Deep Sea Embers Chapter 511: The Food Culture of the Elves

With a creak, the door leading to the captain’s quarters of the ship, known as the Vanished, swung open, revealing the imposing figure of Duncan stepping confidently into the room. It was a scene of austere simplicity, with only one unique piece, the goat head, distinguishing it. The goat head, a peculiar wooden entity that was in charge of the navigation system, reacted instantly to his presence. Its carved wooden features creaked as it swiveled its head to meet Duncan’s gaze.

Without skipping a beat, Duncan preemptively addressed the goat head, “Duncan Abnomar, responding preemptively,” he announced, asserting his presence before the creature had the chance to utter a word. Unfazed by the unusual encounter, he then sauntered across the room to a corner where a liquor cabinet was neatly tucked away. Extracting a small glass, he poured himself a robust measure of potent spirit, and in a single, smooth motion, he tossed it back, finishing it in one powerful gulp.

The fiery, tingling sensation of the strong drink seemed to sear his nerves, yet its strong character had a surprisingly calming effect. A slow, soothing exhale escaped his lips, betraying a slight easing of his intense demeanor. Mood somewhat mollified, he navigated his way to a nautical map sprawled across a table, his gaze tracing the ever-extending route that meandered towards the south.

Meanwhile, the goat head maintained its silent vigil, its head slowly following Duncan’s movements. It observed meticulously, attentive to every motion made onboard the ship. Then after a considerable period of silence, it eventually mustered up the courage to address the palpable tension hanging in the air.

“Captain… I perceive a certain heaviness in your mood. Perhaps some humor would lighten the atmosphere? I have an arsenal of cold jokes at my disposal, particularly those influenced by elven humor. Despite popular belief that elves are a stern race, they indeed harbor a distinct sense of humor,” it suggested, its voice filled with hesitance.

Although Duncan was not in the mood for jesting, he responded dismissively with a wave of his hand. He understood that the goat head’s intention was to cheer him up. He didn’t respond verbally but sank into a nearby chair in silence.

Seemingly engrossed in the intricate web of lines and navigational markers on the map, his mind, however, strayed elsewhere. He had been seeking answers in his apartment but with no success. His computer, now stuck in a peculiar state of non-response, offered no assistance. It behaved as if the images of the lunar landscape that had previously appeared were figments of his imagination.

Despite the shortage of answers, Duncan sensed that he had stumbled onto something significant. The representation of the moon from his homeland, in this distorted, alien world, albeit as an image, a model, or merely a concept, had profound implications. It suggested that the two seemingly disparate worlds were not as distinct as he had initially assumed.

He was alone with his secrets and theories, devoid of anyone who could comprehend or analyze the matter with him. This included Alice, who placed her unconditional trust in him, and the goat head, his supposed most loyal companion.

With a soft sigh, Duncan raised his eyes from the map, only to find the goat head still quietly observing him. Its obsidian eyes were akin to deep, dark abysses, shimmering with an impenetrable shadow.

“Captain, your first mate is always at your service,” the goat head had declared solemnly, attempting to assuage his concerns. “I understand your sentiments,” Duncan had responded with a gentle shake of his head, “but there are issues you can’t necessarily assist me with.” However, his stern demeanor had softened slightly at the goat head’s earnestness. “Your intentions are commendable, let’s shift our discussion towards our upcoming voyage. We’re setting a course for the southern elven city-states, what information can you share about the elf race?”

As if it had been waiting for this prompt, the goat head was quick to respond. “My memory of them is quite vivid,” it started, a tone of contemplation apparent in its voice. However, after uttering these words, it seemed to falter, pausing briefly before continuing. “Well, my interaction with them has been minimal, but I do recall their exceptional aptitude in mathematics and mechanics. They possess a distinctive historical heritage and adhere to a few peculiar beliefs and customs. Yet, aside from these, their extraordinary appreciation and knowledge of gourmet cuisine is renowned.”

Duncan’s brows furrowed, sensing a deeper meaning in this seemingly simple statement.

“The elves’ taste preferences are notably distinct from other races, leading them to adapt foreign dishes significantly to align with their specific palate,” the goat head explained tactfully. “That’s why I intended to forewarn Miss Nina earlier, so as to moderate her expectations of the sweet pancakes of Wind Harbor. Although it’s known that Wind Harbor is a melting pot of unique cuisines from various city-states of the civilized world, what is often omitted is how the elves modify these dishes to suit their local tastes. In essence, elves have a proclivity for filling sweet pancakes with chili and pungent, fermented cheese, crafting a flavor that is nothing short of a gastronomic shock. While I personally appreciate their creative approach, I don’t find it much more appealing than honey-glazed pig intestines or a tart and spicy sheep eye pie.”

Duncan heaved a long sigh after listening to Goathead’s words, “It seems Nina is in for quite a surprise during our upcoming southern expedition.

….

At that moment, Lucretia found herself sitting in the study of Taran El, a renowned elven scholar. She observed him from across the table as he rapidly sifted through a mountainous pile of materials, all the while nonchalantly munching on egg rolls.

The potent aroma of the egg rolls incessantly taunted Lucretia’s olfactory senses. This was a traditional elven fast-food delicacy comprising pancakes, eggs, fermented cheese, and a peculiar fungus known as black finger mushroom. Its fried flavor, however, was reminiscent of severely rotten wood, both in taste and smell. For Lucretia, the processed black finger mushroom had an unappetizing texture and odor, not unlike a moldy, old rag.

To the casual observer, this concoction was far from a culinary delight, but to Master Taran El, it was a favorite. Not merely because it catered to his elven palate, but also due to its convenience and ease of consumption.

Being a scholar of Taran El’s caliber meant that he could polish off a meal in a mere three minutes, content with the basic sustenance it provided for the day. The time saved was invaluable, as it could be invested in his ceaseless pursuit of knowledge and intellectual victories.

“Eureka, I knew it was here,” Taran El finally mumbled, his mouth stuffed with the last morsel of his egg roll. As he simultaneously attempted to swallow and speak, he delicately pulled out a bundle of papers from the dangerously swaying stack. The pile tottered precariously under his touch, looking as if it would topple any moment. However, it somehow regained its balance, albeit in a more unstable position than before.

“Here it is, Miss Lucretia, the documents pertaining to the ancient kingdom of Crete and the anomalies you inquired about… Had you approached me yesterday, I could have fetched it instantly before it was engulfed by this mountain of paperwork.”

Lucretia accepted the proffered documents, her gaze shifting to the elf scholar seated across the table. Age-wise, Taran El was in the prime of elven adulthood, just entering middle age. With a bit of grooming, he could easily be an enchanting academic, bewitching countless young admirers. Unfortunately, his excessive work habits and disregard for sleep deprived him of such allure. Most often, as was the case now, the elf master was portrayed with profound eye bags, dark circles, and messy hair that shed persistently. Once a vibrant blond, his hair now resembled yellow straw in texture and color, and his complexion was notably pallid.

More than once, Lucretia found herself fearing that this esteemed scholar might suddenly collapse before her eyes. But miraculously, or rather inexplicably, Mr. Taran El managed to keep going.

“I strongly, strongly urge you to prioritize your health and adopt a balanced lifestyle,” the Sea Witch advised, her fingers flipping through the documents she held. “Even if your motivation is merely to extend your lifespan for the sake of research, you should still heed your body’s needs.”

“I do take care,” Taran El casually retorted but quickly amended his statement, “What I mean is, I am doing now more so than before. But extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures, Miss Lucretia. You of all people should comprehend the implications of the fragments falling from Vision 001 for the civilized world. We are duty-bound to decipher its mystery, and the sooner we do so, the better.”

“However, we seem to be stuck at an impasse at the moment. Unless we stumble upon a fresh breakthrough, your sleep-deprivation habit seems rather pointless,” Lucretia suggested, lifting her gaze to meet his. “Unless we manage to locate a survivor from the ancient kingdom of Crete or uncover a book that lucidly explains the creation of the anomaly, I propose you take a few days off.”n0ve(l)bi(n.)co/m

Taran El waved his hand dismissively, a hint of irritation flitting across his face. He seemed eager to contest her claim but couldn’t seem to formulate a counter-argument. After a few seconds of frustrated silence, a glimmer of thought appeared in his eyes. He looked at her, a trace of hesitancy in his voice, “Miss Lucretia, I understand your father is on his way here. Apparently, he’s interested in the fallen object.”

“Indeed… he got wind of the extraterrestrial object and set out immediately, taking this matter very seriously,” Lucretia replied, her expression somewhat uncomfortable. “I was completely unprepared for this. In fact, I still haven’t fully reconciled with the idea. But why do you bring this up?”

“Your father’s immediate reaction to the fallen object indicates his awareness of something. Miss Lucretia, don’t you think…”

“He could be the breakthrough we need. Perhaps he knows what the glowing sphere at the core of the light is, or maybe he has insights into the specific link between the ancient kingdom of Crete and Vision 001, or even-”

“Master Taran El,” Lucretia interjected the elf scholar, “I believe there may be a miscommunication here.”

“My father is a distinguished explorer. His interest lies in the peculiar object itself… And let’s not forget, he has endured a century in subspace.”

“Even my brother and I tread carefully when dealing with our father, but your current outlook seems overly optimistic and audacious.”

Taran El chuckled, “Ah… so, in your opinion, which behavior poses a greater risk of death? An unhealthy lifestyle or a bold interaction with your father?”

Lucretia’s eyes noticeably twitched, her mouth opening as if she were about to respond. However, her words were interrupted by a sudden commotion and cries of alarm from outside the window. “The sun, the sun has been extinguished!”