Lightstar Family/Adaria/Tourney Host 01/CCC
Creative Cooking Challenge
It was a new day, so that meant it was time for a new announcement.
"Hear ye, hear ye, the Crusty--I mean Creative, Cookie--I mean Cooking, Conte--I mean Challenge chill chegi--Chon of a crying custard!" he cursed in frustration, feeling rather alliteratively challenged at the moment, then took a deep breath to calm himself.
"Sorry everyone, let's try this again. Ahem, hear ye, hear ye, the Creative Cooking Challenge--" An inner voice jumped for joy at the success: Yes! "--will begin at the noon hour. Interested participants may sign-up now at the Fluffy Arena, which has been renamed the Cookie Arena. As in the last event, ye may also simply show up on time to join, but keep in mind that ye will need to bring yer own ingredients. This time, the admission fee is not simply having an inner child and a willingness to laugh as ye bash people upside the head with soft, fluffy pillows, but instead, it's... Oh ye've got to be kidding me!"
The herald had heard talk of the Duchess of Idapur's... odd personality from time to time, especially with regards to baking, but to actually announce the events of which only this girl could conceive was even beyond what he had thought possible. Then again, she was a noble, and everyone knew nobles had strange tendencies.
"Ahem, the price to participate is simply having an inner chef and a willingness to cook as ye mix ingredients inside your bowl with unique, imaginative, inspiration."
He sighed and jogged over to the next open square to continue his daily announcement.
"Good day and welcome to today's Creative Cooking Challenge," announced a different tournament official from the first event. The PFE official was still so sore from his beating suffered at the pillows of overzealous children that he required additional bed rest. With luck, the man would recover in time to officiate the actual tournament as was his original job description before Adaria had decided to add her quirky ideas into the mix. "There are only two main rules to follow in this competition.
"The first rule is that whatever you happen to concoct must, and I cannot emphasize this enough, must be edible. And by edible I mean that you can chew it, if it needs chewing, that you can swallow it without difficulty, and most importantly of all, that you will not die from consuming it.
"The second rule is that your submission must follow some sort of specialized theme. Based on the title of this event, it is highly encouraged that all of the ingredients that you have chosen happen to start with the same letter. For example, a perfectly fine and simple entry would consist of Bread, Butter, and Beef. However, this manner of alliteration is not the only acceptable theme, and this is where the Creative part comes into play. It could be color--every ingredient you use has the same color; it could be type--you use only grains, only meats, only fruits, or only vegetables; or it could even be presentation--the final product is arranged to look like something.
"Any contestant's submission that does not follow these two conditions will unfortunately be disqualified. That is to say, they won't be judged, and you will be ineligible for any prizes. But, you can still hawk off your creations to interested spectators to line your purses if you'd like."
The CCC official noticed that many people in the crowd sort of had a vacant look in their eyes, and quite a few even had their mouths half-open. In other words, they looked hungry, so it was probably a good time to stop talking and start cooking.
"Now, all participants who have signed up please enter the Cookie Arena with your ingredients and materials. Standard cooking utensils should be available if you did not bring your own, though sets are limited so do share. Official volunteers will be standing by to help carry pots of water, chop things, and so on."
People began chatting and moving now, shuffling over the short distance to the designated field to watch the proceedings. The official raised his voice to impart his last instruction.
"Anyone who didn't sign up but still wants to join, please head over to the former surplus pillow depot booth to indicate your interest!"
Arya sighed and sat down to watch the creative cooking competition. This might at least be amusing when the noble ladies created a mess. Maybe a few men would try as well. She didn't think too highly of noble cooking skills. Even her own were atrocious. Only the truly dedicated seemed to do anything good, and Arya's skills were in the area of survival food. Small animals, nuts, berries, etc... That was her expertise. This... Not so much.
(Roleplay from Rhosymira Filador)
Word was spreading of a cooking contest happening at the tournament grounds. When Rhosymira received word, she nearly squeaked in delight, and sent a messenger to sign her up right away. As a child, she had always been fascinated with the work of the kitchen servants, and the wonderful creations they always managed to come up with for the feasts of the nobles. Every moment she had away from her studies, she spent in the kitchens, watching intently. The workers were always friendly, and sometimes they even let her help them, though she had to be careful, for if one of her tutors or family members had caught her there, she would have been in trouble for getting her hands dirty with common work.
Rhosymira's mind began racing through what she wanted to cook. She thought of her favorite foods, and of her favorite things to do in the kitchen. She could scarcely realize what she was thinking before her mind was off to some other idea. She began walking back to her tent, so she could begin writing down ideas, when a wonderful idea fell out of the sky on her...
...The slimy, white gob hit her on the shoulder, and Rhosymira reeled in disgust. She screeched at one of her servants to wipe off the bird dropping, and proceeded to curse the eagle who dared defile her beauty with profanities from a half dozen languages. The last thing she said, in her native tongue, was "I'll have your head on a platter, you miserable beast!"
The words stuck in her head the rest of the way to her tent and as she began writing down ideas. "Stupid bird..." she grumbled to herself. And then she realized.
Birds.
Everything she cooked would either be, or look like a bird. One of the women in the kitchen when she was a child had shown her how to make foods stick into fun shapes, like animals. Another woman had shown her how to make sugar melt and then harden into whatever shape you wanted. Rhosymira figured it couldn't be too difficult to do, or else commoners wouldn't be able to do it. And the main dish, and centerpiece of her whole presentation would be that awful eagle that had ruined her dress. On her way down to the kitchens, she called for a group of hunters to catch the animal.
(Roleplay from Ciann Fraoch)
Wandering through the busy tourney-grounds Ciann clenched her falchion grip tightly at the noise and bustle around her. Closing her eyes she tried to find the willpower to force herself to relax when suddenly she smelt it...Jam.
Sweetberry they had called it back home, she had stolen some once as a child and had almost bitten off one of Gog's fingers when he tried to take the jar from her. 'Huh...and now he's lost that hand...' she muttered to herself, only half aware she had even said it.
Driving her booted heels into the ground to keep from running she stomped her way towards the stall, forcing herself to hold some semblance of a noble composure.
"WARK!" came the call from some bird to her right, and in one fluid motion she hurled herself to the ground, shouldplate clanging, and came up falchion in hand to confront her tiny, but loud assailant. Unfortunately it seemed the bird was intent on a piece of bread and was not one of the Great Birds of Tuhpos.
Looking around quickly she sheathed her sword and fought down the urge to panick and flee in shame. Setting her chin and resisting the urge to run a hand through her hair, which she was certain would only lead to another issue as chain and hair entangled, Ciann resumed her march to the stall.
"They are going to find me in the back of the tent licking jam from my fingers and have me declared mad."
