Matters of Taste
A behemoth of a man bursts through the door of the inn, his stone armor making him more like a boulder than a person. That alone doesn't draw too much attention, however. After all, he had been staying at the inn for some time now. No, what causes several onlookers to strain their necks before the man utters a word is the woman being carried on his back.
"I say, fetch Lady Marjukka a meal! She withers away by the second!" Sir's outburst draws more attention to the scene. Indeed, being draped over his back is the knightess. Her body is bruised and bloodied, and although her eyes are open, they have a glassy quality to them. Still, her limp limbs maintain a tight grip on the hilt of her sword. Given how things appeared, it at first seems odd that he's not taken her to a doctor or perhaps a coffin maker.
However, when Sir sets her down to slump over at a table, she groans, and words escape through her cracked lips. "It is wasted on this body. Even if it perishes, I will not be allowed to rest so easily. How could the Lady accept this wretched soul running away from its sworn duty?"
Her voice is hoarse, but it is clear that she still lives. In fact, upon closer inspection, much of the blood she's drenched in is not her own, and the wounds are mostly superficial. Nothing a sturdy body wouldn't heal on its own with time. Regardless, she was still in a sorry state. More so than the usual fare reluctantly dragging herself to and fro for the sake of the guilt that tainted her every action. Now, she might still spring to life if some villains were to make themselves known, but she seems all too content to lie about like a broken toy.
"Well, let's have it. What happened to her?" A familiar voice accompanied by fast-approaching footsteps. For someone who healed through cooking, it was only natural for her to examine those she served like she might a patient.
The question makes Marjukka's ears perk up, and the rest of her body attempts to fold into itself. The tricky little fairy had been one thing — enough to make her go to pieces — but nowhere in her could the courage to face one who had personally attended to the Blessed Lady be found. Yet, she can neither find the strength to resist as Chef pulls on her limbs and raises her head for inspection. Their eyes meet, and Marjukka's drift away in shame while Chef's sparkle with recognition. There's something that should be said between them, surely, but one is unwilling, and the other does not know the words her friend needs to hear.
Sir lets out a sigh, though it sounds closer to a growl. "I can't say for certain. After a week of neither seeing hide nor hair of my master, I resolved to discover what had become of her." He shakes his head, and if he had lips with which to do so, he might have frowned. His confidence in their bound destiny was far from shaken, but it became apparent that he had misjudged the depth to which his master's spirit had plunged. "When I found her, she was lying amongst the dead, delirious. Only started making sense once I offered her some water, but she only insisted I help her home."
But he knew the state of her 'home' and couldn't stand the idea of dumping her in the lake like refuse, given the state she was in. If she was as thirsty as a dog, then she must also certainly be as hungry as one, he'd thought, and he was doubtful that she'd manage to feed herself. Her eyes seemed more hollow than when they'd met, and although she protested the detour, it had evidently amounted to little.
The great rumbling that sounds from Marjukka's stomach confirms the issue — the one that is more easily tended to, at least. Chef is already off and messing about with her pan, the tantalizing aroma causing Marjukka's mouth to water and sending her tired mind somewhere else. "Spare me...Spare me..." is all she can moan out as the shabby inn twists into a picture of her goddess' abode. Handmaids dash between the kitchen and the dining room, laying out a feast while a choir sings. What they sang and whether her Lady had invited her to the table that day or she'd had her portion later as usual, the knight cannot recall. One thing is clear: a friend in the kitchen ensured that she would enjoy her favorite dish.
"If it's too much, you can save dessert for later, but you must eat something, Mar." Chef's soft words and gentle rubbing of Marjukka back to reality. No feast lies before her, but there is a plate of fish salad and pasta accompanied by a small bowl of pudding.
Her body quakes as she chokes down her emotions, but she nods. The first few bites must be fed to her, and a glass must be brought to her lips to help her swallow. Whether she has regained a little strength or simply forces her body to move to avoid further embarrassment, she takes over the task herself. Never do her eyes even glance at the pudding, though. It would blow her to pieces, she knew.
As Marjukka slowly chips away at the meal, Chef and Sir allow her some space. They stand off to the side, both making glances at her and each other. Finally, Sir speaks. "I take it you and her are familiar?"
"Somewhat, at least." Chef's lips form into a grin, but her eyes show a hint of frustration. "I don't remember much, but this isn't the first time I've cooked for her. We both served the Blessed Lady."
"What grand fortune!" He doesn't hesitate to bring one of his great paws to Chef's shoulder. "It must be her lingering that has reunited you. I think it will do her some good to have an old friend around. If it isn't too much, you might even accompany us for the pilgrimage?"
Chef's brow furrows in contemplation, unsure as to how wise it was to accept the offer but not unable to find a reason to decline. After all, even if she didn't remember much, she knew enough not to distrust Marjukka, and this stony knight seemed loyal for one reason or another. There is one thing that troubles her, however: "Pilgrimage? What's that?"
"Ah, have you not heard? Well, you must know that we have risen, and some of our kind intend to collaborate on an expedition. This world cannot be reclaimed by staying in the comfort of the city, after all." He speaks proudly as if the arrangement had been his idea alone.
The words do sound familiar, and as Chef racks her brain, she recalls something or another about a dungeon. She may have already agreed to join others on the trip, but that much escaped her.
"Sure. Someone needs to make sure she eats, and that dungeon should offer some better ingredients, don't you think?"
Even if she had already committed herself to others, this was more important. She didn't have the words that she needed now. They became unwieldy in her head and slipped away before she could put them to use. However, she thought she might find words for her friend when they once more became sisters in battle.