THE HEARTHFIRE'S BOUNTY
LOCATION: Le Yer, Abregado-Rae | The Feast Grounds | Ferrin Dorn's festival camp
ALLIES: Iron Covenant // Anyone stopping by his booth
From his position behind the rising, fragrant smoke of his roasting pits, Ferrin Dorn quietly watched the passing crowd of the resort city.
The atmosphere in Le Yer was a brilliant, dizzying sea of vibrant color—white bouquets of
Stibaa'vormur and
Vormur flowers from Kestri and the Mandalorian sectors beautifully decorated the walkways, adding a soft, peaceful elegance to the otherwise rowdy festival crowd. But beneath the flowing ale, the grand songs, and the booming laughter of the
vode, a profound, lingering shadow hung over the Covenant. Everywhere Ferrin looked, he saw the unmistakable signs of mourning. Groups of armored Mandalorians stood in quiet clusters, raised cups to the sky, or held single, cut petals in their gauntlets as they paid solemn respect to the fallen clans memorialized across the stars.
The heavy, devastating toll of the recent Genocide and Battle of Humbarine still bled fresh through the fleet's collective memory.
Ferrin didn't have a specific family monument to weep over. He didn't even know the name of the original clan that had found him that fateful day clutching a piece of scrap metal as an orphaned boy in the briars. Furthermore, when the Mythos Fleet had descended into the literal, burning hell-ground of Humbarine to retrieve their trapped brethren, Ferrin hadn't been in the drop ships. He had been weeks away, forward-deployed on an entirely unmapped frontier sector, executing his sacred duty as a pathfinder searching for resources so the civilian survivors would have a fleet to return to.
A part of him carried a quiet, stubborn weight for missing the fray, but out here, standing behind a blazing hearthfire, he found his own way to serve. He was entirely awkward in massive, boisterous crowds, and the thought of raising a glass to make a loud public boast made his throat lock up with social anxiety. But through these acts, hunting, cooking, and providing for his family, the lone wolf showed his true and unwavering affection for his
vode, even when the words would fail him.
To accomplish this, he had spent the last three weeks treating the galaxy as his personal pantry, pouring an immense amount of meticulous care into sourcing a true frontier bounty.
He had flown
The Iron Thorn far and wide, slipping into the deepest, unmapped jungle valleys of an Outer Rim rim-world, deploying canisters of his insectoid tracking drones to chart game trails and migratory paths. He had tracked skittish Tee-Muss reptomammals on foot for days over many miles, ensuring clean, single-slug drops from
The Thorn's Bite so the delicate game-meat wouldn't be scorched by toxic blaster plasma. He had navigated the jagged stone spires of an wild uncharted canyon world to secure prime flanks of wild Shyrack, a lean, rich, and heavily flavored meat prized by survivalists, no easy task considering their massive size, razor-sharp teeth, and ability to fly. Further still he had spent days foraging the deep marshlands of a nearby sector planet to harvest bushels of Sun-Drop Tuber-Root, a sweet, starchy native gold produce that absorbed flavors beautifully when roasted.
The execution of the feast was less a chore and more an exacting, multi-day culinary campaign carried out with the love for his people at its heart.
He had also sourced crates of dense iron-oak hardwood from Kestri, letting the slow, aromatic wood embers burn down into a deep, consistent white ash that threw a precise, uniform heat. The Tee-Muss ribs had been hand-rubbed forty-eight hours prior with coarse sea salt and crushed peppery herbs, now turning slowly on massive iron spits over the embers. Ferrin basted them rhythmically with a dark glaze he had hand-distilled from tart wild briar-berries, turning the meat a perfect, caramelized mahogany hue. Beside the spits, the Shyrack flanks were laid flat over hot soapstone slabs, searing in their own rendered fats while Ferrin layered them with wild citrus leaves to completely cut the gamey aftertaste. Nestled directly into the hot coals were the Sun Drops, wrapped in thick, wet clay. As the shells baked solid, the roots inside were essentially steam-roasting in their own natural sugars, melting down into a sweet, rich mash that smelled of caramelized honey.
Behind his heavy wooden counter also stood two massive, pressurized copper casks. Inside the first was his signature, high-proof Thorn-Bush Stout, thick, heavy, and packed with a sharp, spiced kick meant for the veteran brawlers who wanted a drink that could clear their sinuses. The second contained a newly aged Amber-Honey Mead, fermented from wild frontier honeycombs he had scraped from a canopy world. It was lighter, crisper, and carried a smooth, sweet finish designed for the casual drinkers who simply wanted to lighten their hearts away from the war room.
As Ferrin tended his hearthfires, a shadow cast briefly over his prep station as a small group of young foundlings and children dived through the walkway, their eyes wide as they looked at the exotic feast.
Ferrin didn't say a word. The normally stoic, solitary pathfinder simply gave them a nod and smiled as he reached beneath the counter, and pulled open a small tin container. With a swift, subtle flick of his wrist plate, he slid a handful of small, hand-pulled Glitter-Cap lozenges across the wooden tabletop toward the children. The hard candies were shaped like tiny mushrooms, naturally sweet and infused with a safe, shimmering native fruit syrup that caught the light of the fires. The kids scrambled to grab the treats, offering quiet, excited murmurs of
"Vor entye" before running back into the festival crowd.
Ferrin watched them disappear, a soft smile touching his face. He wiped his hands on a clean cloth, took a deep breath of the hot, savory air, and sliced into a fresh, steaming flank of the Shyrack roast. He didn't call out to the passing crowds or yell over the music; he didn't need to. The roaring, crackling fire of the Kestri hardwood and the sheer, overwhelming aroma of sizzling, berry-glazed meat drifting across the lane were all the advertising he required. As the rich scent caught the mountain breeze, several weary, heavily armored Mandalorians immediately began tracing the trail of smoke, their eyes locking onto the tapped copper casks and the empty benches waiting beneath his rustic canopy. Ferrin simply picked up a clean carving knife, stepped back into the shadows of the hearth, and waited for his family to arrive.
Romul Saxon
. And the Ha’rangir’s Chosen lead a hunt in the Gush, hunting a terrible Darkghast that terrorizes the native Gados; in other words, worthy prey.
