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Book 2: Chapter 21: The Octamillenial Cooking Contest

“Sit down ya sunnova nanny goat. Ma Annie says you’ve been teasin’ her, and I’m gonna make you pay fer that later.”

“Penelope, go say hello and thank you for holding our seats to Balin.”

Balin flinched, but Penelope simply hopped onto my seat and baah’d remorsefully.

*meeeeeeh* [Translated From Primma Donna Goat] “Forsooth mine squire, the last time I greeted the golden one I nearly bent my horn in twain!”

I snuggled in close and she plopped down onto my lap. Given that she was a bit larger than a mastiff, it made for a tight fit to say the least.

I grunted as one of her rear hooves found a spot where I wasn\'t armoured. “Urff. When does it start and how long is it going to take?”

“It begins in twenty minutes,” Annie said. “Or it should if they manage to start on time.”

I looked down on the arena, and was struck by how different it looked as a spectator. To be fair, it was also a completely different setup than when I’d competed.

The Beer Brawl had been a bunch of picnic tables with a shrinking ring of black-clothed attendants. Now, one side of the arena was dedicated to multiple portable kitchen spaces, complete with islands and magical ovens. It looked like something straight out of master chef. And that was nothing compared to the other half, which was covered by a teeming market filled with sights, sounds, gadgets, gizmos, geegaws, and even some food. It was crazy, chaotic, and a complete mess.

I spotted brightly coloured dungeon ingredients, a collection of fish tanks that overflowed with too-large occupants, and even a gnome selling substandard leafy greens. He was fighting a Dwarven purveyor of gourds for a place at the front of the vegetable stalls. Their yelling was loud enough that it carried even to the stands.

“Get yer crappy collards away from me pumpkins! I donnae need ya ruinin’ tha ambiance with tha stench!” The dwarf swung a pair of miniature pumpkins threateningly.

[Translated From Angry Toothless Gnome] "I find their aroma as pleasant as your flowery breath.”

The dwarf roared and grabbed a literal battleaxe from behind his stall. He charged forward and began hacking at the gnome’s cart.

[Translated From Angry Toothless Gnome] “My Collard Greens!!!”

Annie watched the byplay with narrowed eyes and hissed. “How is that gnome still in business!? I’ve sent City Hall after him at least two times!”

I ignored her and her crusade against vegetables and turned to look around the audience. It was interesting to see who was out, and I noted a significantly larger Gnomish presence than the Barck Beer Brawl had drawn out. Really though, I was looking for one particular Dwarfess, and I spotted her sitting amongst the nobles in the box seats.

Opal was dressed to the nines in a set of ruby chainmail, and her short white hair and goatee were accentuated by a set of glimmering bangely jewelry. I waved at her, but she didn’t register us at all. Her eyes were focused on the gate where I assumed the chefs would enter. She only had eyes for one Dwarf today, and it wasn’t one of us.

Two people sat beside her, and I realized they must be the parents I’d heard Bran wax so… poetically about. The first was a stout Dwarf wearing a set of fine suit-armour much like my own. He was chatting up another noble, and didn’t seem to be very interested in the proceedings. The second was a dainty white haired Dwarfess with a traditional braided beard and a sour expression. She was just as focused as Opal, but her face was one of stern dissatisfaction rather than hope or nervous anticipation.

Barck’s Luck Bran, you’re going to need it. In the meantime, I’ll try and get you some proper support.

I caught everyone\'s attention. “Hey y\'all, Listen up! I have a song to teach ya!”

“Ooooh!” Aqua crooned. “You always have the best songs! Which bard nobody’s ever heard of wrote this one?”

“Shush, it’s called We Will Rock You, and it’s by tha Queen!”

A half-dozen shocked eyes fell on me as everyone shouted at once. “WHAT!!!!”

—

Bran felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his white shirt and he fought a gulp. He’d spent the past few decades dealing with the most ornery dwarves in Minnova; this was nothing. At least, that was what he kept saying as he stepped out onto the sand, and almost immediately spotted his darling Opal. And beside her, Lady Mirra gave him a look that would have frightened Yearn Herself.

He would not trip, he would not cry, he would not faint. Beside him, one of the contestants did all three at once. The others simply stepped over, and in the case of The Rusty Battleaxe’s chef, stepped on the unfortunate dwarf.

The crowd roared as they took notice of the competitors, and a moment later the announcer’s voice boomed throughout the arena.

“Everyone! Welcome to the Octamillenial Cooking Contest!!! The best and brightest chefs of Minnova are here today to decide who holds the crown!! The winner will go on to represent our beloved City at the Octamillenial Contest in Kinshasa!!!”

“May The Tree Tower!!!” The crowd roared.

Bran winced at the volume, but his eyes were still only for his darling Opal. She gave him a worried wave, and he gave a confident nod back. He had this; nobody else on Erd had the recipes he did right now - he was almost positive of that.

A flutter to his side caught his attention, and he winced as his eyes fell on his friends from the Thirsty Goat. Their entire section was filled with posters that said “Go Bran” and “Go Bran or Go Home” and various other slogans. When they realized he’d spotted them, they began to cheer, then broke into some song he didn’t recognize.

They were clapping their hands and banging their feet and singing something about rocking. Or turning the competition into rocks? It was completely embarrassing, and totally endearing. And it was almost definitely all Pete’s fault.

He considered his teacher and friend, who was giving him that strange thumbs-up gesture. Pete was a treasure trove of strange dishes and odd mannerisms, and Bran was almost positive that Pete wasn’t from Crack. If he had to guess, it was from somewhere much further away. He and Richter had been combing over some more esoteric history books as well as papers on spirits and souls, and they had some theories on Pete’s possible origins.

His mysterious origin didn’t change anything, though. Bran considered Pete a true benefactor - the dwarf that\'d put him on his proper path and set the events in motion that would eventually bring him to be with the dwarfess of his dreams. If Pete’s checkered past came to haunt them, Bran would be right by his side, just as he guessed the rest of the Thirsty Goat would be.

But right now, he had a contest to win.

“EVERYONE, PLEASE WELCOME THE CHEFS WHO MADE IT THROUGH THE PRELIMINARY ROUNDS!”

Bran did his best to stay focused, which was difficult while the announcer loudly named all the chefs. Thankfully, unlike the Barck Beer Brawl, none of the chefs were expected to introduce themselves. There were over two dozen of them, so that would have taken a while.

Eventually the announcer moved on to the judges, who did say a few words each. There were a total of eight judges - four gnomes and four dwarves, with an even mix of males and females. It was clear that the format encouraged meals with the widest appeal, and Bran made a mental note to avoid food that was too dwarf or gnome-centric. He could see from the eyes of some of the chefs around him that the others were doing the same.

He also took stock of the various foods and ingredients he could spot in the market on the other side of the arena. Each contestant had been given sixteen gold to buy ingredients. Top-quality knives had been prepared for anyone who lacked proper utensils, but every chef that reached this far had their own tools.

All in all it was an interesting format, and Bran had to wonder who had come up with the idea. Likely some up-and-comer in Kinshasa. He\'d spotted a few ingredients that would be useful, but he had another idea in mind, one that would make him stand out from the other contestants and was impossible for anyone else to replicate.

“CHEFS, TO YOUR KITCHENS!” The announcer cried, and the crowd roared in response.

Bran pulled his eyes away from the market and made his way to a countertop and oven with his name on it. He gave it a once over for sabotage or imperfections and then nodded, it all looked good.

“PREPARE YOUR SPACE! YOU HAVE EIGHT MINUTES BEFORE THE MARKET OPENS!”

Bran placed his wooden box of knives on the counter and carefully opened it. A dozen lethal utensils of excellent dwarven steel reflected his face, their luster an indication of how well he cared for them. He laid them in their proper places, then gave each a reverential once over with a clean cotton cloth. Then he muttered “[Maintain Tools]” and the knives seemed to grow even sharper, if such a thing was possible. He nodded in satisfaction - it was time for the final step.

He pulled a large piece of folded white burlap out of the case and unfurled it, revealing a dopey picture of Penelope smiling her threatening smile, and the words Thirsty Goat Brewpub stenciled in black ink. He pulled out a few pins as well, and carefully affixed the piece of heraldry to the outside of his counter.

Then he turned to his dearest friends, and gave them a thumbs up. Up in the stands Lady Mirra looked scandalized, but Opal looked pleased as could be.

Even from here he could hear Pete squeal, which made it all worth it. His actions seemed to throw off some of the other competitors, which also made it worth it, though he noticed that Tilakatan of Kebab Cuisine had done something similar with her own restaurant’s ‘Logo’ (such an odd word) - a South Erden bird called a Crane.

“CHEFS, PREPARE FOR MARKET TIME!!!”

The crowd grew frenetic, shouting, jeering, calling, and roaring. Bran was pretty sure a few people had to be using volume based Abilities. It didn’t matter to him though - he simply dropped into that cool calm place of focus that came upon him whenever he cooked. His surroundings sharpened and the only thing that mattered now was the here, the now, and the food.

“GO!!!!” The announcer cried, and every single chef charged at the market, some of them activating movement Abilities as they did so.

Every single chef except for Bran, who calmly waited at his kitchen counter.

Unmoving.