First-Fruits Votary

Appledance’s Guide to Culinary Excellence Entry IV · The First-Fruits Votary of the Empress

By Delilah Appledance, Eth Dreythna’s Wandering Hearthkeeper

La-la-la… There’s a hush before sunrise in the Temple Orchard, broken only by the soft rustle of wheat and the barefoot tread of the First-Fruits Votary, our city’s most sacred harvester. Centuries ago, when The Empress herself blessed these fields, she declared, “Offer me your first, and I shall fill you with plenty.” From that day, devoted souls have trained to gather the very season’s first berries, grains, and Moonroot tubers, lifting them in quiet prayer before any blade ever fell..

I’ve watched young hopefuls kneel in dew-kissed feilds, faces pressed to the earth as they undertake the Dawn’s Vigil, three mornings bent in gratitude, learning the Empress’s harvest hymns by heart. After three full seasons apprenticed to a senior Votary, each is anointed with silvered pollen, a shimmering mark that proclaims them true stewards of first fruits.

Their purpose? To consecrate the fledgling Amberleaf Harvest Festival: weave woven-sheaf garlands and pressed-flower cornucopias, lead the communal First-Fruits Feast, and bless every ear of grain before the scythe’s song begins. In return for this pious labour, Votaries receive no copper coins. Instead, they carry home the First Cartload share, enough fresh produce to fill larders through winter’s leanest nights. They rest in vine-hung hammocks among the Temple Orchard’s guest groves, sip tea from rare seed strains gifted by the Empress’s gardeners, and hold honoured seats at seasonal councils where sowing plans are whispered and woven.

Socially, they stand above common farmhouse hands yet below the high clergy, a beloved bridge between field and faith. Villagers bow as a Votary passes, for it’s said their simple blessing ripples through every furrow and hearth. I, too, bow my flour-dusted head whenever they circle my Hearthstall, heart brimming with the reminder that every loaf I bake began as a sacred promise.

Each autumn, to honour their devotion, I craft my Cornucopia Quince Tart: quince ribbons poached in honeyed wine, nestled in a golden horn of buttery crust, and crowned with pressed rose petals. Pulled warm from the oven onto woven-sheaf plates, each slice tastes of the Empress’s gentle smile, and of the Votary’s steadfast faith that, given first, all yields will follow. tra-la…

~ Mrs. A