Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » Trixie's Bar (Everyone welcome)

I don't know much about warhammer. I only know what I have dealt with IC. Had an invasion once from that fandom into winterwake. Was fun, they died. But I purposefully classified it as noncanon fun. We all enjoyed it, which is what matters.

Now, don't be chopping the heads off too many host. or Ixqueya might start to think the general has a particular fetish Lol))

Lmao well I certainly appreciate the fleeting inquiry into the general's fetishes, but I concede that was a bit of ill-construed mischief... there shall be no taking of heads... yet

Indeed, death is a bit of a staple in the universe, I don't imagine they fared well in an unfamiliar domain, I find it hard to fault their loss, If I may interject, I hypothesize that when your grace had come to meet the host in combat, your movement naturally resulted in the optimal jiggle frequency which cast some sort of discordant psychic influence that likely nullified the intent of the foes to do any harm. Lamentable, but nothing in our universe could have foreseen such a profound magnitude of wobble.

I am going to bring my nerdy demure character,. Ixqueya is sitting alone; she might be a bit too...cold (pun intended) for most. Nothing wrong with that, she is an acquired taste by design. owo))

Certainly, nothing wrong with demanding effort for reward, a gelid exterior hardly discourages genuine admiration. I look forward to writing with you and learning about your realms should I be granted the honor. ))

Certainly, nothing wrong with demanding effort for reward, a gelid exterior hardly discourages genuine admiration. I look forward to writing with you and learning about your realms should I be granted the honor. ))

((Both ixqueya and Zelena are open for RP if anyone is interested.))


Ixqueya did not summon appetite. She summoned corroboration.

When the barkeep returned, breath moderated and spine bowed by habit rather than reverence, he carried the alimentary thesis of a medieval European hearth. Not cuisine. Doctrine made edible.

The trencher bread came first. A slab of coarse brown loaf, oval and uneven. its crust fissured by a hard bake meant to seal moisture out rather than pleasure in. The crumb within was dense and slightly damp. It shot through with darker flecks of rye and barley. It smelled faintly of sour grain and old ovens. This was bread designed to be a plate before it was a meal. A substrate. A sacrificial surface meant to absorb grease and endure handling before being consumed or passed downward to dogs or the poor. Its appearance spoke of repetition and economy. No scoring for beauty. No glaze. Only survival.

Beside it sat the pottage. A thick, earthen bowl filled with a slow, beige mass that held heat stubbornly. Barley kernels swelled nearly to rupture. Split peas had collapsed into paste. The surface bore a dull sheen of animal fat, pale and static, without herbs to disturb it. Steam rose reluctantly, carrying a smell of boiled grain, onion rendered submissive by long heat, and salt measured for preservation rather than delight. The texture promised uniformity. Each spoonful would be the same as the last. That was its virtue.

The meat was beef. Or rather, what remained of beef after time and salt had done their patient work. A grey-brown portion, fibrous and matte, its edges softened where collagen had finally conceded. It had been salted deeply, then simmered until chew yielded to necessity. No browning. No sear. No Maillard perfume. Only the honest aroma of animal protein stripped of flourish. It glistened faintly where fat had not fully rendered away, clinging as a reminder that calories mattered more than elegance.

Root vegetables accompanied it. Turnips pale and translucent, their sulfurous bite tamed into starch and water. Carrots softened into mild sweetness so faint it barely registered. Onion pieces remained visible, but their sharpness had been disciplined into background presence. Everything shared the same chromatic humility. Browns. Greys. Muted golds. A palette born of winter cellars and stone kitchens.

Ixqueya regarded the arrangement without touching it.

Visually, it was coherent. Nothing extraneous. Nothing decorative. A meal engineered to be reproducible across weeks and bad weather. Aesthetic restraint elevated to policy. The absence of color was not oversight. It was prudence.

She broke the trencher bread between two fingers.

The crust fractured with a dull resistance. Good bake. Hard enough to function as plate. Soft enough to be eaten later. The interior pulled slightly before tearing, indicating a loaf rested just long enough to avoid collapse. No honeyed scent. No butter richness. No herbaceous lift. Grain and fermentation alone.

She dipped the bread into the pottage.

The surface accepted it without protest. The liquid clung thickly, coating rather than dripping. When she tasted, the flavor confirmed what the eye had already testified. Salt arrived first and remained dominant. The barley offered a muted nuttiness. The peas contributed body rather than taste. Onion lingered only as warmth without character. There was no acid to sharpen. No bitterness to instruct. No heat to awaken the tongue. The texture was homogenous. Filling. Pacifying.

It nourished. It did not challenge.

Her palate, conditioned by cuisines that layered maize treated with lime until it sang, chilies coaxed into both sweetness and threat, seeds toasted until bitterness taught patience, found nothing here that argued back. This food submitted immediately. It made no demands of memory.

She turned to the meat.

The first bite required effort. The fibers separated slowly, resisting until pressure forced concession. The salt had penetrated deeply, ensuring preservation. Beyond that, there was little. Beefiness flattened by boiling. Fat present but quiet. No herbs to redirect the tongue. No smoke to suggest ceremony. The texture spoke of jaws accustomed to work rather than pleasure.

It was food for laborers. For soldiers. For winters where the question was not satisfaction, but continuation.

She swallowed.

The vegetables followed. Turnip collapsed into near porridge at the tongue’s insistence. Carrot offered the faintest ghost of sweetness, immediately smothered by starch. Onion registered only as warmth. Everything converged into sameness. Each element distinct in form. Indistinguishable in experience.

Ixqueya ate deliberately. Slowly. Not savoring. Auditing.

The verdict assembled with cold clarity.

This was a culinary culture shaped by scarcity, climate, and hierarchy. A people who distrusted excess because excess invited envy. Who flattened flavor to avoid waste. Who fed their bodies to remain functional and left the soul to seek meaning elsewhere. Their food was not identity. It was infrastructure.

Compared to the meals of her origin, where spice preserved and provoked, where bitterness taught discipline, where sweetness was rationed and therefore revered, this was fuel divested of cosmology. Nourishment without theology. Heat without myth.

She finished the trencher last, wiping the bowl clean because waste offended her more than mediocrity. The bread would be consumed or repurposed. Nothing here would be discarded lightly. Scarcity had educated them thoroughly.

Her mouth curved, scarcely.

“Figures,” she murmured. She leaned back into the alcove, chitin settling with restrained articulation. The chair complained as expected. Around her, the tavern exhaled, reassured that the towering aberration had eaten as they did.

Ixqueya permitted the illusion. Winter did not need to enjoy the meal to understand the culture that produced it.

Mathius is usually the barkeep here

Usually, yes.

"Guess I won't say no to free booze."

"Alright, hold on tight!" Sue told Jeff as she picked him up. In an instant, the two were gone. Vanished into thin air.

[hello, mind if Nazo get’s involved?~ (just warning you he’s the embodiment of chaos, bloodshed, horror, lust and sheer freak, but can be chill when he feels like it)]

"I would also wonder the same thing. I would presumably have earned some, but I consider it beneath me to have my efforts as Fire Caste Supreme Commander reduced to a wearable trinket."