StarPrincessVal
Princess of the Stars
This story is part of the Isekai Hell Universe and is a submission for the January Community Event. It explores some of her childhood and family, and explores her relearning a past skill. If you enjoy it or would like to learn more about the Isekai Hell universe and RP system, please follow the links. I hope you enjoy. 
She pulled a ceramic bowl in front of her and begin to add the ingredients. Instantly it all began to come back to her. The perfect force to crack the eggs, the weight of the milk bottle in her hand, the feel of the salt between her fingers, the smell of the flour. She wished it hadn't. She hated it. Hated that such things could be familiar. But how could they not be? She spent her entire childhood acclimating to these experiences. What a waste. She had wanted to play with her siblings, be surprised on Or'Hraarg'On morning like they were, choose how she got to dedicate her time. She had never wanted to run the bakery. That was her mother's bakery. It was her mother's dream. It was her mother's recipe-! She paused, only just now noticing how far along she was. It was her mother's recipe. But she was not her mother. So why should she follow the same recipe? She knew how to make bread. And she knew how to make adjustments.
She looked around at what else was in the room. Calliope had rented the space for the day from a widow who used it as a pantry after her husband passed. The Felisian had brought her own goods, though the woman had said she could use anything she needed. She probably didn't mean cheeses or herbs, but she could compensate the woman. She had been doing well lately, what little she had actually spent peddling. She grabbed a wheel of goat cheese, a few dried herbs, and a small hunk of cured meat. It shouldn't be too difficult, might take a few tries, so she should start with smaller trials and work from there. She smiled widely. Her mother would hate this. She found a knife and cut a bit of cheese off, using the side of blade to shave it thinly. Once she had a small pile she collected it in a small bowl and began to dice the meat. These were new feelings, unfamiliar, and she wasn't even sure how well it would work. Should the meat have been thinner, should the cheese have been thicker? She was beginning to get excited. What about fruit? Apples and cinnamon went well together, that could be good. Or berries and lemon. Or honey and peppers. She pulled out her journal and began to take notes.
A short while later, she stood in front of the oven and watched enthralled as the bread inside slowly baked, the flames dancing at the edge of the large stone the pan rested on. It smelled heavenly. She didn't even notice the heat blowing in her face, as it had for so long when she was younger. Behind her on the counter sat several small loaves, dissected and pulled apart, the final recipe scribbled down in her open journal. She would have to ask Islwyn and Keone what kinds of flavors they liked and bake some for them. And Phoebe and Victorique. She wondered what they were up to, hoping their travels had been safe and pleasant. She glanced back at the last, most successful loaf, judging the dark spots on its crust and comparing it to the one in the oven. When the timing and coloration seemed to line up, she used the paddle to slide the pan out, moving it to the counter to cool. It would be a while yet before she could check it, but she had a good feeling about this one.
She thanked the woman and handed her a few extra coins for the used goods. With Mirabelle hitched and ready, Calliope climbed onto the wagon bench and headed on her way. Maybe she wasn't meant to be a baker, and maybe she would never see things the way her mother did, but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the skill. And maybe some of the memories weren't as dour as she remembered. Perhaps she would spend a moment revisiting the shop when she and Euthalia went to visit. She broke a piece of the bread off and savored it as the town disappeared behind her.
Calliope Dar'Maoro
Calliope stared in annoyance at the cold brick oven. She had told herself she was ready was to do this, had even been excited about it earlier, but now, standing here in front of it, she just wanted to leave. Her ear twitched in annoyance as she pouted momentarily, before straightening out and collecting herself. Family was the only thing that could get her this way. Family... and baking... But those were basically the same thing, weren't they? She let out one final sigh, then stepped forward to the counter. She had the ingredients laid out before her, that was the fun part. Mixing things together to make a whole new thing, discovering new combinations and methods to create even more unique creations. Not wholly different from her potion crafting. So why did it make her feel so frustrated every time she thought about it? That was a silly question, she knew why.
She pulled a ceramic bowl in front of her and begin to add the ingredients. Instantly it all began to come back to her. The perfect force to crack the eggs, the weight of the milk bottle in her hand, the feel of the salt between her fingers, the smell of the flour. She wished it hadn't. She hated it. Hated that such things could be familiar. But how could they not be? She spent her entire childhood acclimating to these experiences. What a waste. She had wanted to play with her siblings, be surprised on Or'Hraarg'On morning like they were, choose how she got to dedicate her time. She had never wanted to run the bakery. That was her mother's bakery. It was her mother's dream. It was her mother's recipe-! She paused, only just now noticing how far along she was. It was her mother's recipe. But she was not her mother. So why should she follow the same recipe? She knew how to make bread. And she knew how to make adjustments.
She looked around at what else was in the room. Calliope had rented the space for the day from a widow who used it as a pantry after her husband passed. The Felisian had brought her own goods, though the woman had said she could use anything she needed. She probably didn't mean cheeses or herbs, but she could compensate the woman. She had been doing well lately, what little she had actually spent peddling. She grabbed a wheel of goat cheese, a few dried herbs, and a small hunk of cured meat. It shouldn't be too difficult, might take a few tries, so she should start with smaller trials and work from there. She smiled widely. Her mother would hate this. She found a knife and cut a bit of cheese off, using the side of blade to shave it thinly. Once she had a small pile she collected it in a small bowl and began to dice the meat. These were new feelings, unfamiliar, and she wasn't even sure how well it would work. Should the meat have been thinner, should the cheese have been thicker? She was beginning to get excited. What about fruit? Apples and cinnamon went well together, that could be good. Or berries and lemon. Or honey and peppers. She pulled out her journal and began to take notes.
A short while later, she stood in front of the oven and watched enthralled as the bread inside slowly baked, the flames dancing at the edge of the large stone the pan rested on. It smelled heavenly. She didn't even notice the heat blowing in her face, as it had for so long when she was younger. Behind her on the counter sat several small loaves, dissected and pulled apart, the final recipe scribbled down in her open journal. She would have to ask Islwyn and Keone what kinds of flavors they liked and bake some for them. And Phoebe and Victorique. She wondered what they were up to, hoping their travels had been safe and pleasant. She glanced back at the last, most successful loaf, judging the dark spots on its crust and comparing it to the one in the oven. When the timing and coloration seemed to line up, she used the paddle to slide the pan out, moving it to the counter to cool. It would be a while yet before she could check it, but she had a good feeling about this one.
She thanked the woman and handed her a few extra coins for the used goods. With Mirabelle hitched and ready, Calliope climbed onto the wagon bench and headed on her way. Maybe she wasn't meant to be a baker, and maybe she would never see things the way her mother did, but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the skill. And maybe some of the memories weren't as dour as she remembered. Perhaps she would spend a moment revisiting the shop when she and Euthalia went to visit. She broke a piece of the bread off and savored it as the town disappeared behind her.
