We Have Cookies?

[Isar]

Naboo, a once resplendent marble of verdancy, now eyed days of youth with longing gaze. Yet in her capital city could still be seen those sweeping columns and towering domes, recalling days of old when no finer jewels existed than Naboo, peerless in beauty and grace. The streets, full of pedestrians and those seeking to peddle their wares at market, still sought to impress. Clean even for the crowds which walked them.

Should one have walked along junction between eighth and padme, a strange sight would great thine eyes. Two entrepreneurs, a table before them. Their wares? Platters of cookies. Dozens of them. Enough to feed all the hungry and destitute in the city.

But they had not come to feed the poor, or heal the sick.

No, of more interest to passers by were their appearances. One, a man, oddly twisted. A cripple? Mayhaps. Something was off, something that lent him a foreign exoticism. The other was short and furry, with a necklace of knuckle bones. An Ewok, with a glimmer in those eyes, black as tar pits. An eye for avarice? Oh yes. And something more.

Come, travelers, come famished to feast at their table. For two credits, let them ply their baked goods, and have a cookie.

* * *​

​

Warok nibbled on a pastry. "Mm. Good, yes? Civilization, can you smell it, my Abomination?" He sniffed the air. "Decay of the body, of the spirit. Ah but here the mind trains in books. Books of peace. Books of war. Libraries full of knowledge. And so they call themselves civilized. But they have forgotten the spirits. No one treads the Old Ways anymore. And so their books will make lovely kindling."

[member="Orkamaat"]

 

[Orkamaat]

Have cookies? Did they ever.

Orkamaat glanced down at the stall in front of them, laden with all manner of sweets and delicacies. With the sort of time he had on his hands, the Priest had acquired many a skill over the years. Many of his kind elected to train with weapons, learn to play instruments, become sucessful painters, or any other of a number of sophisticated and respected practices.

And Ork?

Well, he decided to become a cook. After a couple of solid millennia of interstellar travel, the man had enough recipes memorised to write a Jedi archive's worth of books about it and still have some to spare, but instead the Priest was content to confine himself to the occasional bake sale in the streets of a bustling town.

With the Primeval disbanded and doomed to wander the stars forever, his duties were suspended until further notice, and so the time had come once again to delve into his hobbies. Who better to do it with than a half-mad Ewok cultist?

"Nothing wrong with books," the thin figure retorted as he toyed with a biscuit between his spidery fingers. "It's how you use them, Little Shaman, that makes all the difference."

"Though I suppose kindling is one way to give them valuable purpose." While Orkamaat himself didn't crave warmth like most living things, he appreciated that others did. Even if they were protected by a warm coat of thick fur.

"Civilisation is a fleeting thing, Furry one. It is the mayfly of sentient creation."

He nodded knowlingly towards a passing man, pointing a gray digit towards the tall buildings reaching towards the sky.

"Set those alight, and it will bleed from the populace as if from a severed carotid."

Swiftly.

"Wonderful recipe, though. Did you use cloves, by any chance?"

[member="Warok the Defiler"]​

 

[Isar]

"Lemon-thyme," replied Warok absently, devouring another pastry. Crumbs stuck in the fur around his cheeks. He stared up at those towers, paw groping for another cookie.

"Yes, yes, books and all their teachings. The wisdom of a shaman in a few hundred volumes. And so because they read it in books they think they know it. They think they've lived it. They are like young hunters who have heard tales of how to fight the Gorax and so think themselves first spears."

The questing digits accidentally brushed [member="Orkamaat"]'s hand.

The Ewok looked down, staring at the man with an unreadable expression. The paw moved away, found another cookie. Warok resumed munching.

"We collect their broken bodies from the forest floor. Civilization, like knowledge, will only last if you have the strength to retain it."

Adorable round ears twitched erratically.

"But sooner or later, all things die. Even the stars," he said mournfully, then glanced at the sun. "They should be starting in a few minutes."

The cookie disappeared into his mouth.

"Tha' shcreams."

 

[Orkamaat]

With a nod of expert appreciation, Orkamaat took note of the addition of lemon-thyme in the recipe, modifying his mental record ever so slightly. He pursed his lips as he wrapped his spidery fingers around the thin stalk of his wine glass and gave the rich red liquid inside a few good spins before partaking.

"Excellent vintage," he murmured more to himself than to [member="Warok the Defiler"], his orange eyes still scrutinizing the lightplay across the disturbed surface of the wine as the Little Shaman went on.

A high-pitched cry pierced the din of a milling crowd, and everything came to a stop with a mighty groaning of flesh. For a comical moment, eyes of hundreds were the only things still moving, searching frantically for the origin of the scream.

Then the wheel of time groaned back into action, and like grazing sheep on a plain, the people scattered every which way, panic gripping at their frail little hearts.

Orkamaat observed the dissolution of their topic of discussion with a calm indifference, merely reliving a sight he'd seen a thousand times before. The details differed from instance to instance, from era to era, but the broad strokes remained the same throughout history.

In the end, many more would be trampled beneath the feet of the stampeding, mindless horde of frightened animals than either Warok or Orkamaat could hope to slaughter with their poisoned pastries.

"Quite ingenious, I have to say," the Priest remarked to his smaller companion, settling back into his chair to watch the events unfold. "Something fast-acting, I presume. Would you care to share your secret, Little Shaman?"

 

[Isar]

The source of the rampage became quite apparent in due time. A human, if he could still be called that, lurched toward another of his kind with a stilted walk, arms extended. Clawing and biting anything in reach. Amid the press of the crowd, quite a few managed to be bitten. And, after all, the cookies had sold quite well. This reanimate was not the only one.

"A marriage between ancient Sith magic and the herbal knowledge of my people's shamans. The cookies. Not all of them are as they seem."

Into the batch, Warok had poured his cruelty, his malice and his will to dominate all life*.

Oddly, the hubbub seemed to move around the two vendors and their stand, as if they had a protective bubble surrounding them. Indeed, it seemed they could chat idly all day without a care in the world for the monstrosities raging before them. Warok hardly seemed concerned. In fact, he didn't look much of anything at all. Maybe a bit sleepy. He'd forgotten his afternoon nap.

"I should write a grimoire, so that I too might add a book of knowledge to the vast collections. And all those who read it may think themselves masters of my secrets."

He giggled.

"Oh, my Abomination, do you wish to learn such secrets? Ask and I will tell."

[member="Orkamaat"]

*J.R.R. Tolkien

 

[ChibbleMan]

An Ewok warrior steals all of the cookies.