Chapter 2. The Yellow Cake
I heard the origin tale of the yellow cake much later in life, a gripping tale of bloodshed, betrayal and revenge. To record it here would be a crime big enough to make a banshee wail, it deserves its own story, one I intend to write. For clarity I will tell only enough to give context and to pique your interest in my future works.
A quest was given, blood was shed, and an adventuring party was screwed tighter than a nut on a gnome automation. As revenge, the said party sent a big yellow cake to the lord behind their predicament - a cake that contained a furry surprise. The guests were maimed, and the lord learnt not to cross adventurers. That should have been the end, with both parties equally unhappy, but alas; nobles will be nobles. The Lord, being the insufferable jerk he was raised to be, put a bounty on the adventurers’ heads. Now, one hundred and fifty years later, here we are.
The next few hours were a symphony of bangs, clangs and dwarven curses not appropriate for civilized ears. I am loathe to admit I still use some of those phrases in frustration to this day. Putting it as politely as possibly, my grandmother had a colorful grasp on language and the more frustrated she became, the more outlandish expressions we learned. Terms such as “Daydreaming of dillying a Dyrad” should be commonplace when describing absent minded people everywhere.
To his credit, my grandfather managed to contain the chaos, so the building survived the frustrated ministrations of a forgetful Calamity. When she finally trod downstairs muttering about how her travel clothes were too tight and her feet too swollen for her silent step boots, she was a sight to behold. The air around her shimmered, an effect I later learnt was from the old cloak she had donned. A small rune-coated bag was pinned from a loop in a gaudy belt featuring a bull’s head buckle. She wore bracers on each wrist and thick rings on several of her fingers.
To my surprise, she grabbed the largest pot lid and lifted the biggest ladle down from its iron mounting on the wall. I remember standing mouth agape as both seemed to shrink into the bag on the belt. My mother tried to block the door and ask what she was planning. Granny simply lifted her under her arms as easily as she would Hazel and deposited her back in front of the armor pot.
“I will back the day before Hazel’s birthday, the kitchen is yours for the next six days.” She turned to us and simply told us to be good children and help our mother before walking away.
Before we continue, I will take a moment to answer what is surely the biggest question on your mind. “If her feet were too swollen for her silent step boots, then what was she wearing on her feet?” The answer is, obviously, bunny slippers. Now you may be imagining cute pink, adorable critter shaped footwear, cancel those thoughts. Grandma did not believe in cute, unless you were one of her adorable grandchildren. No, those slippers were closer to taxidermized carcasses than footwear. Each slipper had been crafted from a meat eating, blood horned bunny with a hole where its spine once belonged. Those monsters had then been lined with goats’ skin and stuffed over a two hundred- and twenty-five-year-old dwarven lady’s feet. Take heed, for the image I have just painted becomes important soon.
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Being ten years old and in shock I required a minute to readjust before dashing out the door and into the street. I remember stopping as Grandad leaned out the window and yelled at Grandma.
“You can not go climbing up a mountain in bunny slippers, Amanda! I will not complain about the weapon and shield you have picked; but I will be dammed if the woman I love is going adventuring wearing rabbits.”
“Quiet, you old fool. I will have you know these are perfect footwear for the situation.”
Grandma huffed, walked over to a nearby barrel and gave it a half-hearted kick. The horn of the rabbit easily punched through the dense wood, but what amazed me the most is that the barrel slid the length of the building before stopping.
“See? Perfect! The horns serve as climbing spikes and they double nicely as weapons in a pinch.” She turned, trying to ignore Grandad, and started walking toward the local temple.
Grandad, far from finished, said the last thing you should say to a woman after she just spent several hours finding appropriate attire and getting ready.
“Honey, you look ridiculous.”
What happened next is recorded into the town’s history. Additionally, there is now a local law stating one is not to throw cattle at another person and/or buildings. That poor cow, and poor grandad (who luckily jumped back from the window in time) and the poor building. You will be happy to know all parties survived, mostly untraumatized. As luck would have it, there was an advanced mage passing through who helped levitate the dazed beast down from the second story balcony.
I wish I had been present to witness that magic display, but alas all my focus was spent keeping up with Granny, who was moving at a dizzying pace. In the span of a few seconds, she was across the town and was banging on the temple door.
“Winzel! you corrupt drunk elf, wake the hell up!”, Granny had bellowed.
Now, what she called Winzel was far worse than the words printed above. Her annoyance at Grandad and the fact that her third knock shattered the door had done little to improve her irate state. The curses and insults she leveled at her old party member over the next minutes would easily make a succubus blush and question whether they truly were a demon. As stated at the beginning, this story is factual with very little creative liberty taken, but some precise details need to stay lost to time.
The banging never ceased during this tirade of undivine insults. I can confirm that no less than seventeen bricks were shattered and that the building did shake to a point that one quarter of the tiles fell from the roof. Those that fell on Granny left no trace of damage. They shattered on impact with her head, which only gave her further incentive to bang harder. I felt relieved when the silhouette of Winzel framed what was left of the temple’s doorway. For if he had taken another minute, I do not think Hopesgrove would have had a temple left standing or a living cleric to guide its populous.
By now, you are probably wondering where the loving matriarchal figure that I introduced at the start is in this dwarf-sized bundle of verbal and physical destruction. Worry not. She is still in there; the problem is the magical equipment she carried to find the two missing ingredients for a cake. Remember that belt with the bull’s head buckle? that is the belt of minitour’s fury. It had the effect of greatly amplifying the wearer’s strength. It is a shame that its worth as an item is offset by the bull’s rage, which, as we can see, affects the wearer’s reasoning.