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Tilafareidola would be spoken of and known for hundreds of generations of novices.

He was absolutely certain.

This feast would echo in the hearts and minds and legends of the People.

Whether that would be a cautionary tale of dishonour and infamy or the exaltation of a legendary pinnacle of expression in his order?

That rested upon him and the works of the many clans and their alliances and showings here in this moment.

The event that punctuated the lives of their profession. That every generation honed and struggled and tested themselves against each other and the longer standing masters for.

Orders had already been ended in the opening ceremonies.

And others might very well follow.

Guilds as old or older than Tilafareidola himself could be snuffed out in the proceedings.

Tradition would be honed this day.

For the first time in all legend and memory the Traveler and the Gift Bearer, the Daughter of Courtesan, the Pivot upon which the People had been enlightened had done something never even whispered of.

She had brought guests!

Fragile guests.

Delicate and strange beasts from far away.

Perhaps they were some favored and exotic pet?

Perhaps they were a curse bestowed upon the Courtesan that she must tend lest their poor health ruin the yet unknown depths of her unfathomable honor?

Perhaps they were lovers or adopted wards? Apprentices?

Whatever the matter it was clear to all the strictures and care needed to keep these gentle, soft, infantile creatures comforted and safe.

All the requisite diet and care.

And even the discomfiting thought that they were of a similarity to the horrors that were spoken of in the canopies far distant, where spore choked and strangled the dragoon flights.

This was a test for the eldest Hospitalitor.

A test for his order and all of a kin to them.

A trial of their skill, their care, their ability, the grace of their ingenuity and ability to marvel and master and express the eleven hidden virtues.

To tease the hidden mysteries of the three tenants of hospitality as they would be reflected from the ecos of the people to the fila of the guests.

And if dishonour should fall upon the people this day by the failing of even the lowest novice. If even a single grain of misplaced galena should be allowed to touch the lips of one of the frailest of guests?

Tilafareidola would decree himself to be diminished.

A cadre of his best apprentices and rivals to convene for a passing of all his knowledge.

And then at his own request as a penance a stripping of his own flesh and bone for a crafting of a dish to the courtesan.

To be presented by his successors and made with the wisdom and skill they could salvage from his failure.

He swore this to himself would be the only acceptable action to fail and dishonour not just himself, or his order or even trade. But all The People entire.

But only cowards threw away the honour they had gained to chaos and mercy.

His words and glances and even a few corrective strikes to the staff that streamed around him would stay that dishonour if there was even a single fiber of his being that could make it so.

The list of safe foods were vast and there were secrets and meins bestowed upon him via the guests and the sacred providence of Courtesan herself.

But equally labyrinthine were the forbidden nectars and bones and many others.

There were dishes that had been in preservative care and preparation for generations that would have to be abandoned entirely from the central table.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

There were alliances and marriages between clans, orders and the novice nations that would need to be annulled or compensated for the slights this required.

Entire vast schools of thought and ancient preparation techniques.

Holy and revered flavors and ingredients banished even while the vast stores had already been cut open.

That had already been irrevocably rendered unpreserved by exposure to the air of festivities.

It would be a delighted and wondrous boon of bounties and flavors to many who had never even tasted the like for those of lesser station and skill.

The syrup of Garosh, Fruit of Tinctanal, Flesh of Berhovah.

All forbidden from even coming close to the presence of the delicate guests.

But it was not all stricture or disaster.

There were delights often overshadowed or passed by in favor or convention open to be used.

The Soups of hearty life so eaten by even the commonest of novices had depths and qualities rooted in the Eleven Virtues.

There were examples among every order of the people to savor and enjoy within each and in all manner of The People’s paths was something to be exemplified.

It would be a trade of prestige and an upwelling of some of the lowest novice families and least elders to have simple foods and portions made the centrepiece.

There was a breadth of flavors and dishes and accoutrements and inspirations to be taken from all manner of masters often not employed for the greatest and most central authorities.

And there could be plenty of art here in these.

The finest strikers with the surest aim would be present to demonstrate each of their deep skill in the forging of flakes for all to see.

The sun seared scouring of the Anethiliwharm to crisp perfection just to the point of fizzing evaporation within the festival air.

The deep elder loafs would be traded and bargained between the hunters and many more so that only those with the seasonings deemed fitting of the esteemed guests and yet also delightful to the palette of both People and these others were in reach.

Oh and of course the baubles of highest, purest, decadence.

Refreshing and vitalizing but also in sparse profusion so as to not intimate that those that supped upon them courted the terrible diseases of overindulgence and gluttony.

And then of course vital galena in syrup or crystal needed to actually be present but fixed for those foods that were for the people.

Separate and insulated from the guests so as to do no harm but still present lest the feast be hollow and nourishing for the pelts of the esteemed and eldest masters.

It would in the hands of a less skilled Hospitalitor been an insurmountable and impossible challenge.

The disarray that the new strictures put on all the many thousands on thousands of competing and only barely coherently working individual staff would have collapsed all things into chaos.

But he rallied his chefs, his searers, his cleaners, his teamsters, his great carvers of goods, his slammers and smashers.

The strikers and the gentle fluted sculpters of the ways of water.

The deep alliances and ancient rivalries between forge bakers and hunter cooks.

Field game dressers and deep insulated city chefs.

Orders and clans and guilds that had not met together in allied unity of purpose in any member’s lifetime.

All spokes in the wheel around which The Eldest Tilafareidola would turn them to this task.

And either bring honour to The People.

Making this a feast of legend.

Or calamity and despair upon himself for poisoning the guests of The Courtesan.

Now to check on the potential disaster of that flurry of egg foam!

Fool Apprentices!