Part Of The Job Picture

It was the little things that kept him going.

Like Leona's soup.

By the gods could that woman make soup.

It was always an attraction at the Broken Barrel. Every day she would whip up a new variety of soup based on what she could pull together from the market or whatever someone could bring in, and every day man patrons asked to try it. Always a big pot, filled to the brim with a cacophony of different ingredients that, when together, formed one cohesive delicious whole. Partially from an old family cookbook, and partially from years of experience and a sharpened intuition. Mouthwatering.

Usually in the morning before he left Simon might help her gather what she needed. Maybe haul in a garlic clove and crush it with a hammer or roll in a tomato and dice it to bits. Tinyfolk weren't conservative eaters. Often their appetites bordered on gluttonous. And she had a lot of mouths to feed.

But, at the end of the day, when Simon returned, whether he was battered and bruised, sour with defeat, exhausted beyond belief, or just no feelin' so hot, he could always come back to a hot bowl of soup she had left out for him. Even when it ran out, one bowl was his.

And it made the whole day worth while. Sweet tomato. Rich potato. Leek. Pumpkin. Quail. Vegetable. Each day a new taste. Tongue-burning and heart-warming.

It was really fucking good.

Another simple little sequence. Leona's rack is on partial display. But the focus here is sort of how the tinyfolk live. While it's been slightly explored, I would say building a preindustrial society that greatly resembles old Europe has sort of hid the giant scenery for races no taller than 9 inches. So here's Simon helping Leona cook Tomato soup.

I really like soup.

I'm gonna go make some...
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