Submission (#6319) Approved

As far as Anatoliy is concerned, the season before the Miasma fully hits is the absolute best. Common folk run around in a panic, trying their best to stock up before it becomes unbearable to go outside; this makes them especially easy targets for quick wallet snatching and swindling.

Anatoliy has gotten quite good at turning a profit out of worthless goods. Pre-made pies bought from their supermarket turns up as ‘artisan’ pie slices at his makeshift stand for three times the price. Food stolen out of pantries from unsuspecting victims is resold to those who feel bad for him and his ‘gutter rat’ look. The lack of a tail does its duty in making him come off as exceptionally poor.

Even now, perched on top of a stool in the kitchen of Knife’s Palu’au villa, Anatoliy feels the need to do some sort of food prep. Surviving in the old Madam’s teahouse meant every ‘nin for themself. It was routine to steal and hoard food whenever the Miasma rolled in, and years of being on guard won’t just go away when he’s out of that rotten hell scape.

So now Anatoliy finds himself in a bit of a sour mood. He doesn’t actually know how to cook anything from scratch; too used to stealing and pilfering from those who do. He’s also coming to realize that with freedom of choice comes pride in his own work. And, well, embarrassment at his inability to do basic things for Knife.

Anatoliy huffs a small stream of blue fire breath. He’s got a large, worn out cookbook in front of him, pulled open to a page on tomato bisque on the left, and cream of mushroom soup on the right. The pictures and text have faded almost to illegibility.

Looking out the window above his food prep station, Anatoliy takes in the calming atmosphere. Despite only having been at the island villa for a couple weeks now, he’s grown desperately comfortable in the sandy environment. He can make out the towering Eldertree that makes up Palu’au’s heart in the distance, soft clouds rolling in the sky.

The ocean waves are pristinely clear, rolling gently as early rising Elnin surf up some of the last waves of the season. A curtain sways in the breeze, slowly obscuring his view of the outside, before drifting back into place. The tropical style buildings that make up Knife’s villa are scattered in the nearby vicinity. Leafy tops held up by bleached driftwood boards are congregated around a lovely, private courtyard where a smattering of tropical plants are tended to.

The whole thing is encased in a simple but ornate fencing. A few weeks ago, it had felt like a prison to keep him in. Now, it just feels like protection.

Anatoliy turns back to the recipes with a small huff.

After a moment, he calls his Pomu out. The little inkblot regards him sleepily, as if it’d just been woken from a long nap. Which, knowing his Pomu, is probably the case. It babbles nonsensically at him, climbing onto the kitchen counter from one of the wooden chairs.

“I’m going to try the mushroom soup first,” Anatoliy tells his Pomu. “Can you grab a couple things for me?”

The companion waits as Anatoliy points out a couple things, then scampers out of the window to go grab them. He’d chosen this recipe because they already grow a few of the vegetables on the property, like thyme, celery, mushrooms, and garlic.

It’s not a particularly hard dish as far as he can tell, but he does want it to be edible.

Think of it as a test run for other events, Anatoliy reasons. Christmas is coming up fairly soon…

The on-site maids and butlers tend to make everything that Knife and Anatoliy eat, but he wants to do something for the older ‘nin. Eating seems to be one of Knife’s favorite activities, which is thankfully something Anatoliy can learn to do with some level of competence.

Shaking his head, Anatoliy starts heating oil in a large pot. He adds in some leek and salt when he sees his Pomu dragging a cloth-filled sack of ingredients. The little guy is huffing and puffing, but seems pleased with itself. It throws the sack through the open window and clambers back inside after it.

Anatoliy opens it up and grabs the celery with a small, pleased, “Thank you.”

His Pomu does a brief happy dance, before settling on the edge of the counter to watch Anatoliy cook. After a quick cut, he chucks the celery into the pot, occasionally stirring the mixture. The last to go into the simmering mixture are the mushrooms, which he also cuts into slices.

Tamari, wine, garlic, and thyme are next, and the smell that starts to suffuse in the kitchen is pure heaven. Even his Pomu starts to relax, legs kicking back and forth where it’s perched. Lastly, he adds in the bulk of the broth he’d set out earlier, as well as cauliflower.

Now, he waits.

Anatoliy makes himself useful, cleaning up the kitchen from his various, less successful tests that day so far. It’s slightly embarrassing. Despite knowing Knife wouldn’t mind slightly burnt eggs Benedict and overly salty mashed potatoes, Anatoliy doesn’t want to serve the Elnin something so mediocre.

It’s such a stark difference from his recent habit of nicking treats off of unsuspecting merchants of all shapes and sizes. But, he supposes, it’s not all that surprising given how much he wants to please his employer-turned-magnate.

Anatoliy sets about doing another quick scan of the cookbook. There’s a wealth of knowledge hidden in the margins, notes probably left by generations of owners before Knife had purchased it for Anatoliy from an antique store. He hadn’t wanted the older ‘nin to spend a fortune on him—especially not in the beginning—but a couple shiny little jewels and a cookbook had genuinely caught his interest. Anatoliy still wears one of the anklets every day. 

“Something smells good in here,” Knife says from somewhere behind Anatoliy. He’s startled, but tries not to let it show. “Have you shooed the maids away from the kitchen again, lozhka?”

The words flow like honey over him. Anatoliy can feel Knife step up beside him, and he watches Knife swirl the soup mixture for a few seconds. It seems to make the Elnin's mood mellow.

After a second of watching, Anatoliy murmurs, “Getting back into cooking, since Miasma season is rolling in.”

Knife hums. “Not a bad idea. I usually give the on-site hands some time off to see family during this period, anyways.”

Something about that warms Anatoliy a little. He’s never been one for family in general (especially after never having known his own from being abandoned to the Madam), but he’s starting to understand the need for familial closeness lately with Knife.

After a little bit more basking in the light atmosphere, he pushes Knife out of the way and checks on the soup mixture himself. It’s got a nice consistency to it now, and he directs his Pomu to grab the blender.

The remaining mixture is poured in, and Anatoliy adds in some mustard and vinegar to top it off. As it all blends together, he watches Knife out of the corner of his eye. The Elnin is smiling. Not anything too wide, but a small, warm up-tick of his lips that makes Anatoliy’s insides feel like warm, melted chocolate.

As the blending finishes, Anatoliy pops the top open and sticks a finger in. The soup is light and creamy, melting onto his tongue with ease. He offers a spoon of it to Knife, who seems to appreciate the richness of the soup.

Either way, it seems the soup is a success. Grabbing some empty Tupperware, Anatoliy pours the mixture in and tucks it into the cooling unit to keep fresh.

“What’s next on the list to prep, Tolechka?” Knife asks.

And with a grin, Anatoliy slides the cookbook towards him, saying, “Your pick!”