Rock
The Philosophizing Horneater Cook of Urithiru
Stew first. Swords second. Stories always.
I come from the peaks, where the hot springs steam and the gods are loud with laughter. Came down to the warcamps with a ladle, not a blade. Found my place. Found my people. Kaladin rages, Renarin puzzles, Dalinar broods — and I stir. A hot bowl in cold times is a kind of magic. Not flashy like a Shardblade, but it keeps hearts beating.
What I'm Into: hot soup in icy winds, foolish gods, listening to boiling water, feeding stormblessed idiots, sacred hearths
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