Chapter Text
(Originally Published: 2025-01-08)
To my good friend John, who, if it wasn't for him buying me Baldur's Gate III one day on a whim, I would have never fallen in love with this world in the first place.
And to my friend Brian, who is going through so much right now and is being so strong about it. Hope this story helps lift your spirits, my friend.
Shhk… shhk… shhk…
The rhythmic chopping of a knife echoed through the camp, each slice carving through vegetables with a crisp, satisfying sound. The soft crackle of the fire provided a steady undercurrent, occasionally punctuated by the sharp pop of sap bursting from the logs. Gentle waves lapped at the rocky shoreline of the nearby lake, their soothing cadence weaving with the distant chirp of crickets.
Lae'zel sat on a rough-hewn log, her fingers methodical and purposeful as they ran an oiled rag along the gleaming surface of her greatsword. Firelight danced across the blade, casting fleeting glints of gold and silver that highlighted its deadly edge. Her eyes, cold and focused, traced every inch of the weapon, searching for even the faintest imperfection.
Shhk… shhk… shhk…
That infernal sound. It gnawed at her patience, each scrape of the knife against wood feeding the hunger twisting in her gut. She clenched her jaw, her sharp teeth pressing together, and forced her focus back to the weapon in her hands. The day had been long… grueling, even. Blood had been spilled, victories claimed. She had earned a meal, yet the night dragged on, taunting her with its meager offerings.
The dinners here were also a bitter mockery of what she once knew. The stale hardtack and leathery strips of dried meat barely qualified as sustenance. It felt more like leftovers fitting for a slave than the feasts she had shared with her kin at Crèche K’liir. Memories of roasted giant space hamster flickered in her mind. The rich aroma of charred meat, the satisfying crackle of fat dripping into roaring flames. Those smells… sometimes they would still find a way into her dreams, tantalizing and unattainable.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, shoving the thoughts aside. Nostalgia was a weakness, a tether to a life she no longer had. Still, the dull ache in her stomach remained, gnawing and insistent.
Yet, these… istiks , soft and frail as they might be, could still, on occasion, cobble together something tolerable. Especially those scrumptious treacle tarts, they were the greatest miracle ever found in all of Faerûn.
Lae'zel sighed, holding her greatsword up. The polished steel gleamed in the firelight, reflecting her sharp features in its mirrored surface. She ran a calloused finger along the fuller as she tested the blade’s edge with her thumb. Satisfied, she lowered it, ready to put it away.
Shhk… shhk… shhhh—
“Shit!”
The sudden outburst snapped her attention to its source. Her eyes locked on Shadowheart, who sat cross-legged across the fire. A wooden cutting board rested precariously in her lap, scattered with unevenly diced carrots. A knife gleamed in her hand, while her other hand fumbled around the dirt, searching for the piece she’d dropped.
“You’re wasting valuable ingredients,” Lae'zel chided.
Shadowheart huffed, snapping her head up to glare. “My apologies,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe if someone actually sharpened something other than their own weapons around here, these damn carrots wouldn’t keep slipping and sliding all over the board.”
“A dull blade is the fault of the one who wields it, not the weapon.”
Shadowheart retrieved the rogue carrot slice, brushing it off with a flick of her wrist. “Well, excuse me for not treating vegetables like they need to cleave through armor,” She waved her knife with extra emphasis before returning to her chopping with deliberate, exaggerated precision this time.
“Aren’t carrots not supposed to be added until near the end of the cook anyway?” Lae'zel asked, eyeing the diced pieces as though they might betray her at any moment. “They will become… mushy otherwise. I detest mushy things.”
“I’m sorry. Since when were Gith both culinary masters and expert warriors?”
“Since tasting your cooking.”
“Well, now. You’re more than welcome to put that sword away and lend a hand,” Shadowheart quipped, arching a brow as she scraped the carrots into a small bowl.
Lae'zel scoffed immediately, turning her head as though the mere suggestion had sullied her pride. “I do not have time for such… frippery. I have armor that requires mending—and polishing.”
“Don’t complain about tonight’s meal then if it doesn’t suit your fancy,” Shadowheart smirked, the expression so smug that Lae'zel was tempted to throw the oily rag at her face.
“Fine.” the githyanki huffed, turning her attention back to her sword, fingers moving over the blade as though it demanded her full focus. It was still oiled, still polished to a mirror sheen, but she needed to look busy—anything to avoid being dragged into the mundane ordeal of… cooking.
“C’mon…” Shadowheart urged, her tone teetering on playful but needling enough to irritate. “You’ve been doting over that sword of yours all night now. Put it down and pick up a ladle.”
Lae'zel didn’t even dignify the request with so much as a fleeting glance. “No.”
Shadowheart leaned in slightly, her voice dripping with mockery. “What’s the matter? Afraid the mighty warrior will be defeated by a pot of stew?”
Lae'zel’s eyes finally snapped up, sharp and unyielding this time. “Keep talking, cleric, and I may test the sharpness of this blade on something other than root vegetables.”
“Hmmph… At least then you’d actually be doing something useful.”
Letting out a frustrated grumble, Lae'zel shoved her sword back into its leather and stood, striding toward Shadowheart. “Stay back!”
“Gladly.”
Lae'zel loomed over the roaring black cauldron hanging above the fire, its bubbling contents dancing in the boiling broth as steam curled into the night air. She stared at it as though it were a beast that might lunge at her, her hands hovering uncertainly near the ladle resting against the pot’s rim.
Her fingers twitched. She’d gripped swords, axes, and spears, handled weapons of war with flawless confidence, but this? This was different. Her hand drifted toward the large metal spoon, hesitating before recoiling slightly as though the utensil might burn her.
“Give it a stir!” Shadowheart urged, her voice hovering between encouragement and thinly veiled laughter. “It’s going to burn!”
Lae'zel growled under her breath, begrudgingly picking up the ladle. “Only a blithering fool could burn a stew!” she snapped, plunging the ladle into the pot. She stirred in wide, forceful circles, sending the bubbling contents spinning into a slow, churning whirlpool.
Shadowheart tilted her head, failing to hide the amused smile tugging at her lips. “No. Not like that. Give it here.”
Lae'zel froze mid-stir, her eyes snapping to Shadowheart’s outstretched hand. Then she glanced back at the spoon clutched in her own.
“Here,” she grumbled, thrusting the ladle toward the other woman with a bit too much force than necessary. “Take it.”
Shadowheart accepted it with a small, victorious grin. “Watch and observe.”
She dipped the ladle back into the pot, moving it with smooth, practiced motions. “See? You want to scrape along the bottom and fold everything back to the top. Keeps it from sticking and burning.”
Lae'zel’s eyes narrowed, studying the movement like it was a combat maneuver. “Makes… sense.”
“Of course it does.”
Lifting the ladle out, she cradled a small scoop of stew, steam curling up in lazy ribbons. “Here,” she said, extending it toward Lae'zel. “Have a taste.”
Lae'zel leaned back slightly, her nose wrinkling. “No. I will wait until it is finished.”
“I’m not asking you to eat the whole pot and spoil your appetite. Just a taste. To see if it’s missing anything.”
“It smells fine. But I will not sully my tongue with half-cooked slop.”
“Suit yourself. But when the rest say it’s too salty, I’m blaming you.” Shadowheart blew gently on the spoon before taking the first sip herself, humming thoughtfully as she tasted it. “Mmm… perfect,” she declared, giving a dramatic chef’s kiss for emphasis. “Sure you don’t want to try?”
Lae'zel grimaced, her pride warring with the temptation gnawing at her curiosity. Finally, she caved with a sharp exhale. “Fine. But if it is awful, do not be surprised if you find yourself wearing this stew… on your face.”
Shadowheart held out the ladle, barely concealing her amusement as Lae'zel leaned in, her lips hovering cautiously above the steaming broth. The scent alone stirred something traitorous in her stomach. A rich, savory aroma with a subtle tang that hinted at lager and a faint, lingering heat.
With deliberate hesitation, she went in for a taste.
Her eyes widened ever so slightly. It was… simply incredible. The broth… it was so rich, so hearty, layered with flavor that rolled across her tongue. The malty bitterness of the beer, softened by the sweetness of the vegetables, balanced perfectly against a sharp, fiery kick. Chili peppers, perhaps? The heat lingered just long enough to demand another taste.
But Lae'zel quickly straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand to mask her reaction.
“Well?” Shadowheart tilted her head, eyes dancing with barely contained mischief. “What do you think?”
“It is… acceptable.”
Shadowheart barked out a short laugh, her grin widening. “Acceptable?” She shook her head, clearly savoring the moment. “Hmmph… high praise coming from you.”
Lae'zel crossed her arms, glancing away as though the fire suddenly demanded her full attention. “Do not grow arrogant. One good stew does not make you a master of the pot.”
“Oh? So now it’s good? I thought it was just… acceptable.”
The Gith’s firey eyes narrowed, the muscles in her jaw tightening. “Do not use my words against me.”
“Relax. The stew’s almost ready. In the meantime…” Shadowheart reached for a wooden bowl covered with a damp cloth and pulled it away, revealing a smooth ball of dough inside. “You can help me with the flatbread.”
Lae'zel peered into the bowl, brow furrowing. “Flatbread?” She poked at the dough cautiously, as though it might spring to life. “And what exactly do we do with it?”
Shadowheart rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious by the name? We flatten it and cook it.”
“Do not mock me. While you’ve spent the past few days, nursing your wounds, learning how to fumble your way through cooking, I have been fighting goblins and ensuring we survive.” She crossed her arms. “I have little patience to be made fun of.”
Shadowheart only chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Let’s get to it then.” She nodded toward the flat pan sticking out of her pack. “Grab that. Stick it over the fire. Make sure it gets nice and hot.”
Lae'zel muttered under her breath but did as instructed, yanking the skillet out by the handle and setting it down on the fire’s grate. The metal clanked into place, and the heat shimmered above it.
“Now what?”
“Patience, my dear assistant,” Shadowheart smirked as she tore off a small ball of dough from the bowl. She dusted a wooden board with flour before plopping the dough down and flattening it between her palms. Her movements were smooth, practiced, completely at odds with her usual aura of divine mystery. “See what I’m doing?”
Lae'zel tilted her head, arms crossed as she watched the process like a predator observing prey. “Yes. You squish it.”
“Exactly. Now it’s your turn.” She set the flattened dough aside and grabbed another handful, tossing it toward Lae'zel. The gith caught it reflexively, but the sudden contact made her fumble slightly, earning another laugh from Shadowheart.
"By the way. I am not your apprentice.”
“No,” Shadowheart shook her head again, eyes sparkling. “You’re my assistant.”
Lae'zel pressed the dough ball between her hands, its soft, pliable texture oddly soothing, though she would never admit such a thing aloud, not even if Vlaakith herself demanded it. Her fingers worked the dough with measured care, slowly flattening it as she stole glances at Shadowheart’s hands, trying to mimic her movements without appearing too obvious.
The process was surprisingly… satisfying . Not unlike sharpening a blade or oiling armor, there was a rhythm to it, a sense of control. She hated that it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
After several moments of pressing, stretching, and reshaping, the dough finally resembled something that could, in theory, pass as flatbread. She held it out by the edges, stretching it taut like a battle standard.
“Is this what you wanted?” Lae'zel asked, her voice clipped as though daring Shadowheart to criticize it.
Shadowheart paused, inspecting the result with a critical gaze before breaking into a small, approving nod. “Perfect.”
Lae'zel’s chest swelled just ever so slightly before she quickly smothered the reaction, shoving it aside like an unwelcome intruder.
“Go ahead and put it on the pan,” Shadowheart said, gesturing to the skillet now sizzling hot over the fire.
Lae'zel stepped closer, her movements deliberate as she laid the dough onto the pan. The moment it touched the heat, the dough sizzled, faint bubbles forming almost instantly as the smell of flour and smoke drifted upward.
“Not bad,” Shadowheart clapped her hands as she watched. “See? I knew you could handle it.”
Lae'zel scoffed, but her eyes lingered on the pan, silently studying how the bread began to brown at the edges. “It is hardly a test of skill,” she said, though her hands, deft and careful, subtly betrayed just how focused she truly was.
“Careful, Lae'zel. Lest you might actually start enjoying this.”
The gith shot her a glare, though her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but not far from one either. “I only enjoy myself with a sword in my hands and a group of enemies standing before me. This is simply… a way to pass the time until our meal is ready.”
Shadowheart gave an exaggerated, playful yawn. “You know there’s more to life than just fighting and killing, right?”
“Hmm… How dull of an existence that must be.”
“Oh!” Shadowheart suddenly shouted, pointing toward the fire. “Your flatbread! It’s burning!”
“What!?” Lae'zel snapped her head toward the pan, eyes widening at the sight of the dough now bubbling, blistering—and catching fire.
“ Tsk'va! ” She lunged for the pan, instincts overriding reason. Her fingers wrapped around the handle, only for searing heat to bite into her palm.
“Ah!” Lae'zel recoiled, jerking her hand away and clutching it to her chest. She hissed through gritted teeth, trying—and failing—to mask the pain.
Shadowheart was at her side in an instant, placing a comforting hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Did you burn yourself?”
“No.” Lae'zel shook her head sharply, though her shoulders hunched defensively, her burned hand still cradled close. “The heat merely startled me. Only a little.”
Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed, not believing her for a second. “Let me see your hand.” She extended her own, palm up, her voice leaving no room for argument.
“No.” Lae'zel edged away, her grip tightening around her injured hand.
“Yes. Don’t make me wrestle you for it either.”
Lae'zel glared, her pride bristling like armor, but the sting in her palm refused to be ignored. After a tense pause, she finally thrust her hand out with a scowl. “Fine. But be quick about it.”
Her fingers were tense and reluctant before she finally unfurled her palm, revealing skin that was already red and tender.
Shadowheart clicked her tongue. “Mmm… that’s not good,” she said, her voice a mix of concern and mild reproach. “But it’s an easy fix. Hold still.”
A soft glow began to emanate from Shadowheart’s hand as she conjured a gentle sphere of healing magic. The moment the light appeared, Lae'zel flinched and yanked her hand back.
“Keep your spells away!” she snapped, retreating a step. “I am fine. This is nothing I cannot sleep off.”
“Oh, don’t be a baby.” Shadowheart rolled her eyes and, before Lae'zel could react, grabbed her hand again with surprising strength. “Let me help you.”
The magic flowed down into Lae'zel’s palm before she could protest further, a soothing warmth replacing the searing sting. The pain melted away, leaving nothing but a strange, tingling sensation, as if the injury were already a distant memory.
Shadowheart released her grip but lingered just long enough to meet Lae'zel’s gaze. “All better?”
“...I suppose.”
“Good. Now. You can take your hand away from mine now—if you’d like.”
Lae'zel’s eyes flicked down to where their hands still rested together. Her eyes widened before she quickly snatched her hand back.
“With pleasure,” she said, but the slight blush creeping up her neck was unhideable.
Lae'zel turned back to the fire, her eyes narrowing at the charred remains of her flatbread, a blackened husk crumbling atop the pan.
“My bread is ruined,” she announced flatly, as though mourning the death of a soldier.
Shadowheart burst out laughing. “Maybe next time we should set the pan on a cooler part of the fire.” She gave Lae'zel’s shoulder a playful nudge. “But don’t worry—we’ve still got plenty of dough left.”
“Good. I am hungry.”
“I bet.”
“I am not pleased when I am hungry.”
Shadowheart grinned. “You must be hungry quite a lot, then.”
“Yes, actually.” Lae'zel nodded matter-of-factly, tilting her head back to gaze at the stars above. “We Githyanki need to eat more than most when we are in in the Material Plane.”
Shadowheart blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Huh… interesting.”
Lae'zel’s eyes snapped back to her. “...Really?”
“Yes, really.” Shadowheart waved her off, turning back to the pot. “Now hush. I think the stew is just about ready.”
Lae'zel stepped closer, the scent of the stew hitting her nose and stirring the hunger coiled in her stomach. “Excellent.” Her lips curled into the faintest smirk. “Just when I was about to consider hunting down a goblin.”
“You’re hopeless… and cute.”
“Don’t. Ever. Say. That. Again. But thank you.”