#kind of inspired by that time an 18th century german guy went to england and learnt about toast and decided it was the best thing since uhh

[bretongirlwrites]

‘If I’d known,’ said Marcurio, ‘that we’d make it through Pale Pass and our only reward would be this, – I think I’d rather have gone up Frostcrag again.’

‘It’s nice bread,’ I protested.

‘Not just the bread,’ said Marcurio: spread his hands.

I must admit though I was halfway through my third slice of rye-bread, that the situation was not ideal. Fort Neugrad had after all, looked like a little village on the map, shaded in a mountain-cirque. But the maps had been published too long ago, or else been a propaganda piece; and the place now being an ice-house held together by a snow-drift, the legionnaires inhabiting it had resigned themselves to becoming half-starved icicles, and we must though footsore, follow suit. 

‘If I were a legionnaire,’ said Marcurio at last, ‘I think I’d abandon international security and go and guard a nice tavern instead.’

‘We have a fire,’ said I. 

It was a fine word, for a thing spitting from damp old logs: but regardless, Marcurio had gone for the fire-tongs, and spearing a slice of bread and more butter than we’d seen in a month, tried to make himself a palatable meal.

‘There’s that,’ said he: ‘You know, I used to think this was the height of cuisine, back at university, when my term’s money had run out. And it was nice bread, too, not the preserved remains of someone's old boot, –’

‘Oh!’ I laughed: ‘you will be hanged in Skyrim, for that, –’

‘At least I wouldn’t have to eat any more rye-bread,’ said Marcurio: but fell at once silent, when he heard footsteps in the corridor. He had judged right, and it was our Nordic friend of earlier, who took two steps into the room, and cried in indignation:

‘Is that toast?’

Marcurio looked up, and perfectly in his Cyrodiilic sensibilities, blinked at him.

‘It’s damn cold even in here,’ he protested.

Hadvar waited while he unhooked a slice; while he inspected the consistency of the butter; and until he had brought the offending article to his mouth; whereupon he informed us:

‘Must be a southern thing. We usually use the tongs for drying socks.’

Marcurio spluttered and dropped the toast in the fire. Hadvar chuckled and said what he’d meant to say: only that he’d wanted to know how we were getting on, and whether we were warm enough, – considering the capabilities of the place, – as warm as was possible, at least. He would check on us later, with bedding-things, and perhaps a bit more bread. Marcurio could not help but react as though the bread were a threat; and our soldier went away laughing.

‘I hate Skyrim,’ said Marcurio, scowling at him until he’d disappeared.

‘Oh!’ said I nibbling my fourth untoasted slice, thus far uncontaminated by socks: ‘it will not all be like this.’

‘Bloody well hope not,’ said he: ‘well! this can’t taste any worse, –’

And taking up the fire-tongs again, he announced that he’d not given the soldier enough credit for the idea; and spearing one each on the prongs, set his socks nicely toasting over the poor belaboured fire.

#breton girl writes #oc:julienne #kind of inspired by that time an 18th century german guy went to england and learnt about toast and decided it was the best thing since uhh #also inspired by the fact that i hate winter & i hate ice