Aoife

Fulfillment

She remembered being hungry.

Emptiness gnawing in the pit of her stomach, weary days and sleepless nights weighing down her every step. Chaos, blood, crying, roaring. In the picture of violence, there was no good or evil, only the dead and the dying. She too, felt like a walking corpse, moving from shelter to shelter, scale on bones, smearing her once-bright feathers with dust and mud. A body wracked by pain, with no more tears to spend.

She didn’t know if there was an end to the battle-scarred lands. She didn’t know if there was anything waiting for her, so far from home. All she knew was torn away, broken upon the claws and blades of invading rivals. She felt a pang of homesickness for all the things she took for granted. The laughter in the nursery, the stories of the elders, the crisp taste of fresh bread. Sweet memories fuelled her trek in place of food, clinging onto the hope that maybe she would see them again.

The instinct to survive lifted her wings, fleeing as far as she could, away from the crash of explosions and cries of war. When they became too heavy to fly, she walked, step by step, wandering away from the madness and death. Yet, even her footfalls began to slow, until all she could do was lie down on those foreign, wispy reeds. She looked up, and saw the serene clouds, drifting carefree. She let out a shallow breath. This was calm. This was good. She closed her eyes, not knowing if she would open them again.

The next days were blurred, murmurings and instructions. Smudged watercolour swirling in and out. She saw a face, a Ridgeback, humming a wordless lullaby. A Bogsneak, spooning bitter, acrid paste into her mouth. Unfamiliar dragons were tending her wounds, caring for one they never met. In one of those lucid moments, the Ridgeback asked her if she was alright. She could only give a bitter laugh. She was saved. Not the little ones who had a future. Not the talented ones who had potential. Just her, a stranger with nothing to her name.

She remembered sitting up on a bed of reeds, voices like echoes in the distance. The den was neat, nests organised in rows, shelves lined with bandages and poultices. The sunlight illuminated the world outside, a light breeze flitting in and out of the little alcove. A savoury scent wafted through the air. A colourful bowl of stew, still warm. With shaking claws, she lifted the spoon, tasting the broth on her tongue. The delicate soup was intermixed with the salty crunch of small insects, the curt taste of citrus peel complementing the taste. Before she knew it, the delectable dish was gone, savoured to the last drop. She stared at the empty bowl. Was she really worth all this kindness?

She stayed, for there was nowhere else. She learned their names and faces, their way of life. They were warriors, but at the same time not. There was no conquest here, no bloody dominion. Just a loose group of those who learned, and those who taught. The Ridgeback, Lencho, came by often. She never asked too many questions, just staying for a few hours, with some stories and her company. Some days, the world would freeze, pulled back into the gray-brown fields of carnage. Some days, the weight would come back, pinning her down. Some days the whispers of guilt would haunt her waking hours. But she kept going.

She would practice to earn her keep. Memory guided her claws, kneading dough and mixing icing. The first ones were misshapen, crooked on one side, burnt on another. Something would always be too sweet, or out of balance. Each day, she busied herself with her craft. Each day, she walked further from that abyss of despair. Throughout it all, Lencho was there for her. Lencho always said it was good, but she could tell from the crunching that something was burned. But she believed in her, and she couldn’t ask for much else.

It’s been years since then. She cleaned her little shop, packing the displays with beautiful confectionery and candied treats. Rilemaine would come by asking after his usual batch of cookies in a few hours. She examined the quaint parlour, with its bamboo chairs and windchime decor. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. She had friends, her own livelihood, her own place in the world.

Aoife was finally full, and she knew she would never go hungry again.

• Runs the Swirl Snacks Cafe, serving desserts and other treats. The strawberry cream puffs are her specialty.
• Has a list of every Guild member's favourite treats, which she makes baskets of on birthdays.
• Generally soft spoken, but sweet and kind.
• Likes soft, fluffy things, and pets them to stay grounded.
• Part of her hopes her family and friends are still alive, and that they'll visit her cafe one day.

Wonderful art by Cydroud