Interlude: Cook

“Flame immunity is not a universal fix against all forms of fire. A person may have immunity to mundane flame but still be vulnerable to magic or divine flame and vice versa. Thus, the Inquisition should keep a healthy population of mage apostles. So that even if we may not follow the spirit of tradition, we follow the letter of it.” - Excerpt ‘Fireproof Heretics and you. Why you don’t need to give up on tradition’ by Cardinal Cordelia.

It was a chilly midsummer morning when they heard rumours of his coming. He was well known across the land. Hushed and frightened whispers talked of him. An Orcish Warlord that carved a path of brutal destruction through uncountable nations. His emblem of blood-red an omen of ruin and flame to those unfortunate enough to see it.

Disbelief was the first thought on most minds, they were but a small river town, what could possibly incite him to come? Yet as the facts were laid bare, it became clear. Two towns and three villages left in ruin, all upstream of their town. He was coming here, if not intentionally then in passing.

He travelled alone, yet none doubted his combat ability. The orc was rumoured to have taken on entire platoons single-handed. The small river town had no such combat capability.

No sane being would try to meet him in combat, but the town had to do something, lest their livelihood was burned and destroyed before their very eyes. So when they heard of his coming, they prepared a tribute.

Hunters went out and slaughtered the largest boar in the forest, the herbalist collected wild herbs, the barkeeper prepared her prized beer brew, baker and miller worked together to create the finest loaves.

When the orc finally arrived, a table and seat were prepared and the town held their breath as the orc sampled the food.

The orc tore apart the sourdough, chewed through the roast boar with wild garlic stuffings and drank the entire beer keg in a few sips. All the time sporting an indescribable expression.

After many pregnant moments, the orc slammed his fist on the table and began in a slow, quiet voice, “The beer is of fine quality, mild tartness that contrasts well with the subtle sweetness, I see it has the essences of six, no, seven different wild berries, local ones I assume.”

The barkeep mutely nodded, too frightened to make a noise.

“This sourdough,” he continued in the same, slow voice, as if speaking to a child, “it’s interior is far too soft compared to a traditional sourdough's chewiness and the subtle sourness of sourdough is practically non-existent, simply put, it is bland. Barely. Acceptable. Quality.”

The townsfolk took a shared sharp intake of breath as they watched the orc casually brush against the head of his axe.

“All of this I can accept, however,” the orc slowly said, deliberately enunciating every syllable. “This boar,” he said slowly, “Is far, far too TOUGH!” he roared towards the townsfolk, “Are you cattle teeth blind!? This boar meat is not only old, it is far too sinewy and muscular to be worth eating any way other than raw!”

“But it was the toughest boar in the forest,” a hunter interjected, before swiftly shrinking back as the orc’s eyes seemed to bore holes in his body.

“DOES PURE MUSCLE MAKE FOR A GOOD CUT OF PORK!? FAR FROM IT CATTLE TEETH!” the orc yelled enraged, “YOU HUMANS MUST NOT ONLY HAVE THE TEETH OF CATTLE BUT ALSO THE BRAINS! YOU WOULD MAKE BETTER PORK THAN THIS BOAR!”

The orc, Grimm Ramsey, in a smooth and powerful motion, drew his axe and slammed it into the table, “FOR THIS IMBECILITY AND POOR SERVICE, ZERO OUT OF FIVE AXES!”

Grimm Ramsey wiped the blood off his axe. After another wholesome morning of educating people of the correct way of cooking, he was feeling the need for a palette cleanser after the utterly horrific display he just tasted. Fortunately, he knew just the place.

Heading to a nearby Wayshard and smiling when he met the toll keeper, he was allowed to pass without paying. It was surprising how few people understood politeness these days. A brief show of fangs and the toll keeper and him were practical blood brothers. The keeper even shook in his armour in that strange human way they did to show affection.

Touching the Wayshard, he thought of where he wanted to go, and soon enough, he was there.

Bartin was as bustling as you could expect from a Port Town. Most people gave him a wide berth, to show their respect, of course, it’s not like Ramsey was scary or something.

He made his way past the bustling streets of the town. To the more secluded areas, until he reached a shop.

Throwing open the doors, Grimm threw a haymaker at the troll chef, throwing him into a table and knocking out three of his teeth. The chef quickly responded with his own haymaker, a loud crack sounded out as the troll’s fist impacted his jaw.

“Ha!” he laughed, as he saw the troll’s fist crumple on his unmoved jaw, “One of these days you’ll be able to take my teeth!”

The troll groaned in pain as he set the broken bones back in place. Warm familial greetings completed, the young troll said, “Uncul Ramsey, you should’ve contacted me, sent a letter or scried.”

“Bah!” he snorted, “Do I look like a diviner? Lugging around a crystal ball like some imbecile.”

“They’ve made them really small now, you can fit most in your pocket.”

“They can turn me into a diviner over my corpse!” Grimm yelled as he took a seat.

“The usual?” his nephew asked as he headed behind the counter.

“Of course,” Grimm answered, taking the opportunity to glance around the place.

It was a lot cleaner than when his Blood Brother, the young troll’s father had left it. Grimm wiped a finger on the table and was glad to see no dust or grime breaking off with it. Just this and the troll’s excellent service put it at one axe out of five. Very much above most other ‘restaurants’.

His nephew soon returned with what gave the restaurant its other axe. A bowl of blood-red soup. Just smelling it was enough to burn off some of Grimm’s nose hairs.

As Grimm took a spoon to savour the spice, the door opened and two figures stepped in.

“-Come on! It can’t be that bad,” the first figure said.

“I don’t know, this place looks sketchy,” the second said.

The first was a warrior. Grimm could tell with the confidence he held himself. Confidence in ability but very nearing arrogance. He was a purplish-blue skinned devilling in sensible light armour.

The second was… hard to read. It was a myconid of some kind, Grimm have heard descriptions of their kind, but he did not know that they glowed. It didn’t move like a warrior, though he recognised the way it constantly looked around as it evaluated the location. Its face was a mockery of what a face should look like, it didn’t seem to show emotions at all.

When empty crevices met his eyes, he knew it was gauging him as a threat. Grimm bared his fangs, the mushroom paused, before it too showed teeth. It had no fangs, though Grimm suspected the rows and rows of large molars could crush bone if needed. The devilling, upon seeing their exchange, also smiled. His teeth were more like normal cattle, but his horns he bore proudly and a broken halberd was tucked in his belt. He was not unused to the weight.

They were no meek cattle.

Pleasant greetings over, Grimm went back to his meal. The chilli burning his tongue, cleansing the horrid taste left from this mornings disgrace of food.

“I’ll have what he’s having!” the devilling exclaimed, “Damn, I’ve always wanted to say that,” he muttered to his companion as they both sat down.

“Same I suppose,” the myconid said.

Both Grimm and his nephew smirked. “Sure mon,” the young troll answered, “but be warned, my Ancestor Chilli Soup is hot enough for you to see your ancestors!”

“Unorthodox display of hubris but sure,” the myconid replied drily.

“Is that a Jamaican accent?” the devilling asked.

“Jamaican?” his young nephew asked, “This is trollish.”

When his nephew turned around to prepare the soup, the myconid kicked his companion in a discreet manner.

“What?” the devilling whispered.

The myconid simply shook its head.

The devilling rolled his eyes, “Do you run this store by yourself?”

“Ja,” his nephew answered in front of a boiling pot. “Took over after fada was crisped.”

“Huh. What’s your name? Mine’s Noam.”

“John.”

Grimm snarled. His nephew called himself John, though Grimm would never use that name. It was, after all, a name in human tongue. Taken only because the uncultured cattle teeth couldn’t get it through their skulls that trolls did not have names till they earned one through combat.

Though, the younger troll was unlikely to ever earn a name through combat. As he seemed to dislike conflict and was a runt. Not only that his regeneration was weak compared to other trolls and his physique was barely above a peasant human. Grimm still refused to refer to him by a name unearned. If he didn’t swear an oath to the young troll’s late father to keep him safe, Grimm would’ve already thrown him to the wolves to earn a name or die trying.

Ignoring his snarl, the devilling kept talking to his nephew as he prepared the chilli soup. The myconid still showed no expression, though two smaller myconids seemed to have appeared and were looking around in clear curiosity. Its children perhaps?

Conversation soon ended as his nephew brought forth two large bowls of chilli soup.

Noam licked his lips as his nephew set the bowls down. The myconids sniffed it, before recoiling.

Noam didn’t seem to notice his companions’ reaction, and took up a wooden spoon, taking a sip.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, “Dustin you gotta try this. Damn, I can taste this, can I have some water?”

‘What?’ This devilling actually survived his first sip?

Though, Grimm smirked, the cattle-teeth might’ve survived the initial sip, but he will be screaming soon enough. After all, he asked for water.

Dustin, slightly apprehensive looking, also took a sip with its spoon as his nephew brought a cup of water.

The myconid froze. Gone completely still.

Noam downed the water in a gulp, “Ah!” he smacked his lips, “Now I’m feeling it.”

His nephew looked at the devilling, face clearly confused, and Noam smiled, “Your soup wasn’t quite at two million Scovilles, so I wanted to get it there.”

Grimm’s eyes widened in realisation and surprise. He didn’t take water to cool the flame, but to feed it!

Grimm didn’t know this, but Noam was an utter psychopath when it came to chilli! When he was eight, he played a VR game where he had to eat progressively stronger chilli. It was a high score type game where you aimed to eat the chilli with the highest Scoville heat unit on a global leaderboard. Thanks to innovations in VR, previously impossible to achieve heights in chilli were achieved with pinpoint accuracy. This mad game eventually gave Noam’s tongue the instinctive ability to measure chilli with Scoville heat units with only fifty units of error! And Noam’s personal high score was…

“I felt that, though you won’t get me panting unless you get to eight digits,” Noam said with a smug smile.

Grimm looked at the devilling with newfound respect and expectation. Could this Noam be a connoisseur of fine foods as well?

The myconid though… Grimm recognised the form of someone gone completely catatonic from shock. Even if they were in a strange body. It was completely frozen now, though it was better than screaming-

Dustin lifted the spoon and drank the soup again.

Grimm’s eyes widened, another connoisseur!?

To understand why Dustin was completely still, one needs to know that magic myconids did not have something resembling a human knee-jerk reaction. All their actions went through their central processing organ. Dustin is to a point, completely in control of his actions.

However, after sipping the soup. His mind had gone blank completely with pain.

Normally in response to the extreme pain, he would be screaming, or clawing at his throat to try to remove the burning liquid. But these actions were just placebo his still somewhat human mind did because it thought that was the correct reaction to pain.

This chilli went past that.

It far overloaded what his mind could process. Pain signals were sent to his mind but nothing was coming in response to it, thus his body did not move.

He was suffering an absolute state of pain, where his mind was entirely devoted to processing the taste of the chilli.

The chilli had effectively short-circuited him. As for what happened to the wisps… well there was no need to discuss dead corpses.

In this state, there was a small part of Dustin. The small, sane part, began to glimpse the light beyond and saw a figure within.

“Ye ye?” Declan uttered in surprise, “Huh, I thought that seeing your ancestors thing was just a marketing scheme-”

His grandpa slapped him across the face. “Fool! What are you doing sitting there like an idiot!?”

“Huh!? Did you taste that thing-”

Declan was slapped again, “IDIOT! Back in my day I only had the government rations and I was glad for it!”

“But I’m not from ‘back in your day’ damn zoomer-” Declan began before getting slapped.

“DON’T WASTE FOOD!” his grandfather yelled as he disappeared.

“Don’t waste food.” This sentence sounded in his mind and Declan, barely thinking raised his spoon.

“Wait a second-” Declan could not finish as a fresh wave of pain poured through him.

“Don’t waste food.”

“No no no this seems like a perfectly reasonable time to-” Declan yelled before the pain caused him to keel over.

“Don’t waste food.” The sentence echoed in his mind. A mantra taught from parent to child since time immemorial. In a state where Dustin’s mind could not process anything. It latched onto that mantra, making him raise the spoon and take one sip after another. Dustin’s sane mind protested again and again, but its screams were not as loud as the pain or the mantra. So his body ignored it. The continued pain slowly pushed Dustin’s sane mind farther and farther back through sheer pain, until the screams grew weaker and stopped as Dustin’s sane mind died.

The myconid seemed to have overcome its earlier apprehension through sheer willpower!

‘What supreme resilience. It is not even flinching despite going completely catatonic earlier from the chilli,’ Grimm thought. ‘I would like to meet whoever raised such a determined being. They must be an extremely good parent.’

It was weak, but it’s overcoming its flaws through sheer strength of will! To take a second sip of the Ancestor Chilli Soup was enough for Grimm to praise it, but the fact that it was overcoming its weakness had earned it Grimm’s respect.

Though there was another who was worthy of Grimm’s respect.

“Do you have anything chillier?” Noam asked.

His nephew looked strangely at Noam’s empty bowl, before his eyes burned with the light a challenger, “Ja, this is normally unavailable for customers, but I can make the Five Spices Overcoming.”

Grimm’s eyes widened. The Five Spices Overcoming was a derivative chilli recipe of the Mighty Zul’Garub’s Eleven Spices Overcoming Tiamat. Which was famously so hot that it made all of Tiamat’s heads feel the pain of fire for the first time in their lives. This derivative was weaker, unavoidably so as six of the ingredients have been lost, but Grimm has seen men taste it and be turned into screaming wrecks for days.

“I’ll take it!” Noam cheerfully declared.

“Me as well,” Grimm said. He’s only ever had the novelty of tasting the Five Spices Overcoming once, when it was prepared by his Blood Brother Fon’Dafarr. He did not know Fon’Dafarr had passed the recipe to his son.

His nephew soon returned from the kitchen. A plate of fried chicken pieces, sprinkled liberally with the spice in each hand.

‘Will this break him?’ Grimm thought as he brought a chicken piece to his mouth. He had felt worse pain than this chilli. But what about this Noam? He was a devilling so he likely had flame resistance of some kind, but he would be mistaken to think that flame resistance would help against chilli.

Noam, unheeding of Grimm’s glare, took a drum stick and ate it. Grimm saw Noam’s eyes widened and- “Holy shit this is seven mil at least!”

-seem completely fine.

‘Impressive,’ Grimm thought, ‘though his body shows no scars, to have such impressive chilli resistance, Noam must’ve suffered through numerous battles till his mind became an impenetrable fortress.’

His nephew though, simply looked frustrated, before rushing back behind the kitchen, yelling, “I didn’t want to use this. But for you I make an exception and prepare the River Blight!”

Grimm’s eyes widened. ‘He knew the recipe to River Blight!?’ He quickly called out, “A bowl for me as well!”

The River Blight was a mixture of spices which led to an extremely potent sauce. Four-hundred years ago, the Great Chef Zul’Derag famously dripped merely a bowl of it into a river. To this day, Derag’s River and everything near it is considered one of the most uninhabitable locations in the Wastelands. Creatures without resilient minds would instantly die of shock from the pain of being exposed to the spice.

Did Fon’Dafarr pass this to his son as well!? What dark recipes did this bloodline know!?

His nephew swiftly returned with two disks of spice, setting it down in front of both of them. He glared at the devilling with a face of defiance. Daring him to try.

The devilling glanced at him, then met the gaze of Grimm. Taking one of the earlier chicken pieces, he dipped it into the sauce. Turning it around several times so that it would be liberally coated. Grimm mirrored his action and both raised the chicken to take a bite.

Grimm, who had once been drawn and quartered by Dread Steeds, glared at an oncoming cavalry charge and dared them to pass him, burned alive by dragons, all without flinching or change in his expression. Grim the Unflinching, The Great Demon Chef and Bastion Breaker. Flinched and let out a gasp of pain. He felt his body start to dry heave as it tried to get rid of the spice. His mouth, his throat, his stomach, they all burned. It was as if he had just ingested a lump of burning coal. He could physically track the progress of the bite as it passed through his digestive track purely through the waves of pain it left in its wake.

Noam did not seem to be faring any better, he had fallen limp onto the table, his mouth gaping like a fish. He was hiccupping, his body too trying to expel the spice.

Before, suddenly he clenched his teeth and Grim saw his body tense, “Thirteen mil- no, eighteen million,” he whispered. He raised his arm, still holding the bitten chicken piece, revealing the pure white flesh underneath. Then he dipped that exposed white flesh into the spice once again.

‘DOUBLE DIPPING!? IS HE A MADMAN!?’ Noam continued in spite of Grim’s shock, then took another bite. Grimm was barely staying alive after one bite, but this… this man was taking bite after bite, even coating it with more spice as before.

As Grimm watched this, he felt a flame light in his belly. Not the literal flame caused by the chilli, but a metaphorical one.

Grimm let out a primal warcry, shaking the establishment and loud enough to be heard throughout the entire ghetto. “I will not be upped by a youngling without a single scar on his back!”

Grimm brought his reserves of aura, forcing his body to move and mimic Noam’s actions.

Fresh waves of pain bombarded him, he felt his chest begin to constrict as the pain made it hard to breathe. But he refused to stop, not until the one in front of him too relented. They ate, fresh waves of maddening pain washing over them until the drumsticks in both their hands were just bare-bones and the sauce wiped clean.

Through all this, Grimm’s nephew looked upon them with pure shock. He had expected his uncul to be fine, but the devilling?

That was his strongest chilli. The last recipe fada had imparted to him on his deathbed. Noam had cleaned the sauce, and though he breathed hard and fast it looked like he would survive and be none the worse.

Was it all for naught? fada had spent years researching a chilli that would surpass all. Before his experiments burnt him in a way so horrific, not even his trollish regeneration could keep up.

He was the only one with his fada’s knowledge. Were all those years of experience waste!?

The young troll suddenly felt nauseous, he fell backwards knocking over something as he fell to the ground. Something very hot splashed onto him and he could hear his uncul yelling in surprise.

The troll licked his lips, recognising the taste of the Ancestor Chilli Soup before his mind was blanked in pain.

The young troll saw beyond life. He saw beyond the veils separating the living and unliving and saw a familiar figure within.

“What are you doing!” his fada yelled at him as he delivered a haymaker to the young troll’s jaw, knocking out four of his teeth. “Are you just going to let this shango walk over your efforts!?”

“I can’t fada,” the young troll replied as he rubbed his jaw, “I already tried the River Blight. I have nothing left.”

“Of course you do!” the elder troll yelled, lifting the prone form of his son and enveloping him in a bear hug. “You are merely holding yourself back!”

“I am?” the young troll asked surprised.

“Of course!” the elder troll yelled, “You have spent too long living amongst cattle-teeth, even taking up one of their names!” he shook his head, “Ah the words your mada would be having if she heard.”

“How does me living amongst humans matter?” the young troll asked.

The elder troll snorted, “You’ve gone daft spending so much time with humans. The spice you make is spicy enough to kill humans, but we are TROLLS!” he yelled. “You limit yourself to human standards, when you should be going beyond that! Make spice capable of killing trolls! Capable of killing behemoths and dragons! I know you can do it, you are my son!”

The young troll felt tears come to his eyes. Mostly because his fada was hugging him hard enough to break bones but also because of the heartfelt speech he just imparted. “Do you really think so fada?”

“Of course I do!” the elder troll yelled, tears coming to his eyes also. “You are my son, my blood!” The elder troll let go of his son, slapping him on the back and breaking at least two ribs. “Go!”

The young troll looked back and two pairs of teary eyes met. “I will fada, I will show them the power of our work!”

“Oh, and one more thing,” the young troll turned around to his fada. “Do not call yourself ‘John’ your mada will kill me if she heard it, no your name should be,”

The elder troll said a name as the younger’s eyes widened in surprise.

“But… but fada, I have not yet earned-”

“Then go earn it!” his fada interjected, “create a chilli that can kill those two!”

“Even uncul?”

“He is a chef and a warrior! He should be prepared for death the moment he stepped into your restaurant!” the young orc felt his conscious returning and the light around him fading.

“And if he is not prepared! Then I will kill him again when you send him here!” his fada yelled as the young troll returned to reality.

The young troll opened his eyes to his uncul’s worried glare. All his faces looked like glares.

“Are you alright nephew-”

The young troll pushed Grimm off of him, “Thank you uncul, but I know what I must do.”

Grimm saw the determination in his eyes. The determination of one prepared to earn glory or die trying and stood out of his way.

The young troll went to the back of the kitchen, to a latch which led to his fada’s lab. A lab he had not entered since he dragged out his fada’s completely burned form, and inside the lab, he saw a myriad of ingredients.

“Purest sulfuric acid, grounded bones of a Greater Demon of Agony, black powder, the tears of one eternally tortured…”

Options burned in his mind. The young troll stood at the Crossroads, and it beckoned him to choose a Path.

Of multitudes of Paths, he saw one he knew. One tread by few and many. A broken Path littered with burnt corpses. One once walked by his fada Fon’Dafarr.

He took a step forward onto that Path, and like a troll possessed, he began mixing ingredients, adding them into a mortar and pestle. The knowledge his fada taught and the knowledge he learnt. He brought them together in Fusion.

Noam had to shield his eyes when the troll left the kitchen. He was carrying something on a plate, something which was brighter than anything he knew.

The light hit Dustin and Noam saw his body go completely limp, it crashing to the table before it was lit aflame. Noam barely cared, as he saw the troll place the dish in front of him and the elderly looking orc.

He looked at the orc, grim determination meeting a childlike smile. Noam reached for the piece of something and felt his hands charr as it went near it.

Simply proximity had turned his hand into burnt black bones, but he ignored it as he grasped onto the thing. The orc lifted his piece with him.

They raised the piece to their mouths. And even though Noam’s lips dried and cracked, his teeth burnt black from the heat, he took a bite.

What he tasted could not have been measured in Scoville units. No, it was feasible, but it would’ve been as meaningless as trying to measure the width of the universe with a standard thirty-centimetre ruler or measuring the volume of the ocean with only a single shot cup for reference.

There was no point in Noam trying to measure something so far beyond him. His perspective was far too small. Though, the orc summed it up pretty well.

“Five out of five axes,” he whispered like a secret as the world turned white.

That night. Noam tasted the sun.