The Hearth-Handed Baker of Lankhmar
Yun Ilthmart is not the sort of man who demands attention when he walks into a room—but people notice him anyway. There’s a quietness to him, not of absence but of presence held in restraint. He moves like someone used to early mornings and long workdays, with steady hands and a thoughtful pace, the kind of person who doesn’t speak unless he’s got something worth saying.
He’s broad-shouldered and thick-armed from years of kneading dough, with the solid build of a man who’s worked beside a hot oven since childhood. His hands are permanently creased with flour, nails short, knuckles slightly callused, but gentle—capable of shaping delicate pastries as easily as he can lift a fifty-pound flour sack. His skin is tanned from sun streaming through the bakery window and blushed warm from constant firelight.
His face is strong but plain in a pleasant way. A square jaw softened by laugh lines and a slightly crooked nose—the result of a childhood fall, not a fight. His eyes are his most striking feature: a rich amber-brown, full of warmth and observation, the sort of gaze that lingers on things others overlook. His hair is a soft chestnut, usually tied back with a strip of linen, though strands often escape to dust his brow when he’s deep in his work. There's usually a smear of flour somewhere on his cheek or sleeve, and he never seems to mind.
Yun is not flashy or loud. He wears simple clothes—linen shirts rolled to the elbow, aprons worn to softness, and boots with cracked soles he keeps patching himself. But there’s something deeply grounded about him, a stillness that draws others in. Customers linger longer in his bakery not just for the bread, but for the comfort of his presence. You get the sense, standing near him, that the world is a little more ordered. A little more kind.
He listens more than he talks. He smiles more than he scowls. And when he does speak, his voice is deep and even, like warm honey stirred into tea. People trust him. They tell him things in the quiet moments between the dough rising and the loaves coming out of the oven.
Yun was born into bread—but he chose it, too. He could’ve walked away from the family trade. But he didn’t. Not because he lacked ambition, but because he understood something deeper: that feeding people is sacred work; That small, simple things—warm bread, shared meals, a hand on the shoulder—can be the foundations of a good life.
How Yun Met Shia
Yun Ilthmart was born into bread. His earliest memories were shaped by the scent of browning crust and yeast-rich air, rising from the ovens below his family’s modest living quarters. The bakery had stood for three generations in the same stone and timber building, tucked between market stalls and cobbled alleys. His grandfather built the hearth with bricks scavenged from a fallen watchtower. His parents raised him with calloused hands and warm smiles, their fingers always dusted in flour.
They used to joke that the yeast ran in his blood now—and maybe it did. Yun never minded. The bakery was home, the oven its heart. And while other children dreamt of swordplay and ship voyages, Yun fell in love with the transformation of dough, the gentle coaxing of flour and water into golden loaves. Baking wasn’t just a trade to him—it was joy. Feeding his neighbors, making something warm and nourishing from simple ingredients… it was a kind of quiet magic.
Still, when Gerald Cardimere invited him on a trade expedition, Yun said yes without hesitation.
Gerald, younger than most of the crusty merchants in the Dark Oak Trading Company, had risen fast—sharp mind, silver tongue, and a good head for logistics. But he knew the limits of his own expertise. When it came to flour and herbs, you didn’t trust the seller—you brought someone who could tell a fine grain from sawdust and knew whether a bundle of rosemary had been dried in the sun or scorched over a hearth. Yun, despite his youth, already had a reputation in Lankhmar as one of the best bakers in the city. His presence made sense for business—and for company. Gerald liked having someone his age around.
To Yun, the journey sounded like a grand adventure. He’d never been beyond Lankhmar’s walls, never seen the world beyond his small stretch of cobbled streets. The destination: Ilik-Ving, a trade city where goods from every compass point crossed paths. It was rumored you could find anything there—silks from the Eastern Islands, spices from the Red Dunes, and, most importantly, flours milled in the high valleys where river-stone wheels turned slow and true.
The trip went smoother than expected. Roads were dry, weather fair, and the caravan made good time. They arrived with days to spare. Gerald saw opportunity. Yun saw wonder.
He wanted to taste everything, smell every bakery, study every new twist of dough and method of shaping bread. The market was a riot of color and voices, spices and strange songs. He was looking up at some sweet buns being steamed over a brazier when he walked directly into a young woman—hard.
Six baskets flew from her arms like startled birds. Cookies—round, delicate, and fragrant—scattered across the stones. What followed was a truly impressive stream of curses, unlike anything Yun had heard before, and he lived in Lankhmar.
She was shorter than him, but somehow still managed to loom as she retrieved her baskets, muttering all the while in three languages and a dialect that Yun suspected she’d invented just to insult him. And then, without so much as a glance back, she stormed off, skirts swishing, pride unbroken.
He stood there, dumbfounded. Even as he bent to pick up the ruined cookies, he knew: nothing he did in that moment could fix what had just happened.
But he also knew he had to try.
It took three days just to find her name. Shia. And longer still to find her encampment—a vibrant cluster of trader wagons pitched just beyond the city walls. Colorful pennants fluttered above them, while geese squawked and a trio of lazy sheep lounged under a canvas canopy. The place felt alive, like a festival frozen mid-moment.
Shia was unlike anyone Yun had ever met. Not delicate, but strong like the trunk of an old oak. Her eyes were warm brown, sharp and watchful, and her hair—green. Not dyed, not painted. Naturally green, the shade of fresh grass after a storm. He still couldn't believe he hadn’t noticed it the day they met, but perhaps that was because her anger had blazed brighter than any other detail.
She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, not in the way ballads would describe, but she had presence. Fire. A confidence that made people step aside before she asked. Her family were independent traders, dealing in rare herbs, preserved fruits, and charming oddities. She’d grown up on the road, shrewd and clever, used to haggling with strangers and holding her own.
Yun approached her cautiously, arms full of a peace offering: a hand-rolled tartlet crusted with sugar, filled with warm apples and clove, and a single handwritten note—“For the cookies I ruined, and for the curses I deserved.”
She accepted it with a raised brow, took one bite, and said: “You’re lucky I like cloves.”
He visited again the next day. And the next.
What began as apology turned into conversation. He showed her how he shaped his loaves. She taught him how to spot a merchant who was lying by the twitch of their left eye. He marveled at her freedom. She admired his steadiness. And when the caravan finally rolled out, she didn’t go with it.
She said she liked the town. Said she might stay a while. Maybe pick up a few recipes. Maybe see where this odd, quiet baker with flour on his cheeks might fit in her story.
They were married within the year.
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