Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
The Cauldron of a Thousand Bites
“Welcome,” Zorko whispered, as if the trees themselves might be listening, “to the Canis Coven’s sacred Kitchen Shrine, where cuisine and chaos bubble like broth in a bramble-thick pot.”
He stood with barely concealed discomfort amid a dozen steaming cauldrons, each murmuring suspiciously. Behind him, enchanted ladles rotated on a rack that resembled a war relic more than cookware. Steam clung to his robes like a possessive spirit.
“The culinary sanctum we now find ourselves in is not merely a place of cooking,” he continued, waving his phoenix feather with damp dignity. “It is a crucible of transformation, of memory simmered, emotion stewed, and yes, aroma.”
“Here, recipes chant. The ladles duel. Even the salt whispers its grudges into the stew.”
A puff of smoke shaped like a screaming face drifted lazily from a frying pan. Zorko tightened his mouth.
“Today, we appraise not gemstone nor tome, but an artifact of appetite. A tool of nourishment. And, quite possibly, a cauldron that has consumed more souls than soup.”
He turned toward the orb, stepping carefully over a glowing puddle of broth.
“Our guest arrives now. If he can be called such.”
A long, low scrape echoed as Chirk of the Thorn stomped into frame, dragging a massive cauldron behind him. Shirtless, broad, and clad in mismatched red armor like scavenged trophies, he grinned beneath a tilted red cap. A steaming bowl of ramen rode in one hand; the other gripped the cauldron’s jagged handle.
A noodle whipped from the bowl and slapped the stone floor. It hissed.
Zorko visibly tensed.
Chirk slurped loudly. A noodle flew out and landed squarely on Zorko’s sleeve.
“They’re spirited today,” Chirk said. “Been soaking in spice.”
He nudged the bowl with a knuckle. “Last time I stirred it, the broth tried to trade me for a pepper grinder. That’s when I started seasoning with diplomacy.”
Zorko turned back to the orb. “And so we begin. The appraisal of the infamous Canis Cauldron: an item of culinary legend, chaos, and, by the smell of it, forgotten hygiene.”
The cauldron burbled.
“Let us hope it’s only soup inside.”
The orb hovered in silence, drifting slightly closer as a fork on the counter slowly turned itself upright.
Zorko gritted his teeth. “This... is escalating.”
He planted both feet on the tiled floor, swaying slightly as a ladle rolled past like a rogue wheel.
“Enough,” he declared. “If I am to appraise this artifact with rigor, I must summon the only authority in culinary enchantment with less patience than these noodles.”
He raised his phoenix feather and waved it once through a bowl of star anise. A puff of cinnamon smoke burst into the air and twisted into a familiar face.
Uvlius blinked through the vapor, already unimpressed.
“Oh good,” he said. “It’s the spicy one.”
Zorko bowed slightly. “We are in the presence of the Canis Cauldron. Sentient. Reactive. Possibly predatory.”
Uvlius stared flatly. “It’s a feeding artifact. Keep it full and don’t sass the stock.”
Chirk grinned. “That’s what I keep telling him.”
The cauldron burbled in apparent agreement.
Uvlius began to drift toward the ceiling, already fading.
He paused.
“It remembers every cook,” he added. “And it learns your favorite flavor by smell.”
“There was a spatula once,” he continued. “Learned profanity from sailors. Cooked exactly what you feared most. Took three clerics to disarm the gumbo.”
“Stop eating things that blink. And never let the broth boil angry.”
Then he vanished.
Zorko stood frozen. Then, solemn again, he turned to the orb.
“I must proceed with the appraisal. I have faced shadow curses, mimic spoons, and now... pasta warfare. But I shall not be deterred.”
He stepped forward.
The noodle on the edge of the Canis Cauldron stirred, as if it had been waiting.
The broth shifted. For a moment, it formed a spiraling eye that blinked once, slowly, then vanished beneath a swirl of floating herbs.
An onion peeled itself in midair and landed gently in the pot with a hiss like whispered judgment.
Zorko hesitated, then whispered, “We are in the presence of culinary heresy.”
“Final calibration,” he muttered, tapping his feather gently to the rim.
A spark leapt from the broth, hit his shoe, and ignited a small illusionary flame shaped like a winking dumpling.
He hissed and stomped it out.
“Want to stir it first?” Chirk offered.
Zorko did not respond.
Instead, he lifted both arms dramatically, faced the orb, and bellowed,
“Behold! The Canis Cauldron. Vessel of hunger. Forge of flavor. Battlefield of the brave!”
A ladle shot into the air and embedded itself in a cabbage.
“Appraisal is imminent,” he gasped.
The cauldron belched steam and launched a tangle of noodles at him.
The orb tilted slightly, capturing the moment.
Zorko emerged from the cloud of steam like a prophet mid-sermon, robes drenched, feather limp, blue eyes blinking through a paste of spice dust.
He raised his arms with theatrical solemnity.
“Let it be recorded,” he intoned, “that the Canis Cauldron cannot be tamed, reasoned with, or stirred without consequence.”
Chirk raised his bowl in salute. “You get used to the burns.”
Zorko faced the orb, straightened his shoulders, and adjusted what was left of his dignity.
He paused.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “it is not hunger that stirs the pot... but memory, boiling over.”
He cleared his throat.
“Final appraisal: eighty-five gold in functional cookware, two thousand in combat application, and somewhere near infinity in chaotic culinary potential.”
The cauldron burbled, as if in agreement.
Zorko turned slowly, preparing to exit.
“Hey, I packed you something,” Chirk called out.
He tossed a lidded to-go bowl through the air. Zorko caught it. It growled softly in his hands.
Zorko bowed. “My thanks. I will feed it only moonlight and regret.”
“That’s how you keep the flavor sharp,” Chirk replied.
Zorko turned to the orb.
“And so concludes another episode of Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals. Where danger is seasoned, and destiny is al dente.”
He swept his feather once, and the orb dimmed.
From inside the to-go bowl came a tiny slurp.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
Breath of the Lost
“Welcome, travelers of tide and tavern,” Zorko intoned, eyes aglow with mystical certainty. “Tonight, the winds themselves have conspired to carry sound, salt, and story into my grasp.”
The tavern smelled of damp rope, spilled brine, and secrets no one wanted to claim. In The Brine Widow, nothing was ever quiet, but tonight came close. A dozen half-interested pirates hunched over mugs and bowls, pretending their ears weren’t tilted toward the cracked-beam stage where Zorko stood upon a rum crate, arms wide, phoenix feather drawn like a conductor’s baton.
“The wind,” he bellowed, “howls with purpose tonight. As though the ghosts of the Gulf rise to hear their song returned.”
No one responded. One pirate coughed. Another scratched a barnacle on his neck. Still, no one left.
Zorko twirled the red feather through the air. Illusory embers trailed behind like sparks from a funeral pyre.
“This tavern, yes, this very room, is now a sanctum. A sanctum of salt and prophecy.”
He stepped down from the crate as though descending a sacred dais. A creaky floorboard nearly betrayed him, but he caught himself with flair.
“You smell it, don’t you? That sharp edge in the air? The scent of wet wood and older magic? That,” he whispered, leaning toward an empty barstool, “is the aroma of arrival.”
He raised one finger and circled it through the air.
“An object nears us now. Not carried by hand. No. Carried by current, by fate, by birds and fools and broken compasses. An object that should have remained lost, forgotten, unheard.”
A pirate two tables over took a long, deliberate drink, eyes fixed on the far wall.
“It sings, even now,” Zorko said. “Not with notes. With memory. With breath not ours. And I, Zorko of the Marsh, have been chosen to listen.”
He planted the phoenix feather upright on the crate like a flag.
“Let the relic arrive. Let the sea give up its secrets.”
And just as the tavern fell fully still, the door blew open with a gust that carried seawater and shouting.
The tavern doors flew open like a stage curtain caught in a storm. Wind howled in, tossing parchment, ale foam, and dignity across the floor.
Arkol entered first. Broad. Dripping. Unimpressed. His long coat snapped behind him like a sail under duress.
Behind him waddled Rusty, soaked to the fluff and grinning like someone who had just stolen thunder and intended to pawn it.
Rusty held a velvet pouch in one flipper and an aura of self-importance in the other.
“Captain,” he shouted to no one in particular. “The artifact arrives intact and untroubled by sea hags, ghost gulls, or improper customs checks.”
Zorko clapped slowly. “Ahhh. The tide brings my guest.”
“Guests,” Rusty corrected, hopping onto a stool with the wet enthusiasm of a seal on a mission. “We went to the tower like we agreed, but apparently Zorko and the other Dream Masters are still arguing about whether tea can hold prophecy. After the whole phoenix feather incident in the silence chamber, we figured it was safer to meet in a tavern.”
Zorko nodded gravely. “The Brine Widow has better acoustics anyway. The tower’s mood wards were stifling my metaphors.”
“And their furniture caught fire,” Arkol added dryly.
Zorko gestured toward the crate. “Present the artifact.”
Rusty slapped the bundle down with ceremonial flourish.
“Presenting, from the depths of Bonehook Isle, the Lost Pipes of Pommelhump.”
Arkol grunted. “That’s not a real name.”
Rusty gasped. “Is it not? Or did it come to me in a vision?”
“It came to you in a moldy boat full of dead fish,” Arkol muttered.
Zorko descended upon the pouch like a vulture toward buried treasure. “Pommelhump,” he murmured. “The word itself is cursed with poetry.”
Inside were three driftwood pan flutes, crusted with salt. They clinked faintly against each other.
“A matched triad,” Zorko breathed. “Rare. Dangerous. Poetic.”
“They smell like bait buckets,” Arkol noted.
“They resonate with the breath of forgotten sailors,” Zorko corrected.
“Are they cursed? Or blessed? Or both?” Rusty whispered, clutching his flippers.
Zorko lifted one. “They are cursed with beauty, blessed with sorrow, pressed from the hollow bones of fate’s flounder.”
“You made that fish up,” Arkol said.
Zorko ignored him. “Let us awaken the storm.”
He blew. Nothing.
“Try the other end,” Rusty whispered.
He blew again.
A long, wheezing note emerged. Cold wind swept through the room. Two lanterns went dark.
Zorko reeled. “It has spoken.”
“It wheezed,” Arkol muttered.
From somewhere in the tavern, the faintest sigh echoed back. The sound lingered like breath trapped in ice.
Zorko held still, one hand outstretched, feather mid-air, body arched like a prophet waiting for thunder.
“You heard it,” he said, quiet and sharp.
“No,” Arkol replied too quickly, eyes narrowed toward the rafters.
“I did,” Rusty said. “That was a voice.”
Zorko turned slowly. “A whisper from the waves. A lament for the lost. The breath of a sailor who never reached shore.”
“It could have been wind,” Arkol muttered. “Or a very tired rat.”
Rusty fumbled with the smallest flute. He blew. The first note wheezed. The second was steadier. The third stretched long and low, trembling on the edge of harmony.
Then came an answer.
Three notes. From somewhere above. Thin. Mournful. Unmistakably melodic. A call and response, drifting down like sea foam on still water.
Rusty froze. His eyes welled.
“That’s her song,” he said softly. “Valentina used to hum that. When the wind died. When we thought we’d gone too far to turn back.”
Zorko blinked. “Who is...”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rusty said, looking away.
Arkol stayed silent, jaw set, gaze fixed on the empty air.
Zorko returned to the crate. With slow, ceremonial care, he arranged the three flutes in a triangle.
“These are no longer instruments,” he said. “They are anchors. They hold pieces of people, the way bones hold echoes, the way dreams remember footsteps.”
A gust curled in through the eaves. Every lantern flickered. Every pirate stilled.
One flute shivered against the wood. Not from wind. Not vibration. A breath. A presence.
Then came a knock.
Not a bang. Not a crash. A simple, polite knock at the tavern door.
Zorko stepped back. His voice dropped.
“He arrives.”
Arkol’s hand drifted to the halberd across his back. Rusty gripped the crate, feathers puffed in fear or hope, or both.
The door creaked open.
Uvlius entered, silent as a question. Cloaked in the dull grey of moonless parchment. He didn’t scan the room. He simply walked to the crate.
Zorko bowed his head. “Archivist of the abyss.”
Uvlius studied the flutes like overdue paperwork.
“Memory Pipes,” he said.
“What?” Rusty blinked.
“Used by ship crews from the northern reach. After storms, sailors would play their last thoughts into them. In case they didn’t make it back.”
Zorko leaned in. “Soul vessels?”
“Residual recordings,” Uvlius replied.
Rusty clutched the flute. “But I heard her. That song...”
Uvlius gave a small nod. “Some breath lingers. Some songs don’t know they’re finished.”
Zorko exhaled. “And they still sing?”
Uvlius unrolled a scroll. “One still responds. The rest are echoes.”
“Which one?”
He pointed. “Middle flute. Still linked.”
Rusty stared at it as if it might vanish.
“Can it lead us somewhere?”
Uvlius paused just long enough for everyone to notice.
“Yes.”
He rolled the scroll shut.
“It’s a communication relic. Not a prophecy. Don’t over-romanticize it.”
Zorko pressed the feather to his chest.
Uvlius turned at the door. “Some songs are sung so someone remembers. Others are sung so someone can come find them.”
Then he was gone.
Zorko stood behind the crate. Arms lowered now, voice soft but still sure.
“This is no curse. No trick of tide. This is breath, preserved. A goodbye that never finished saying itself.”
He touched each flute with a fingertip.
“These pipes hold not power, but presence. The weight of what was never said. The note held too long.”
Arkol picked up the middle flute, wrapped it in the pouch, and placed it in his coat, just over his heart.
Rusty said nothing. His eyes were on the floor, but he was listening, for a sound only he would recognize again.
Zorko raised the phoenix feather and swirled it through the air. Red fire bloomed at the tip. He drew a circle overhead. A flare rose and hovered above them.
“Value? Hah. Priceless to the soul. Worth three cursed obols, a sailor’s silence, and a single tear buried in a corked bottle.”
The orb pulsed once, then dimmed.
Arkol nodded to Zorko. Rusty gave a clumsy, earnest salute. Then they followed the flare into the night.
The tavern stayed silent. Even the pirates watched the door hang open a second too long.
A melody returned on a breeze, half-sighed and half-sung, as if the tavern itself remembered.
Zorko stood beside the crate, robe faintly glowing in the last firelight. He placed a hand on the orb.
“Archive it,” he whispered. “Name it echo.”
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
