Their parents had obviously lied. There was nothing fun or interesting about Ivras - in fact, with disdain, Erys thought: This is where I was born? This neutered wasteland? Seaside villages dotted the coastline, each battered structure leaning towards the sea like they were begging to be returned to the ocean floor. As they moved inland, the landscape slowly began to change. Farms and little villages were wary but welcoming if they talked around and not about Siregal. It was a careful balancing act. Pretending to be something you're not was very, very tiring. They were being handled so carefully that they felt as if they were being confused with an explosive device.
And then: Faline! Culture! Merriment! Rubble in the streets? The city was doing a good job of cleaning it up, all hush-hush and whistling while teams strained to move enormous stones and cart splintered wood away. A pub they visited one evening descended into an awkward silence when Erys kept pestering the barman with questions. It took almost a week to wrestle the full story from Faline's citizens, and even then the details were muddy. An incomplete picture was beginning to paint itself in rough, broad strokes: political unrest, massive casualties, blood running like a tributary through the cobblestone streets, a big purple worm. When they asked if anyone had a piece of it - the worm, that is - they thought the barman's head might explode with the force his eyeballs bulged straight out of his head. Whatever, they grumbled, just wondering. If they could just get a little morsel...
It took about a week of indulgent dining for their money to run out and they began to barter their services for wares and lodging. They were slumming from inn to inn, trying to pick up on any intricacies in the local cuisine, but most of it was slapdash and uninspired. A hack job, meant to produce volume and not quality. The problem with finding out where the culinary scene was happening in a strange land was, well, you had to know people. Maybe even have a few friends. Erys gritted their (enormous, serrated, frightening) teeth and decided to plant down roots for a little while. They would have to get to know some locals if they were to make any progress.
Reputation is a funny thing, the secret being mostly (almost entirely) luck. Erys was hustling in a grimy galley kitchen attached to a late night-only bar - food being far away from the establishment's main focus, the gentleman running the show had given them free reign over the menu and ingredient sourcing - when they happened to serve the most delectable poached pear and spring greens salad to a certain political denizen. They were wiping down the counters in near darkness when the kitchen door had creaked open, revealing a dark figure who was still licking balsamic glaze from their lips. "That salad was... delicious. I have an unusual proposition for you..."
Which leads us, citizens and mages of Faline, to our next scene. A luxuriously appointed gala is underway inside of Faline's most fashionable restaurant. It has been transformed into a lavish banquet hall - it is clear that no expense has been spared. Whispers and coughs cover the names of the likely benefactors. Candlelight flickers from chandeliers and corner candelabras; everything is bathed in a seductive half-light as smartly dressed waiters scurry to and from a busy back of house, harassed by a squat hog maître d'. The hog is remarkably quick on her feet, dodging hooves and scurrying underneath taller creatures to round up her waitstaff. It's a party where everyone knows everyone. Sneers are hidden politely behind raised handkerchiefs. A band plays quietly on a small stage, the kind of background music played by such skilled musicians that it is delightfully unobtrusive, yet its absence is felt when they pause for breaks.
Wide, low tables of solid woods are brimming with dainty appetizers. Roasted chestnuts and figs, perfectly toasted crostini drizzled with rosemary infused olive oil, reams of different freshly baked baguettes to be cut on request and topped with any number of rich spreads, and the same salad of poached pears and greens that had won the chef their job tonight.
If you followed a waiter back into the kitchen, you would either: back away in horror and stand watch in rapt fascination. It was a massive warzone manned by a general whose only experience was in solo, guerrilla tactics. It was a madhouse. Flames licked at the bottoms of kettles and pots and the woodstove was so hot you could barely look in its direction. Erys marched up and down the narrow passages between counters, biting anyone on whatever they could reach if they didn't move out of the way fast enough (a few ankles, several thighs, one unlucky rear end). "Not like that!" They screeched, pausing to take over one saucepan for a moment to demonstrate, "like this." Erys moved along, streaked with soot and sweat and a dark purple sauce that nearly looked like blood. They had to stop frequently to eat, occasionally grabbing a plate off of an outgoing waiter's platter and engulfing the food almost methodically. There was no time to enjoy anything. It was all fuel for the process. The maître d' hollered as Erys quickly scarfed three roasted carrots as they came out of the stove and burned their mouth immediately. Licking their lips over the pain, they simply shot the hog a withering glare. Where would this kitchen be if they fainted? In shambles! Aflame! They would all be ashes without this executive chef.
As the last platter of food left the kitchen and their underlings began the arduous scut work of cleaning up the kitchen, Erys finally excused themselves and slipped out of the back door to gather their thoughts among the vegetable clippings, potato peels, and other trash. The first cool breeze that hit their face was like a cold slap. Trembling, Erys braced themselves against the wall and began to cry. Tonight could have been a jewel in the crown of their career, but tonight would be unforgettable for other reasons.
Every delectable dish - appetizer, main course, dessert - had some sort of diuretic or laxative incorporated.
Erys had first been offered the job in that greasy, back alley kitchen with no strings attached. The budget they'd been offered to plan for meals had been unimaginably exciting - the possibilities were limitless. When the menu was finalized the catch had finally been revealed: they were to sabotage each item of food. No one was to die, but they should be uncomfortable. In exchange Erys' name would be kept out of it, they would receive a sum that would allow them nearly enough capital to open their own restaurant or continue their travels unburdened, and they must tell no one. They whimpered aloud, thinking of the lovely little cakes and cookies, the candied nuts, the mouthwatering gnocchi... all ruined. Ruined. Miserable, Erys began to nibble on potato peel they found on the wet ground. It was all they deserved to eat anyway.
TWC: 1,193
+11 base gold
+1 current events
= 12 gold total & 12 sabo for miriam