Unearthly Delights
Greetings,
my name is Horasmythe Spindlecleft, also known as the gourmet of gourmets. If
you've ever dined in my modest little Inn "The Fat Cobblefoot",
situated on the side of the Foggypeake mountains, you'll be well aware of my extensive
knowledge of food and of the finer things in life.
By
now you've no doubt heard of my infamous twice-fried bat wings and hair of
Hackthin tart, creations of exquisite beauty, though I say so myself. Not to
mention my highly regarded Doormouse eye on toadstall and very-berry-sherry
sauce.
So
it's with great pride that I can announce I've been appointed chief scribbler
of food reviews for the Grimwytch Gazette. Below are the first of many pearls
of wisdom concerning places where weary travelers may sip and gorge upon
unearthly delights. Outside of The Fat Cobblefoot, of course. And of places
that should be be avoided like Fungal-throat plague.
The
Malady Inn
A
Fairly good stock of Old Catwhist, shame about the clientele.
The
Malady Inn is a worn old building on the side of the Eastern Blackwood Road.
Inside is a cosy, dingy room and its fairly affable landlord, Mr. Barrow. His
bar is well stocked for the most part, although not to the scale of The Fat
Cobblefoot.
I
chose a dish of sainted duck, goat-foot soup and a pint of Old Bramble's Tipsy.
It was an adequate meal until a table of Babbleslithers sat beside me and
ruined the meagre ambience. Upon finishing their food, one of the more portly
among them threw up his entire course through his left eye.
An
unpleasant, vulgar end to a mediocre, but serviceable evening.
Malumdell
Never
Again!
I'd
once visited this once-quaint little town in my youth. Gone were the cozy
little houses and groves of apple trees, and in their place, ash, charcoal, rot
and ruin.
There
was nowhere to eat on account of the whole town being burnt to the ground and
on top of that I had to deal with a Hoardspike. She managed to consume two of
my servants right in front of me and it was only upon offering her my vast
collection of dried trotters that she let me go.
A
once enchanted town, now a foul, dismal place.
The Midnight City Uncle Horace Eiderstaark's Fabulous Pie
Stand, Greshtaat District
As
dull and flaky as dandruff.
I'd
heard many tales of Uncle Horace's pies. It was with great caution that I
entered the hodgepodge Greshtaat District. That caution was well placed. A
revolting, stinking pile of bricks and dribbles.
Upon
finding the Pie Stand, manned by the bald, sweating wreck of Uncle Horace
himself, I purchased a pie. It only took two mouthfuls before I was forced to
spit it out, such was its monstrous blandness. Unfortunately, one of the
maggots used to garnish the pie struck Horace in the face as I expelled my
food, bringing forth the rancor of the Eiderstaarks. We fled and escaped,
asides from one servant who I last saw being dragged into a ramshackle
building.
The Midnight City Vashhaal Wharf
Fine
food, peasanty atmosphere.
Yes,
the Kishspick stew is indeed delicious, were it not ruined by the lowlife
teeming in from the boats. I thrashed two with my cane for their sheer
ugliness, before a vulgar crowd formed and chased me, hacking to death my
remaining servants. I only just escaped by the skin of my back teeth and bid a
hasty retreat.
The
Twisted Entrails Inn*
Two
putrid turnips for the food, a rotten onion peel for the atmosphere.
This
public house has somehow stood in the heart of the Midnight City for centuries.
Upon entering, I was almost certain the place would fall down around my ears.
The
ambience could be described as raw and *bloody*. A dense crowd of locals, most
as thick as treacle, stood swaying at the bar as broken broken refrains from a
derelict piano filled the sour air. I made the mistake of ordering the soup of
the day, something that appeared to be a broth of grease containing chunks of
indeterminate liver. And thumb. My soup was as cold as a serpent's tooth on a
winter's evening. I sent it back at once and called the owner over and–**
* Please note the
Grimwitch Gazette found this last review spattered with blood and sitting below
a table in The Twisted Entrails Inn.
** Of Mr. Spindlecleft,
there was no sign.
Thanks for stopping by to share your food for thought, Eldritch!
You can find Eldritch here:
Those are some mad writing skills!
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