Steven
Noma de Cuisinaire
On the road again

"No, you idiot that's not what I meant!" The smaller man cursed himself, sending a resounding rap to his knuckles with his heavy oak spoon. He shook the appendage before kissing his knuckles and turning back to his cutting board.

The oranges he had purchased from the Farensun boy were dwindling, and he had to get rid of them before the rot began to spread through them. The cold was helping, but Noma knew rot to appear when you least expected it. He had 5 left, each worth twice their weight in gold, and he couldn't figure out this fucking garnish.

Three had gone into his stew, a citrus punch to battle the overwhelming gaminess of the salted venison that made up the heart of his dish. Always the resourceful chef, Noma hated wasting food, and had decided to use the peels to create a flaked twirl to top it off, but the damned things weren't curling like he wanted. He glanced up at the small shelf that lined the left side of his wagon, the one adorned with various hour glasses that differed wildly in size and shape. Two were overturned, and the sand in the smallest one was almost completely on the bottom.

His smile returned as he donned the padded mitts hanging by his door, and he crouched before the small stove he had installed in his enclosed wagon. The hatch lowered to reveal a tray of 6 small loaves of bread shaped like bowls, his handmade trenchers. He began humming the tune to *The Road Goes Ever On* As he pulled them out, and, like a maid in a story book, carried them outside so they might rest to cool.

The door to his wagon swung open with a light kick and Noma was greeted by the sight of his camp. The bubbling pot of stew, the three small tables, and their accompanying chairs. However he was also greeted by the sight of an unfamiliar, and almost feral looking, woman. Most people would scream or shout at the sight, but Noma only smiled brighter.

"Ah! A guest! Are you hungry? Dinner is just about finished, please have a seat anywhere." His smile was bright as he set the tray on the table nearest his cauldron before wiping his hands on an apron and gesturing to the many chairs he had laid out.
Stephen
Maren Tockett
Witherlands Roads

The cold was something that Maren was used to by now. Born in it, lived in it, tortured with it, they were well acquainted. Didn't make her want to leave it any less. 

The shivers had started a while ago, even the furs from tiny Vik had been penetrated by the relentless temperature that seemed to swallow the Witherlands itself. Her joints were aching in the cold, sores from the dry weather in the corners of her mouth and beneath her nose. In fact, her nose had long ago run its course of bleeding and freezing, causing quite a disturbing appearance for the little rat down her chin and neck.

She had moved from the coast as the frozen waves misted her, causing icicles to form on her hair and clothes. Her insulation had not been enough for the mists to settle in her bones and make it more difficult to move. Every step she thought her toes were going to fall off in her boot, but she had also lost feeling so she couldn't be sure. 

The roads were empty, especially with Nathaniel closing the borders. Where was there to run? She had overheard it while trying to gather warmth from a tavern in a small village, before subsequently being kicked out for being, well, like this.

-
Maren was already so used to the darkness that the flame in front of her was a shock to the system. People were out in this world! She gasped, but she slowed down and stopped just at the perimeter of the small camp, looking at tbe jolly chef and the woman who seemed to be all over the thought of food. Her body was drawn to the heat she could only see from this distance, and she was afraid once more that they would push her away.

She was friends with rats, for crying out loud, and was as dirty as one, too. She couldn't help but try. She stuck her hand in her pocket and grabbed the flat rock she had sharpened herself. If anything bad happened, she would be ready.

She stepped forward, her eyes glowing with the fire's reflection. She was tiny, looked like she had gone through hell, and was shaking like a leaf. She was desperate. Desperate for warmth, and the fire began to provide that as she drew closer to the two.
Sharon
Shaye Hallenshire 
Witherland Roads

Hunger was the compass in her journey, upturned nose leading her towards the smell of food, not caring where the meal may come from. Though the cartographer had an aptitude for remembering roads, streets, and the like, her ability to remember things that may ease her travels-such as nourishment and supplies- was nonexistent. 

Pulling the large cloak closer to herself, her figure was made all the more intimidating by the extra bulk of clothing, head seeming almost dwarfish in comparison to the heavy layers she wore. The few people littering the roads were sure to avoid her path, sticking to the sides and whispering quietly upon seeing a woman of such tall stature. Though used to the hushed mutters that often accompanied her presence, Shaye still felt her ears turn pink in embarrassment as she walked, pulling her satchel closer to her in an attempt to hide behind it's safety. 

Bringing her hands closer to her face, warm air left her lips and caressed her fingertips in an endeavor to keep them from suffering under the harsh elements; truly, the place was unashamedly bitter. Another rumble traveled across her stomach as she finally caught a whiff of the food she so desperately desired. Moving her spindly legs in motions not too unlike a grasshopper, she followed the aroma to a wagon and chairs. Though she caught sight of people, her eyes and thoughts were securely attached to the nutriment. The smell seemed to dangle tantalizingly in front of her, hunger drowning out all other reasoning. The woman stepped forward, eyes wide with pining as she took in the camp in front of her, wondering if the seats were for any wanderer who might happen across them. Her stomach let loose another grumble and she blushed, eyes still fastened somewhat deliriously on the bread that had been set out, *Would they mind terribly if she had a bite to eat?*
Raul
Catarina Tanner
Witherland Roads

Catarina froze, mere feet from the fire and a piping hot meal. She was tempted to run for it, but when the man smiled so warmly and offered her seat, she immediately felt guilty. What was she doing? Stealing from someone! And someone that seemed so kind, no less! Everyone was out here just trying to survive, of course, but she of all people didn't deserve to live!

Looking like a child that had just been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, her cheeks flushed with cold and embarrassment, she stepped away from the fire and said in a trembling voice, "I... Thank you." She took a deep breath, than managed a meager, tired smile and looked around the camp, for the first time noting the three small tables and chairs. Was he expecting guests? Had he mistaken her for someone else? 

She bit her chapped lower lip, already raw and bleeding, then made her way to the table closest to the fire. She could just feel the edge of the warmth coming from the fire, and it was so tempting that she moved the table a bit closer to the fire, though she was careful not to get the dried wood too close to the fire. With the warmth soaking into her bones, she felt a bit more civilized. More human.

With that humanity came greater guilt. Should she admit that she had come to steal? Should she admit that she was not the guest that he was looking for? Or that she had no way to pay for this meal? By now, all of her possessions of any value had been sold, including the bangles and earrings that were so much a part of her culture's self-expression. 

She pushed such thoughts aside, deciding that it was best to warm herself before admitting something that would get her run off, so instead she started to introduce herself. "Thank you," She said again, "My name is-"

She was interrupted by motion at the edge of the campfire light, with two pairs of eyes glittering back at her. She gasped audibly, reflexively preparing for the worst, when it suddenly dawned on her that this was not some creature, but rather a small child. She gaped at the figure, then stood quickly and said, "Come over to the fire." It wasn't hers to offer, of course, but surely no one would turn away a child! As of yet, she had not noticed the other person that had come to the camp, for the had come from the other direction.