It was comical to some, how Ryheric would make food disappear. Uncouth gluttony - now you see it, now you don't.
A rare few people in the man's life understood the deeper layer behind why. The wayfarer knew what starvation was. His entire life had followed the theme. Starvation had been used as a weapon against him. It had been a simple matter of survival and scarcity. It was the feeling Ryheric associated with the strange phantom colour he sometimes saw: red. The starving colour, the hue that could do nothing but devour, even as it wrought its own scarcity and hunt for food anew. Like fire consuming its own fuel. A cruel, loud and vibrant colour.
Therefore, when Reviadir suggest Ryheric think of three things that brought him ease, food and eating a full meal was the first he decided to bring to mind.
He took the wise old ranger's instruction seriously, and focused on the thought before he slept. Not rations, but a proper meal.
... Two years before, by a campfire that was not his own. Bacon and eggs, bubbling and cracking on a pan above the flames. The scent savoury, wafting far through the air. His mouth had watered. How hungry had he been that morning?
The bacon on first bite was succulent. Rough, greasy, just leathery enough for the satisfaction of extra chewing. The egg yolk burst and created a marinade on his plate.
"This is the only thing I know how to cook."
Her voice was light, wry and playful like she often was. He wondered if he knew how deeply he didn't care. It was the best meal he had ever eaten.
...
Sleep came, and Ryheric dreamed.
An odd dream, he was in a grand dwarven hall. Long tables, and desperate for a drink of ale, or was it mead? It didn't seem to matter. He went seeking this drink. The journey to the long tables seemed far, indeed. Distances in dreams tended to be skewed.
There, he and Eirik brawled. The mountain man had reached the booze first, and violence broke out. Strangely, each impactful blow sent the combatants sailing through the air, and no pain was felt. It was almost... fun?
Creatures began to appear. A giant earwig. Ath's pheasant. Emmie had come, and his other friends. Emmie began talking like a squirrel.
He could have sworn Aerluinil had a servant turned into a hog, and for some reason, the eldar came and bade them bow to a fey cat queen.
... He never seemed to get his drink. Then, bursts of flowers and fire filled the sky with green, peaceful meadows under moonlight and a balmy summer breeze.
... And he woke. Groggily, but much as any ordinary man wakes from ordinary sleep. Baffled, and hungry for breakfast.
