Chadwick Rye

Grishka Ironjaw rested her scarred knuckles on the worn oak table, the firelight casting long shadows across her tusks. Around her, the clan’s celebration roared – bodies dancing, drums pounding, voices raised in triumph after the Battle of Broken Stones. But her thoughts drifted to another meal, one that had changed everything.

“You ask of memorable meals, bard?” She regarded the slender human with his quill poised above parchment. “You expect tales of raw meat and bone marrow, don’t you? Something suitably savage for your chronicles.”

The bard shifted uncomfortably, and Grishka laughed – a sound like distant thunder.

“The most memorable meal of my life came not in victory, but defeat. Three winters past, when I wandered alone, separated from my clan during the Great Storm.”

The flames reflected in her amber eyes as memory engulfed her.

—

The blizzard had raged for three days, leaving Grishka half-frozen and starving. Her armor, designed for battle rather than survival, offered little protection against the mountain’s fury. Pride had kept her moving long after wisdom counseled surrender to the elements.

When she stumbled upon the cottage – a humble structure of stone and timber – she expected to claim it by right of strength. Such was the way of her people. The elderly human woman who opened the door should have cowered, should have fled or begged for mercy.

Instead, she looked at Grishka with eyes the color of summer skies and said, “You’d better come in before you freeze solid, dear.”

The warmth hit Grishka like a physical blow. Her fingers, green and calloused, had lost all sensation. Her tusks ached from chattering. The woman – Maeve, she called herself – busied herself at the hearth while Grishka stood awkwardly, her hulking frame making the cottage seem smaller than it was.

“Sit,” Maeve commanded, gesturing to a chair that looked too fragile for Grishka’s weight. Yet it held her, creaking only slightly in protest.

The aroma reached her first – rich, complex, nothing like the straightforward smells of roasted meat that dominated orcish cooking. This scent told a story with many chapters, each ingredient a character with its own voice.

“Venison stew,” Maeve explained, placing a clay bowl before her. “With carrots from my garden, wild mushrooms from the forest, and herbs I’ve dried since summer.”

Steam rose in languid curls, carrying promises of nourishment. Grishka stared at the wooden spoon, a delicate thing that seemed absurd in her massive hand. In the camps, she would have simply lifted the bowl to her lips.

“It’s too hot to rush,” Maeve cautioned, settling across from her with her own portion. “The best meals take time to appreciate.”

That first spoonful – Grishka remembered it with perfect clarity. The venison yielded easily, tender from hours of slow cooking. The broth carried whispers of rosemary and thyme, underscored by the earthy bass notes of mushrooms. A hint of wine provided complexity, while root vegetables contributed sweetness to balance the salt.

It wasn’t just the flavors that marked this meal as extraordinary. It was how Maeve spoke to her – not as an enemy, not as a monster, but as a traveler in need of kindness. They talked as they ate, at first in awkward fragments, later with growing ease.

Maeve shared stories of her late husband, a woodcutter who had built this cottage with his own hands. Grishka, to her own surprise, spoke of clan politics, of her dreams beyond endless raiding. The food loosened something within her – not just hunger, but a knot of something deeper.

After the stew came bread, dark and dense, spread with honey so fresh Grishka could taste wildflowers in its sweetness. In all her years of feasting after victorious battles, nothing had tasted so purely of peace.

“Why?” Grishka had finally asked, the question that had burned within her throughout the meal. “Why help an orc?”

Maeve’s wrinkled hands wrapped around her mug of tea. “Hunger looks the same on any face, dear. And winter is hard enough without turning away those in need.”

—

“I stayed three days,” Grishka told the wide-eyed bard. “She taught me to make bread, to identify healing herbs. When the storm cleared, I left with a pack of provisions and something else I couldn’t name.”

She traced the rim of her mead cup, aware that several younger warriors had quieted their revelry to listen.

“Six moons later, when our clan planned to raid the human settlements in that valley, I spoke against it at the war council. I told them of more prosperous targets elsewhere.” Her voice lowered. “I never told them about Maeve.”

The bard’s quill scratched frantically across parchment. “And the woman? Did you ever see her again?”

Grishka reached beneath her armor, pulling out a small clay jar. “I visit every spring. I bring her honey from our forest hives, and she makes that same bread.” Her massive fingers cradled the jar with surprising gentleness. “The most memorable meal isn’t always about the food, little bard. Sometimes it’s about who we become after we’ve eaten it.”

Around her, the celebration continued, but several younger orcs watched her thoughtfully, seeing their war-chief in a new light as firelight gleamed on the small jar of honey she held like a treasure.

If you like this little story please consider subscribing to my blog so that you don’t miss any new ones. Also you can check out other stories that I have written and are currently writing like Forbidden Bond, a tale about a human falling in love with a Half goblin while being hunted down by fallen angels and evil nobles. Or you can check out Chronicles of the Giantess and follow Valorie the Giantess as she adventures across the land of Calladan. Please feel free to leave me a comment. I would love to know what you think about any of the stories.