Session 28: Waked and Baked

Morning light seeped through the ragged cloth the companions had stretched over their heads the night before. It was hardly the restful respite they’d have wished for after dealing with that stumbling squatter who had wandered into their camp under moonlight. Still, they emerged from slumber determined, if not entirely comfortable. The distant hum of a bustling settlement rose beyond their makeshift home, reminding them that while they were outsiders here, life in Hardbark Meadows marched on, and opportunities beckoned.

Brock Hardbark himself had come to them early, striding across the meadow’s uneven ground with a stout dwarf’s confidence. His beard was adorned with carved oak leaves—an odd sign of druidic leanings—and the scars along his weathered arms suggested he was not a man to be underestimated. He had thanked them for handling last night’s intruder peacefully, then ushered them into his chateau to talk terms. Within those cramped, shadowed rooms, he offered them half the usual rate for a ten-day’s stay if they would keep an eye on the grounds, maybe figure out why these troublesome drifters had begun slipping in so often. Fair enough, they decided. If it secured a steadier foothold on this patch of soil, it was a bargain well struck.

They left with a key advantage: a patch of meadow slightly better than their last, space enough for the newly acquired tent and spare bedrolls abandoned by yesterday’s trespassers. Their dragon, Dabshabah, and their goblin companion, Gorka, would remain behind—guardians of this fledgling campsite, now marked by stones and druidic runes, if not yet by comfort. They even held dreams of something more: a permanent arrangement, perhaps, a sign of stability amid this land of shifting loyalties and crowded lines.

Talk soon turned to grand visions—ideas of bread and pastry that would lure coin and comfort. Pippa, Brock’s hopeful subordinate, had whispered about the power of fresh-baked goods, full-service comforts, and the luxury of flour and yeast. The companions were intrigued. After all, what better way to charm folk and secure their standing here than by bringing fine food and pleasant smells to a place starved of such treats?

So they set off toward the heart of the makeshift town that clustered beyond the meadow. Rumor spoke of a bakery with a name like a lullaby: Moonflower Creations. A strange calmness settled over them as they approached. Gone were the rough fields and haphazard tents. Instead, there rose a sturdier facade, painted trim and a sign of curling vines and lunar blossoms. The scent arrived first—a drifting warmth of honeyed wheat, fresh butter, and sweetness that stirred both hunger and memory.

On the stoop, a small child stood guard. She pressed her nose against the glass in rapt admiration before spotting the new arrivals and bursting away down the street, shouting “Muffins!” like a herald’s cry. Puzzled, the companions exchanged glances—was this excitement, or some strange signal?

Inside, they found no conspirators lying in wait—only a surprisingly spacious interior and a half-elven woman drifting dreamily through her kitchen doorway. She wore a pastel dress smeared with flour, her hair set with a single feather, and she hummed a slow, lilting tune that seemed to slip between this world and another. She carried a tray of currant muffins, flecked with saffron for depth of flavor, and offered them with an almost wistful gratitude. She was no hard-nosed merchant. She asked for a coin, sure, but there was a softness in her eyes that said she baked for the joy of it, not for cunning profit.

The companions tested their words and trust with this baker. She gave them a dozen muffins as if bestowing a gift of rare magic. They told her of their campsite, of the young dragon who might taste her wares, and she merely smiled, pleased at the thought. Outside, voices rose. Feet shuffled. Glancing back, they realized a crowd had begun to press in through the bakery door—a sudden swell of interest, a hunger not just for muffins but for this place’s gentle artistry. They stood caught between the baker’s quiet world and these newcomers’ eager demands.

No violence, no grand gestures—just the press of people and the rising hum of excitement. The companions looked to one another, muffins in hand, as the baker’s eyes drifted past them toward her patrons. Outside, the day stretched open. Behind them, Dabshabah waited for a treat and for news of what sort of world her companions would forge here in Hardbark Meadows. The party, too, wondered what these pastries and kind words might kindle: alliances, friendships, or a foothold in a place of shifting fortunes. For now, they remained in this moment of simple warmth and delicate possibility, unsure what would come next, but certain something had begun.