Word: Ambrosial

 

ambrosial

[ am-broh-zhuhl ]

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adjective

exceptionally pleasing to taste or smell; especially delicious or fragrant.

worthy of the gods; divine.

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               Ken’s heart pounded. He had never been asked to meet with a diner before. Had he messed up somehow? Had he not cooked something right? When he got to the table, he saw a man in his mid 60’s, wearing a respectable suit and glasses with one darkened lens. A broach in the shape of two ravens cast in silver adorned his breath pocket, and his cufflinks looked like spear heads. The man’s one visible eye was closed, and Ken could see his mouth moving slowly behind his voluminous white beard.

               “Sir? Is there something wrong with the meal?” Ken asked. He saw one of his T-bone steaks on a plate, with the potato and cooked vegetables, soaking in the sauce. There were several bites taken out of everything.

               When the man swallowed, he opened his eye and looked at Ken. “Are you the chef who made this dish?”

               “Y-Yes, sir, I am.”

               “I see, so you’re the one responsible for this…this…” Ken held his breath as the gentleman sought the right word. This was the worst moment any chef could endure. Having one’s cooking blasted was a fate akin to death, and if this man was half as well off as he looked, could end Ken’s career. “This work of culinary art.”

               “Uhhh…” Ken said. That was not what he expected. “Yes?”

               “Wonderful, wonderful. Truly magnificent work, lad.” The diner slowly, almost reverently cut into the steak. He speared the piece with his fork and held it to his good eye. “Artistry, pure artistry on a plate. A mixture of flavors perfectly entwining with each other, without diluting the natural flavor of the meat. While the ingredients themselves are fairly lackluster, probably frozen, your skill has brought new life to them. Why, were I anyone else, I would swear this steak was living just yesterday.” He placed it in his mouth and slowly chewed, tilting his head back just slightly to allow the juices to flow down his throat. He moved on to the side dishes. “And these greens. I normally don’t eat such things unless my wife forces me to. But these? Ah, these are almost magical. Perfectly in sync with the entrée, working to support and elevate it, but creating a strong foundation that makes the meat truly shine, while being appealing all on their own. Magical. There is no other way to say it.”

               Ken could not help but puff his chest out just a little bit. He had worked hard to learn to cook. It was good knowing there was someone who appreciated his skills.

               “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

               The man looked at Ken. The chef swore he saw that eye glow for just a moment, but it could have just been a reflection off the lens of his glasses.

               “You should come work for me.” He said.

               “I’m sorry?”

               “Your talents are wasted in a place like this. You can be so much more. You can be a real chef, for the greatest of people. Not some common cook for those who don’t understand what you can do.”

               “I…I don’t…”

               “Of course, I understand. You need time to think. Here, take my card.” He said, extending the indicated object.

               Ken took it. It had a name, Hovi, and a phone number on it. Nothing else.

               “Call me when you’re ready to be a real chef.” The man, Hovi, apparently, nodded and went back to his meal.

               “Yes, sir. I’ll think about it.” Ken said before heading back to the kitchen.

               He pulled out the card again and looked at it a moment before he looked around the kitchen. It was not a bad place, sure. But it also was nothing special. Just a normal restaurant in a small city. He had no idea who this man was, but he definitely seemed rich, judging by his clothes. If he could make it in such a high class culinary world, why should he hold himself back? Why not take a risk. And if it did not pan out, he could always find another job somewhere else. He would do it. He would wait a few days, maybe do some research on Hovi. But he would call. He knew he could do better than this, and this was his chance to really do something great.

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Yeah, this is totally Odin, if you couldn't guess from the very subtle clues. Nothing quite like being the chef for the king of the Norse gods, right?

Word: Irenic

irenic

or ei·ren·ic

[ ahy-ren-ik, ahy-ree-nik ]

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adjective

tending to promote peace or reconciliation; peaceful or conciliatory.

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               The man and woman entered Dr. Bekman’s office. The typical greetings were exchanged, and the couple sat on the provided chairs. Dr. Bekman sized the two up. They were both in their late 30’s, and were starting to show signs of a comfortable suburban life. She noticed that they did not look immediately hostile towards each other, which was a definite plus.

               “Comfy?” She asked her clients. Both nodded. “Wonderful, then let’s jump right into it. Why don’t you tell me what the basic problem is.”

               The woman, Mrs. McLien, started. “Well, I’d say it’s a matter of perspective. I see him as a lazy, self-absorbed idiot who can’t hold down a job for more than a week to save his life.”

               Mr. McLien nodded. “And I see her as a shrill harpy who can’t allow any kind of fun or enjoyment in everyday life.”

               “I see.” Dr. Bekman said. She bit the inside of her mouth. It would be so easy to…but no, she would not do that. She promised herself she would do this without it. Instead, she just took notes on the clipboard she had on her lap. “Please, continue. Mr. McLien, let’s start with you. Tell me everything about your wife, the good and the bad.”

               “Not much good about her. But the bad I can do.”

               As she listened to the man rant about every little grievance he had about his wife, Dr. Bekman fought an internal battle. She managed well enough, listening and asking questions as needed, and even taking a few notes. But inside, she was struggling to keep from using it. It would be so easy to just go in and fix the problems herself. But she had sworn not to. Not to take the easy route like she had so many times before. She would do this the proper way, and that would be longer and harder. Besides, she was billing by the hour.

               “And how about you, Mrs. McLien? What do you think about your husband?”

               The following rant was every bit as scathing as that delivered by Mr. Mclien. Dr. Bekman listened with the same level of attention. She would do this. She had the doctorate to show she could. She had worked damned hard for that, it was time to use it. And if she used her…eccentricities…she would never be able to prove she could get by without it. But it was just so tempting. These two had more bad things to say than good. It would only take her five minutes to go in and fix everything. All she had to do was give in and these two would leave happier and more at peace with each other than they could ever hope to otherwise. But it would also rob them of something precious that they would not even be aware of losing. No, she had to do this the proper way.

               When the wife was done, Dr. Bekman looked over the notes she had taken. “Well, looks like we’ve got a lot of things to work on. But it’s good that you both got everything off your chests and in the open. That’s an important first step. I know you’ve heard this a hundred times by now, but it really is true that the first step to fixing a problem is admitting there is one. Or, in this case, giving voice to the problems you feel the other has. Now, we don’t have time to start today, but why don’t you schedule another appointment with my secretary? We can start fixing the problems then, and get back the happiness you used to have with each other.”

               The couple grumbled, but reluctantly agreed. When they had left, she leaned back and let out a breath she had not been aware she had been holding. She had done it. She had gone the session without resorting to less natural methods. Without poking around in their only truly private places. And if she did it once, she could do it again with the next couple. She would do it. She would get through the entire day without breaking her promise to herself.

               Then she heard it. Her next appointment. The shouting through the thick wooden door alerted her to the nature of the next couple to enter her office. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was going to be a long day.

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I imagine having psychic powers would open up a lot of opportunists for a person. Not all of them as nice as being a marriage councilor.  

Word: Modicum

 

modicum

[ mod-i-kuhm, moh-di- ]

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noun

1. a moderate or small amount: He hasn't even a modicum of common sense.

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Jaat hesitated before knocking on the old, moss covered door. His heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings and he looked over his shoulder at the heavily wooded path. He could still leave. The door had not opened yet. He swallowed the lump in his throat. No, that was wrong. He had come here to fix that problem.

               Slowly, the door creaked open. A cold air came from inside the hut that made his skin crawl for more than just the drop in temperature. No voice came from inside though. Jaat waited for someone to speak. Nobody did. His foot involuntarily started to move back. A sudden gust of wind from behind stopped that though. It picked up, becoming strong enough to force him to walk forward.

               Inside the old hut was a slew of tables, chairs and shelves, all loaded with dried herbs, animal parts, powers, vials, tubes, and other assorted odds and ends. The smell alone almost made him leave. But the door had closed on it’s own.

               “What do you want?” Came a voice. It was old and worn, but had an edge to it. It was like hearing his father’s old sword speak. From somewhere deep in the shadows a figure emerged, probably the owner of the voice. “Well? Speak up boy.”

               The figure was short, barely waist high on Jaat’s less than tall frame. It was covered in heavy robes, to the point where Jaat could not even tell if it was a man or woman. Or even what race the figure was. A dwarf, maybe? Or perhaps a gnome. It hardly mattered though. Jaat cleared his throat and began.

               “I…I want…I need to be a hero.”

               “You want to be a hero? Go to the academy. Not what I do.”

               “I…I know that. But, but I’m scared. I can’t do it on my own. I…I need something that’ll make me brave.”

               “Ah, I see. Now that, I can do. Let’s see what you have first.”

               The figure moved quickly over to Jaat and examined him. Even though the youth could not see the figure’s eyes, he could fee its gaze. It was seeing everything about him, all the way to his soul. He suppressed a shiver and the urge to flee.

               “Hm, yes, I see the problem now. Not enough courage to do much. Just a tiny amount, really. I’m amazed you made your way here at all. I can fix that. Oh yes, I can fix you right up. And quite a bit more at that. I can give you everything you need to be a hero, save the training.”

               For the first time in years, Jaat allowed himself to hope. To dream that he might be able to accomplish something of note.

               “But you know it will cost you, yes?”

               “I can pay. I’ve got plenty of coin.”

               “Oh no, this won’t cost something so ordinary. No, once you become a hero, I shall call on you, and shall make a request. Do this request for me, and all shall be well. If you do not, I shall take away what I give you today. Understand?”

               “Yes, yes. I…I understand. Please, I need this.”

               The figure got to work. It was a mass of cloth and components. The alchemist picked out ingredients seemingly at random, adding large amounts of some, small amounts of others, and barely any of yet more. The process took a mere half and hour to complete. When the figure was done, it handed Jaat a vial smaller than his little finger filled with a thick brown potion.

               “Drink this at precisely midnight, and it shall give you the courage of ten men, and the might of three. Drink it at any other time, and it shall be nothing but a bitter drink. The day matters not, only the time.”

               “I…I understand. I will do this. Th-thank you.” He said with a slight bow.

               “Of course, think nothing of it. At least, not until I come to collect my payment.”

               “R-right, yes, of course. Um, I…I’ll be going now then?”

               The figure nodded, a barely perceptible motion, and the door opened. Jaat allowed himself to flee from the alchemists’ hut, clutching the tiny vial to his chest like it was made of pure diamond. He had to resist gulping it down right then and there, but the sun was still up, so he had a good many hours before he would drink it. He would be a hero, and this little vial would be the first step on his journey.

              **********************************************

 Ah the ever mysterious witch/alchemist/old person. So tempting, yet so dangerous. Watch out for deals with vaguely defined terms like this. They will come back to haunt you.