Sweetbread

“Alchemy and cooking aren’t that distantly related. Of course I’m a good cook. I’d hardly be a good alchemist if I weren’t.”

“Uh-huh. Dunno’ about that, string-bean. Sure, there’s a lot of… heating, stirring, whatever, but most of the time you’re making stuff you’re not gonna’ chug unless you’re dying. So, not like you have to think through the complexities of the flavors or whatever.”

“… Fine. BAKING isn’t too distantly related to alchemy.”

It’s a chilly spring morning, a gentle mist rolling from a grey sky down the hills of the Woodseam and over the quelled town of Sentinel’s Rest. While most of your group has elected to stay camped out just outside of town, you’ve decided to join ‘stringbean’, Cyril, on his quest for today, because you’ve got nothing better to do and if you have to stare at a campfire for one second more you’re going to flip your lid.

So far, his quest hasn’t been all that interesting. At least Stringbean is faintly entertaining. The way he schmoozed the innkeep into letting him use her kitchen was striking to watch—admittedly, you’d expected him to walk in and act like he owned the place, maybe start talking about how important he is and what an honor it’d be for her. You know, like royals do. He was polite and forthright with her, though, and even insisted on paying her for her time.

It’s… a cute little kitchen. It feels familiar. A bit cramped, but the cold light pouring in through the window, with its quaint patterned grille, weighs nicely against the whelming warmth of the décor. The gentle breeze that creeps through the slim gap in the window carries a scent that hasn’t graced your nose for a long time; that of the Worldseam, in bloom.

It’s a nice morning. You guess. Anyway, baking.

Really, try as you might to excuse it as just being stir-crazy, you wanted to come out to learn how to bake, if at least a tiny  bit. Almost as soon as the exercise begins and he starts making a token effort to walk you through it, though, you realize this is a lost cause. For how quickly the neatly laid out ingredients he had brought with him were shuffled around the kitchen, for how many things he clearly didn’t think needed to be said, and for how much information he (wrongly) assumes you already know.

Maybe he was right about baking and alchemy not being all that different, after all. By the time he’s kneading a soft, sticky dough between his hands, having finally exhausted every possible method of avoiding getting them dirty, you’ve learned next to nothing—but, whatever. You don’t mind that much.

“So, you dragged us all the way out here and sweet-talked that lady so you could make some bread?” you say, leaning against the counter and trying your hardest to project your nonexistent overwhelming disinterest.

“Absolutely. What, can’t appreciate a lovely sweet-bread once in a while?” he chimes in return, not even for a moment turning his gaze on you as he stares down the dough in his hands, watching it develop.

“Just seems like a lot,” you scoff.

“Well. It’s not for me,” he says, almost a bit meekly. He rolls the dough between his hands, and taps it a bit, testing how readily it sticks to his hands, and quickly resolves that it requires more flour.

“Ohhhohoho, you’re kidding me. You’re up bright and early—”

“—I’m up always—”

“—so that you can make a fancy bread to take to the doc’s house? Awww, isn’t that sweet.” A smile tugs at your usually stoic lips. “What’s a fancy-boy like you doing mingling with commoners like him, anyway?” And you bring it back down with a lovely dose of mean ribbing.

“What’s a royal like yourself doing making bread with vampires, Eleanor?” he asks, his voice a bit stern, and it wipes that smug smile right off your face, but he still doesn’t even look at you as he poses that question. The first instinct is anger, but as your anger takes flight, it’s knocked straight out of the sky by a pang of regret, and so you’re just quiet for now.

He forms the dough into the shape of a dome, and begins the laborious process of decorating it using a small knife. He carves subtle swirly designs creeping up the edges of the dome. Finally, though, after a few moments of this awkward silence, he realizes he should properly answer you.

“Well. I’ve never really been one to enjoy the company of ‘fancy folk’, believe it or not. Lonan is… a pleasant and smart man. That’s all that matters to me.” He sounds a touch defensive. You just shrug.

“Whatever you say. I think it’s kind of cute.” He’s hunched over this ball of bread, hair pulled back into a ponytail so as to make sure not one stray golden lock ends up in the bread, using the smallest, thinnest knife you’ve ever seen to work delicate details into this bread, and the pure focus and deliberation behind every little cut is… well, it’s funny. He just huffs at you.

“Why did you choose to accompany me, anyhow? Get tired of brooding and glowering at everyone?”

“… yeah. I guess.” At that starkly sober response, he spares you the briefest glance away from his all-important work, before simply nodding to himself and getting back to it. Somehow, you get the sense that he… gets it.

You rest with your hands back against the counter, loosening up your stance a bit. No more trying to look disinterested. You just quietly watch as he puts the finishing touches on this sweetbread, carefully inspecting every inch of it for the slightest visible defect before standing up straight, looking proud of his work.

He picks up a brush—despite the sheer chaos that this kitchen has already become as this whirling dervish makes his way to and fro, he seems to know exactly where everything is the moment he needs it. You don’t even remember him beating the egg that he’s now gently brushing over the top, but somewhere in that whole mess of a process it apparently happened.

“So. You’re gonna’ like, go to his house?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“And do what?”

He looks at you for a moment like you’re from outer space, even pausing his work to really emphasize the gaze he gives you, before his lips contort into a bemused smile. “Talk? Admire his home? Have you never visited someone’s house, Eleanor?”

“Not that I can remember.” Another stark response. That smile disappears straight off his face. He fiddles with the brush for a moment, trying to think of something to say.

“Well. Maybe you can visit mine sometime, then,” he says, a small grin sneaking onto his face at his own stupid joke. He doesn’t have a home; that’s the whole reason he’s with this band of idiots. … Like you.

Before you can say anything else, he lifts the tray. “Okay. Goes in the oven for about thirty minutes.” He shoves it into the electric oven that you’re surprised to notice this innkeep has—things have… really progressed out here, haven’t they? He does a funny little gesture, brushing his hands off. Job well done, of course.

“Alright. Why don’t we go have a drink, talk to that innkeep again, huh?” He gives you a slightly warmer smile than you’d gotten from him before. You look away for a moment, crossing your arms and shrugging a bit curtly.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“That’s the spirit.” With that, he strides out of the kitchen, and you’re not too long behind—even though you hang back for a moment to take one more deep breath of the cold mountain air coming through the window.

It’s hard to be angry. This place feels like home, and these people are nice.