Bloodfruit Tarts

Bloodfruit Tarts Delicate, spiral-shaped pastries filled with a warm compote made from bloodfruit, a rare, crimson-black fruit that bleeds rich juice when sliced. The outer crust is thin and crisp, brushed with herb-infused butter—often rosemary, juniper, or lavender depending on the region. The filling glistens like dark wine, and the scent alone stirs forgotten feelings.
  Each tart is shaped like a closed eye or blooming rose—a traditional design meant to symbolize either remembrance or the opening of the soul.
  Eating one allows the consumer to relive a single memory—not just as a vision, but as if they were there again, complete with smell, sound, and touch.
  The experience lasts several minutes in real time but can stretch for hours within the memory.
  Clerics warn: eating more than one in a short time can fracture the mind, blurring real and imagined pasts, sometimes fatally.
  Origins: Bloodfruit only grows near sacred ruins or ancient battlefields where divine blood once spilled.
  Legend says the first bloodfruit tree sprouted from the blood of the god of agriculture and strength, after he was mortally wounded defending mortals during the First Sundering. Where his blood fell, the trees bloomed—and only once every few years.
  Seeds are nearly impossible to cultivate. Most trees die in foreign soil.
  Only a handful of taverns and chefs across the continent know how to prepare the tarts properly. One such place—The Hollow Hearth, an inn tucked near a forested cliffside in the eastern region—has become infamous for it.
 
  Brother Halwen of the Hollow Hearth
  Halwen was once a devout cleric of the old faiths—specifically a minor order that worshipped the same god whose blood birthed the bloodfruit tree. He served on the front lines during the War of the Hollow Wake, tending to the dying and recording final rites in blood-soaked fields.
  But after one particular tragedy—a village of innocents corrupted before his eyes—Halwen renounced his vows. Not out of hate, but heartbreak. He believed that healing was no longer enough.
  Instead of vanishing into obscurity or turning bitter, he traveled. And cooked. What began as a habit to feed survivors and fellow clerics became an obsession with finding comfort in the mundane.
  He eventually opened a tavern in the eastern hills called The Hollow Hearth, where he now lives as a baker, herbalist, and silent confidant.
  Warm, soft-spoken, with eyes that seem to see right through you—but never judge.
  Often speaks in old phrases or gentle parables.
  Hums hymns while baking, though he claims not to remember the words.
  Keeps the tavern candle-lit at all hours. “Some folk need a place where the dark can’t reach.”
  Halwen learned to make them decades ago from a dying matron of the faith. His version is made only for those who truly need it—he doesn’t sell them freely.
  He chooses the herbs for each tart based on the eater’s burdens.
  He says, “Memories aren’t meant to be changed. But sometimes… they need to be touched.”
  His right hand is scarred from something he never explains. Some say it’s from a failed warding ritual. Others believe he once tried to destroy a corrupted fruit and barely survived.
  A broken holy symbol sits behind the tavern’s bar. It glows faintly when placed near blessed items.
  He still keeps a sealed cask of bloodfruit compote made during a blood moon. He refuses to use it. Ever.
 
  Recipe Fragment – Bloodfruit Tarts (For Memory's Mercy) Page 17 – Bound in Corded Leather, Ash-Stained
  "To be made only under calm skies and clean conscience."
  Crust –
  2 cups barley flour, sifted under moonlight
  1/2 cup cold butter, chopped fine as regret
  A pinch of salt (not too much—let the filling carry the weight)
  2 tbsp ground lavender or anise, depending on the soul you serve
  Just enough cold water to bring it together—but no more. Too much, and the past floods back.
  Filling –
  3 ripe bloodfruit, bled by hand into a silver bowl
  1 tsp honey (aged, not fresh—aged things know the cost of sweetness)
  A dusting of wild clove and shadow-peppermint
  1 sprig of mourning rosemary, chopped until it forgets its name
  Simmer until thick enough to hold shape but loose enough to pour like memory. Do not boil. Let it breathe.
  Assembly –
  Roll the crust into thin spirals—no circles, no straight lines. Memory doesn’t move that way.
  Fill each spiral with the cooled compote. Shape them like closed eyes, or open wounds. Either works.
  Bake in a clay oven for thirteen minutes. No more, no less.
  Let cool under quiet candlelight. The silence matters.
  Notes:
  One tart per soul. Two invites sorrow. Three invites something else entirely.
  I keep the old compote sealed beneath the hearth. If I ever use it, may the gods forgive me.
  If a traveler asks without knowing the name of the tree, send them away.
  If Kael ever comes here, I won’t offer him one. He already walks with enough ghosts.
  —Halwen