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Dearest Readers, may warmth and comfort abide with you through the winter days.
A thousand apologies, this should have been posted last December. ;P
THE HIDDEN SWORD: A TALE OF BALDUR'S GATE
Book One: From the Earth | Chapter 25: Upon the Ground, Dry Branches
Winter. And upon the ground, dry branches.
They weren't there yesterday. Irse looked up at the tree from whence they had fallen. Leafless and lifeless, the verdant canopy of seasons past now a mere memory. Last night's snowfall must have proved too heavy to bear, a pity they won't be around to sprout new leaves for the spring. She gathered and bundled them with the others collected for the stove and the fireplace. Irse made her way back to the cottage, feet sinking into ankle-deep slush. It slowed her steps, but the elf didn't mind. Dusk remained a good couple of hours away and, except for sharpening a commissioned knife for a customer, all other work had been finished for today.
Today. The first of Nightal. The Feast of the Moon.
No wonder the smithy hadn't seen another soul since the other day. Village folk were preoccupied with their own affairs – whether partaking in small gatherings or in rituals their faith demanded of this day. Faerun celebrated Moonfest as a time to remember those who have passed on, and the young elf thought back to her days at the Keep.
Mostly a solemn affair, with the Avowed assembling at The Hearth, the main dining hall, after vespers. Over supper, the Great Readers took turns reciting the names of the deceased Keepers of Tomes and First Readers with their contributions to the furthering of knowledge.
Scribes whispered among themselves - should Tethoril pass on, it would take a full tenday to recite all his accomplishments. The litany of complex spells he has unearthed from the rarest tomes, his effortless decipherment of cryptic scripts in forgotten tongues no one else could translate, and the penning of easy-to-grasp annotations on treatises most difficult to comprehend – this humble man's enduring legacy to more than one generation of the Avowed. And the list continued to grow even while he yet lived.
As for Master Ulraunt? Perhaps they could squeeze in his more humble achievements during the serving of the soup. Such tittering definitely displeased the proud and haughty Keeper of Tomes, evidenced by the scowl on his face that could curdle every pitcher of milk on the table during the recitations.
And in their room, before retiring for bed, the two girls would strive to outdo each other for the future honor of being the Reader who would recite the future Great Late Master Ulraunt's elegy. Unfortunately, they could never get past Imoen's Master of Mutton-Mongering before dissolving into hysterical giggling.
Her lips curled into a sad smile. Another Moonfest away from home, and soon another winter solstice as well. How swiftly did the days pass and the elf wouldn't deny she had gotten used to the routine.
For the quiet of a day without labor carried its own pleasant joys. Hours spent curled up in a chair by the fireplace and catching up with the bundles of cheap chapbooks bought from the Open Market while her Teacher pottered about untiring in whatever chore could not be put off. Whether accounting for their commissions, his fingers rapidly flicking at the wooden beads of the counting frame; or simply sitting in quiet contemplation of a finished work, perhaps seeking for imperfections needing improvement or a means to hasten a process without compromise.
And cooking, of course.
Supper. Irse glared at the bundle of sticks and branches in her arms. He would need these for the stove. Priorities shifted; the girl trudged through the snow with burning purpose. Not long she stomped into the cleared pathway to the cottage. Just then, a wagon pulled up by the side of the road and a woman alighted, hailing a greeting at the elf.
"Murtha!" Irse shouted and waved back at their regular customer, a merchant making trips between Asbravan and Iriaebor.
"Forgive me for imposing upon you on this day of all days. But perhaps Okami might take a look at the skeins and wheels?" the other woman called out.
Already winter and Murtha picks this time of the year to set off, the elf groused inwardly, predictably suffering damage to her wagon in the icy roads. Not to be uncharitable, but this job had disturbed a rare moment of rest from the forge.
"All right, come with me to the smithy," Irse invited, though a bit lukewarm.
"Wait, this will take a while won't it?" Murtha asked.
Without waiting for a response, the merchantwoman climbed up the wagon once more. Irse canted her head, listening. Murtha seemed to be speaking with someone inside, and then she alighted again, this time holding the hand of another. Though cloaked and draped over the head with a patchy quilt, her companion could not hide the somewhat hunched back and shaky hands. An old woman? Irse approached and offered assistance. She helped Murtha ease the seemingly elderly lady down from the wagon and with careful steps led them to the smithy.
Okami wasted no time and agreed to do an inspection and make necessary repairs, for anything to be done needed to be completed while light remained in the sky. He and Murtha went outside, the apprentice staying behind to sharpen a commissioned knife.
And keep watch over Aunt Edem in the corner.
Not an old woman, it turned out. Murtha's companion seemed over fifty years of age, for a quarter of her dark hair had only begun to fade to ashen gray, yet possessing a face weathered and scarred, eyes blank, milky white and unseeing.
She sat in a chair and hummed a rhythmless tune, arms bowled as if cradling a babe, rocking as if to put the unseen infant to sleep. Lost in her inner world and surely in a happier past, perhaps a mother once, whether to her own or to Murtha.
Irse shrugged and turned her attention to the knife on the whetstone. Dribbled a dollop of oil on the block and spread it upon the surface with a rag, then laid the knife upon the slab on its broad side, raising the spine of the blade at a slight angle. Pressing down on the tip with three fingers, she commenced sliding the edge across the surface, repeating the process, ears tingling at the satisfying high-pitched scraping of steel against stone.
The humming stopped.
"I-is that...a blade on a... whetstone? I have not heard of that sound in a long time," a hoarse voice whispered.
Irse turned around to find the woman staring at her. Though blind, Edem appeared to gaze at the elf as if her eyes could still see.
"Yes, Aunt Edem? Is there anything you need of me?"
She recoiled at the sound of another's voice. "My Lord! Is it your voice I hear?" she said, words eerily straight and firm against her earlier tremulous humming.
Edem slowly rose from her seat and padded forward a few paces. "Have you truly returned? Come to reward your servant? I have been faithful, all these years! I have! I have!" she rambled, grasping at the air.
Alarmed, Irse's eyes darted around the room. My Lord? No one else in here. Who in the realms is she talking to?
"Uh, Aunt Edem. It's just me, the blacksmith's apprentice. Your niece is outside, perhaps I should call for her?"
The question seemed to have cleared Edem's senses for she paused and looked around. "M-my niece? Murtha? Murtha, is it?"
"Murtha. Yes," Irse repeated. A mention of a familiar name might calm the woman.
"Where am I, Child? What day is it?"
The day? It's the dead of winter, Irse almost blurted out. "Why, it's the first of Nightal, the day of the Moonfest. You and Murtha are supposed to be journeying to Iriaebor, but you stopped here in Dearg for repairs on your wagon…"
"Moonfest… Feast of the Moon…," Edem murmured. Her face brightened, eerily lit up by a secret only she knew. "Do you know, of all days, this day alone is holy to us?"
A holy day? Torn between curiosity and heeding the unnerving tug in her gut, the elf settled for a safe response. "Moonfest is important to everyone in Toril. It's a day to remember those who've passed on."
Edem cackled, "Only for the fearful and meek. But for us, a day to honor our most daring and valiant slayings, a day to retell and remember who and how you made another to bleed and die. Whether with a thousand cuts or a single stroke." Her pale gaze pierced at the girl in the last utterance.
It struck a nerve, though it certainly cannot be an accusation, for this woman knew her not in any capacity. Surely nothing more than the mad ramblings of someone who might have been a mercenary or a soldier before she went blind and insane. Irse willed herself to remain calm, turning to the hammer rack to check on the tools. Ignore her and maybe her mind, whatever's left of it, will wander off to something more pleasant.
"So… slayings?" Irse absently said then smacked her forehead with a palm, berating herself for humoring the woman.
"Oh, there's a tale we always speak of, the greatest of them all. Have you heard of the murderous exploits of the priest-mage Uthaedeol the Blood-Drenched?"
Irse quirked her lips, quelling the urge to snicker. Uthaedeol the Blood-Drenched. Such a scary moniker. Well, if she were to make a name for herself, it would be something far more fearsome.
Something like – Irse the Devourer of Blood… Sausages. And blood pies too. Yum.
"'Tis the tale of how he slew King Samyte of Tethyr, though the king had been warned and had prepared. To breach the palace defenses, Uthaedeol teleported in front of a royal guard on a pegasus, midflight, killed its rider and rode the flying steed himself to crash through the glass ceiling of the throne room," Edem recounted.
"Oh my, poor flying horsie," Irse mumbled, genuinely appalled at the abuse of the creature. Eyes darted up to the ceiling, then to the hearth, imagining the priest-mage squeezing down through the chimney and bursting out of the fireplace instead. Tadaaa.
The woman continued reminiscing, now enlivened. "And then Uthaedeol leapt off the dying pegasus to drive a fist into the eye of the king's guardian black dragon, using a powerful disintegrating spell to destroy the great drake, floating unharmed through the dragon's dying acid breath, protected by his enchanted armor."
Wait, a black dragon guarding the king? How huge must the throne room be to fit a dragon in there along with the king's entire court and don't forget the throne and the rest of the furniture? Or perhaps, a miniature black dragon. Maybe the size of a dire badger. The Bestiaries mentioned those things getting huge too, after gorging themselves on worms right before hibernating. Irse nodded sagely to herself.
"And then Uthaedeol cast a spell to make all arrows in the room to launch of their own will against the archers."
The elf furrowed her brows. How? Did they launch themselves from their bows, shooting straight into the other archers? Or did they fly and arched back to their original bowmen? Or did the arrows simply darted backwards and stabbed the archers holding them? She could lose sleep for days just thinking about it.
"So how did the king finally die? Did he faint from seeing everything then fell and knocked his head badly? Or did the priest-mage stab him with the royal spoon from the royal soup bowl?"
"He and Samyte fought in single combat, the king's broadsword against the priest's dagger. But with the little blade, he cut the king's skin into ribbons while slaying the guards who dared come to his aid, then cast a spell forcing Samyte to dance until he bled to death."
So the king perished from a bloody dance-off. Irse genuinely shuddered. Having two left feet herself, the sheer idea of being made to dance was already torture enough.
"When done with the massacre, Uthaedeol teleported away but not before leaving magical traps which slew the king's own sons who entered the throne room."
And the priest-mage even had the grace to leave a deadly housewarming gift, the elf snorted at the thought.
"Wow," Irse breathed, then blinked and shrugged, annoyed at being unexpectedly engrossed with the gruesome tale. "But why did this Uthaedeol murder him? Did Samyte insult him? The king owed him money?"
Edem frowned, apparently confused at the question. "What reason is required for murder other than… because!" she cried, arms thrown in frustration.
"Well, that's quite the story, Aunt Edem. I'm sure you've done some heroic slayings yourself," Irse muttered dismissively.
The old woman straightened herself as if finding renewed pride. "No, not heroic to be worthy of tales. But proof of devotion to my lord's cause."
Edem grinned, toothless and terrible. "Children."
Blood suddenly froze, colder than the winter beyond the walls of the smithy. Irse glared with incredulity at the other woman. Is she confessing to the murder of children? The mind raced, ticking off decisions – should she report this to the City Watch? Of Iriaebor or Asbravn? But how long ago, for given Edem's age and mental state, the crimes would have been committed years, perhaps already decades past. And who is this lord she spoke of? Most certainly some deranged cult leader, and could they still be at large and stealing children for their sick practices?
"For while they lived, he will not. Still he has not returned, perhaps we have not yet slain all of them?" Edem rambled.
"I'm… I'm sure you got them all," Irse stammered, hesitant as she turned her back on Edem.
"No… not all."
Something clicked within. Unknowable, inexplicable. But urgent.
Irse whirled around in time to catch Edem's wrist, the cracked and yellowing nails reaching for her face.
"Aunt Edem, get a hold of yourself!" Irse entreated, both hands straining.
Like a rabid animal the woman growled; spittle dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Edem pushed at the girl. They crashed against the rack and fell to the ground, metal tools clattering around them. Irse managed to shield her face with one arm as Edem yapped and pummeled her with bony fists. Instinct spurred the other hand to grab at one of the small hammers strewn near her, but rational thought prevailed and held it back.
"Lord Tethrin, please don't make me punch a blind woman!"
Her prayer must have been answered, small miracle it could be heard at all beneath the crone's screeching. Edem ceased her assault and pulled back, arms raised above her head, hands clasping an invisible dagger. A dagger she held, perhaps now only in her mind but a true blade ages ago.
An opening. Irse bucked, throwing the woman off-balance, then seized her by the arms. They twisted and rolled around the floor until the elf gained the upper hand to bear down on Edem who writhed and wailed.
"Auntie!" Murtha cried from the door as she and Okami barged in.
"Help! She's -," Irse gasped at the effort as she held down the thrashing woman. "… having a fit!" she finished just as her Teacher and Murtha managed to haul Edem away.
Finally relieved, Irse rose to her feet and stumbled backwards to catch her breath. Hearing her niece's voice calmed Edem somewhat for she now curled into a ball and whimpered in the mercantwoman's arms.
"Are you hurt?" her Teacher asked, eyes sweeping at the sight of the scattered tools and at his student frantically rubbing her forearm. Irse shook her head, though still dazed.
"Forgive me, I didn't think she'd be acting up again so soon. My aunt has bouts of… well, this," Murtha pleaded.
"I don't know if it's something I said. But just before she flew at me, she'd been boasting of killings made by other people. And of her…" Irse swallowed then whispered, "… murdering children."
Okami's eyes darted questioningly between apprentice and customer. Undisguised panic flashed in Murtha's face to confirm the worst.
"Aunt Edem, Pa's only sister. Before she became like this, she was a decent sort. We didn't see her all the time but she's been good to us, helped us ever since Ma died from bone rot and Pa lived through the shakes but couldn't work anymore. Sent us gold through money merchants and came to visit every few years, but we never asked about her work."
Unsurprisingly they would be too grateful to question the source putting bread on their table. Murtha went on to reveal that her aunt's generosity continued long after she and her siblings had grown and could find work or trade on their own. Money sent without fail until six years ago when the gold stopped coming.
Six years ago? Irse furrowed her brows as she counted back. The thirteen hundred and fifty-eighth year by Dalereckoning. The Year of Shadows. The time of the Godswar? A memory of days shrouded in dread though everyone carried on as if nothing were amiss. News of the terrible destruction wrought by warring deities in the great cities reached them in hushed whispers – currents of fear chipping at the Keeper of Tomes' strained assurances of Candlekeep's impregnability. Irse and Imoen, young and let to play but not shielded from the pall of quiet terror clouding the faces of the grownups around them. Especially her foster father. Though he maintained his routine of study and correspondence, the dread in his eyes could not be concealed as he looked at her. As if he expected his foster child to burst into flames at any moment.
"Don't worry, Father. Master Ulraunt says we're safe, the walls are sturdy as they've ever been and the gods fighting are too far away to reach us here," Irse had reassured him, clinging to his knee as he sat at his great workdesk. Gorion had chuckled at her words, her small attempt to allay his disquiet.
"Safe within these walls. And the god too far to reach for you here," he affirmed as he patted her head.
Irse scowled, baffled. "The god? Aren't there many of them running around the realms now? Which one do you mean?"
But he never answered the question, just as he never did with the others.
"For some years we had no word of her again until an old neighbor who has dealings with the Flaming Fist told us of rumors of a prisoner held by the company. A madwoman who answers to the name. Pa and I went to see for ourselves, and sure enough it's his sister. The Fist claimed to have found her wandering the streets in such state and bragging of her killings. Without proof they couldn't be certain but decided to keep her there anyway. Am just glad they agreed to release her to us. Pa thinks she got tangled with some evil cult what with all the terrible things that happened in the Godswar."
Healers couldn't restore her mind and sight, and they pronounced the madness both a punishment and a mercy for her alleged crimes.
"Most of the time she's got no idea who and where she is, starts wandering around if left on her own. She says things, frightful things most of the time and even lashes out at me and other people. It's hard handling my aunt, but before Pa died, I promised him I'd take her in," the merchantwoman confessed.
"Look, I know your assistant was almost hurt. But please, I beg you, tell no one of this. Aunt Edem's antics have reached the ears of our neighbors. Who knows what they'll do to her when I'm not around. I thought it best to bring her with me now in my supply runs," Murtha implored with them.
"Then you should have warned us beforehand and not put my apprentice at risk of harm," Okami chided sternly.
The merchantwoman bowed her head and apologized. They concluded the transaction with haste and mercifully, Aunt Edem had reverted to a more docile state and stayed as such throughout. Murtha bundled her aunt in a coat and uttered her apologies once more. Okami's expression seemed to soften and he accompanied them to the wagon, even lifting the now feeble Edem up the footboard. Irse ran after them and slipped a rolled up blanket of thick wool into Murtha's hand.
"Wrap her with this, it should keep the cold out for the rest of the journey," the elf suggested with a gentle smile.
Murtha accepted, mouthed her thanks and another apology, her eyes almost tearful. Blacksmith and apprentice watched them drive off through the village path down to the Dusk Road before returning to the cottage. As Okami busied himself with supper, Irse set about with her routine of cleaning the smithy.
Dusk had already fallen, the shortened day swallowed by night. Irse bolted the door and began gathering the tools scattered on the floor. Fingertips brushed against the hammer heads, one of them nearly used to strike at the mad woman, and the hand drew back. Wincing, she pushed it out of her mind – thoughts of what could have happened had she given in to reflex and instinct.
Children slain by Edem's hand, could it have been true? The mind returned to the strange vision of last year's Highharvestide; the cavern, the infants, and the altar of stone. Understanding dawned upon her.
Of course! Her visions have always mostly been foresighting – like the mute doppelgängers of folks back at the Keep before she had actually run into them, or the incident with Dotie in Berdusk.
Only one explanation made sense - the dream during the Rite must have been a forewarning of Edem and of her past crimes. And though she had profited from them and even helped her family with the money, still the lasting consequences to Edem and her loved ones were sobering to think about.
Unnerved over the revealed atrocities and yet relieved that the vision had nothing to do with her, Irse sighed as she shuffled into the kitchen and sat at the table. Why couldn't they be more about pleasant things?
Okami must have noticed her subdued mood, so uncharacteristic just when dinner is about to be served.
"Think no more of what happened. They are somehow coping, by the mercy of the gods," he assured her as he set down a tray bearing cutlery, bowls, a plate of vegetables, and a small kettle of stew on the table.
As his custom, her Teacher stepped to the side and gestured to the spread.
"Supper is ready," Okami announced with a formal bow. "Please, eat."
Murmuring her thanks, Irse sighed with contentment as she pulled the bowl closer, uncovered the kettle and inhaled the savory aroma wafting from the stew.
Luckily though, no grand prophecies were needed to assure her of the constancy of a daily meal.
"Lieutenant Sandars," Irse greeted with a smart salute and a click of her heel, using the man's true name. Be more than polite. Be respectful, regardless of standing, lowly or highborn, address the customer as if he were both your bosom friend and the emperor.
Tucky the old inn cook - bespectacled, with snowy hair and mustache, stood tall and straight as if his former days with the Shield of Iriaebor never left him. Beneath his apron, he reported for daily duty in white shirt and trousers; a wonder how they never get soiled despite his laboring in the kitchen. How he got his moniker – Innkeeper Denwy supposed it stemmed from his reputation as the sternest disciplinarian, legendary for reducing the new recruits into blubbering turkeys tucking in their tail feathers. Irse thought it sprang from his specialty – turkeys tucked with anything tasty and conceivably possible to tuck in a turkey.
The cook returned the salute. "General Elf," he hailed with indulgent yet genuine formality.
"You asked me to forge you a special blade, Sir," Irse began solemnly as she laid down a rolled-up leather wrap upon the table. She unfastened the strap, willing her hands to remain steady, and unfurled to reveal the prize.
"The santoku, a Kozakuran design," she said, pointing to the knife, fashioned after the one the cook had spied on Okami's whetstone when he visited the smithy to have his knives sharpened. Upon learning of its purpose and out of curiosity, Tucky had asked if they could produce a similar tool for him.
And seeing the chance to enact her Plan, Irse had volunteered to take on the commission. And as if the gods approved of that plan, her Teacher insisted she keep all and not just part of the labor wages for herself.
Tucky stroked his hoary goatee and nodded, a wordless command for the elf to explain. Irse picked up the knife, laid flat on her palm to better show its features. A wide sheepsfoot blade with no tip, shorter and thinner with a straight edge against the typical cook's knife with the standard curved edge and a broad blade sloping upwards to form a sharp point. Her Teacher had interpreted santoku to mean "three virtues" – slicing, dicing, and mincing.
"Seems to me the blade's too flat to rock on the cutting board. Won't do for mincing herbs," Tucky observed.
"You're right about that. Teacher never uses it for herbs," Irse agreed. "But for skinnier cuts of vegetables or anything."
"Show me your knifing," Tucky said as he set down a peeled turnip before the girl.
Irse breathed in, then after a slight bow, rolled the produce closer, knuckling to hold it down. Starting with the index and thumb of the right hand, she grasped the knife at the spine directly above the heel, before wrapping the rest of her fingers around the handle. For flexibility and control.
There were only two talents in this world the elf could lay claim to.
The uncanny ability to assemble a stew unfit for goblin consumption.
And a seemingly innate aptitude for chopping up and slicing things.
A skill unintendedly honed through years of helping in the kitchens and the apothecary, something to which she had never truly given thought; only realized when Okami requested her to prepare the vegetables in his stead due to the sudden arrival of another customer needing a re-point for their oxgoad.
The counter to muscle memory from the first few slices immediately communicated the difference between his santoku and the kitchen knives of her old home. The recollection of observations of her Teacher's precise motions while chopping served to guide the adjustments. The confirmation – the look of quiet approval on Okami's face as he slid her finished and wafer-thinned carrots and potatoes into the pan.
"True, with a straight edge like this you can't rock the blade back and forth as you'd normally do when chopping stuff. Instead you slice forwards and downwards," Irse explained as she halved then sliced the turnip with rapidity and precision. In that moment, few things in the realms rivaled the satisfaction of feeling the blade sliding without resistance through fibrous produce flesh, and the hypnotic rhythm of the cutting motion made fluid by practice.
See the hollows?" she pointed out, pausing to run a finger along the knife belly to draw attention to the vertical indentations hollowed out of the face of the blade. "Keeps things from sticking to the blade to let you return faster for the next cut, which also helps you get a thinner slice."
Done with the demonstration and out of turnip, Irse laid down the santoku and fanned out the slices across the chopping board. The inn cook leaned in and plucked a paper-thin piece, turning it over for scrutiny.
"I see. And which is better for everything? My old knives or this one?"
Always be truthful, neither subtract the flaws nor add to the virtues, Okami's words echoed in her mind.
"I'll be honest with you, Sir. They're both fit for the same uses. Surely the santoku's better for fine though simple slices and it's lighter with the balanced weight. But the heavier cook's knife is much sounder for disjointing meat and if you're doing complicated cutting given the blade tip. Teacher still has each, depending on what he's making," Irse acknowledged.
Tucky bobbed his head, seemingly satisfied. He hefted the knife in his hands, admiring the fine bevel of the razor edge. Then he eyed the elf suspiciously.
"I know you feyfolk like to enchant weapons and things, but I don't need any of that. This knife better not suddenly burst into some poncy song and fairy sparkles while I'm deboning a chicken."
Irse grinned cheekily and rubbed her nose. "No, Sir. Just a sharp edge for cutting. Nothing more."
He pulled out a pouch from his apron pocket and handed it to her. "Good. Here, the silvers for the cost of the iron and anything else you used to make it, as agreed."
Irse suppressed the urge to punch the air in triumph.
"Now on the payment for your labor, what day is today?"
"It's the tenth of Nightal."
"The tenth… come back on the twentieth, the day of the winter solstice, and you'll get them, as agreed as well."
"Not a strange request at all, but a tad specific," he added with a puzzled look.
Irse didn't answer but grinned as she slipped the pouch into her pack, gave her thanks, bowed, and left the inn's kitchen.
As customary, the elf's task is to set the table. And customary for Okami to keep the pot of whatever he was cooking out of her hands until it was truly time for supper.
Hence, as expected, he came upon the table looking surprised, baffled. And somewhat suspicious at what she had already put there - a large covered wicker bucket.
With flourish, Irse removed the covering. "Tadaaa!" she exclaimed.
His eyes broadened. Piled in the wicker bucket were pieces of cut-up cooked fowl.
Yet he had to ask.
"Did you make these by yourself?"
Irse pouted. Of course, accidental food poisoning would be the first thing in his mind.
"No," she dragged out indignantly. "I had Old Tucky cook them up. Remember the santoku he wanted made? He gave money for the materials, but I waived the wages for my labor to trade for this."
And not only labor – blood and sweat as well. Hours of shaping the iron, an initial underestimation with the length of the tang and having to reheat and rework all over, annealing, filing, whetting. And quite certain somewhere along the process, a finger or two had been cut or scraped. A drop of blood offering to the whetstone gods.
Irse scratched the back of her neck. "Remember our first winter solstice the year we got here? We had nothing but soup and boiled potato, and I said back at home, winter solstice isn't as great of a deal like Midwinter, but nevertheless we celebrate with a very simple feast of ham and turkey and five kinds of pudding."
The attempt at the fond recollection backfired for the blacksmith's expression appeared painful and contrite.
"I remember. I did not prepare. It was inadequate."
For failure due to ignorance and lack of planning also brings dishonor. Irse's eyes widened in horror at her miscalculation, the unintended rebuke.
"No, no, no! I mean it's funny because I was still hungry after the soup so I ate all the potato and didn't leave you any."
She tried once more. "And the year after that… last year's winter solstice," she said but this time with narrowed eyes. "We didn't pass the night with an empty table but instead were up to our ears in pickled daikon."
Nothing in the realms existed that she wouldn't devour, and she even enjoyed the piquant relish as a side to the main dish. But a feast consisting of nothing else but cured radish - standard pickled daikon, pickled daikon soup, salted pickled daikon, spicy pickled daikon, and sugared pickled daikon...
This time, Okami crossed his arms, evidently indignant. "No one predicted Farmer Mefer would give us half of his harvest. I only made the best out of the sudden abundance."
Irse grimaced and shivered, the memory of the unending tanginess still prickling at the back of her mouth.
"Well, you did try," she conceded. "But that isn't exactly why I got these!"
Okami raised a brow, puzzled.
"So I thought for this year, I asked you how folks celebrate in Kozakura."
"I mentioned how on the day of the winter solstice, families in my homeland gather over a bucket of…" He placed a hand over his mouth.
"… fried chicken," he whispered. He turned to her; his eyes wide at comprehending the meaning of the gift.
"But…"
Irse looked at him, apprehensive at seeing the sudden downcast expression on his face.
"I have never had them myself," Okami murmured regretfully. "For it is served only among families, because it is a dish meant to be shared in celebration, not eaten alone and by oneself."
Irse sighed as she regarded him. Of course. An abandoned child just like her. But then, she had lived in the comfort of Candlekeep, raised by a man who made himself her father and surrounded by friends and some folks, who despite their dislike of her, never meant harm.
He, on the other hand, had known no life other than of a lowly servant to the keepers of a shrine in some backwater village before a forcible conscription as a laborer then soldier to a local lord's army. None of them exactly a family who would share the tiniest measure of happiness with him.
"Well…," she huffed, grabbing the backrest of the chair before her. "If you think you're allowed to be greedy and get away with having this bucket all for yourself – I'm sorry, but that's unacceptable!"
Irse plopped down into the chair and pushed the wicker bucket towards her Teacher. Sulking, she turned her face away and waited.
Okami exhaled with a quirk of his lips as he likewise sat down and plucked a drumstick out of the bucket. Only then did she take a piece for herself.
"Well, Happy Winter Solstice," she hailed, sheepishly raising a chicken leg in a mock toast.
"Happy Winter Solstice," he replied, also raising his own share.
Finally now they can eat, she cheered to herself and commenced tearing into the piece of fowl.
"And I thank you," Okami added with a slight and wistful smile. "For this."
Irse paused to look up at him, winked her acknowledgment and with the free hand, gave him a mock salute. And then resumed eating.
Outside the winds chilled and whistled, gusts knocking against the planks boarding the windows.
Yet these were barely heard and noticed over the contented silence between them and the merry crackle of dry branches aflame in the fireplace.
Season's Scribblings! :
Uthaedeol was a heavy metal Murder Santa. Yep, that's how Bhaalists celebrate the Feast of the Moon. Can't have a normal party like everybody else.
A thousand apologies, but given how Okami is Kozakuran, I couldn't resist inserting a nod to the modern Japanese tradition of eating KFC at Christmas Eve/Day (somewhat coinciding with the winter solstice) At least, the gesture is consistent with the nature of our ever-hungry elf. XD