The time to eat—be it breakfast, lunch, or dinner—was the best time of the day. No matter how bleak the world outside became, the warmth of food offered a brief salvation. Each mouthful was a moment of reward, a bribe to keep going, to endure whatever labor or suffering came next.
Meat was my favorite, especially pork. Nothing else had its balance—fatty and rich, the savory juices soaking through even unseasoned flesh. It cooked beautifully with nothing more than a slow flame licking at its skin. The fat would crisp and bubble, caramelizing into a sweet saltiness that coated the tongue and lingered long after the bite was swallowed. It filled the belly and left the fingers slick with joy.
Next came beef. It had a depth to it—a dark, iron-rich flavor that clung to the teeth. Even the cheaper cuts had a chew to them, a kind of honest resistance. But beef was less forgiving. Treat it wrong, and it turned to leather. Roast it too long, and it dried into a miserable slab of ruin. But when done right—seared with salt, or stewed until it fell apart with a breath—it could taste like something holy. The marrow, especially, held a butter-like richness that made your eyes close without meaning to.
Then there was venison: lean and gamey, with a wild tang that reminded you the animal had once run free. Mutton was heavier, more stubborn to chew, but it had a strength to it—a musky, almost dusty richness that filled the mouth. Lamb was its gentler cousin, softer and sweeter, especially when the fat melted just beneath the charred edges. Horse had a dark, almost bloody flavor—sweet in a strange, metallic way. You didn't forget horse. Rabbit was delicate, like something that might disappear if you didn't savor it slowly, while snake was stringy and slightly bitter, the kind of meat that tasted best when smoked or drowned in spice.
Fowl—any kind, from pigeon to goose—always offered something worth tearing into. The skin crisped like parchment, hiding meat that could range from soft and juicy to dry and fibrous depending on the bird and the cook. But always, there was bone to gnaw and little pockets of fat to find near the joint.
Rodents, though… Rodents were last. Pungent, earthy, and always with a hint of something foul underneath, like damp straw left to rot. Their flesh clung to the bone in stringy strips, and their organs tainted the flavor with a sourness that made you gag if you weren't careful. The smell alone could turn a full stomach. But I was never full. Not anymore. My ribs poked through my skin, and my limbs had the slackness of a starved stray. My mother and I had long since passed the point of pride or choice.
We ate what we could catch, and in a city besieged by orcs, ogres, and beastmen, that meant rat, mouse, or worse—raw if we had to, and we often did. Even now, when the memory of better meals haunts me, the taste of those rats stays strongest: bitter, cold, and real.