Cedar was still surprised about being gifted the entire pot of what was surely a fine stew that was only about a day old, tops, judging from smell and texture.
Slow cooked, but never allowed to just sit around and go rancid. The meat and vegetables might have a bit of a mushy texture, but there would be nothing at all wrong with it in terms of health complications. Some people preferred their stew this way in fact-- something his father had told him once. Something called "Braising."
(Not that he ever really had the patience. Getting it up to critical temperature and breaking down the vegetables enough to be tender was usually all he ever bothered with himself. -- In the times he bothered to cook the food anyway. Cooked food was more of a 'special events' thing. Raw wild vegetable, picked at the peak of ripeness, was his usual-- often fortified with insects and wild mushrooms. Depends on where he was in the forest that day, and what the day's itinerary was. He had been quite honest with the baker about not being picky. --HUMANS-- his own father included, some of the time-- were the ones that seemed needlessly picky on foodstuffs.)
He was ravenous, and was just about to simply cram his face into the pot, when a thought occurred to him. The old man, Reinhold-- He had no reason to stay any further with the group, and the man had been literally starving as well from the lack of good hunting. It would be almost criminal to send the man home to starve, while hoarding a free pot like this.
"HOY OL' TIMER!" he bellowed into the darkening hours near where the carriage should be. "YA STILL O'ER DERE?"
"What do you want, Bear?" came a bit of a surly answer. "I'm grabbing my shit and going home. I'm tired."
"Da baker feller lef'-us a big arsed pot o grub-- Wonder'd ifn' ya wanted some, at's all!"
"Baker huh.. For free? What, he didn't spit in it, did he?"
The question left him puzzled. Why would the baker spit in the soup? It was a thing he just couldn't wrap his head around. Why would you do that to perfectly good soup, and then give it to somebody? Was this one of those human rivalry things? Food is hard to get, and it clearly took a whole day to get the soup the way it was in this pot-- why would you? To the food?
He shook his head, then sniffed at it again, paying very careful attention, checking for traces from the baker, and coming up empty on the inquiry. There was no evidence of such an "Additive."
"Dun smell like it---" he drawled, as Reinhold sauntered up to the terrace, bow slung over his back for carry, and dusting the road dust off his trousers. "Why'd sumbuddy do summat' like 'at anuhoo? He lef' us sum bread tuh. Don' make no sense ta spit inna food like at, an' show'r us in so much. Hell, Dun make no sense ta spit inna food noway nohow. Ya sure at wizard didna zap ya in da head dere ol' timer?"
"Baker doesn't give ANYTHING away for free." the old man said flatly. "you've either impressed him, or somebody in your group has leverage on him somehow. If I were you, I'd be more careful with that one."
'Weren't e'zactly free-- Moars, 'whole lot fer a silv'r'-- But dey's plenty ta go 'round. It'd be criminal not ta ask if'n ya wanted sum afores ya head home-- As fer bein' careful....' Cedar leaned in close to Reinhold, and practically whispered at him "I'd be right scared ta jus' 'head home ta bed' ifn' I was you. People's as kin occupy a whole damn town like at bullshit at fanghorn an' pesti? Dey gots real strong opinions about gittin dey're plans fucked up, and lil' peoples like us tends ta git shit on. Like em poor barstards as had dere houses burned. I aint none tuh happy 'bout flattenin' their houses fer 'em on top-a-it all neither. Ifn' sumbody deserves ta git fucked o'er fer what happened, it be yours truly-- but em kinds? I might not be de oldes' an' wisest-- At's muh pappi's job-- but I dun noticed muh own self 'at 'at sort like ta gits revenge 'emselves, and dun' take tuh kindly ta havin' de're plans ruined. Ya needs a spot to disappear tuh, come track meh daown. I'll FIN' a spot fer ya. Caint stay awake fer many more weeks af'er dis, but hell, I'd put ya up in my own house while I sleeps off da winter downstairs, ifn' it come ta 'at. Ain't got no food at home, seein as I don' eat inna win'er, but I won' be usin' da fireplace nor da bed neither. Freeze up dere tryin' ta hibernate. Gots a nice cozy hole full a leaves un'er a trapdoor fer at. Nuh 'ere, have sum food wit' me."
Cedar extended a somewhat twisted and misshapen, but otherwise perfectly edible baguette style loaf to the man out of the bag the baker had deposited with the large cauldron of stew.
"Didn' leave meh no bowls 'douh." muttered the bear. "Mebbe ya fin' a loaf in 'ere ya kin use instead..."
It was a trick his dad had shown him. You bake an especially dry and crusty loaf in the shape of a ball, rather than a baguette or a slicing loaf, then you cut the top, and cut out a hunk of the inside with a knife before filling it up with a thick and heavy stew. The thick, dry crust keeps it from seeping all the way through, the soup softens the dry loaf, and you end up with a 'bowl' of soup that you simply just eat. If you are careful, you don't even need utensils. Out in the woods, and living with next to nothing like their family did, it was an inventive and useful trick.
He wished he hadn't left the kukri with his dirty robes in on the back of the carriage, but he figured Reinhold to be the prepared type, being another forest dweller, even if of a different persuasion, as he dug in the bag until he found what he was looking for, more or less, then handed it to the old man. "Dis'l hav ta do."
"I still dont know what to make of you bear." the man said with a bit of a wry smile, while accepting the bread loaf. "But you don't seem half bad. I STILL don't know how your dad didn't get eaten alive though."
Cedar chuckled, then dug around in the bag some more, looking for a similar loaf for himself, extracting it, before simply biting the top, and hollowing it out with his muzzle in lieu of having a knife. Humans he had found, had no conception of the idea of 'talking' to animals. If they did, they considered it a nonsensical aspect of a children's tale, not a practical aspect of life. Animals themselves usually lived a very 'inward' life, with vocalizations rather than words, and no conception that was even possible to share their feelings in ways other than outward action or simple utterances. The first few times you 'talked' with them, they were almost always terrified by the experience, no matter how gentle and calm you were about it. Humans -- and bears too-- were scary to most animals anyway, and the combination usually left them so rattled that they questioned what was real and what wasn't for days afterward. There was no easy way to explain the kind of 'slow growing' partnerships he and his dad forged with the other residents of their home to the old man. Even less of a way to explain how such a partnership could turn romantic. Humans, like the wild creatures he called his friends, had their own view on what things in the world were like. For humans, animals were dumb creatures without any comprehension of anything besides basic needs or wants. Many considered them incapable of feelings or desires, and thus a non-issue when it came to causing them harm. Such notions were simply unfounded, but explaining the truth to them was often impossible. Words lacked the... substance... that 'the connection' offered. You had to try and wrap up complex ideas like this in metaphors and analogies, and other abstractions, where with an animal, the core concept itself was what was presented, just as it was. (You just had to hope they could understand something that complex without blocking it out to protect themselves.)
"I's complicat'd." muttered the bearman before swallowing the mouthful of bread. He snapped the long baguette in half, then used half of it to scoop stew out of the pot and into his "bowl", while holding the pot by the wire handle and tipping it forward. "Les' jus' say 'at wil' critters has more in em an what mos' people realizes-- Dey jus' sees an' un'erstan's da world diff'rent. Ya gots ta speak 'er language, sorta speak."
"Hey, I didn't say I wanted a lecture, I said I didn't understand it." rumbled the old hunter, who had produced a pocket knife, and had more eloquently cut his own loaf, much like his dad did, before extending it to him to be filled.
"Fair 'nuff." rumbled Cedar, once more using the baguette to spoon up soup into the old man's 'bowl'. "I jus' wann'd ta poin' out-- ain't no part a mamma and pappa be 'forced'. 'em two loves each odder. Ain't no reason ta eat each odder, no more an you an some country girl would." He took a generous bite out of his bowl, slurped the juice back, then swallowed hard. "Fer sum reason, people's has a hard time unnerstan'in dat part. Thinks a bear caint fall in love. I kin assure ya, at aint da case at all. Momma an poppa gots ways ta talk wit each odder, an' dey does. Respects each odder. Loves each odder. Simple as 'at."
The old man shuddered a moment, shook his head, then distracted himself with his own bite of soup-bowl. "It's definitely not something I have ever considered even remotely possible." he said flatly. "I cant help feeling unnerved looking at you."
"At's 'ow mos' people's sees it. Ya gits used ta it. Hell, half da time, dey waitin' fer ya to try an' eat em or sommat. Muhself? I only half-unnerstands half da stuff you humans gits upta." He sucked down another bite. "Mos'ly seem like a big arsed waste a time, ya asks me."
"what do you mean?"
"Well-- takes people as has real big fancy 'ouses--- Like at 'king' fellar, or at crazy big place packed all elbow-ta-asshole wit' peoples, Rascade..." He made a general motion with the baguette in the direction of the capital. "Why does you human-folk live like at? What ya really git from havin' a house like-at? Gotta fin' ways to convince odder humans ta live wit, and help ya keep a big arsed thang like at from fallin in on ya-- Got so many a ya all packed inta one spot, ya'all goes nuts, an' robs from each odder. Keels each odder. If ya listen ta what people says in da dark alleys and such, ain't none a ya happy 'ere-- so why does it? Make no damn sense at all." He slurped in another bite, then sucked it down. "Meh? I gots a roof o'er muh head ta keep da rain out, ain't got no nosy neighbors all up muh butt worried 'bout muh damn lawn, nor hatchin crazy idears 'bout what uh might nor might not be plannin on doin' to em --or hell, ta dere daughters-- suh many a ya human types wit' young girls think's I's gunna just grab some girl up an' drag er off wit me and has muh way wit' er or sommat-- aint like at 'tall-- Da hells wrong wit de lot a ya, thinkin' stuffs like 'at--- True, uh wants ta start a fam'ly muself sumday, but NOT LIKE 'AT! Make no damn sense at all, but ya's seem real keen I be plannin it like at-- Naw-- Insteads, I just sit at home, wonderin' how it e'en might be possible ta broach da subject wit' a girl three times muh age, and likely as not ta take offence at da mere suggestion. What a fellar ta do, eh? So, fer da mos' part, I just sticks ta muh own self-- Gots friends wit' da fores' critters an' fores' folk-- Pixies an such-- Helps muh pappi out wit' plantin' trees, and flow'rs. Nice, hones' livin."
"I had... Not even considered this." the man said, eating another bite of his soup bowl himself. "But I understand how you feel. I prefer my little shack on the end of town myself. Quiet, and cozy, and its all to myself, mostly. More so since ..." he trailed off a second. then resumed ".. Since they murdered my friend. Thank you for helping me put an end to his killers, by the way."
"Dun mention it."
