Flavor

Steven leaned back on the barstool at The Salty Anchor, the halfling’s specials dancing in his mind—kraken, saltwolf, eel, each a siren call to his tastebuds. “Fuck it,” he said, grinning wide. “I’ll take the Kraken Tentacle Skewers and the Mistbloom-Stuffed Eel.” She raised a brow, impressed. “And the Mistvine White Wine?” she asked, her voice lilting. “Sure,” he replied, “but just in case—how ‘bout some Salted Honey Ale too?” She smirked, nodding. “Comin’ right up, hon.”

Moments later, the food arrived—hot, fresh, the air thick with exotic scents. A glass of Mistvine White Wine gleamed pale gold, crisp and sweet on his first sip—not bad, a cool bite cutting through the tavern’s warmth. Beside it, a mug of Salted Honey Ale, golden and frothy, waited its turn. The Kraken Tentacle Skewers steamed—charred strips glistening with mistvine sap, a side of glowcap relish glowing faintly blue. He grabbed a skewer, biting in—the meat melted, tender and juicy, the sap’s tart zing bursting against the briny richness, the relish’s earthy spice kicking in after. “Gods,” he muttered, swigging the ale—smooth honey softened the salt’s zing, washing it down. “Ahhhhh, this hits the spot.”

Next, the Mistbloom-Stuffed Eel—a golden-roasted coil, stuffed and dripping with glimmerstone reduction, crabclaw fritters crisp on the side. He sliced in with a spork and knife, the eel parting easy, mistbloom petals spilling out. One bite—shock hit, in the best way. Hot, yet a “cold spice” danced on his tongue, frostkelp’s chill without the freeze, mingling with the nectar’s sweetness. The reduction buzzed, electric, a jolt of flavor that hummed—wild, oceanic, floral all at once. Before he knew it, the plate was clean, the wine glass empty, the ale drained. “Another ale, please,” he called, buzzing now. She nodded, sliding a fresh mug over; he downed it quick, the honey-salt warmth tipping him into a light, pleasant drunk.

“How much do I owe ye, pretty lady?” he slurred, tossing her a sloppy wink. She teased back, leaning over the bar—cleavage peeking from her apron as she slid a cup below the counter—giggling. “Two specials, 16 copper—wine’s 10, two ales at 5 each—36 copper total, hon.” Steven fumbled the coins out, paying with a flourish, and stumbled off the stool, weaving back to the guild through the fog, a buzzed grin plastered on his face.