As I toss the meat into the pot with a splash of water and cover it, another question forms on my tongue. "Do they usually speak? Like the one we saw earlier?"

Erik's brow furrows, his massive frame shifting in the creaking armchair. "Aye, they have their own manner of speech, crude though it may be. In Norway, I observed them wielding tools - swords, spears, bows. They even seemed to have a hierarchy of sorts."

My heart races at this revelation. A structured society? Weapons? This goes far beyond mere animal behavior. These creatures - these transformed humans - have retained far more of their humanity than I'd dared hope. The implications are both thrilling and terrifying.

"Why such curiosity about these beasts, little one?" Erik's voice cuts through my thoughts, tinged with suspicion. "They're naught but creatures, like horses or chickens."

I school my features into an expression of innocent contemplation. "They just seem... different. Smarter, maybe?"

Erik's book snaps shut with a dull thud. "And you believe horses and chickens lack intelligence?" His emerald eyes bore into me, searching for something I dare not reveal.

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Well, they're smart in their own way, I suppose. But they don't speak like we do."

A bark of laughter escapes Erik's lips. "'Don't speak?' Child, a neigh and a cluck are as much speech as your prattling. Each creature has its own tongue."

My mind reels at the philosophical implications. "Then... what separates us from animals? From creatures like the goblins?"

Erik's expression softens, a hint of pride gleaming in his eyes. "Nothing, little one. We're naught but smarter animals ourselves."

I blink, genuinely surprised by the modernity of his view. It's a stark reminder that even in this backwards time, pockets of enlightened thought can flourish. "I... I think I understand," I murmur, injecting a note of childish awe into my voice. "Thank you for sharing your wisdom."

Erik grunts in acknowledgment, reopening his book. I watch him for a moment, curiosity gnawing at me. "What are you reading?"

"The village ledger," he replies without looking up. "A record of ailments and ages. I've a decision to make soon."

My ears prick up at this. "What kind of decision?"

Erik's eyes meet mine, a flicker of... something passing through them. "Nothing for you to fret over just yet, little one. But I may seek your counsel when the time comes."

I nod, my mind already racing with possibilities. What could this decision be? And why would Erik, of all people, value my opinion? As I turn back to tend the simmering pot, I can't shake the feeling that something momentous is on the horizon...

The rich aroma of boiling meat fills the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the hearth fire. I lift the heavy iron lid, steam billowing up to caress my face like the ghostly fingers of some long-dead chef. Grabbing another pot, I measure out two cups of water with the precision of a master alchemist concocting a world-ending potion. The polenta goes in next, golden grains cascading like a waterfall of culinary potential.

"Time for the magic to happen," I mutter, my childish voice at odds with the manic gleam in my eyes. I toss in the onions and garlic, their pungent aroma making my nostrils flare. The wooden spoon becomes an extension of my arm as I stir with the fervor of a woman possessed.

Erik's deep voice rumbles from across the room, "By Odin's beard, child, that smells divine. Where did you learn such culinary sorcery?"

I affect a shy smile, playing up the innocent act. "Oh, Maeve taught me, sir. She knows all sorts of clever tricks with food."

A hearty chuckle escapes Erik's lips. "Ah, if it's from Maeve, then it's sure to be good. That woman may have the morals of an alley cat, but she knows her way around a kitchen."

Yeah, 'Maeve.' If only you knew, you Norse beefcake. This little gem comes straight from my Romanian grandmother's recipe book. Tochitura moldoveneasca – your Viking taste buds are about to get fucked six ways to Sunday.

A thought strikes me like a bolt of culinary lightning. "Ooh, eggs!" I exclaim, my voice pitched high with childish excitement. "I bet that would be yummy with the polenta!"

Erik's emerald eyes follow me curiously as I scamper down to the cellar, returning triumphantly with two pristine eggs clutched in my small hands. I place them on the table with exaggerated care, as if they were dragon eggs about to hatch.

The meat sizzles and pops, a symphony of savory promise. I transfer it to a trencher with all the reverence of a priest handling holy relics. The polenta, golden and steaming, comes next. With a theatrical flourish, I crack the eggs over its surface, watching as they slowly begin to cook in the residual heat.

"Almost ready!" I chirp, bouncing on my toes. "Just need to let the eggs set a bit. Oh, and cheese! Can't forget the cheese!"

Erik rises from his chair, his massive frame casting a shadow over the table as he inspects my handiwork. He takes a tentative bite, and I swear I see his eyes roll back in his head.

"By all the gods," he groans, "this is... extraordinary."

I beam up at him, the very picture of childish pride. "Really? You like it?"

Erik nods, still chewing thoughtfully. "Indeed. But now, I think a bath is in order. Can't enjoy such a feast feeling grimy as a bilge rat."

I watch as he lumbers out, bucket in hand, to gather snow for the tub. The rhythmic crunch of his boots in the fresh powder outside becomes a counterpoint to the bubbling of the pots on the hearth. When he returns, arms laden with logs, I can't help but admire the play of muscles beneath his tunic. Fuck me sideways, but the man's built like a brick shithouse.

As Erik disappears into the washroom, I put the finishing touches on our meal. The trenchers are artfully arranged, steam rising in lazy curls that dance in the firelight. I step back, surveying my creation with the critical eye of a master chef.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Fuck me, I LOVE cooking," I mutter under my breath, a grin spreading across my face that would make the Cheshire Cat proud.

Raising my voice, I call out to Erik, "Food's ready when you are!"

His muffled reply drifts back, "Just a moment, little one. I'll be there shortly."

I settle into my chair, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the table as I wait for Erik to emerge. The savory aroma of our impending feast fills the air, promising a culinary experience that would make the gods themselves weep with envy...

Erik's heavy footsteps announce his arrival, and I watch with barely concealed anticipation as he enters the main room. His emerald eyes widen at the sight of the spread before him, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. Without a word, he reaches for a utensil, but I can't let him ruin this masterpiece with his barbaric Norse eating habits.

"Wait!" I cry out, my voice high and childlike. "You must eat it properly, or you'll miss the full glory of the flavors!"

Erik pauses, his massive hand hovering over the trencher. "Oh?" he rumbles, one eyebrow arching in amusement. "And how, pray tell, should I consume this feast, little one?"

I lean forward, my eyes sparkling with mischief. "Take the polenta with the egg, and put it in your mouth alongside the goat cheese and meat with garlic and onions. All at once, mind you. It's the only way to truly appreciate the symphony of tastes!"

With a skeptical grunt, Erik follows my instructions. The moment the combination hits his tongue, I witness a transformation. His eyes widen, then close in rapture. His entire body seems to sag, as if the weight of his long years has suddenly lifted. When he opens his eyes again, I see a man who has glimpsed Valhalla itself.

"By Odin's missing eye," he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.

Then, without warning, his fist comes down on the table with a resounding crack. I can't help but grin, a surge of pride swelling in my chest.

Erik's gaze locks onto mine, his emerald eyes blazing with an intensity that would make a lesser being quail. "You," he declares, jabbing a finger in my direction, "are the finest woman in all the nine realms. This... this culinary sorcery would make Odin himself green with envy!"

I duck my head, affecting a shy smile even as I preen inwardly at his praise. "Oh, stop," I giggle, waving a hand dismissively. "You'll make my head swell if you keep talking like that. I'll be too big for the door!"

Erik lets out a booming laugh, then proceeds to attack his food with the ferocity of a starving wolf. I watch in fascinated disgust as he shovels mouthful after mouthful into his gaping maw, barely pausing to breathe. It's like watching a natural disaster in slow motion - horrifying, yet impossible to look away from.

I eat my own portion with exaggerated daintiness, savoring each bite as Erik demolishes his meal. When he finally comes up for air, his beard glistening with grease and bits of egg, he fixes me with a look of pure adoration.

"I'll wait for you to finish," he announces magnanimously, as if he's bestowing some great honor upon me. "Then we shall bathe together."

I nod, hiding my smirk behind another delicate bite. When I've cleaned my trencher, Erik leans back with a contented sigh.

"In all my years," he proclaims, his voice thick with emotion, "I've never tasted anything finer. Not even the finest meats and fish in Norway could compare to this... this ambrosia."

A flush creeps up my neck, warming my cheeks. Damn this body and its involuntary reactions! But I can't deny the thrill that runs through me at his words. Yes, praise me more, you hulking Norse god. Sing odes to my culinary prowess! In my past life, I was a fucking kitchen virtuoso. My wives never stood a chance against my gastronomic genius.

Erik heaves himself to his feet, gathering the empty trenchers. "I'll clean up," he says, still sounding slightly dazed. "It's the least I can do after such a meal."

I watch him with barely concealed glee. That's right, my brawny dishwasher. Scrub those plates until they shine! "Oh, Erik," I call out, my voice dripping with honeyed innocence, "if you're going to the market soon, could you pick up a few things for me?"

He pauses in his cleaning, turning to me with an eager nod. "Of course, little one. What do you need?"

I tick off the items on my fingers. "Cabbage, carrots, potatoes, some bors - that's sour whey, by the way - and chicken meat. With bones, mind you. I've got plans for an extraordinary soup."

Erik's eyes light up like a child promised sweets. He nods so vigorously I fear his head might come loose from his shoulders. "Consider it done," he says, returning to his task with renewed vigor.

I stretch languidly, feeling the pleasant fullness in my belly. "Well, I think I'll take that bath now," I announce. "Don't work too hard, my dear. We wouldn't want you to strain something important."

As I saunter towards the washroom, I can feel Erik's gaze burning into my back. Taking my clothes off and throwing them into a corner, I slip into the tub, the warm water embracing me like an old lover. As I begin to wash, a melody bubbles up from the depths of my memory. Before I know it, I'm belting out the lyrics to a song that won't be written for centuries:

"I'm just a sweet transvestite

From Transexual, Transylvania

Let me show you around

Maybe play you a sound

You look like you're both pretty groovy..."

The washroom door creaks open, interrupting my impromptu musical number. Erik's heavy footsteps echo off the stone tiles as he approaches the tub. Something cool and metallic settles on my head, sliding down to rest against my chest. I glance down, my eyes widening at the sight of the trudakshi silver sphere, now fashioned into a makeshift pendant. The sphere sits snugly in a cradle of intricate chainmail links, transforming it into a necklace. It glimmers in the dim light, its silver surface peeking through the gaps in the chainmail.

"There now, little one," Erik's deep voice rumbles above me. "Sean insists you wear this trudakshi orb at all times. It's for the safety of the village, you understand."

I turn the pendant over in my hands, marveling at Erik's craftsmanship. The chainmail links clink softly against each other, a delicate sound that belies the object's supposed power. If this jury-rigged trinket works as Sean claims, will it really put an end to the goblin attacks? But a nagging thought worms its way into my mind - what else might I be attracting? Goblins seem like small fry compared to the horrors that could be lurking in the shadows of this fucked-up world.

Tilting my head back, I meet Erik's emerald gaze. "Say, Erik," I chirp, injecting a note of childish curiosity into my voice, "d'you reckon goblins can be cooked?"

Erik's eyes widen, his thick brows shooting up towards his hairline. "By Odin's beard, child! What manner of question is that?"

I press on, undeterred. "Well, if Sean didn't drag that goblin corpse too far, maybe you could fetch it? We could stash it by the shed and give it a try. Who knows? Might taste like chicken!"

If they're still somewhat human, my mind whispers traitorously, they'd taste more like pork. Long pig, as the cannibals say. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, equal parts revulsion and twisted excitement.

Erik's booming laugh fills the small washroom. "You never cease to amaze me, little one. I've sampled many strange meats in my travels, but goblin? That's a first even for me."

I splash the water playfully, sending droplets flying. "Well then, let's make it a first! Come on, Erik, where's your sense of adventure? We could be pioneers in goblin cuisine!"

Still chuckling, Erik shakes his head. "Very well, you little imp. I'll have a look around. But don't get your hopes up – Sean may have disposed of it already."

As he turns to leave, he tosses over his shoulder, "I'll join you in the bath once I've finished my search. Try not to drown yourself in the meantime, eh?"

The door closes behind him with a soft thud, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more. I sink lower in the tub, the warm water lapping at my chin as I ponder our potential meal.

Is this cannibalism? I mean, technically, those goblins were human once. Or at least, that's what the one Dumitra caught seemed to believe. But they're so far removed from humanity now, does it even count? It's not like I'm suggesting we chow down on the village idiot or anything.

Then again, considering the state of hygiene and medical knowledge in this godforsaken era, eating mystery meat probably isn't the smartest idea. For all I know, goblin flesh could be toxic or riddled with parasites. Wouldn't that be a laugh? Surviving Gwenhwyfar's twisted game only to be done in by some eldritch tapeworm. Although... I would get a chance to dissect it.

I close my eyes, letting out a long sigh that sends ripples across the water's surface. The trudakshi orb rests cool and heavy against my chest, a constant reminder of the supernatural shitstorm I've landed in. As I wait for Erik's return, my mind drifts to all the possible horrors this little bauble might be protecting us from...