Retribution, Cuisine - Story
The world of Cordisalia, a tapestry of realms each woven with distinct landscapes steeped in ancient magic. Six continents sprawl across its surface, each shaped by the will of one of the divine brothers, in a grandiose event that has come to be known as The Coalescence. However, that is a story for another time, as for now, our focus falls upon a secluded traveller’s tavern nestled within Florion’s Ridge, an expansive mountain range lying in the north of the Verdant Continent.
Inside this tavern, relaxing with a glass of whiskey as the warm hues of sunset begin to fade away, a man on his lonesome. Wyatt Holloway.
You’ve made quite a name for yourself across the sprawling twisted web of an underworld that lies beneath this normally calm and green realm. You once rode the high life of crime, your name whispered in back alleys and thug bars, a man who could pull off a heist without leaving a trace. A deadeye with a pistol and a mind sharp as your aim. You were a shining instrument of the notorious crime syndicate known as Post Mortem—right up until you weren’t. It was love that changed you. Her name was Eleanor, a kind soul who saw the kind man beneath your hardened gunslinger’s exterior. She believed you could be more than a hired gun, more than a shadow in the underworld. Soon you found yourself daring to believe it too. So you walked away, turned your back on Post Mortem, and dreamed of a life where blood no longer stained your hands. But the past doesn’t let go so easily. Post Mortem sent a message in the only language you truly understood. That night. That haunting night. You returned home to the lifeless corpse of the one you had cherished so dearly—her body stone cold, her name carved into the wood of your home as a cruel reminder. Eleanor. They took everything from you, but, you didn’t seek vengeance. You knew killing them all wouldn’t bring her back, wouldn’t fill the gaping hole that they carved out of your chest. Instead, you let yourself waste away, drowning in regret, whiskey, and the quiet ache of guilt. But eventually, you discovered that, even a broken man has a purpose—he just has to find it-no matter how hard that may be. Now, you wander from town to town, your pistols still at your side, though, wielding them for a different cause. You help those crushed beneath the boots of the powerful, bringing out justice in the only way you know how. If you must steal to feed the starving, so be it. If you must kill to protect the innocent, so be it. Your hands will never be clean, but perhaps, in time, you can lighten their stain.
As you sit in this quiet tavern, ruminating over your past decisions, your attention is caught by a figure approaching you. A man, with a warm expression.
He introduces himself as Lyle, explains he’s a fan of your work, offers to buy you another round. You don’t know how he knows who you are, especially in a place out in the boonies like this tavern, but for some reason you feel, warmed. As you two drink and converse together, you even feel yourself, weirdly, beginning to enjoy his company. Soon enough, his expression stiffens. He puts down his drink, and looks you in the eye. “What do you know of Highvale Manor?” He asks. You learn of the Highvale family, one of the families core to Wyrmsgard’s aristocracy, and their estate, Highvale Manor. Lyle explains how this estate is in fact, as corrupt as it gets. Its not common knowledge, but underneath the manor lies a prison, known as The Shacklehold. A prison where slaves and other highly sought after creatures are held in captivity, eventually to be sold into the Verdant Continent’s Soulmarket. He slams his fists into the table, anger washing over his face. Then he looks back to you, with a glare so intense, you feel it deep within. “My group is planning a raid, tomorrow night.” he says, his expression unwavering. “We’d be honoured to have you join us in liberating what poor souls lie beneath Highvale soil.” After a moment, you nod back to him, feeling inspired by his fierceness. “This is where we will meet. Tomorrow at dusk.” He says handing you a map. As you feel the coarse paper touch your fingers, you close your eyes, and you can almost see the words appear visibly in your head, tomorrow at dusk. When you open them again, you see Lyle wave at you with a grin, on his way out of the tavern. You don’t think much of it, and you decide its best to get some rest, heading for your room, your head hitting the pillow hard. As your eyes close, you see the words again, tomorrow at dusk.
As Wyatt Holloway’s consciousness fades, our focus shifts on to a different part of the Verdant Continent. The windswept port city of Breisken, about two weeks prior. This is a city brimming with trade, prosper, and souls arriving in the Verdant Continent from distant lands, in search of whatever their future might hold for them. A city rich with culture, one of its most notorious hotspots is the bustling and diverse Windward Food Market.
For the many who hold a stall here, business today would be no different than usual, however for one green chef, today would be monumental. His first day cooking for the crowds of Breisken, let alone the rest of the Verdant Continent. Preparing a small food stall nestled in a corner of the market, Mugwort Snaggletooth.
You were once a well respected guild cook in the busy markets of The Mirage. Born into the Snaggletooth clan, a family known for their culinary traditions, you inherited an exceptional sense of taste and smell that set you apart from your peers. From a young age, you showed a natural talent for combining unlikely ingredients into surprisingly delectable concoctions. For fifteen years, you served as the head cook for the Shimmernail Guild, a modestly successful trading collective that specialized in exotic spices and rare ingredients. Your signature dish became something of a legend among guild members and locals alike. A hearty, bubbling stew, that eventually became coloquially known as “Slop”. Many gathered over the years to enjoy your cuisine, yet, none ever came to realise that the secret lay not in the stew itself, but in your special fermented mead, that you both cooked with and served alongside the meal. However, your rising popularity would soon become your downfall. The guild’s leadership, primarily concerned with profits, attempted to force you to reveal your secret recipe so that they could mass produce Slop to sell throughout The Mirage. You refused, claiming that your culinary arts were meant to be experienced freshly made, rather than bottled and commodified. Infuriated at your lack of cooperation, the guild leaders mocked you publically, calling your principles “foolish”, and your food “just soup and beer” that any goblin could make. Deeply insulted, and with your culinary reputation in tatters among the guild elites, you decided to leave the Shimmernail behind. Taking only your cooking implements, spice collection, and your trusty brewing equipment, you set out to prove that your cooking wasn’t in fact just soup and beer that any goblin could make. You knew the difference in your heart and you wanted to show that to the world. To enlighten those around you to the beauty of slop and mead. Over the past two years, you traveled extensively – first upwards through The Mirage’s various settlements, then following trade routes along the icy coast of the Frozen Highlands. Along the way, you set up temporary food stalls in countless marketplaces, offering slop and mead to anyone willing to try it. Your energetic personality and passionate (if sometimes long-winded) explanations of your cooking techniques made you a memorable character in many ports, mainly due to your enthusiasm often exceeding the patience of your audience. In many markets, particularly those you visited multiple times, locals began to roll their eyes when they saw you approach with your portable cooking station. “Here comes the goblin with his slop sermon again,” they’d say, rudely declining your latest culinary innovations. Recently, you parted from the harbour of Snøhaven in the Frozen Highlands, embarking across the vast cold ocean in search of new culinary horizons. You’ve since just arrived in Breisken. Here, amidst the cosmopolitan mix of travellers and locals, you have been hoping to finally find some souls that will share the passion for slop and mead that you do.
After having set up your stall about two hours ago, you’ve been patiently wait for any potential customers to show interest. After checking your mead keg, and going to stir your slop cauldron, you double take in excitement. Two figures standing in front of your stall. One, a large man with a welcoming smile.
The other, a smaller woman, with a somewhat annoyed expression.
“What’s a gobbo like you doing in breisken?” he asks. “Pretty rare to see one of your kind in the verdant continent.” After talking about your culinary adventures and about the wonders of slop and mead, you are met with what seems like genuine interest from the man and an expression of increasing boredom from the girl. “Aw Slop and mead aye? Well, im Kaelus, and this here’s Nythria, I call her Nyth.” Nythria snarls and punches Kaelus when he calls her Nyth. “All right all right calm yourself just a lil’ friendly on the job nickname that’s all, anyhow gobbers, we’d like to try some of your slop and mead”. Your face lights up as you hear the words leave his mouth. Without hesitation you prepare a bowl and a mug and hand it to Kaelus. He takes a sip from the slop, followed by a gulp from the mead. You wait intently for his reaction, only to pump your fists in joy when you see a look of delight wash over his face. “Caw gobbo this is some good stuff!” he says, taking another sip before opening his mouth again. “He’ll go for a good price.” Kaelus nods his head at something behind you. Before you can react you hear the words “It’s already dusk” whispered in your ear by Nythria, followed by your heart beating louder than you’ve ever heard it beat before. Your vision starts to fade, and the last thing you see is Kaelus waving to you and saying “Sleep tight gobbo”.
Back in the present, after dreaming of the words “tomorrow at dusk” all night and thinking of them all day, Wyatt Holloway, you are waiting at the meeting spot as requested by Lyle.
You can see some tall spires peeking over the trees. Highvale Manor. Dusk has passed, night has fallen, yet you are the only one here. You start to question yourself, why you were so easy to agree yesterday. Its not like you. You feel your tiredness is setting in from a long day of repetitive thought combined with what restless sleep you had last night. You sit down on a log, your vision fading. As you do, a silhouette appears in front of you. With what little energy you have, you look up and see a familiar face. It’s Lyle. “Ah Wyatt,” he says. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.” Before you can do anything, you feel a strong impact, and a shock rush down your spine as something smashes into the back of your head. You feel your body collapse, your head hitting the grass. You vaguely make out Lyle shouting “Gotcha!”, and then, nothing.
Deep beneath Highvale Manor, in the winding tunnels of what is known as The Shacklehold, a group of captives feel the cold stone floor repeatedly hitting their bare feet. Their vision, nothing but the sacks they wear over their heads. After what seems like an eternity, they finally come to a halt. Soon, a voice. “This one can go in cell 58, that one can go as well. Put those two in a cell together, it’s a mother daughter pair.” Discomforted grunts and screams can be heard from the various prisoners being paraded off in all different directions. “Put the green one with Gribbles. And, ah, him, leave him here. Our Lord wishes to see him.” As one prisoner, a goblin, is thrown into a nearby cell, the last prisoner is left on his knees alone. As quiet settles in, distant footsteps can be heard walking the halls of The Shacklehold. With each step, louder and louder, until… The lone prisoner’s sack is ripped off of his head.
The prisoner takes in his surroundings, a cold stone maze, before looking to the towering figure in front of him.
The man puts his hands on his head and cracks his neck.
”Wyatt Holloway. At last. You know, for months I’ve heard your name whispered in the halls of my most distinguished patrons. Always with a grimace, always with contempt. The troublesome gunslinger, the self-righteous vigilante, the… what did Lord Highvale call you? Ah yes, ‘that persistent vermin.’ How fitting. You’ve cost my clients considerable coin and peace of mind with your misguided crusade.
But look at you now. Chains suit you better than that coat, I think. All that righteous fire, all those dramatic rescues, and here you are - just another product in my inventory. I must admit, there’s a certain… poetic justice to it. The hero of the downtrodden, soon to be sold to the very aristocrats whose operations you’ve disrupted.
I believe we’ll make quite an example of you, Holloway. Perhaps I’ll even let you keep your tongue, so you can witness first hand how utterly meaningless your antics have been. After all, what’s more devastating than watching everything you’ve fought for crumble while you serve the very system you sought to destroy?”
Chains drop from his sleeves, and with a grunt, he whips Wyatt across his back. He throws one of Wyatt’s pistols on the floor in front of him, and snaps it in two with nothing but his boot. The man puts his hands on his head and cracks his neck again. He laughs, before nodding to the guards and walking away. The guards throw Wyatt into a nearby cell.
Our story continues in Chapter 9.2 - Gribbles’ Gambit…