Steven
Noma de Cuisinaire
Where the wagon things are

Noma kept up his smile, it was genuine since Noma hated making a large meal with no one to share it with, and he figured his pack animal, Bertram, was tired of scraps not fit to his diet at all.

"Come, come! Gather round the fire, you all look freezing!" Noma gestured to wither side with his arms, beckoning the shadows to take a seat in his encampment. He clasped his hands together and addressed the small clearing.

"Tonight on the menu is an orange glazed venison stew in homemade trenches. We still have a few moments until it's finished so how about I fix you all something to drink while you wait?" He beamed with a giggle as he stepped back to the wagon. Just inside door on the stove was a small kettle puffing steam, the scent of apples and spice wafting from it. With a careful hand the chef poured three large mugs of the steaming cider and carried them out in both his hands. With another smile he set the trio on the only occupied table.

A quick glance back and he judged about five minutes left in his hourglass. A nod to himself and he stepped to the large bronze bell hanging just outside his wagon's door. He rang it three times and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Come one, come all, dinner is served! All are welcome! Feast yourselves on the wondrous dishes of 'Noma, de Cuisinaire!'" Satisfied with his broadcast he produced a ladle and stepped to his cauldron. Within a minute he had spooned the trenchers full and began the delicate work of placing his orange swirls on top. Always the artist, Noma was deep in concentration, wanting the presentation to be perfect. The tip of his tongue was protruding from his lips as he gingerly set the garnish on his bowls of stew.

He took a step back, framing the platter with his fingers before folding his arms, nodding triumphantly, and beckoning to "Come and get it,"
Ellen
Taichar-Yu
The-Witherlands, in the wilds far from the beaten path

Steady... Steady... 
Taichar's leathery hands notched the arrow carefully. He had been craving this meal for quite a few days and had finally managed to track down game good enough to suffice his hunger. The dark was brutal and he could barely make out the prey he hunted amongst shadows. He brought the drawstring back slowly, pulling the grip where the arrow's tail sat. It had been such a long time since he had seen such beautiful rabbits around this time of year. The trees murmured secrets as he focused his trained eyes upon his prize. He sat crouched behind a collective of bushes and shrubs. The only noteworthy cue that someone was within the bush was the arrowhead that barely protruded from the parted twigs. 

He let go of the arrow. It cut through the air like a jackknife, spiraling with deadly intent as it came careening for the oblivious little creature. It struck. Like a virus, the arrow's point dug into the creature and sent it skidding upon such a tremendous impact. Taichar untangled himself from the mess of the bush and walked up to claim the target. He knelt down and picked up the rabbit by the shaft of the arrow. Its body clung around the flint arrowhead as it was carried, swinging leisurely with every step that the nomad took. The moonlight warped the trees around him into specters that clawed for his attention, wind whistling lowly through the thin canopies overhead. It was misting gently and the fire of his camp waned in and out of life.

There was a clearing he had set up camp at. His tent, a white tarp woven from linen cloth stretched around a wooden ribcage on a wheel that could be closed up and easily carried by a horse or even a man. At the center of the clearing was a pit surrounded by stones and caked in ash. Embers breathed shallowly beneath mounds of blackened stumps. Above that was a rickety splint set on wooden poles, at the base being a rod of iron he had invested in with a few hours of manual labor and tedious bartering. He shook the rabbit off the arrow and tossed the arrow aside. He could always wash it later.

Then, he sat upon a smoothened rock close to the pit and withdrew his knife. He had to skin the rabbit before he could eat it. Birds chirruped amongst one another and the woods he was within was comfortably quiet. Sometimes, it was quite nice to be alone. He did on occasion think about the last time he had a conversation with someone that wasn't within a trading post or talking amongst roaming patches of herdsman. His mustache twitched as he licked his lips— they were dry. He set the rabbit upon a small square of bloodied cloth with a few other small rabbit carcasses upon it that he had managed to scrounge today.

There was a black iron kettle hanging upon the splint above the firepit. He lifted it by its wooden handle and raised his mug. Another one of his prized possession, a brass and wooden mug with wonderfully intricate engravings in the brass and carvings within the wood of winds and storms. He poured a delicate portion of the kettle's priceless contents into the mug. An elixir of herbal life. Not quite— but it was a pleasant tea. He set the mug down and lifted the least recent of rabbits he had hunted. Its body slumping in his large hands. How bountiful, how divine of a night this was.
Hassan
General Wendy Margir
Outskirts of the Witherlands

"Remain still. We won't shoot unless we have to."

General Wendy Margir and her mini platoon of soldiers emerged from the woodwork, clad in all black instead of wearing their usual house colors. A few of them rode on horses, the general herself included.

While her small group of about six men had arrows notched and trained on the man admiring his kill by the fire, she remained without, her demeanor composed. She wasn't worried. He seemed harmless.

"Which house do you fight for?" She asked, pulling her reins close to her to guide her horse to a stop. She was standing in front of the man now, her blue eyes gently illuminated by the fire, even at her distance. She had her hood up, and a protective mask about her face, so her words were slightly muffled.

This was the work that, while necessary, made her the most on edge. In her estate, and in the land that House Carter still lorded over without question, she rarely needed to be so vigilant. Out here, close to the border, she was an outsider. _That will change soon,_ she thought to herself. But even now, she and her men had been traveling without anything that could brand them as enemies of Vivayn. It could easily be a death sentence.

This man before her didn't seem to be more than just a simple nomad. Which, would be helpful, for what she was hoping to do.
Ellen
Taichar-Yu
Outskirts of the Witherlands

Taichar's eyes barely moved away from the fire upon hearing her voice. His shoulders hunched up slightly and his brows knitted into one another, threading around each other, shifting uneasily while his brain whirled and he counted the bows pointed at him once he finally found it in him to look at the men. What was he in trouble for now? Enjoying some rabbits? Maybe this was a warden looking for some rogue. He always had to be careful in these trying times. Then, he glanced up and met the general's radiant blue eyes. His face was battle-hardened and his eyes scarred with the loss of many lives, although his neutral smile was approachable.

"I am Taichar-Yu. I serve no house. I did, if you could call it a house, for all of my life until a few months back— but now I am not one for these diplomatic affairs, you see. These fine clothes came from a clan that has since dissolved and I roam these lands alone." He calmly stated. He reached for his belt, pulling an intimidatingly big hunter's knife crafted of splinted and sharpened bone tied to an iron handle wrapped in leather strappings. He sunk the blade delicately into the rabbit, the reflection of its body dancing in his eyes as he worked and spoke gently. "I do not see the bow like I once did. A weapon of wrath is now a source of life. These rabbits have walked, breathed, and died to feed me, and they will once be born anew. Understandably so."

He paused to contemplate his words, not for her sake but for his own. He had no idea what was going on. "And who do you serve, miss? I see you have quite a company with you." He gored the hair away from the flesh body of the rabbit, peeling the fur away from it with his fingertips. He worked quietly and treated the rabbit, even in death, with dignity, being sure to softly lay the fur down to where the bloodied skin would dry in the warmth of the flames. "It has been quite some time since I have been asked such a question. Would you care for a bit of rabbit? There's plenty to share."
Hassan
. As Taichar-Yu reached for his belt, the sound of bowstrings tightening rippled throughout the half circle of soldiers accompanying Wendy. Her perpetual frown deepened slightly, and she held up her hand. She kept it there, watching curiously as he skinned the rabbit with such care. She'd never seen a man of his stature so gentle. And his name sounded so.. Foreign. Just who was he?

"No.. Thank you," She said, wincing slightly at the sound of the rabbit's flesh peeling. "We have our own food. I assume you aren't ill?"

By now, she knew the signs of the plague. He didn't exhibit any of them. Even the psychosis was pretty well ruled out. He spoke in a strange way, but a person being a little weird didn't make them sick. 

Most times.

"I serve the rightful ruler of The Witherlands. That is all you need to know," She said, dismounting. At her movement, the group of men lowered their bows and stood at ease, waiting and watching. Wendy stepped forward, closer to the fire, lowering her mask slightly. "I won't interrupt your meal long. I just have a few questions."
Ellen
Taichar-Yu
Outskirts of the Witherlands
He hummed in amused shock at such a question. He was completely unaware of the plague— but he had seen odd signs within animals of the wilds. Their blood blackens and their eyes seem to become tinged with an odd sort of visceral quality, like air pockets are within them. He smiled and shook his head. "No. No, I am not ill. May you please tell me why you ask such a question?" He asked.

He nodded slowly. "Ah. You serve the Witherlands? I am unopinionated, may you come from any corner of this strange, strange world; you are human. Therefore, you are an equal." He said in a rather pointed fashion. He set the skinned rabbit down stood slowly before he curiously looked at the men around the camp. He had never met a party such as this and looked baffled by their attire as they were of his. In the dire lighting with his bloodied hand and taut face, he looked like a crazed man what had gotten done dismembering a wild creature. 

Taichar moved swiftly away from them and vanished into the tent. From outside of the tent, the canvas-white of the tarp stretched around the tent's ribs, he could be seen moving around and filing through things in dim lighting before the light went out and he stepped out of the tent. He was holding a deep iron wok with two cable handles to it attached to heavy iron hooks. He sat down in front of the fire and set the wok upon the splint. Only then did he look back at the General. "Go on. Please, help yourself to a seat if you would like— the same with your men. I am more than happy to talk." He chuckled and wavered at her with both hands in a gesture of 'oh, stop it, you.' "You're not interrupting anything. Do not say such a thing."
Hassan
General Wendy Margir
Outskirts of the Witherlands

_He must not know about the war going on. Better for him, that way. Still.. How secluded is he?_ 

Her eyes narrowed as she saw him get up. He seemed nervous, almost, even with how articulate his speech was.

"There's a sickness going around. It's deadly," Wendy said. "You haven't heard of it?"

That seemed odd. She figured he might've been alone because of it. Gossip also spread fine without being connected directly to a town or village..

She tensed was he moved to his tent. Was he trying to run away? Her men lifted their arrows again, still on edge with being so far from home. 

They all relaxed, though, when he returned, eager as he seemed to have some company. She sighed, folding her arms across her abdomen. He wasn't a threat. Just a little... Off.

"At ease, everything's all right," She said, sighing and sitting down by the fire. She pulled off her hood, revealing her sun-kissed hair, looming bright red in the light of the fire. The other men settled, but didn't move to sit, leaning up against the trees and crouching among the bushes.

Wendy laughed to herself a little bit. 

"You'll have to forgive them. They're good at their jobs," The general said, staring at the pot. She frowned, observing it carefully. "I've never seen a dish like that before.. Why is it shaped that way?"

Some small talk wouldn't hurt, to make the atmosphere more comfortable. She hoped.
Ellen
Taichar-Yu
Outskirts of the Witherlands

"I wasn't aware of such a sickness, but that does explain the odd meat that hunters I have spoken to at trading posts have spoken of. Blackened flesh covered in mucus and hollowed eyes that look like pits. I have heard many terrible tales— but a plague? Nobody had said such a thing." He said in quiet shock. He sat in silence for a moment and took a slow sip from his mug before he lifted the rabbit's fur. There was a skimming of fat along the skin still attatched to it, taking the knife and cleanly scooping off about a teaspoon of it. "Heh. Must be a good eating season for these guys, all of them are quite chubby." He commented.

He tapped the knife upon the edge of the wok and smiled in comforted satisfaction as the fat hissed. He sprinked a bit of sweetroot into the oil and some cracked peppercorns before laying the skinned rabbit within the pan. From a small sack next to the unskinned rabbits he produced a fingerful of salt and tossed it generously into the wok. It all smelled divine, the raw bloodied smell dissipating and being replaced with a mildly sweet and slightly savory smell. 

He glanced at the men lurking around the camp and shrugged. "Doesn't bother me. Normally, I would be beyond scared, but I feel oddly fine."

When he looked back at the general and saw that she had taken her hood down, his face had eased and the wrinkles in his skin ironed to produce a more genial and exotic foreign looking man then the wrinkled nomad before— the true cleanliness of his skin and clarity of his eyes showing true as he smiled softly and looked back to the wok. 

"This? It's... It's a very shallow pot. I bargained for it with some boar tusks and a silver chalice I found when hiking for spices one morning. I believe it's of Zhia Lou origins. You know, the people of the Silver Dragon. I have never met one of them but all of them are renowned cooks and heralds."

He used his hunting knife to skewer the rabbit and shuffle it around in the bubbling fat, coating it in the root and pepper mixture. The smell seemed to intoxicate himself and his eyes grew low-lidded as he stared at the meat. "I have met a Rong G'ah Shieetet before, a member of a group of people that live close to the Zhai Lou. They have these types of pots too but are more bowl-shaped." 

He said with a dreamy sigh. Most nomads were purposeless wanderers, but he was a careful listener and apparently paid close attention to his world. That, or he was a remarkably good liar.
Hassan
"The Zhai Lou..." Wendy murmured, clearly only following by a hair. She glanced up, catching the eyes of one of her men who lurked in the shadows. He gave a shrug, just as clueless as she.

"That's... Interesting. You seem to be a man of experience," The general said, deciding that this explanation was as good as any for the odd things she'd observed thus far. It was fascinating, really, to see a person like him here. He looked as if he were plucked from a story book. The own tales that he spun about the people and things he'd encountered could be a book all on its own.

"You mentioned.. 'odd meat.' People are still hunting and eating animals who look that way?" The general asked, seeming a big alarmed at such a thought. "This sickness has lasted for a month now, or so. It spreads quickly, and no one has found a good treatment or cure. I have my own reasons for wanting to know what things are like back here, but... Aside from quelling personal inquiries, I'm on a mission. Can you tell me anything else you've seen?"

This man seemed trustworthy enough. In the light like this, he didn't seem as haggard. It almost felt as if his face had smoothed out entirely. She frowned, watching him carefully.
Ellen
Taichar-Yu 
Outskirts of the Witherlands.

A cold chill of wind passed over the camp and Taichar huddled into his coat, shivering as he flipped the hunk of rabbit with a resounding crackled of fats and searing meat. The smell only grew stronger and he took to taking a long drink from his mug in order to regain the lost warmth. He nodded. "Yes. I have seen many things and been to many places in my lifetime."

He listened to her talk and nodded again to confirm he was listening. "Yes. People still eat the meat before becoming sick themselves. Not everyone does, but only the desperate of those that I have spoken to." He sniffled and took another sip from the mug before setting it upon his lap and cradling the warm vessel with his cold fingers. "I was passing through a tiny little hunter's camp pitched in Azarya, just outside of Breaker's Way. There was a little shack on the way out from the camp, maybe three-hundred or four-hundred steps with barely anyone in it besides a single priest and piles and piles of dead bodies. All of them rotting... A sick, sick smelling rot. They burned the shack after the priest had doused it in holy water and recited some prayers." He looked stone-faced as he recollected on the memory. 

He looked at her and away from the cooking rabbit.

"I have never seen such despair in the eyes of someone like there was in that priest. How it must feel to know a God has abandoned you that way." He looked her directly in the eyes as he said it, slowly. He looked back to the fire and shook his head in remorseful dread. "The last I heard, the priest died within the walls of Breaker's Way, heard the word from one of the fletchers at the camp. Sad." He said with a sigh. The atmosphere grew stark and yet his face retained the same smoothened clay look.

He clenched the mug in his hand, taking the kettle off the splint and pouring a little to warm up his draught.
Stephen
Maren Tockett
Witherlands Roads

Her numb fingers gripped her cloak as she stepped forward towards the warmth of the fire. The signal from the two that she was welcome was all she needed to know. If she was welcome now, she would ride it out until they realized she wasn't worth it. She walked past the chairs and table, even past the food, and took a seat on the ground as close to the fire as possible. 

Her hair was a ratted mess, covered in ice and dirt from her journey. Her ugly scabbed face relaxed at the fire's warmth. She pulled her hands out of her pockets and held them up, her fingers a sickly white as they had all lost feeling a while ago. She stuck her feet out towards the fire, too, shuffling her boots off and holding out her bare toes. They were the same, on the cusp of frostbite. She didn't make eye-contact with any of them as she sat there.

She thought to herself. *What nice people. They remind me of a Mamma and Poppa.* She kept her eyes trained on the fire, doing what she could to hide her dirty face in the cloaks she was wrapped with.
Sharon
Shaye Hallenshire
Witherland Roads

The towering woman did not hesitate when invited to the fire- unaware of whether or not the man was even referring to her but too starving to care. Bounding over, she placed herself at the table- so enraptured by the idea of food that any other thoughts fled from her mind. 

When the stranger offered them the warm cups of heaven, she quickly indulged herself, trying to savor the feeling of comfort that spread through her as she sipped on the drink. Her stomach grumbled as the wonderful aroma teased her hunger and she launched herself up with all the grace of an elephant as he announced that food was served; it took every ounce of self control to motion that the other two guests help themselves first— unable to eradicate the guilt she felt when looking at the small child. *What was the poor thing doing out here by herself?* 

She glanced at the chef who had prepared the meals for them, voice drifting down from her towering frame in a small whisper, "Thank you."