couldn’t possibly be an issue to the might of House Redoran.

There was only one guar left, tied to a post outside, chewing on muck. It regarded Mehti with a strange expression – apprehension, perhaps? The poor beast had been through a lot, as of late. But it returned to its meal after that brief glance, and so Mehti went up to the door and knocked. “Hello?”

There was a long, quiet waiting. Then Mehti heard something shifting inside, and the door opened a crack. “Who are…oh, thank the Three, it’s you. Come on in.” Drulene opened the door all the way and stood aside for Mehti to enter.

Mehti hadn’t been inside Drulene’s hut the first time she came. The interior was somewhat slovenly; just inside the door was a mess of potsherds and loose saltrice. “Qismehti gra-Lubakt, at your service, sera,” she said, stepping over the larger piles as she reintroduced herself with a bow.

“Yes, how could I forget you,” Drulene began, before stopping with a slight twist of her face. “You never told me your last name before. Is that…an Orcish name?”

“Yes,” said Mehti, a bit unsure why it mattered. “My da is an Orc. Ma is a Redguard.”

“Ah,” said Drulene. “Yes, that’s…wonderful, of course. That sort of thing isn’t very common in Vvardenfell, these days. But I guess in Hammerfell–”

“Blacklight,” Mehti interjected. “I grew up in Blacklight.”

“Oh, of course,” Drulene said, now looking away and scratching the back of her head. “You’re Redoran through and through, aren’t you?”

“My parents were just retainers to the House,” Mehti said. “But I’m an Oathman, now.”

“I see, I see,” said Drulene. She seemed to finally realize the state of her home, and covered her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry to invite you in, now. It’s such a mess. A woman of your stature shouldn’t have to bear this.”

“Don’t worry,” said Qismehti, putting on a polite smile not quite visible behind her helmet. “It’s not my job to criticize your living arrangements. I’m here to protect you, and your property.”

“Oh, yes,” Drulene said. Qismehti wondered if she had been intentionally avoiding the relevant subject, what had brought Mehti here in the first place. “Yes,” Drulene said again, “as I’m sure Neminda told you, there’s been another incident.”

“Go on,” Mehti invited after Drulene paused again, the guar herder’s cheek sucked in between her teeth. “Neminda told me some, but not much.”

“Well, two men came the other day, demanding my valuables,” Drulene began, sighing and collapsing onto the edge of her bed. “A Breton, I think. And a Bosmer. As soon as they called out to me, I ran inside and hid, and blocked the door with my shelf there. They couldn’t get in, so they took two of my guar instead.”

“Mhm,” said Mehti, trying to visualize the scene. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”

“I don’t know, I…” Drulene was shivering now, and Mehti felt a pang of guilt for making this woman relive her trauma. “They said…something about tomb rats? There is a tomb not far to the south. The inscription at the door says Telvayn, so I guess it’s the Telvayn ancestral tomb. Maybe they’re holed up in there.”

“Okay,” said Mehti. She slowly reached out a hand towards Drulene, gentle enough not to startle her. The soft padded palm of her gauntlet landed on Drulene’s shoulder, and Drulene’s shivering subsided a bit. “I will go take care of them, and return your guar to you.”

“Thank you, Qismehti, thank you,” Drulene said, her head tilting slightly towards Mehti’s hand as she placed her own over the steel gauntlet. “Be safe, sera.”

Mehti nodded, and took her leave, closing the door softly behind her.

- - -

The arched stone door to the tomb was nestled in a pile of boulders at the base of a hill. A well-weathered three-sided stone post etched with the name “Telvayn” in angular Daedric script stood to the side, its edges chipped and its once-sharp peak worn to a short round nub. This tomb was clearly many generations old. Qismehti didn’t recognize the family, but assumed they were Telvanni – the tell was the “Tel-”. She wondered when Telvanni ever had reach this far west on Vvardenfell.

There was no sign of any stolen guar. Mehti sighed and checked the door. She wasn’t a picklock or mechanist, but she didn’t see any obvious tripwires or other contraptions. She tried the handle and found it unlocked, although it turned roughly from its age. Slowly, she crept in, shutting out the light behind her.

The door opened into a short hall lined with plinths bearing ash-vases and offerings to the dead. As quietly as possible in heavy steel armor, Mehti reverently walked past the plinths. She could hear the faint whisperings of the Telvayn ancestors. That faraway sound still unsettled her somewhat, despite having visited the Gabinna family tomb by Blacklight several times as a child, and prayed to their waiting door thrice a week. Their wailing, chittering voices seemed to grate on the inside of her skull.

Mehti tried to put them out of her mind. Willpower wasn’t her greatest attribute, but she had the strength to endure it. She pressed on by the dim ghostlight clinging to the torches ensconced on the walls. 

At the end of the procession of ancestor plinths, the corridor opened into a larger chamber. In the heavy darkness Mehti could barely make out the hairy movements of some thick Vvardenfell rats. She drew her axe from her belt-loop, but they didn’t seem to take notice. She squinted in the dark, trying to see what distracted them. They were eating something, judging by the tugging of their necks and the fleshy sounds their mouths made. Oh no.

They were definitely eating the two guar, slaughtered and offered up whole to the little beasts. Poor Drulene.

“This Hallgerd doesn’t know shit!”

The shout nearly made Qismehti jump out of her greaves. One of the feasting rats even looked up towards its source, a doorway to the left leaking light. Mehti crept up to the side of the entry, out-of-sight, and listened in.

“How do you reckon?”

“What’s wearing armor got to do with killing blokes? Who gives a damn about this stupid old Hlaalu king?”

“Well, I mean…”

“Look. A true ‘greatest warrior’ wouldn’t even need armor. He could go to battle naked, because he’d never get hit, because his enemy would be dead before he could even draw a weapon!”

Qismehti peeked around the door, just enough to see inside but without being seen herself. Two men sat around a small fire inside, a man and a mer, both rather short and loosely armored, . The man, maybe a Breton, was holding a book open with one hand, while the elf gesticulated wildly with a short sword in his hand as he pontificated.

“So speed is all that matters to you?” asked the Breton with the book.

“Don’t be stupid, Gab,” said the elf. “A long weapon is important, too. A spear, or a longsword, or –”

“A bow?” Mehti could barely make out the shadow of a smile on Gab’s face by the firelight.

“Oh, so just because I’m a Bosmer –”

“Look, if you stick an arrow in somebody before they even see you, doesn’t that fit your criteria?”

“No! No, of course not. A warrior doesn’t hide in the shadows –”

“Besides, Glaum, you use a short sword. Where’s your reach advantage?”

“That’s just because it was all I could afford at the time! Just you wait, once we do a few more jobs –”

“Boys,” said Qismehti as she stepped into the light, “I don’t think that will be possible.”

Gab and Glaum jumped to their feet and readied their weapons: Glaum his iron short sword, and Gab a fistful of fire. “And who in Oblivion are you?” hissed Glaum.

“Why don’t we put it to the test?” Mehti asked, ignoring Glaum’s question. “Who’s the greatest warrior in this room?” She clanged her axe against her shield, a smile tucked away behind her helmet. “House Redoran sends its regards.”

Qismehti charged Gab headlong, turtling her entire body behind her shield. A burst of heat blasted her defense, tongues of flame reaching around to lick Mehti, but she kept up the kagouti-rush. The spells stopped right when she slammed into their caster, knocking him from his feet and laying him out on his back, breathless.

A shout from behind – what was this, amateur hour? – alerted her to an attack from Glaum. She spun out of her forward momentum axe-first, knocking aside the sword swinging at her. She finished her rotation just in time to block Glaum’s counterthrust with her shield. Glaum leapt backwards over the fire, separating the two. 

They circled the fire opposite from each other for a moment, their weapons out of reach without a risky lunge. Dammit, Mehti realized. He’s stalling. Gab’s about to –

Just as she made the connection, a fireball slapped her in the back. The impact hurt, but the flame couldn’t reach her through her steel cuirass – yet. Too many more of those and she’d start feeling the heat on her back. She took some quick steps back from the fire and turned to face Gab.

The Breton had retreated up several steps to a higher platform in the chamber, and he was preparing another fireball. She hated to turn her back to Glaum, but the mage was the more dangerous foe. She took the stairs two at a time, shield raised to swat away another fireball as she approached. He can’t keep casting forever…

Sure enough, his magicka ran dry after the next deflected fireball. As soon as he realized, he fumbled for a potion on his belt, but Mehti was faster. His last defense was to feebly raise his arms over his face. She took a bite out of his side with a swift chop, then, after he lowered his guard to grasp at the wound, she swung for his neck.

“Bastard!” The shout came at the same time as the pain in her shoulder. The s’wit had found a chink in her armor, in between the cuirass and pauldron. Thankfully, it wasn’t her axe-arm. She swung back around and caught him in the side of the head, albeit with an off-edge strike. The rush of pain added to the strength of the blow, knocking him sideways onto one knee. Making sure her axeblade was aligned, Mehti chopped straight down his tilted neck, mangling deep into his shoulder. She had to plant a foot on his corpse to wrench the axe out with a wild spurt of blood.

Certain they were dead, Mehti quickly turned her attention to her wound. Hurt like hell, but it wasn’t dire; her left shoulder would be tight for a while, but nothing she couldn’t heal with the spell the priest in Ald’ruhn had taught her. She chugged a healing potion she snagged from the bandits just in case.

As she rested by the fire, covered in blood and viscera, one of the rats from the adjacent room poked its nose in. It proceeded to saunter up to Qismehti. She almost reached for her axe, but all the beast did was start licking a smattering of flesh from her boot. She sighed, gave the rat a little kick to get its attention, and pointed at the corpse of Glaum nearby. Dutifully, the rat left to eat fresh mer-flesh.

- - - 

Drulene worked up the courage to peek outside after she heard her last guar baying at something. It was usually a rather tame beast, so she was afraid of whatever was making it wail so. But it was the Redguard Qismehti returning, her armor red in the dying light of day. But as she came closer, Drulene realized the redness was actually blood.

“Qismehti!” Drulene gasped as she stepped outside. “Are you okay? All that blood…Is it yours?”

“Some of it,” said Qismehti as she doffed her helmet. Her face was taut and grim, an expression Drulene had come to expect from the Redoran. Her short, curly hair sprung outwards after being held under tension from the helmet’s weight, but she ran a gauntlet through it to lay down some of the stragglers. Drulene hadn’t seen her face before; she’d never taken the helmet off the first time she saw her.

“By the Three, come inside. I’ll see to your wounds and clean your armor. Can’t have you returning to Ald’ruhn looking like that.” Her sudden shock at the sight of so much blood evaporated, and she remembered where Qismehti had gone in the first place. “Those bandits…are they…?”

“Yes, they’re dead,” said Qismehti as she stopped in front of Drulene. “But so are your guar. I’m sorry.”

Drulene bit her lip, almost hard enough to draw blood. Of course things would turn out this way. What a foolish girl I was, to think…she pushed the thought away and resigned herself to helping Qismehti. “Come in. I’ll help you get your armor off.”

Drulene closed the door behind them and had Qismehti sit on the edge of the bed. Drulene’s father had been a Dres cavalrymer, and she knew at least how Dunmeri armor tended to fit together. The latches and belts on this western steel armor were a little different, but similar enough to work with. Qismehti pulled off her own gauntlets as Drulene fiddled with the belt for the pauldron wrapped under her arm. Qismehti hissed and reached around, blindly grasping at Drulene’s hand. “Careful. That’s where he got me.”

Frozen by the sudden touch, Drulene slowed down as Qismehti awkwardly unfastened the strap herself. Drulene proceeded to undo the latches on the sides of Qismehti’s cuirass. Now she could see the blood-blackened tear in her shirt where the sword had passed. “I’ll have to take off your shirt, okay?” 

Qismehti grunted but said nothing; Drulene figured that was a “yes.” She reached under the back hem of Qismehti’s shirt and began to pull up, revealing inch by inch the dark skin – and rippling muscles – beneath. Qismehti helped, pulling up on the front of the shirt as well. She wasn’t wearing any underclothes to cover her breasts, it seemed, and Drulene blushed.

Drulene placed her hand on the broad musculature of Qismehti’s back, her touch gentle. Her fingers ran spider-like over to the blood-caked wound. It seemed mostly healed now – she must have used some spell or potion – but it wasn’t cleanly done, and would leave a small scar. But it was in good company; her body seemed littered with old injuries, a warrior’s long history of combat.

“Let me wash the blood off,” Drulene said, her voice a little weak. She grabbed a rag from nearby, poured some water on it from a jug, and softly rubbed around the scar, scraping away the hard blood there. Every time she neared the edges of the wound, the muscles under Qismehti’s shoulder tensed, hard as steel under the skin. Drulene palmed her other hand against the small of Qismehti’s back, a gesture of both support and curiosity for the feeling of her spine’s ridges.

After she was satisfied the area was clean, she said, “I’ll disinfect with some hackle-lo.” Qismehti turned her head to watch as Drulene took a couple of leaves and put them in her own mouth to chew into a simple poultice. She spat the resultant pulp into her hand. “This might burn,” she said before she began to softly rub it into the wound. Qismehti’s entire body tensed up as she watched Drulene spread the salve. Drulene tried to focus on her work, but kept getting distracted by a muscle stretching Qismehti’s jaw taut. 

Qismehti turned then, revealing the gentle slope of her breasts in profile. But it was her eyes that arrested Drulene: light brown, the folds of her irises like soft rivulets in fertile mud. At the intense centers were the black storms of her pupils, drawing Drulene deeper and deeper into their maelstrom.

She couldn’t take it anymore. Hand still slathered in hackle-lo saliva, she reached up, grabbed the side of Qismehti’s face, and kissed her. Qismehti grabbed her wrist and pulled it from her face, but didn’t pull away, kissing back harder. Using that wrist, she dragged Drulene down onto the bed. Drulene yelped, but giggled as Qismehti reached back down to kiss her again.

It was going to be a long night. 

- - -

Qismehti lay on her side next to supine Drulene, running her fingers along the ridges of her ribs, and idly tapping on her sternum gently like a guarskin drum. Dunmer skin always delighted Mehti: a little coarser than the skin of men, like it was perpetually coated in ash. She rubbed Drulene’s chest above her breasts, closing her eyes to focus on the feeling, and the sound of Drulene’s long breaths.

Mehti peeked her eyes open again to look at Drulene. Her hands were clasped over her navel, and eyes fixed on the ceiling of the hut, peering past it, beyond even the stars. Qismehti smiled and waved her hand in front of Drulene’s face, her palm briefly brushing against Drulene’s lips, slightly parted. “Are you an astrologer as well as a herder?” Qismehti jested.

“What?” Drulene said, startled from her staring.

“And can you see through ceilings?”

“Oh,” Drulene said with a smiling sigh. “You’re a joker, Qismehti.” She reached up to flick Qismehti on the chin.

“Mehti,” said Mehti. “I think you’ve earned the privilege to call me that.”

“Well, Mehti,” Drulene said, her flick transferring into a gentle grip on Mehti’s chin, “I can see through you well enough. Another round?”

“No,” Mehti said, laughing and shaking her head. “I meant, you seem awful lost in thought. What are you thinking about?”

“Oh.” Drulene’s smile and hold on Mehti’s chin evaporated, her hand falling back to her navel. She was silent for a moment, but closed the gap with another sigh. “I can’t stay.”

“That’s okay,” Qismehti said. “This doesn’t have to be anything more than you want it to be.”

“I mean, I can’t stay in Vvardenfell.” Drulene covered her face with her hands, muffling her voice. “Those guar were all I had. I scraped together everything in Tear to buy them here. I can’t afford to stay.”

Mehti said nothing, her fingers returning to Drulene’s chest pensively. After much thought, she said, “I’m sorry.”

Drulene removed her hands from her face but turned her head away from Mehti. “It’s not your fault.” She turned back to Mehti with damp eyes, looking for the storm in Mehti’s pupils again. Then she rolled out of bed and began to dress herself. “Get dressed,” she said. “I have something to show you.”

Mehti propped herself up on her elbow, wincing a bit at the lingering stiffness in her shoulder. “More than you’ve already shown me?” she asked, smirking.

Drulene threw Mehti’s pants at her, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be a s’wit. Get dressed.”

After they were clothed, they went outside. Qismehti was glad they’d gotten dressed. Not because anyone would see them – there wasn’t another soul for miles – but because up here in the West Gash the nights were chilly. “What is it?” Mehti asked, rubbing her arms for warmth.

Drulene woke the last guar hitched to its post in the yard and bade it stand. “I’m giving you Ildy. A knight such as yourself needs a steed, and –”

“Ildy?” Mehti asked. Her eyes saw past Drulene and the guar, and at the girl she knew as a child. The dead girl. “Is it short for Ildeth?”

Drulene looked up from saddling the guar with a curious expression. “Hm? No, for Ildami. Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” said Mehti, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Nothing. Just curious.” She shook the vision from her head. “Drulene, I can’t take your last guar. You could sell it to make things easier in Tear.”

“Don’t try to turn this down,” Drulene said, frowning. “To tell you the truth, I’m sick and tired of guar. They stink and hardly ever listen to you. Except for Ildy. She’s very well-trained, you’ll get along great.”

“So you’ll try something else when you get back to Tear?”

“Sure. I’ll find something. Maybe I’ll become a kwama miner. Or a netchiman. Not much good for anything beyond working with animals, I’m afraid. But don’t worry about me. I’ve figured out worse situations.”

Qismehti frowned but said, “Okay.” She gave Drulene her second-to-last kiss. “Take care of yourself, muthsera.”

Drulene giggled. “Don’t you ‘muthsera’ me after all that. You can’t try to trick me that your mouth isn’t filthy.” She wrapped her arms around Qismehti tight, and Mehti suddenly remembered she probably lifted guar regularly. “Thank you for everything. And be safe, Mehti, you hear? This is a dangerous land. I’m sure you already know that, but don’t ever forget it. The next I hear from you better not be your obituary.”

“Fine,” Qismehti said with a smile and wink. “Why don’t you go inside and clean my armor like you said? Give me some time to bond with Ildy before sunrise.”

“Sure,” Drulene said, letting go. “I’d say don’t get used to me being your maid, but, well…I suppose just the one time won’t hurt.”

After Drulene shut the door behind her, Qismehti placed a gentle hand on Ildy’s flank. The beast made a purring noise at the touch, its eye staring straight into Mehti’s. 

“It’s good to see you again, Ildeth,” Mehti whispered as she rubbed its scales. Ildy lowed quietly. For the first time since coming to Vvardenfell, Mehti felt at home.

[3dmonstermaze]

"The dunmer's familiar wickwheat loaf and saltrice were replaced with Imperial bread."

What you have just witnessed is history in the making.

I believe I have just pioneered a new genre of "ultramicro-fanfiction", a limited ruleset of style instructions designed to not only write fanfiction of minimal word length, but minimal content as well.

The above sentence is a coherent and complete fanfic for The Elder Scrolls series of video games, while communicating as little of significance as possible. The above scene is completely void of detail, but paints - at least, to those who understand The Elder Scrolls, an attribute essential to read fanfiction regardless - a vivid image of the universe in the game.

Though the fanfiction may suggest specific images to some people - for example, the migration of dunmer from Vvardenfell to Skyrim after the eruption of Red Mountain - but to most people it will communicate nothing at all. The very fact that the sentence is even paraseable is a miracle - but still suggests an image!

I believe that ultramicro-fanfiction has the ability to change the world of fiction as we know it. Down with wordy purple prose! We want less! Less words, less plot, less things!

[trickstarbrave]

my ideas for dunmeri cuisine:

>the south and mainland uses more rice. water is more plentiful and saltrice does require a lot, though the strange wild grain was originally found to grow even in water with a high salinity, making it perfect for even saltwater marshes

>northern vvardenfell tends to use a lot more wickwheat. some nobles on the mainland see wickwheat as the grain of choice for the poor ashlander nomads, and thus will turn up their noses at it. it most closely resembles farro, and it isn't too hard to cultivate but it grows like weeds in the grazelands

>ash yams are very popular, but also still more commonly eaten on vvardenfell where the high amount of ash makes them easy to grow. its not uncommon for the people of vvardenfell to use it to make fillings or flatbreads

>stews and stuffed veggies are staple main dishes usually served with a salad and some kind of bread and sauces. each region shows great variation though, and even tremendous variation within a region depending on the houses and families living there. despite seeming very similar, you'll be surprised at just how different dishes can be

>noodles arent a staple food, but theyre also not uncommon. typically eaten for lunch, and can be made from grains or even starch. stir fried glass noddles and veggies are very common in various places in morrowind, with everything from a sweet a savory taste to super spicy.

>meat and game are more reliable food sources in northern vvardenfell, and thus you'll find cuisines of ashlanders, ald ruhn, and other northern vvardenfell towns (and in the first era, house dagoth) to rely more heavily on it. the constant ash storms means its sometimes easier to rely on meat of nix hounds, nix oxes, and guar than trying to grow things reliably. this is a point of contention as many southern nobles see the meat heavy dishes as crude and unsophisticated.

>kwama eggs are another common food you'll find across morrowind in everything from savory foods to sweets. kwama egg tarts, preserved kwama eggs on congee/poridge, and more. sometimes they'll be wrapped with ground meat, breaded, and deep fried with a blend of dunmeri spices and the rich yolk oozing out, especially popular in dunmeri taverns outside of morrowind.

[powdermelonkeg]

I am researching an ungodly amount of fish cuisine facts for fictional fish dishes.

A Torilian quipper fish is based on a piranha.

Are piranhas edible? Yes.

Are quippers edible? Well, Waterdhavians eat them.

Cool. What about Tamrielic slaughterfish?

Based on...uh...well, in Skyrim, sockeye salmon in spawning season? Visually?

Is it salmon-like? Doesn't look like it. Seared slaughterfish is a white meat.

Alligator gar? It's got the teeth, size, white fillets, and poisonous (damage health) eggs.

Alright, let's go with alligator gar.

Alligator gar has a similar taste to lobster. Cool, got a baseline.

Hundur sauce is, as described by the creator of Forgotten Realms, a "tamarind and clam sauce, is medium-hot sour-sweet."

Do people cook piranha with tamarind? Internet says yes.

How about lobster? Several recipes for tamarind lobster sauce came up, so that's also a yes.

Clam? Can't find anything on clam sauce being used on lobster, BUT, clam is often cooked WITH lobster for pasta dishes. So I can assume they taste fine together.

All of this to find out if Gale Baldursgate could put homemade hundur sauce on the one fish Taliesin Skyrim will eat. To say nothing of if Tally would LIKE it, just if it would be remotely PALATABLE to anyone at camp.

(Conclusion: yes, it would be palatable. I would eat it)

Can Gale even MAKE hundur sauce in Skyrim, though? *checks replacements for tamarind* If he gets saltrice vinegar and some kind of brown sugar? Yes.

Where does sugar in Tamriel come from? Lavender dumplings are the only baked good in Skyrim that use moon sugar as an ingredient, so I can ASSUME the absence of it from things like apple pie and sweet rolls is intentional.

What else is there, though? All the other recipes have a distinct lack of sweetener to them. Am I supposed to believe the Nords like their snowberries wrapped in buttermilk biscuits? Or that sweet rolls are topped with bland milk paste?

Okay, well, Rare Curios adds in marshmerrow to the khajiit caravans. Let's see what UESP says.

"The sweet pulp of marshmerrow reeds is a delectable foodstuff, and when eaten fresh or prepared, it has modest healing properties."

THERE we go. THAT'S our sugarcane.

So, in conclusion, Gale can put hundur sauce on a slaughterfish, IF he has access to:

Clams

Slaughterfish

Saltrice vinegar (from a khajiit caravan)

Marshmerrow (from a khajiit caravan; both sugar and molasses)

I'm saying the "hot" part of the sauce comes from garlic and/or a smidge of fire salt.

The group is GOING TO CELEBRATE MIRMULNIR'S DEATH with FRESH WATERDHAVIAN CUISINE if it's the LAST THING I DO.

[ansu-gurleht]

i think saltrice is so called not only bc the grain itself has a somewhat salty taste, but also bc the roots of the plant can be refined into actual salt

[spoonmagister]

Behind the Scrib

The Tavern is a cornerstone of society. All adventures, mysteries, quests, jobs, observations, the passage of information, the meetings of heroes, the plotting of conspiracies, the purchase and subsequent consumption of bread and sujamma, the act of suddenly becoming silent when a Foreigner walks in… it all occurs here. This is just How It Is.

With this critical importance in mind, I found myself at the door of a tavern. This tavern, tucked away within the corner of the Foreign Canton in Vivec, is no secret to the locals, traders, and pilgrims who pass through those halls, yet it blatantly and plainly obfuscates its nature on its very doorstep.

A cursory glance at the scrib-emblazoned banner by the door revealed the name of Black Shalk Cornerclub. Even the casual entomologist or adventurer would understand that a Shalk is not a Scrib, and yet the sign to the establishment casually and confidently proclaims otherwise. This was not the first time I had seen an inn or tavern signified via a scrib banner, and it was a curious lie indeed.

The immediate atmosphere of the Cornerclub was one of a wretched hive, full of scum and villainy. It was absolutely crawling with spies, assassins, Fighter’s Guild enthusiasts, and coin-addled Hlaalu agents. A lizard by the bar watched newcomers as they entered, as though he were expecting someone specific, and upon seeing me did not appear to find what he sought.

I chose to sit — and I must stress that I sat down, rather than stand idly as folks here are keen to do — at a table close to the wall on the upper floor. I sat here for some time, pondering the nature of calling a Shalk a Scrib while levitating roasted ash yams and saltrice bread into my mouth.

It is always a scrib. Why IS it always a scrib?

At this time, two particularly ashy dunmer entered the tavern, visited the bar, and proceeded to shamble over to an adjacent table against the wall. Drinks in hand, they subtly nodded to each other and quietly exclaimed “The Sixth House is risen and lord Dagoth is its glory” before indulging. They did not sit down, of course, but continued standing rather distressingly close to two empty chairs.

The appearance of the average dunmer may already give one cause to be wary, but these two were notably horrid. They possessed eyes which seemed to singularly focus on a distant and invisible object, and their limbs and facial muscles were experiencing bursts of frequent and unnerving spasms. Hideous and gelatinous growths dotted their skin and bulged beneath their clothing. Appearing as if they were slowly being replaced by another material, I could only surmise this was the ultimate fate of those who remain in the Simulacrum for too long.

“It is unfortunate that you were chased out of that house so easily,” one of them said to the other.

“IT WAS A DECENT HOUSE. NOT MY FAVORITE HOUSE.”

“Our initiative is to spread awareness, not find temporary housing.”

Why is it always scribs? For what reason would the importance and prominence of the tavern be represented by the common, lowly, diminutive scrib? Does the scrib possess hidden qualities which would elevate its role in society? Is the scrib meant for more? IS the scrib MORE?

“I LIKE TO SURPRISE THEM WHEN THEY ARE BUSY. THEY DON’T SENSE MY APPROACH WHEN THEY ARE DISTRACTED BY THEIR ADVENTURER NONSENSE.”

“They might listen more enthusiastically if you approached with a bit more tact.”

“YOU CANNOT LET THEM GET A WORD IN OR THEY WILL QUIZ YOU ON ALL MANNER OF INANE AND UNRELATED MATTERS. RUMORS, MY TRADE, SOLSTHEIM��WHY ARE THEY LIKE THIS?”

Their words trailed off again, and in their place crept the reassuring yet alarmingly ever-present voice of the CHIME. Like a tinny static, it permeated the spaces in my thoughts and dug into my copious brain matter like the roots of Tel Uvirith, my new home, fortress, and thinking-space. Its MESSAGE was not wholly clear, but the Spoons already in my possession began to hone and tune it into words.

[Altmer… ~~~…HEED…~~~…a grand purpose…~~~…celestial emissary…~~~…~~~ PROTECT…~~~…~~~scrib…~~~…~~~…~~~prophecy disregard…~~~…~~~…COSMIC DEALINGS….~~~…~~~gesture]

Cosmic dealings? You want me to make contact again? With the gesture?

[…~~~…AFFIRM…~~~provide angles….~~~…]

It is well-known that Cosmic entities are strict adherents of angles. They do not even consider the notion of making Contact with beings who cannot demonstrate angles. But what unknowable and indescribable dealings was I going to make with such a being?

[Altmer…~~~…~~~…bring (10) Cats…~~~…(14) Time…~~~…(400) scribs GET…]

What am I going to do with 400 scribs?

“It was a shameful display. That a native would so quickly seek out the aid of an outlander just to remove a peaceful missionary.”

“A SHAMEFUL DISPLAY. THAT OUTLANDER ENTERED WITH NARY A KNOCK OR A SHOUT, YET I AM THE RUDE ONE?”

“Outlanders don’t knock. If they did, they would be turned away, and then we would not be in this predicament in the first place.”

“THE ONLY GOOD OUTLANDER IS AN OUTLANDER DENIED ENTRY.”

One of them, the more agitated and fanatical of the two, produced a pouch from his robes and removed from it a substance that looked strikingly similar to the growths which marked the two dunmer. He frantically searched the area, seemingly unable to find what he was looking for. He glanced to the adjacent table where I sat, for I had foolishly made eye contact.

“SAY, OUTLANDER, DO YOU HAVE A SPOON YOU ARE NOT USING?”

“I am using all of the spoons currently in my possession, all of the time,” I replied, unable to hide my disgust at the question.

The more diplomatic dunmer blinked at me as he seemed to mull over what I had said. “Ah, we understand, outlander.”

The Fanatic, clearly not understanding, began to shake.

“YOUR POSSESSION? TAKE WHAT YOU CAN, AND LEAVE OUR PLACE, FOR WHEN LORD DAGOTH COMES, THIS WILL BE NO PLACE FOR YOU.”

I could only silently agree that this was not the place for me, though I said nothing as my Sanctuary aura subtly deflected his aggression.

“IT IS TIME WE RETURNED HOME. TO THE HOUSE. THE TRUE HOUSE. THE SLEEPING HOUSE. HOUSE DAGOTH.”

“We are already at the House, brother. It is metaphorical in nature. I am sure you know this. Have you read the pamphlets?”

“WE ARE ONE AMONG THOUSANDS. WE MUST BRING THE MESSAGE.”

The cursed and decrepit dunmer simultaneously rose and began heading for the exit. Plumes of ash swirled and settled in their wake, and the table beside mine was completely coated in a fine layer of the gray sediment. On the table, and in a trail towards the door, were scattered bits of strange and hardened organic material. I would later notice that my skin developed a persistent itch which Divayth Fyr promptly addressed for me in exchange for my promise to stop stealing from him.

Of all the curiosities of the Reality Hallucination I had encountered thus far, the events within the Black Shalk were perhaps the most curious.

A day later, upon my arrival back to Tel Uvirith, I would deliver an important missive to my Mouth, Fast Eddie. It contained instructions to deliver the following message to Raril Giral, publican of the Black Shalk Cornerclub and pawn of the Reality Hallucination. It read as follows:

Black Shalk Cornerclub — 3/5 Spoons. Food was good. Service was okay. I got the Divine disease from one of the other patrons. Not very sanitary. Person at table next to me was a loud and dirty cultist. Misleading signage — no Scribs present. But there will be.

[tastesoftamriel]

Salted caramel puffed saltrice treats

Satrice is the backbone of Dunmeri agriculture, and it stands to reason that it's made its way into just about every dish in Morrowind, both sweet and savoury. This sweet snack is beloved by Dark Elves young and old, and its chewy yet crunchy texture is addictive! Sweet yet salty, this is a timeless classic.

You will need:

200g puffed rice (chewy) or Rice Krispies (crunchy)

100g mini marshmallows (or chopped bigger marshmallows)

50g butter

2 1/2 tsp coarse sea salt flakes or lightly crushed Maldon salt (adjust to taste)

150g brown sugar (I prefer dark muscovado for this but demerara works well too)

150ml heavy cream

1 vanilla bean pod, scraped (or 1 tsp vanilla bean paste)

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp cardamom

Method:

In a pan, melt the butter and add the cream, vanilla, and sugar. Stir on medium heat until it begins to caramelise medium brown, about 8 minutes.

Remove from the heat, and stir in salt, cinnamon, and cardamom.

Follow with the marshmallows; fold into the caramel gently until entirely combined, about 8-10 minutes.

Fold the finished mixture into the puffed rice until evenly combined. Spoon into a baking tray or loaf pan lined with paper. Garnish with additional salt flakes, if desired. Leave to refrigerate for an hour. Cut into small square slices, and enjoy!

[yanavaseva]

Another character in the Elder Scrolls series for @ry13mc

Hurzhar is the model of a Khajiit of Leisure. He is one son of an aristocratic clan of Senchal in Pellitine, Elsweyr. His clan owns Moon Sugar, Saltrice, and various other plantations along with with a handful of merchant ships. Hurzhar was something of a disappointment to his family due to his carousing. He preferred to while his days away in the city playing music, feasting, and dueling. His bardic nature eventually compelled him to leave Southern Elsweyr and find new songs and tales abroad, where he wrote about the places he went and the stories of those he met, immortalizing them in book and song.

[knightnightwrite]

August 14th – ghost or hungry

Day 3 of @tes-summer-fest

K,

Since you enjoyed the scribe’s voice so much from the last copy I sent, I thought I’d include an additional essay they wrote. A warning—they seemed to loathe being commissioned for this kind of brief analytical preface, so it’s a little more caustic than what I’ve previously sent. I pity the writer who paid money for this. Still—I hope it brings contemplative reflection (or at the least, amusement).

~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

The presence of ghosts within literature of all sorts and from all sorts is widespread, to say the least, and to say nothing of the variations of opinions on the undead themselves. Though, the undead and ghosts remain separate entities even as they retain thematically and categorically linked—I am endeavoring to examine ghosts only in this brief chapter. (Insomuch as a ghost can “stand” on their own, apart from other creatures or contexts.)

Mirroring the reality of ghost experiences, ghosts in textual narratives are bound to Nirn either through another’s will or by unfinished business. Their particular potential for dramatic contexts are much utilized in many stories across both mer and man—and within the particular textual realms through which I am most familiar, their disembodiment is, depending on the tastes of the reader(s), character(s), and writer(s), a hinderance or a blessing. How the ghosts themselves are characterized depends deeply on the particular context they exist in—namely, if one is unfortunate enough to come across a salacious or thrilling Breton text, one might only find ghosts as tonal paperweights desperately trying to pin down any essence of interest, import, or intimidation possible.

As with many creatures and characters, one must strike a balance between enough realistic detail and enough space to sense their importance to the narrative—and, of course, this balance must be struck within the confines of the genre(s) and the author’s creative desires. In many ways, ghosts are very similar to a barkeep or knight, tied to specific character conventions but with as much potential for depth and variety as one’s grandmother—yet it is often ghosts who are narratively saddled with the frankly uninspired ghost narratives of vengeance, trauma, violence, and tempestuousness as bland as uncooked saltrice.

Below, you’ll find one such story in an anthology of such narratives masquerading around the deep, dark, complexities of gloomy, atmospheric pastoral literature.

[everybodyknows-everybodydies]

And because I felt bad not including her, how about Hallie for 41?

41: comfort food

The mudcrabs are meaner here. Successful combat training, Neht had called it with a crinkly smile when she finally killed one. She would think he was making fun, but that’s not like him, so it’s worse—she’s not a very good explorer if she takes fifteen minutes to kill one mudcrab, and he thinks he has to be encouraging about it instead of just saying so, and if she could have just fried it while it was in the water it’d have been dead faster, but she’s not sure if the meat would have—

“Focus,” Haldryn says aloud, smacking her own cheek with the handle of the wooden spoon. Right. The soup. She sniffs the boiling pot apprehensively: it smells different than it’s supposed to. But it’s not done yet, that’s all.

Or maybe the mudcrabs taste different, too, she thinks with a sinking feeling as the steam winds ever upward to dissipate. Maybe their extra meanness makes them sour, and then the soup is going to be wrong, and she’ll have taken so much trouble trying to kill it with a blade instead of sparks for no reason. She checks the little jars of seasonings again. They’re right, or as close as she could get—she doesn’t know what hackle-lo will do to it, flavorwise, but it tasted fine enough when she tried chewing some earlier (on the advice of a very nice man with a tall hat who saw her spattered with muck and cracking open mudcrab shells on the side of the road so she wouldn’t have to drag them all the way back). And she couldn’t find any rosemary.

A flicker of warmth on her wrist when a bubble pops too high jolts her into stirring again. She keeps thinking too much. Which isn’t unusual, but it does make it harder to do things.

Cream is different. Butter’s different. She’s never used ash yams before. The flour functions the same but it’s made from saltrice, they told her at the market stall, and then just looked at her blankly when she asked if that means the flour is salty, so she might have to use less salt then normal, or she might not; the bread she’s had since she’s been here hasn’t been especially salty but of course if someone’s used to baking with it they’re going to know how to—

You’re going to stir it out of the pot.

“I am not,” Haldryn says immediately, slowing down. Over her shoulder, Neht gives an amused huff. “I just—do you think the substitutions are okay?”

I wouldn’t ask me for food ideas. I haven’t eaten anything in… a long time.

“Yeah, yeah.” She takes a scoop to taste. It’s hot, but not bad. Not too salty. Maybe the normal amount will be fine. “Do you really not know how long you’ve been dead?” she asks, not for the first time. It just seems like something a person would remember, is all. She hasn’t told him yet, but she’s thinking about trying to find where he—where they go. Since they’re here. It’ll be hard without a family name to go off, but there might be other ancestor ghosts that can fill in all the blanks he leaves. When he doesn’t answer, she swipes a curl out of her face and reaches for the salt. “I can’t look while I’m doing this so if you’re just doing the brooding stare—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Haldryn jumps, almost dropping the salt into the pot. “Nobody!”

Leaning in to sniff deeply, Ajira flicks an ear with a grin and gives her a sidelong look. “Ajira would like to know if this is to be shared, or if you intend to eat the whole pot.”

“I’ll share if you want some,” she says, earnest. “It’s almost done.”

“A Cyrod soup.” Ajira’s nose twitches as she stands straight again. “The one you have been missing, yes?”

“Supposed to be.” She pulls the bowl she’d picked out over, to be ready. “I… don’t think it’s going to taste the same.”

“Pfah. It will have more flavor than the Cyrods would use, friend Hallie,” she dismisses.

She says her name closer to the way Ma does, the emphasis in the back. Hal-Li. Haldryn used to write it out that way, when she was still learning all her letters. She takes a breath, resolving to minimize how long it took to kill the mudcrabs in her next letter. “Flavor’s good,” she says aloud, “but I want—the right flavor. Ma makes it specific; her recipe has different stuff. I think she might like the hackle-lo though. Do you think if I put some of the leaves in when I write that they’d be safe to—”

“Your soup is burning,” Ajira announces cheerfully.

Haldryn swears (“I mean—I didn’t say that!”) and yanks the pot off the fire, sloshing some nearly over the side. “Okay,” she nods, “so we won’t eat the bottom part probably.”

In the corner of the kitchen, Neht gives her that crinkly smile again. It will be fine, he says.

She doesn’t know that it will. It smells wrong, still. Not bad; just… not right. It’ll be good, she thinks, but it won’t be what she wanted. Ajira pokes her shoulder. “Are you planning to carry the pot around all night, or is Ajira going to get to try some?”

Neht puts a hand on the wall. Sad, Haldryn thinks suddenly; that’s the extra bit in the way this particular smile scrunches his eyes. Something sad. I didn’t mean the soup.