Thorneby Snacks

It has been over a week since we last saw Joren and his crew. True to Nyra’s request, or 'order' as she had firmly corrected, they had done little more than eat, sleep, and heal. Bandages came off one by one, bruises faded from red to yellow, and for the first time in many weeks they felt a sense of relaxation.

A few days after Joren finally woke up, Nyra brought them a brochure, giving them a chance to plan ahead on what they would do once free from the hospital's clutches.

Bart had snatched it first, of course. “Ah, the sacred text,” he’d announced, flipping through like it was a grimoire of ancient power. “Behold, the food pages."

Willow leaned over his shoulder, half-smiling despite her stiff, stitch-free arms. “At least it has pictures. Look, Joren, they have street food stalls by the riverfront. That’s where we should go first.”

Gus leaned in from the other side, squinting at the fine print. “There’s a whole ranking system. Stars for taste, circles for portion size, and triangles for… ambiance?” He frowned. “Who even eats based on ambiance?”

“I do,” Bart declared. “Food must be judged in its natural habitat. If a cheese wheel cannot thrive in a fine-dining location, then it is nothing more than street food."

Joren shook his head, though he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Just hearing them argue over something so trivial felt strange after all they had been through. He found it funny looking back at the roughly two months he's been traveling. Most journeys never had this much action in such a short time, he guessed. Though he wasn’t familiar with many Auspex who went on journeys. Tsunami was the only one that came to mind, and he seemed to travel solo.

“If it means real food and something from a hospital tray, I don’t care what shape the rating is in.” He replied.

Willow smirked, tapping the page. “Then it’s settled. Let me plan the rest of the activities, it will be more fun that way."

One Week Later – Thorneby District

Although each district had its fair share of food stalls and restaurants, Thorneby was leagues above the rest, particularly due to the fact that they were the agricultural center for the capital. The produce, the livestock, the everything was consistently topping the brochure for must see places.

Stalls spilled onto the cobblestones in colorful rows, awnings stretched taut above the street to shade vendors and customers alike. The air was thick with the smell of frying oil, roasting meat, and sweet breads dusted with sugar.

Joren adjusted the sling around his right arm and tried not to feel out of place in the flow of it all. It was different from Glazebend or Brindlewood's vendor fair in some ways, but it reminded him of both quite a lot. People brushed past with practiced ease, carrying packages tied in twine, baskets of fruit, and sticks of meat.

Willow practically vibrated at the sight of so many food carts. “Oh wow! Okay, first rule is that we should try at least three different stalls. Minimum.”

“Four,” Bart corrected, pointing toward a cart that boasted curds of melted cheese. “That one calls to me.”

Gus folded his arms, scanning the street like he was evaluating structural integrity rather than food options. “We’ll be broke before we reach the river if you don’t pace yourselves.”

“Relax,” Willow said with a grin. “The King is paying for our expenditures. We can get a little wild since we saved their government system."

They moved with the crowd, laughter rising and fading around them. Children darted between stalls with candied nuts in bags, a baker shouted that his rolls were still warm from the oven, and a pair of street performers juggled fruit for a cluster of onlookers. For the first time since the throne room, Joren felt the weight of the world ease off his shoulders.

Willow was the first to break formation, dragging the others toward a narrow cart where skewers of meat hissed over an open flame. The vendor brushed them with some kind of bright red glaze that smoked and popped on contact with the heat. It burned their noses a bit.

She held out coins before anyone could protest. “Spicy squid skewers, four of them. Extra glaze, please.”

The vendor passed them over, and Willow immediately handed one to Joren. “Careful, don’t drop it. You can eat with your left hand, right?”

Joren took it awkwardly, the scent making his mouth water despite the lingering soreness in his chest. One bite later, his tongue lit on fire. He coughed, eyes watering, but Willow just laughed and shoved hers in like it was nothing.

“Of course you like this,” he rasped.

She just laughed at his remark and paid the vendor.

Bart sniffed dismissively, already eyeing the next row of carts. “Amateurs. Real food awaits.”

He veered toward the cheese stall, where wheels were stacked high and molten curds sizzled in iron pans. The vendor offered samples on little sticks, which Bart accepted with reverence. “This,” he declared after a long pause, “is history in the making.”

“Pretty sure it’s just fried cheese,” Gus muttered.

“And yet,” Bart countered, “I am moved by the notion.”

Gus shook his head, but he wasn’t immune. He drifted toward a stall selling fresh bread, long loaves steaming in the cool air. He tapped the crust with his knuckle, listening to the hollow sound. “Good structure,” he noted, buying six before anyone else could comment. He handed two to Joren, knowing he wanted it just as much.

“Bart, stop talking to strangers about cheese,” Willow groaned, swatting him with her half-eaten skewer as they were walking again.

“I’m not talking,” Bart protested, puffing up. “I’m enlightening.”

Before anyone could fire back, a familiar voice cut through the noise of the crowd.

“You’re hard to miss, you know.”

Nyra stood a few paces away, clipboard absent, still with her deep blue jacket with gold trim and boots polished enough to reflect sunlight. She looked every bit the department head even without her usual arsenal of folders and notes. Her eyes swept over them: Willow’s skewer-stained grin, Bart cradling fried cheese like treasure, Gus hugging a bag of bread, and Joren with his sling.

Willow smirked. “We clean up nice. You finally here to join us? I thought you would come join us before we even left this morning.”

Nyra lifted her chin, trying to look unbothered. “I had work to finish. Not everyone can spend their morning buying bread and cheese.”

Bart gasped, clutching his paper boat protectively. “You dare diminish the holy dairy?”

“Bart…” Gus muttered, already exasperated.

Willow grinned wider, leaning closer to Nyra. “Come on, admit it, you just wanted to go shopping and slack off from your paperwork."

Color rose in Nyra’s cheeks, though she kept her voice firm. “I'm just joining the capital's saviors as a guide. Consider this a wellness check. Unofficially,” Her eyes flicked toward a stall strung with glass trinkets catching the sun. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind seeing what Thorneby has to offer.”

Her pouty face was back again.

Willow’s grin sharpened. “Aha, caught you. You do want to shop.”

Before Nyra could deny it, Willow hooked her good arm through hers and tugged her away from the group towards the trinket stall. The sunlight scattered across the little glass charms, painting shifting patterns of green, blue, and amber across Nyra’s jacket.

“I didn’t agree to this,” Nyra muttered, though her gaze lingered on the display longer than she intended.

The other three guys drifted down the rows, pulled toward a tent alive with chirps and trills. Cages of small birds lined the counter, feathers flashing green, gold, and deep indigo. A pair of sleepy cats lounged atop a crate while, on the lower shelf, a handful of lizards lazed under a heat lamp, their scales glinting like polished stones in the glass enclosure.

One they walked in, the two cats started eyeing Bart heavily, staring intently at his beard. Bart gasped. “Finally, a chance to gaze upon natures livelihood."

The vendor, a pudgy man with sun-browned skin, raised an eyebrow. “No touching if you ain't buyin."

The cats crept closer, their eyes fixed on Bart’s tangled mess of hair like it was prey. One batted at the edge of his beard when he leaned too close, to which he shooed them away.

Bart clutched his chest with both hands. “They recognize greatness. My whiskers must speak to them!”

“I don't know about all that.” Gus deadpanned, catching the back of Bart’s coat before he pressed his face any nearer to the cages.

The vendor snorted, clearly unconvinced. He tossed a pinch of seed into the bird cages, and the air filled with a sudden burst of chirps and fluttering wings.

Joren drifted towards some pens with goats and chickens, which reminded him of his old home in the barn. He recalled the many mornings where he would get up to feed the chickens and goats, especially his buddy Jargon. Gosh, he really missed Jargon's noisy antics somedays.

“You’re not buying one.” Gus said over his shoulder, already preempting the thought.

Joren smiled faintly. “Didn’t say I was. Just looking.”

Bart puffed up again, gesturing broadly. “Nonsense. A noble companion is exactly what we need. A herald of our glory, a keeper of morale, a—”

“An expense,” Gus cut in. “And a liability to our travels.”

“And a headache.” Willow’s voice cut in from behind, sharp with amusement. She and Nyra slipped back into the tent, Willow clutching a small paper bag in her good hand. “You leave for five minutes and you’re already trying to adopt farm animals?”

Nyra crossed her arms, eyes flicking from Bart to the goats, then to Joren. “Please tell me this isn’t actually happening.”

Joren raised his good hand in surrender. “Don’t look at me. I was just remembering home.”

“That’s how it starts...” Gus muttered.

"Why don't we go do some clothes shopping? We should check out some funny clothes." Willow added, already prompting them to get a move on.

Bart threw his hands up. “Clothes? Bah. What need have we for fabric when destiny itself cries out for a goat?”

“Destiny can wait,” Willow shot back, already herding him toward the tent’s flap. “I want to see Joren in something ridiculous. Maybe a hat with feathers.”

Joren groaned. “Why me? That seems more like Bart's style.”

“Because it’s your birthday week!” Willow said sweetly, which immediately ruined any chance of escape.

Nyra, still standing stiff with her arms crossed, gave a delicate sniff. “If we must, I know a tailor in the district who works quickly and keeps quality stock. You’ll be properly fitted.”

Willow grinned at her. “See? She’s already in the spirit. But I don't think we need a custom tailor.”

“I’m not saying you should,” Nyra protested. “I’m just ensuring you don’t waste money on—”

But her words drowned as Bart suddenly leapt forward. “Onward, then! To the halls of fabric and fashion! Our image shall resound through the capital!”

The vendor shook his head, muttering something about lunatics as the group spilled back into the bright street, laughter already trailing behind them.