The usual patrons of the Plum were agitated that morning. Many were discussing the elven trader situation. By situation, she obviously meant '' threats''. The old cook always found elves and nature in general to be off-putting, and moving to this village near their frontier did nothing to tame that impression. Such were the price she had to pay, however, to avoid scrutiny from regulations and overbearing legislations. Here, things in the Plum were simple. Or at least they were until recently...
Between the creepy Baron and those tree huggers, this place has become more problematic than it ever was. She shares her concern with the current customers, and most of them seem to agree.
''If i wasn't so bloody honest, i swear I'd put something nasty in a dish and serve it to them.'' She mentions casually before sitting down to empty her mug of ale. Years of working in the kitchen and tending the various menial jobs it implied had made her sturdy, and robust, but age was starting to take it's toll on her. ''Guess I'll just take a break now, while the pies cool down'' she said, to no one in particular. Working at inns had given her the habbit of talking out loud. Not that she cared what people thought of her opinion, but a silent inn was a terrible inn. People on break loved idle chat, and drunken dwarves doubly so...
And silent, the place was. Since weird had taken a mandate to reform their agricultural production, a lot of idlers had been put to work. Many a resident used to spend their days here at the Plum mostly because they had a strong love for booze and an absurd lack of stuff to do. Now they were outside tending the fields or building workshops and whatnot. Not that she minded. She didnt especially feel attached to anybody. Three quarters of a decade working the ovens will do that to you. Cooking is hardly the most dangerous job in a fortress, and no settlement can go without food. Once shit hits the fan and life goes sour, the only reliable source of happiness, beside crafted marvels obviously, is the warmth of a good soup or some refined pie. Ss a result, most overseers she worked with preferred her to stay in the kitchen, and work there full time. This was a safe job, but a weird one. One day the soldiers were there eating their fried kitten steak, until they just stopped showing up. Young lads and newcomers took their place, then vanished as well when the alarm rang, to meet their doom on the battlefield. The kitchen and the cook remained the same, yet on any given day, the usual customers could simply vanish.
It's better not to care. It's hard, but in the long run that's how you survive. Just don't get attached.
The warm and cozy smell of berries filled the inn, interrupting her reminescing about past fortresses and the disasters that befell them. She downed the rest of her mug, stood up, and went back to check on the berry pies. ''Well, better make sure those little babies don't burn huh?''
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Topic: Nevertaxed: Dwarven Village Bloodline (Overseers Needed!) (Read 55267 times)