Star pie

Dwarves by their own species nature have always sought perfection in what they do from swordsmanship to cleaning. Some will be mesmerised by a single meal and dedicate their life to enjoy the great flavours that exist. They would often be forced to travel to try and find new ingredients to continue adapting and improving their dishes as if they stagnate, even at the top, they would be filled with dismay. As they traverse the world, experiencing new food and culture they could look up at the sky, see the stars in the night and know that there is still more out there. To some this was overwhelming as they felt they could never achieve perfections while others felt relief as there was always a chance for new knowledge and improvement.

Dough on the outside, a perfect golden brown, not cooked with arcane fire as it lacks passion. It must be scored at least once to release the fragrance on the inside, but it cannot show itself clearly yet. A feats is eaten with every sense we have. While some go for complexity in their food, Grandel always expressed that within simplicity there existed perfection. The vessel for all his food was the same, a pie, the shell near identical every time with slight variations due to regional crops. But the inside, a mystery to break into where even the smell could differ from the taste, the slight gap through the scoring showing an illusion simply to entice. He had traversed the world in his goal to perfect the pie - its appearance, the smell that reaches your nose, that sound when the crust breaks and the filling is revealed, as it enters your mouth you feel it and finally the taste - nothing was ignored.

One day he simply claimed he was done, he had written down the recipe for his perfect pie and would present what he called his Star pie. A banquet was held in his honor to celebrate his accomplishment and of course enjoy the pie. 500 pies where made, each one identical to the last. He did not allow a single person into the kitchen as they where made as they needed to be experienced only in perfection, not as the smell or sight of the ingredients that made them. They where all ready, waiting to be served. His breathing became rapid and shallow as the servers where let in and started to take the pies to the dining room. One by one they passed his eyes and they bounced back and forth, looking for any defect. The rhythmic steps of the servant like a avalanche of sound in his ears. As the last server left the kitchen the rythmic strikes did not stop, but bacame faster and faster. Had the pies cooled down for to long? Would the servers make it to the dining room with cold pies? Was his lives work, his perfection, ruined by the very halls of the banquet? He tried to wipe the sweat of his forehead but his arm was rigid, unable to relax.

To call the banquet a success was a understatement. Every single guest experienced perfection, the temperature just as Grandel had envisioned it. As they awaited his entry, minutes turned into hours. Joy turned into uncertainty. No one was allowed to enter his kitchen, no response was given when they called out to him outside the door. Three hours had passed before they turned the door handle to find his corpse, simply motionless on the stool he sat on. He could not be brought back, nor did he want to return. The following days became a frenzy as the supposed recipe could not be found and not a single crumb of the pies remained from the banquet. Grandel had gathered every ingredient and used it all. Only a few roots, leaves and bones remained discarded as they where not used but it was far from enough to reproduce the pie. With time it faded into obscurity and the validity of the pie came into question. Was it actually real or simply a trick of magic?