The day after the Summerkind died, there was tension, in the [i]Cancellation[/i]. By silent accord, the Biomancers kept eye contact to a minimum, remained still and set in place as they worked, focused one notch too intently on their tasks, and most importantly of all, spoke as little as possible. The looming crisis does not exist, if no one speaks of it. The first Biomancer to leave their post is just following their usual routine, if everyone pretends they’re not watching them closely. The brave soul walked to the nearest mess hall, as usual. They approached the window to the kitchens, as usual. Inside, an off-color sheep hands them a tray loaded with tasty, tasteful delicacies, as they hoped he would.

A held breath is released. The crisis is averted. Several thousand Biomancers simultaneously decide it is time for lunch. They disperse to the various corners of the ship, to their preferred kitchens, to the closest kitchens, and they feast on Dolce’s handiwork again. 

One Biomancer arrives after the others have gone. Dolce hands the Ancient Craftsman a tray. Freshly prepared. Slightly altered, to match his tastes. “Long day?” He asks, in the time-honored tradition of server to served. He asks, in the way that a chef on Beri once asked a old, learned soul for his teachings. He asks, and he will listen, in the way that the Ancient Craftsman likes to be listened to, and doesn’t he need a listening ear right now?

The protection of Hestia was the first miracle. This, then, was the second. One that 20022 could not possibly anticipate. 

It would be rude to waste a miracle, wouldn’t it?