Friday, June 1, 2012

Site Write Entry #22: Addict

Prompt: May 29, 2012 - Junkie
. . . . . When one lived - by choice - very much alone for long stretches of time, necessity demanded that one acquire skill in feeding the body to keep it going. Skill, however, was not the same thing as art. Every cook of skill has some dish or another (or several) of which they can create art.
 . . . . . Rosoe touched a hand to one of the stone-formed totems on a leather cord around her neck, calling upon her connection to the spirits of water as she rubbed the small bit of resin packed into a recess on the totem. The warmth of her fingers warmed the resin enough to release some of its sweet, seaweed-like scent - an offering, however small, in return for the favor she asked. Water was not her best element, but in this task, the spirits were used to her call; a faint blue glow coated her hand, protecting her for several minutes from the various dangers and pains of the five elements.
. . . . . She reached a hand into the coals of her campfire and pulled out a flat metal container about the size of a scribe's pencil box. The metal's heat was temporarily shielded by the resistance gift from the water spirits, but she still worked fast to pop the container open and flip two moist, flaky, succulent mudfish onto a plate and set the container on a rock to cool.
. . . . . Her other hand adroitly opened one of the myriad pouches around her neck - this one textured like crocolisk skin - and removed a pinch of sharp, tangy herbs. Those were rubbed onto both fish before a splash of wine from a small jar was added to the plate, a second splash added to the coals in thanks, and a third splash tipped into her mouth to share the bounty she'd offered to the sudden blue flash of flames from the alcohol on the coals.
. . . . . A slender flensing knife slipped under the scales of the filets, peeling the skin free but leaving it in place to keep the flesh moist. Her work done, she leaned her back against a rock, dangled her hooves over the steam from the Winterspring hot spring, propped open a book (one of those racy cheap novels, not that anyone would know!), and waited for the huffing and clanking to announce the arrival of her ever-cheerful vindicator deliveryman.
. . . . . Ortuuze paused at the top of a rocky outcropping, some distance well behind the Farseer's campfire. He watched her, waiting for the last of the work to be finished and for a book to come out to signal that she had completed all her necessary duties. Over the months, as he'd gotten fitter and fitter, he no longer arrived out of breath. But she always smiled and gently joked with him when he did, so once he had given her at least ten pages of reading, he loosened the straps on his armor, jogged in place for a moment to raise his breathing, and trundled down to meet her for dinner - his absolute favorite: mudfish.

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