Dish: Comforting Spaghetti – Savorian Bolognese with Mozzeril
"Whenever you're ready, Chef." The Jackal's voice boomed from above, and the taste-testers nodded. The scent-archivist had some jars and a notebook in her paws.
"All right. Thank you for inviting me to tonight's tasting menu."
She sliced the mire-onion with slow, deliberate strokes—just thick enough to stand up in the pot, not melt into it. Each cut released a sharp, clean bite that made her eyes water slightly.
Good. I need the sting to stay grounded. Nothing is going to ruin this dish.
The moment the root hit the pan, a punch of warmth rose—earthy, sharp, and nose-tingling. But underneath, something else stirred. A darkness that had learned to dance with her spices.
Two of the wolf-kin tasters stirred at the scent.
"You started with pungency," one murmured. "That's not a welcoming signal."
"It's a challenge," said the other, inhaling again. "She's setting a threshold."
Marron smirked and added herb salt with a small flick of the fingers—two pinches, thumb-pushed, knuckle-tap on the rim. The salt hit the oil and crackled, each grain a tiny explosion of flavor meeting heat.
Then came the whisperbeast mince. It hit the mire-onion in a wet sizzle and began to brown.
The meat spat tiny flecks of oil, which she let coat the pan's edge. No stirring yet. She could feel the shadow-fragment she'd absorbed writhing at the scent of raw meat, hungry for dominance. But she held steady.
Just heat.
"Don't stir until the hiss sounds steady," she whispered to Lucy. "The meat needs to surrender its moisture first, then it can take on the flavor we want it to carry."
Lucy nodded and rotated in place, changing from amber to light brown—nervous anticipation.
Mokko crouched nearby, alert. He could smell something in her cooking that hadn't been there before. Something that made his hackles rise slightly.
"You've made this before?" one taster asked.
"Yes," Marron replied, watching the meat brown in uneven patches. "But not with this meat. Or this… audience. And never while carrying something that doesn't belong to me."
+
Marron smiled. "And now it's time to
She grabbed the flask of bittergrain wine and let it pour in a single circle around the pan. The sizzle rose like a gasp, pulling up every crusted flavor from the base—and something else. The shadow-fragment recoiled from the wine's acidity, but she pressed it deeper into the dish.
You wanted to taste everything I cook, she thought grimly. Then taste this.
Steam burst upward, catching in the rafters. The wine's bitterness cut through the rich meat fat, creating a balance that sang of controlled wildness.
One of the elders sniffed sharply and narrowed their eyes. "She's not masking the past. She's cooking through it."
"There's something else in there," another whispered. "Something that remembers being hungry."
Even the Jackal looked intrigued, his nostrils flaring as he caught the complex layering of scent.
+
She added a heavy spoonful of sun-tomato paste, the deep red hue thick and sticky. It clung to the spoon like memory, slow to let go. She scraped it into the pan and folded it into the wine-meat mixture, each turn of the spoon deliberate.
The scent shifted—richer now, tangy, carrying warmth without sweetness. The tomato's acidity joined forces with the wine, creating a bright counterpoint to the meat's earthiness.
She stirred slow. Counter-clockwise. Three times, then paused. Let the oil rise, red-tinted and gleaming. The shadow twisted within the sauce, but now it was trapped, woven into flavors it couldn't escape without destroying the whole dish.
Stir again. Fold, don't break.
"Is it always this… quiet when you cook?" Mokko asked under his breath, watching her work with an intensity that seemed almost ritualistic.
"It is when you want the food to speak first," Marron replied. "And when you're teaching something unwelcome to behave."
In the background, the shadow piece shook, and she felt satisfied.
+
Next came the long-grain reed noodles—already parboiled earlier, but still undercooked. Marron lifted them from their resting bowl, each strand catching the light like pale silk. They fell into a second pan with a splash of steeping broth, the liquid immediately clouding with released starch.
She stirred gently with wooden tines, feeling the noodles loosen and uncurl as the heat worked through them. Each strand needed to be just firm enough to resist the teeth, just soft enough to accept the sauce's embrace.
The shadow-fragment tried to make the noodles overcook, to turn them mushy and unpleasant. But Marron was wise to its tricks, and ignored it completely.
You don't get to tell me what to do.
She tasted one strand, pulling it up with her fingers and biting through the center. The texture was perfect—slightly chewy, the al dente she was looking for.
Marron set aside some of the starchy water, and then drained the rest. She imagined the shadow spiraling away and giggled despite herself. For a being with no magic, she was holding her own.
I can do this.
Then she poured the noodles directly into the sauce pot, folding everything together with careful precision.
"Tangled. Shared," she said, watching the pasta threads wind around chunks of meat and catch pools of sauce. "There's no solitary portion. Not here. Even unwelcome guests have to participate."
+
Finally, she reached into her newly sanctified coldbox and pulled out the wheel of stagmilk mozzeril—still soft, white, and cold as a kiss from home. The cheese had been blessed by the pack, cleansed of any foreign influence.
She tore it by hand.
Big, imperfect chunks, uneven and honest. Each piece held the cool sweetness of mountain grass and clean air—flavors the shadow-fragment couldn't corrupt because they came from a place it had never touched.
The cheese chunks sunk gently into the hot pasta, their edges already beginning to gloss and melt. White islands in a sea of red sauce, each one a promise of comfort and belonging.
It was simple heat and acceptance, without fiery passion.
Like its Earth counterpart, Mozzeril was a mild and milky cheese, with a slightly salty taste. It would lend itself well to the entire dish.
The shadow tried one last time to sour the milk, but the blessing held. It could only taste what she allowed it to taste. It seemed disappointed and slowly shrank back, cowed into submission.
She felt it ease its way into herself, until it nestled comfortably. Like it was saying, 'you win.'
Marron felt powerful.
Of course I win.
And then the familiar ding! was the cherry on top.
[Congratulations, dear host! You have tamed a snakeskin shadow. +100 XP!]
She smiled and mentally swiped the notification away.
+
She covered the pot and let it rest for five long breaths.
The table was silent. The shadow-fragment observed in awe, finally integrated into something larger than its own hunger for mischief.
Lucy glowed gold, then deeper—burnished bronze of contentment. Mokko looked impressed against his will, his ears pricked forward.
Then Marron opened the lid.
Strings of cheese pulled like webs between the pasta and the lid. The scent hit all at once: meat, herb, root, cheese—and memory. But not just her memory. The shadow's hunger, transformed into something that nourished instead of consumed.
Not grief or possession, but completion.
+
She ladled the spaghetti into a shallow bowl carved from wildhorn bark. She set it down before the Jackal, then handed smaller portions to the tasters and, last, to Mokko and Lucy.
No one used forks.
They lifted with chopsticks, tines, claws, or fingers.
They ate.
They breathed.
They sat still.
Lucy changed colors as she chewed—gold to lilac to deep purple of satisfied complexity. Mokko closed his eyes halfway, then huffed through his nose in what might have been approval.
The Jackal tilted his head, chewing thoughtfully.
"What's the flavor echo?"
"Anchor," the first taster said.
"Memory caught in heat," said the second.
"Pack," said the third, then paused, nostrils flaring. "She fed the shadow-hunger... and then made it serve the table instead of rule it."
The Jackal looked up at Marron, his eyes sharp with new understanding.
"So," he said. "Is this how you fed your adventurers?"
Marron sat down beside her pot. She felt oddly energized from the whole experience.
The shadow-fragment pulsed once within her, no longer fighting, just... present.
"No. With them, I made stamina broth and healing dishes while my fellow chefs hurled defensive buns and ragu that made them stronger. I cooked under pressure and fear from the Frostfall Culinary Guild. But I got through it."
She paused and searched for the right words.
"Here...it's different. I cooked with something that tried to devour me, and taught it to nourish instead."
She met his eyes.
"Cooking wasn't a performance. It was support. Every dish had to mean: 'you can get through this.' Now I know it can also mean: 'even the darkness in you can be transformed.'"
The Jackal nodded slowly.
"Less and less wander and cook like you," he said again, but softer now. "Fewer still cook through possession and come out stronger."
Marron looked at Lucy. At Mokko. At the empty pot that had held both her trauma and her triumph.
And stirred the remaining sauce once more, feeling the shadow settle into its new role—not as master, but as ingredient.
"Then I'll just have to feed the next ones who carry shadows too."