A Bowl of Wizard Stew

With the mayhem passed, it was time to cope, and he needed plenty. The temple was kind enough to give him shelter and food.

Not that he was concerned. He knew that was the course of the plot.

He now sat in the temple's pantry. The heat of the oven was warm. The thick stone walls kept the heat inside. The clatter of dishes fill the air. It was late at night, and it was the end of the shift. It gave him plenty of time to be alone with his thoughts.

Moraine came with a bowl of stew. Ben stared at it absently. He didn't feel like eating.

"Forgive us if the food isn't amazing. The pantries haven't been our focus as of late."

Ben blinked. "No, it's fine."

Ben took the spoon and ate the food absently.

He froze, and did a double take on his stew.

"Why? Is something wrong?"

Ben took more bolder scoops and ate.

"Amazing, is this cumin? Chili?"

"Are they ingredients from your home? I'm aware that our ingredients are not native to our soils, and that they have different names."

"I suppose that is."

Ben kept eating. Despite his hunger, he didn't wolf the food down. He tasted every sip slowly, savouring it as long as I could.

Suddenly, a cold wave of nostalgia struck him. It reminded him of the lonely meals back home. He liked to cook. It kept his hands busy and his mind focused. It was especially useful when he was living all alone.

The memory came so randomly, but it stuck with him vividly.

That evening, Ben found himself watching the land on his balcony. He was dressed in rich silk and bathed and perfumed.

The wizards had given him rich accommodations. His room was richly decorated. He was practically the chosen one now, after all.

But as beautiful as his room is, what lies for him out there kept him away from the soft and warm bed.

The Gaedsea stretched beyond him, so full of new things to experience.

Ben's mind returned to the stew. He knew he was about to be served food, but in the game, there was nothing more than a text box saying how good the soup was. But here, he could taste the warmth and spiciness in his tongue. The way the spice danced on his tongue. The warmth of the stew burnt his tongue. The steam of it tickled his nose. This is real.

He reached out his hands and felt the wind on his skin. He breathed, and smelled the fresh air. He closed his eyes and strained his ears, and could hear the sound of the night from the forest.

To be alive here means to experience everything this world had to offer with his five senses. This was revolutionary.

Just what else was waiting for him out there?