...And a Physical Absence
The evening had settled over the Enclave by the time Ioneid and Merada left Dorant's home behind them.
Among those who received a visitation from the lost Director of the Expedition, Ion was wandering as he often did across the many winding paths of the Enclave when he felt almost elusive, but also familiar, and physical, when the sand off the path rose of its own volition in front of him and coalesced into a form. It was indistinct and featureless, but large, large enough to be an orc; it walked alongside him as if walking down these roads was as normal as breathing. Before the dracthyr could reach out with hand or magic, the form turned its featureless head toward him and nodded, and disintegrated back into the sand on the wind.
He too feared it was the last moments of Dorant, and thus rushed to the Director's side along with many others of the Emberheart. Thankfully, they were all wrong, but it brought him to this time, where a friend in need of company put forth the offer of dinner.
He walked beside her now at an easy pace, Merada's arm tucked through his, content to let silence sit between them as they walked. The winding roads and paths were calmer than they had been in weeks. Lanternlight had begun to replace the sun, and somewhere farther off he could hear the muted sounds of others in the enclave. It felt ordinary. He found he missed ordinary.
His thoughts drifted briefly to the months behind them. Vaults broken. Battles fought. Long nights beside wounded companions. Countless attempts to heal what magic alone could not mend. Through nearly all of it, Merada had carried burdens few should have been asked to bear, often at the expense of her own rest.
Tonight, for the first time in what felt like an age, neither of them was rushing toward the next emergency or mission.
He glanced toward her, a warm smile crossing his face. "I believe," he said lightly, "This may become the longest conversation we have had without someone bleeding in a long time."
Merada chuckled. It was an empty thing, a gesture done from instinct rather than genuine feeling. "Indeed. The last time must have been... the last mission." She sighed, "You were there. Did the potions I sent to the Elder help?"
He'd nod, "Yes. They did. Though most were used in the aftermath rather than in the moment." A quiet chuckle escaped him, though her empty chuckle did not go unnoticed.
"I've noticed something, Merada," He glanced at her with a little grin and a light tone, "Whenever we do speak, you often ask me about someone else first."
He glanced over at her, "The wounded. The Expedition. I am beginning to think it is my turn."
Then he simply goes on, "How are you, Merada?"
And he looked to her, not looking away. A friend noticing another.
The orc woman continued to walk, dragging her feet along with the silence. Her eyes did not meet the dragons, not at first. They watched the landscape, as green turned to sand, sand turned to rocks, and rocks turned to green again. How was Merada? That was a question that the Lorekeeper had avoided answering for a long time now. There were so many other things that mattered more: the Sleeping Sickness, the Fire Dance, the Witch, the Urn, the Void, the Expedition, Dorant-
"I am... still fighting." She said carefully, as if answering the question would manifest the events all over again. "After Lady Ar'nareth's blinding, and then the birth of her newest child, I have taken over the role as primary leader of the healers charged with overseeing Dorant's health. It is... a difficult task, without the aid of the Spirit of Water. I have had to rely on the traditional medicines of my people, those that my mother taught me. I honor Bazrokh; he has done so much for me since I arrived, but... I miss her. I feel I have exhausted every means I know of, and still more is asked of me. More is required. My mother would know what to do. Dorant would know what to do. But they are gone, and I am here."
She rolled her shoulders, wishing she could shake off the weight on her chest. "It is easier to focus on the next thing, and the next thing afterward, I think. Otherwise I must acknowledge the power I once had, and no longer have. I can not change the events that surround us. But the wounded, keeping the Expedition moving forward so that we can survive. That I can effect. That I have power over. And I am tired of feeling powerless."
As they approached the plateau in which Merada made her home, the sun was just starting to dip below the mountains, casting pastel watercolors across the sky.
Ioneid was quiet for several more steps, giving her words the respect of silence rather than rushing to answer them. His draconic purple eyes turned to her.
"Thank you," he said at last. "For trusting me with that."
His gaze returned to the path ahead, "I cannot tell you what your mother would have done. I never knew mine. I did not have any. Dracthyr did not grow beneath the guidance of parents. We had instructors. Creches. Our wingmates."
His hand drifted idly toward one of his horns, where, if Merada looked closely enough, she might notice two small military tags tucked discreetly beneath one of the decorative rings.
"We learned from one another, and when those we admired were gone..." He exhaled softly. "There was no one left to ask." Another quiet moment passed. "So we did the only thing we could. We became the ones others asked."
His hand settled gently atop hers, giving it the slightest reassuring squeeze.
"You speak often of your mother, and of Dorant. You wonder what they would do." His eyes found hers again. "I wonder what they would think if they could see you now."
A thoughtful pause, "And from what we all experienced... perhaps Dorant does."
As they climbed higher toward her home, Ioneid lifted his gaze to the pastel colors stretching across the evening sky. "You have held together healers who have every reason to despair. You kept Dorant alive..." He paused, then corrected himself with. "Keep Dorant alive."
"You have carried the Expedition when you believed you had nothing left with which to carry it. That does not sound powerless to me."
At last he turned back toward her, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking through the seriousness, "If it counts for anything..." His eyes flicked toward the house waiting for them. "You are about to make a delicious stew. I would say that remains very firmly within your power."
"We shall see." The joke came out easier than expected: “I hope you are as hungry as you are sage, Ion. This stew is as hearty as it is spicy… though I may make some adjustments for you. I am not sure the Dracthyr palate will match the Warsong one. Can Dragons even taste pepper?”
Merada opened her door to her home and took in the sights as she let Ion in. How much time had she truly spent here since its construction? The Vault attack happened so soon after the settlement that she truly couldn’t say. She did not regret opening it to Ion and Rarma, however. They kept an eye on the place between the three's various responsibilities, and ensured there was always something in the storehouse.
“Now I won’t promise that it will be perfect; Kodo does not have the same texture as Clefthoof, and the peppers are not the same, but I think it is close enough that my ancestors will not shame me for it.” She had a new energy about her as she led them into the kitchen, pulling Azier from her belt and using the blade to strike the fire for the central stove. Normally such a thing would have taken time to prepare, but having a fire elemental at one’s behest was a boon. Pointing at a wall of metal and hanging vegetables, she continued navigating around the kitchen, grabbing this jar and that sack and bringing them closer to the counter. “If you will get that knife and slice those onions and scallions thinly and evenly, I will look to see what our silent warrior woman has left us to eat.”
No doubt she meant to reference Rarma, a rather stern woman who also shared the home with Merada and Ioneid. A temporary arrangement, as settlement of the Enclave had been disrupted by the goings on, neither the tenant nor the landlady (though Merada loathed that distinction for herself) saw her frequently enough to have much of a relationship. Too often Rarma was away, a member of Bazrokh's entourage or standing guard at Dorant's door as his coma progressed.
Ioneid smiled to himself as Merada steered the conversation toward the stew. He noticed what she had left unsaid, but he did not press it. For now, he was content to let the warmth surround them.
"I shall consider 'sage' a compliment," He said lightly as he stepped inside.
His eyes wandered briefly around the familiar home. Though he had spent many evenings beneath its roof these past months, it still felt more like Merada's home than his own. Even so, there was comfort here. How it was cared for, much as a creche belonged to every member who helped maintain it.
At her question about pepper, he laughed softly, "I honestly do not know."
He looked genuinely thoughtful for a moment. "I know that I can taste. Beyond that..." His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "The Healing Wings were not issued pepper or peppers as part of our training."
A grin followed, "I suppose tonight becomes an experiment."
At her instruction, he retrieved the knife, studying it for perhaps a second longer than someone experienced in a kitchen might, "I have suspicion this may not be where my talents shine."
He gathered the onions and scallions onto the board, squared them with almost military precision, then began slicing them exactly as instructed. His technique was... methodical. Every slice measured, ever angle deliberate. Entirely lacking the rhythm of someone who had ever set foot in a kitchen before.
"I can field dress a battlefield casualty," he remarked with complete sincerity while continuing his careful work. "Yet somehow this feels as though it requires the greater skill."
She peeked over his shoulder to watch. If she was judging him negatively, she did not show it on her face. “It is all going in the same pot anyway. It is only cut thin so that it cooks evenly. Even I can’t say my ability is much better… it is the thought put into the act that matters, the care. Without it the food loses its soul… or so I’ve been told.”
The large pot was placed on the fire with a heavy thud before she turned her attention to the cold store where the meat was kept. Merada muttered in a heavy guttural Orcish that, in tone, sounded like a swear. Though not all the words made sense, as the language was not quite the same as the modern tongue, the gist was there: “Gronn-wench! Spends all her time with rocks; that is all that’s left now. Hm, this may work.”
Returning with some haphazardly cut cubes of meat that looked rather lean for stew, she started to sear the meat in the pot, first by chucking an overly fatty piece into the pot, which sizzled as the metal heated, then by adding the rest of the meat to brown. Afterward, in went a seemingly chaotic measurement of various powdered or ground spices roughly labeled: ginger, garlic, Sweet Salt, Gorgrond Pepper. The aroma that soon wafted throughout the room would make even a submerged murloc's mouth water.
The silence carried for a few minutes before Merada broke it, perhaps uncomfortably with the silence and the space it gave her, “What is…was, the Creche like? Some of your others describe it more like a war camp than a home.”
The aroma drifting from the pot drew an appreciative breath from Ioneid before a warm grin spread across his face, "I believe I made an excellent decision accepting your invitation."
He chuckled softly before returning to the onions and scallions, doing his best to keep each slice as even as the last.
Merada's question, however, slowed his hands, "...Both. The others are not wrong. The Creche was a war camp." His voice carried no bitterness, however.
"It was disciplined. Structured. Every day had purpose. Every lesson prepared us for the next battle, whether that battle came tomorrow... or a century hence," He finished another careful cut before setting the knife aside, "but people often mistake discipline for the absence of joy."
His grin returned. "Nothing could be further from the truth. We trained. We competed. We celebrated victories, shared meals, and found reasons to laugh whenever we could."
Ioneid looked to Merada. "There were no mothers or fathers waiting for us after training. No family hearth."
His fingers drifted unconsciously toward one of his horns again, brushing the jeweled ring that concealed those two small military tags, "So we became one another's family. Our instructors taught us how to fight. Our wingmates taught us how to live."
His hand fell away again, "I remember the laughter between the battles."
A comfortable silence settled over him, "Time has taken many of those I shared the Creche with. But it cannot take the years we had together."
His grin returned, "So... if your people judge stew by the care put into it..." He glanced down at his uniform onion and scallion slices. "...I believe I have at least given these onions an honorable military education."
Time cannot take the years we had together. Merada touched her mother's necklace on her chest as she pondered the words. The meat had been removed from the pot to rest, and she was reaching for the peppers when the words gave her pause. She did not answer; she did not need to. It would dilute the wisdom being shared.
Instead, she joined Ion at the cutting board with a handful of peppers. "I believe you are correct." She smiled back at him, pointing to them in a bowl. One was a finger-sized red pepper, no bigger than a human pinky. The other was a tiny, shriveled balloon-looking thing, with a brilliant orange that would make gemstones jealous. "Zandali Piri Piri, and Cindergut Peppers. The Cinders' are native to Pandaria, one of the hottest on Azeroth, if you believe the merchants in Halfhill... Would you like to try them before I decide how much to put in? There is no shame if you say no."
Ioneid looked between the two peppers with open curiosity, leaning in just enough to study them as though they were artifacts instead of ingredients. "I have learned that merchants often measure 'hot' with remarkable confidence."
His grin widened, "I should probably learn whether they are correct."
He reached first for the little Zandali Piri Piri, giving it an appreciative look before popping it into his mouth.
He chewed thoughtfully, "...Hm."
A slow nod followed, "Pleasant. Bright. It..." He paused as the heat began to bloom. "...becomes less pleasant." He laughed quietly, reaching for a cup of water and finding one. He reached more out of instinct than desperation before setting it aside.
"Interesting." Then, before common sense could intervene, his attention settled on the tiny orange pepper, "...And naturally the smaller one concerns me more."
His purple eyes flicked toward Merada, "Which means I should try it."
The first bite earned no reaction. The second bite, after eating it, was considerably more educational.
His eyes widened. He inhaled once through his nose... A mistake.
"...Ah."
A small cough escaped him before he cleared his throat, maintaining every ounce of dignity he could. After another heartbeat, he reached, just a little more quickly this time, for his cup of water and took a long, grateful drink.
He lowered the cup with all the composure of a seasoned soldier, "...That is significantly more assertive."
Tears threatened the corners of his eyes despite his best efforts, "I understand why it is called Cindergut."
After another thoughtful sip of water, he gave Merada a broad grin, "I believe... perhaps half of one will suffice for the stew."
Merada watched him like a hawk surveying an unaware mouse in the field. The first pepper she knew would be safe enough, more like the heat from smoke than directly from the fire.
The second, however...
As soon as the tears started to swell, Merada set down the peppers and fetched him some milk. And not a moment too soon, for the pepper would not be done with Ioneid. It would bloom again, concerningly so, and with a bit more claw, the oil of the pepper seeming to seep into the dragon's saliva, making it a seemingly risky proposition to swallow. The milk, however, chilled and fatty, provided the only true relief.
"A half of a half, I think, added at the end." Merada corrected, chuckling, "It is what I do for Bazrokh."
Leaving Ion to recover, she set about adding the vegetables to the pan, splashing some water in to scour the flavors and cooked meat bits left behind, before adding a few dashes of a rather expensive-looking bottle of dark sauce to the mix. Rather than let the silence (and coughing) continue, Merada offered commentary on the cooking, taking the knife to roughly chop a small handful of the Zandali Piri Piri, and only one of the Cinderguts. "100 Year Soy Sauce. I heard it was something of tradition to purchase something valuable with the first of one's earnings, to mark the accomplishment."
She tossed the Piri Piri in, and kept one eye on the searing pan, and one eye on the dragon. "Do you remember your first mission with the Expedition? I don't know if you've ever told me how you came to this bunch."
Ioneid accepted the milk without argument, taking several generous gulps before lowering the cup with an audible, appreciative breath. Tiny beads of milk clung to the hairs of his mustache on his visage.
"...That," he managed after another, smaller drink, "is a remarkable remedy."
His gaze drifted back to the tiny orange pepper, studying it with newfound respect. "I believe I have underestimated Pandaren agriculture."
His grin returned as he watched Merada work, following the practiced rhythm of her cooking with genuine interest. His eyes lingered briefly on the dark bottle as she explained it.
"I like that tradition." He nodded thoughtfully. "To mark a beginning with something that endures. It has been some time since my own first earnings..."
Her question, however, gave him pause.
"My first mission..." He turned the memory over carefully before continuing. "When I first joined Emberheart, there was a Vulpera named Jysice Darksand." His expression softened with nostalgia. "I do not know if you ever met him. My affinity for Bronze magic has an unfortunate habit of blurring memories at the edges. I remember what happened clearly enough... only sometimes I must stop and decide when it happened."
A warm laugh escaped him, "But yes. Jysice Darksand. An odd fellow. Brilliant in the way many scholars are, forever chasing stories buried beneath ruins older than memory. He possessed a remarkable talent for making ancient tombs sound inviting. I joined him and several others on expeditions into forgotten places. We searched for relics, for histories, and for anything that might strengthen the Expedition." His gaze settled on the simmering pot, "Those journeys taught me that not every battle is fought with a blade. Sometimes you fight ignorance. Sometimes... time itself."
His smile faded a little. "Eventually... he simply stopped returning. Life has a way of changing a person's path." His purple eyes met Merada's again with a gentle smile, "But I remained. It seemed a worthwhile place to stay."
"Odd is certainly a word....Yes, I am aware of Jysice Darksand, and his talents." Merada replied with perhaps more teeth than she would have normally allowed in the company she was in. "I agree, he was brilliant, but I never understood why he insisted on disturbing the rest of the dead for a few baubles. Reminded me too much of goblins... But then again, I was more strict about the traditions of the Mag'har then. He had a rival we fought on occasion, who cared even less than I perceived Jysice to. Those were the times we actually agreed on the action of something."
She snorted, considering the matter some more. Her hand wandered to the hilt of her dagger. "Then again, my first adventure with him was when we discovered Azier, so far deep into the Stranglethorn jungle I thought we might actually meet a Loa. It was his choice to allow me to keep him. I was new, he did not have to do that. I doubt many others in his position at that time would have."
Giving her attention back to the food, another careless dash of spices went into the pot before a small cup of sugar, and a slow-moving syrup liquid was added, followed by a hazard pour of brown liquid that smelled much like the seared kodo meat. She returned the meat to the pot, and after ensuring all had integrated well, she set the lid on top and dusted her hands.
"I hope he is well," She said, softer now, "wherever the winds took him."
Ioneid listened without interruption.
"I think that is fair," He said at last, "You know him through different eyes than I did. We often met the same person, yet carried away different stories."
A warm chuckle escaped him. "He certainly possessed a gift for convincing sensible people to descend into places that wished to remain forgotten."
His gaze settled on the simmering pot for a moment before returning to her. "I always believed his curiosity came from a good place, even if I did not always understand where it led him. He reminded me that the past is worth listening to... though perhaps he listened a little too enthusiastically."
Ioneid smiled and chuckled again before the rich aroma drifting from the pot finally stole his attention. He drew in a breath through his nose. He paused mid-thought, "... I am attempting to remain a thoughtful conversationalist," he admitted with an embarrassed grin, "but your stew is making that increasingly difficult."
He laughed softly, "It smells wonderful!"
She chuckled along with Ion. "On that we can agree."
She smiled as the food stole the spotlight with smell alone. "Well, it will need some time to cook down, so if you wish to go get cleaned up, I can start on the rice." In time with her words, her feet led the way to her storeroom so her hands could reach out for the bag of rice, stamped and labeled as coming from Halfhill.
"Otherwise you must ask me another question to pass the time... if you can pull yourself away from the grip of food." Merada teased, truly at ease now. "I am, as always, an open book."
Ioneid laughed softly, the warmth of the kitchen seeming to settle him into this conversation. "An open book?" he echoed. "That is a dangerous offer to someone who spends much time asking questions of old relics."
Ioneid moved to a nearby basin and washed his hands thoughtfully, wiping his hands on a cloth before turning to face her properly. "Let me think..."
He rested a finger thoughtfully against his chin, wearing an expression of exaggerated concentration for a moment before it broke into a grin. "I have learned you are a remarkable healer," he began, counting on one finger, "A formidable warrior." A second finger joined the first, "And, judging by the aroma currently attempting to distract me, a dangerous cook."
He nodded with mock solemnity, "So tell me something about Merada that would surprise me."
His smile softened, a genuine smile. "Not the lorekeep, not the healer everyone depends on." He tilted his head slightly. "Just... Merada."
Merada gasped. "I... hm." She considered the question, and what she could answer, truly at a loss for words.
For a moment she did not answer, just quickly poured the rice into a smaller pot, poured water to the top of the rice, used her finger to measure it to the first knuckle from the tip, and set it on the fire to boil.
"I..." She laughed nervously, "I write poetry... I wrote poetry, back when there was not so much troubling the Expedition."
Ioneid blinked once, genuinely surprised, then his face brightened, "Poetry?"
The word carried no mockery, only pleasant surprise because he was pleasantly surprised.
He laughed warmly, "You have spent time speaking to me as a healer, warrior, lorekeeper... I had begun to wonder if Merada ever allowed herself hobbies." His smile lingered, warm as he looked at her.
"Though you said write... and then wrote." He did not press, but he caught the change from present to past. "I hope, one day, it becomes write again."
“…As do I.” She answered. Her face lit up as an idea came to her. Putting the lid on the pot of rice, she motioned for Ioneid to follow her. “Come, I will show you one. It is in the other room.”
Walking across the central room towards her bedroom, she brought them to the corner closest to the door, where a large skinner's frame sat diagonally against the wall; across it was stretched out a pelt that had been cleaned and treated. Though they were somewhat small, there were orcish words embossed into the leather, though trying to read it with a modern understanding of the language proved somewhat difficult.
“It is in traditional orcish,” Merada explained, perhaps seeing the face Ion was potentially making. “It may read awkwardly if you are not used to it. It is inspired by the story of Khut’ulun, a war chief’s daughter of the Warsong who all but ruled the clan through her strength and wisdom during a time when that was unthinkable. Supposedly she is an ancestor, but I just knew her as my favorite story to hear as a girl.”
Ioneid followed in quiet curiosity, his steps slowing as they entered the room.
When he saw the stretched hide, he stopped without thinking. His hands remained respectfully at his sides, making no move to touch it.
His eyes traced the careful lines impressed into the leather, recognizing enough of the words to know he did not truly understand them. The language was familiar, yet older than the one he learned when he decided to fly beside the horde.
"It is beautiful," he said softly.
He did not say it because he could read every line. He said it because he could see the care that had gone into every mark.
As she spoke of Khut'ulun, his attention shifted from the hide to Merada herself, listening far more intently than he had looked. "You kept this."
He smiled at her, small and warm. "I think... I am honored you chose to share it with me."
 |
| Poetry pressed into animal hide. |
She pointed to a stack of stones that served as an altar or side table, where a set of tools for embossing leather was displayed. The tools appeared to come from various cultures: some were clearly Orcish, others Pandaren, and a few were unmistakably crafted in the Amani troll style. Despite their diverse origins, all the tools were arranged thoughtfully in their designated places. Just as the hide had been treated with love and care, so too were the tools used to create it.
The smell from the kitchen crept into the bedroom behind them, having matured into a savory heaven of smells during their time away, prompting Merada to pat Ioneid on the shoulder. “Dinner is ready!”
Ioneid's expression brightened at the correction.
"You made it," he repeated, the admiration in his voice evident. His eyes wandered across the frame once more, taking in the different woods, the carefully stitched hide, and the collection of tools gathered from distant lands. "Then it carries more than poetry."
He looked back to her with a warm smile. "It carries your journey."
He chuckled softly. "A yak from Pandaria. Wood from the land you now call home. Tools gathered from people across Azeroth." His gaze lingered on the Amani tools for a moment. "There is something wonderfully fitting about that. It is... very much a you creation."
The rich aroma drifting from the kitchen reached him then, and his stomach chose that precise moment to betray him with a distinctly audible growl. Ioneid stopped. He looked at Merada. Then, with all the dignity a veteran dracthyr soldier could muster, he gave an unapologetic grin. "...I believe dinner is, indeed, ready." He chuckled warmly. "Or at least my stomach is ready to eat!"
Merada laughed, jerking her head over to the door. "Then come. Let us do battle with Valley Stew!"
Marching back into the kitchen with all the seriousness of a children's play, the orc woman went straight towards the cooking pots, while gesturing vaguely to the cabinets above the bar where the vegetables had been cut. "The plates should be there, behind the two doors on the far left."
While Ion set the table, Merada prepared to serve food: the rice was freed from its lidded, steamed cage, fluffed, and set on a smooth, flat stone on the table. The stew itself was stirred, its new thicker form appraised one final time before it was ladled into a large ceramic bowl, fit for serving on a dinner table, finished off with the slivers of scallions and one Cindergut Pepper. Before she sat down, another bowl was prepared, with no pepper garnish, and set aside.
"It will be hot, but that is so that it will linger in your bones when it comes time to sleep." The joke came paired with a tired smile and the offering of a spoon. "But please, I hope you enjoy it."
When the first bite was taken, it could be expected that the dish contained only the one-note richness of a long-simmered red meat stew. Instead, it was a song; a deep, salty savor of soy, dark and earthy, followed almost immediately by a mellow sweetness. The kodo required a bit of chew, perhaps the result of the wrong cut of meat, but it was still soft and tender enough that is was good in its own way, bolstered by the steady accompanying drum beat of ginger and garlic.
Then came the heat. Thankfully, there was no burn like before. Cooked with the rest of the meal (and perhaps because of the restraint of the cook), the spice came with a gentle sting that bloomed and faded just in time for the next anticipated bite. On occasion, the garnish would raise the occasional alarm, but with a bite of rice it was smothered back into the harmony of the dish.
It was humble, uncomplicated, much like the culture it came from. The gravy stubbornly threatened to stick to the teeth and coat the throat, but by whatever power one wished to call out to, it was filling. It would not be a surprise if by the halfway mark of the bowl, the distinct, curious worry that the diner would have to stop consuming the delicious food or risk popping a button of their clothes.
Ioneid answered her declaration of food to come with an exaggerated nod of determination, "A battle I believe we are well prepared for!"
He set about laying the table with the same earnest care he seemed to apply to nearly everything. Places, spoons, cups, each found its place before he took his seat opposite her.
He waited respectfully for her to serve the stew and to join him and let her eat some first before he would eat.
"Thank you," He said simply. And with that, he took the first spoonful. His eyes widened immediately.
He had expected something hearty, filling, and comforting. He had not expected layers. The sweetness, the rich savor of the stew, the warmth of ginger, the pepper blooming gently instead of attacking him outright. And each arrived in its own time, none trying to outshine the last.
He swallowed slowly, letting the warmth settle into him before looking to Merada, "... Merada."
A beat passed between them.
"This is exceptional." And another spoonful followed almost immediately. A quiet laugh escaped him, "I believe I owe Pandaren peppers an apology."
For a while after that, there was very little conversation. Only the soft scrape of spoons against ceramic, the crackle of the fire, and the comfortable silence of two people who had forgotten, if only for the length of a meal, that the world beyond the walls was waiting for them.
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