An early morning hush enveloped the streets as the companions made their way toward the old bakery. Word had reached them that Saffron Moonflower, the quiet yet captivating baker in town, possessed a rare gift for crafting pastries of near-legendary taste. Though they had settled in Secomber for other reasons—odd jobs, alliances in flux, and a half-remembered rumor of a lost artifact—there was a collective curiosity that drew them to Saffron’s door.
It was immediately clear that the bakery had once been something grander. The entryway opened upon a wide, well-worn common room with enough space for a small gathering. Faded timbers and irregular stone suggested this structure had stood for centuries, yet now its sole purpose was serving muffins, scones, and other handcrafted delights. At the far side of the room, Saffron—slight of frame, with flour coating her apron—looked up in mild surprise when the group arrived and requested a dozen of her muffins.
The companions could not help noticing a subtle, contented gleam in her eyes. Business seemed steady enough, yet the furnishings and décor told a different story: half-empty racks, a few modest tables, and limited supplies. Still, she made no complaint as she handed them a dozen fresh muffins—each studded with walnuts and currants, each warm to the touch. The price for these sumptuous pastries was laughably low, but Saffron asked for it without hesitation.
They had only just tasted the first bite when the front doors flew open. A wave of townsfolk bustled in—a dozen, maybe more—some still in work aprons, others in half-buttoned shirts, and one even wrapped in a nightgown. It was as though they’d followed the irresistible aroma that trailed from Saffron’s ovens. At first, these newcomers filled the bakery with eager chatter, but it soon turned tense. More than a few glances fell upon the companions, whose hands already held the precious muffins.
The crowd formed a queue before the counter, jostling for position in hopes of claiming whatever remained of the day’s batch. A sharp-eyed halfling stuck his head inside, looking from customer to customer until he spotted the group. At the sight of crumbs on their lips and extra muffins in hand, he muttered something suspicious about newcomers getting there first. Yet no outright argument erupted; Saffron fielded the flurry of orders with a gentle courtesy, parceling out her final pastries until she was left with an empty tray. Several customers left with triumphant grins, their hard-earned muffins clutched tight, while a few disappointed souls exited with nothing. Saffron’s expression, though faintly proud, carried a melancholy note as she faced an empty countertop far sooner than she would have liked.
Sensing the baker’s disquiet, the companions drew closer. Through simple observation—and perhaps a touch of intuition—they perceived she wasn’t merely worried about profit. She seemed troubled by something far less tangible, her brow creased in thoughts that went unspoken. At last, the topic of flour arose: Saffron confessed that her dwindling stores had run out completely this very morning, and she had no supply for tomorrow’s baking. Even more troubling, she had been waiting on an overdue delivery from her usual supplier, Bertrand.
In hushed voices, the group offered help: they could chase down the missing flour, they said, perhaps secure whatever special ingredients her craft demanded. Saffron’s eyes sparked with hope—particularly when they mentioned acquiring rare herbs like briar thistle and forest lily, exotic additions to elevate baked goods into something extraordinary. Yet when the conversation danced too close to contracts or terms, Saffron’s hopeful demeanor wavered. The whole reason she baked, she explained quietly, was to bring joy and warmth without losing herself in drudgery or greed. There was a fragile sincerity in her voice, as though she feared losing the simple delight that baking provided if it were reduced to business alone.
The companions respected her wish. One of them—whose voice resonated with a deep assurance—drew her back to the idea of removing mundane burdens so she could focus on creation. A glimpse of relief flickered across her face. Perhaps if they handled negotiations with Bertrand and any details of coin, she could be free to indulge in her craft at last.
Impressed by her skill, they asked if they might see the kitchen. Saffron hesitated but ultimately agreed, leading them behind the counter, past a pair of half-closed doors, and into the heart of her workshop. There, amidst orderly shelves and neat rows of bakeware, stood her pride and joy: a brick oven built over a quietly humming contraption that generated even heat. The glow of it danced across the baking stones. One in the group, well-versed in odd contraptions, admired the precision. It was no simple fire—some subtle magic powered this oven, allowing Saffron to maintain the perfect temperature for her recipes.
They spoke in hushed tones about the wonders of Saffron’s process. Some marveled at how artistry and discipline could yield pastries that melted on the tongue, rivaling the decadent foods of wealthier cities. Over the tang of lingering spice and flour, she revealed wistful plans for new recipes—cakes layered in sugared berries, warm pretzel breads twisted with fresh herbs, and yes, even the mysterious briar thistle confections she yearned to attempt. Lacking ingredients and exhausted by the demands of basic business, she never had the chance to bring her visions to life.
Agreeing that something must be done, the companions promised to seek out Bertrand. Perhaps the missing flour was the key. If they could resolve the supply issue, Saffron could expand her repertoire and feel less burdened by coin. Even talk of forging alliances or forging deals could be handled by those among them more comfortable with profit and negotiations. Saffron, in turn, entrusted them with the location of Bertrand’s mill—vague as her directions were—and sent them off with soft gratitude in her eyes.
As they stepped back into the main room, the surviving patrons of the morning’s rush still lingered over half-eaten muffins. The group caught sight of two seated at a corner table: one wearing a pin shaped like a jade diadem, and another whose sunburst emblem hinted at a different faction entirely. Both measured the companions with subtle interest, but no words were exchanged. Such alliances and intrigues had become common in Secomber; no doubt these two had their own plans for Saffron’s talents.
Outside, the promise of a midday sun glinted off the rooftops. With muffins safely tucked away—those not devoured already—the companions prepared to track down Bertrand’s elusive flour supply. In the back of their minds, each mulled over how best to protect Saffron’s artistry while forging a more sustainable future. Their quest had taken a sudden turn, transforming from an idle search for opportunity into a vow to ensure the bakery’s survival—and perhaps something more.
Their hearts were alight with fresh determination as they departed, leaving the door of the Moonflower Bakery swinging gently behind them. A single thought guided their steps: if flour were the only thing standing between Saffron and her genius, then, come sunrise or shadows, they would see that her oven never went cold again.
Initial Recap and Context Mention of Spider Petting Zoo Recalling the Merfolk Attack Arrival in Secomber Reason for Visiting the Bakery Scene Inside Moonflower Bakery Noticing Rival Factions Enjoyment of the Muffins Investigation of Possible Magical Influence Conversation with Saffron About Her Baking Idea of a Potential Business Arrangement Examination of the Kitchen Session Wrap-UpSession Notes