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Once upon a time, a lone Mercenary was passing through the woods in Leicester. Though her hair and coat blazed like a bonfire, the truth was, she was very cold. Winter had settled into the land at the foot of the mountains near Garreg Mach.
As she trudged through the snow, the Mercenary pulled her wolf-hide scarf tight around her neck and shivered.There had been no work for her for many days, and no tavern would take her without coin, so she had nowhere to stay and nothing to eat. Alone in the world, she settled down at the edge of the wood for the night.
The Mercenary gathered some tree branches and set them alight using the flint of her arrowheads. Then she prayed to the goddess and, using her metal shield as a bowl, took water from the nearby Airmid to boil.
It so happened that an itinerant Scholar was walking along the edge of the river that night, in the very same woods. He hailed the Mercenary as he drew close.
“What are you doing here?” the Mercenary asked warily.
“I came to the light of your fire,” he said. “Say - how would you like to share a meal?”
“I’m afraid,” said she, “that I haven’t any meal to share. I was boiling water to fill my belly, and then I was going to go to sleep.”
“Oh, that’s no object at all,” said the Scholar. “In fact, I happen to have a fish right here.”
He removed a small, fresh goby from his cloak and unwrapped it, lifting it up by the tail.
She frowned. You see, the Mercenary, hungry though she was, was also very proud; and at first, she refused.
“No thanks,” the Mercenary told him. “I don’t need any help, and I won’t be in your debt.”
The Scholar sighed, but he had dealt with stubborn people before. (One stubborn person in particular, many times.) And he had his own ways of being stubborn.
“Now see here, you would be contributing an equal amount. You have the campfire and the water going and ah…” He spied her flint arrowhead, sitting by the pot. “And you have an arrowhead! That’s marvelous.”
The Mercenary quirked one eyebrow at him. “Is it?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, you see - I know a recipe for an arrowhead soup. You boil a piece of flint, like so; it’s delicious.”
“That sounds absurd.”
“No, I assure you, it’s fantastic. A recipe from my homeland, over the Oghma Mountains,” said the Scholar. “Boil the arrowhead and you’ll see - ahh, but it would go better with some fish as a garnish. Would you mind scaling and gutting this for me?”
And skeptical though she was, the Mercenary slipped her arrowhead into the boiling water and set to work.
In the same woods that night, there walked a wandering Painter, and soon he too was drawn to the light.
“Pardon,” said the Painter, timidly, “may I join you?”
The Mercenary raised her guard again. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I am a painter,” he explained, “traversing these woods so that I may study nature’s beauty. Please, just let me be near your fire for a while. I will be quiet.”
The Scholar jumped into the conversation, which annoyed the Mercenary greatly. “You wouldn’t happen to have any food on hand, would you? Just a morsel would do.”
“Now hold on there book boy, who said this was your fire and your soup to give away?”
“Umm… I do have some eggs on hand,” the Painter said. “I was going to use them to bind pigments but… if you need them, I’d be happy to help?” He ended his statement like a question.
“Eggs would be a delightful addition to arrowhead soup,” said the Scholar. “Miss Mercenary, you really ought to let him contribute. I’d say yes right away, but it’s not exactly possible to barter him a share of stew without it affecting your portion.”
The Mercenary sighed, then patted the ground beside her for the Painter to sit down. He scampered over and fetched an egg out of his satchel, first extracting a bundle of animal-hair brushes and a few jars of pigment and handing them to the Mercenary to hold as he dug through his belongings.
“This better be good,” she grumbled.
Now that same night, in those same woods, a burly traveling Merchant was driving his wagon west, toward Garreg Mach, to sell his wares in town.
“Hey there!” hailed the Merchant, as he approached the campfire.
“Where do you people keep coming from!?” asked the Mercenary, throwing her hands in the air.
“Do you sell any food?” asked the Scholar. “We’ve got a shield full of soup going, but it would always go better with some seasoning.”
“Heck yeah!” the Merchant said. “I bring pepper, from Almyra, and flour, from the Gronder region. You may have some of my goods to thicken your roux. All the payment I want in exchange is a portion of food. I’m famished , but can’t cook anything with my cargo myself.”
The Scholar grinned. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
The Merchant dismounted his wagon with a smile, bags of powder in hand.
The Mercenary pouted and prodded the Scholar in his arm. “This isn’t fair,” she said. “This was supposed to be arrowhead soup, right? With every new person who comes along, it’s like you’re lessening my contribution…”
“Oh no, the arrowhead is very much the base of the soup, don’t you worry,” he told her. “It’s absolutely essential. All the other stuff, that’s just extra, whatever we can find and throw in the pot. I assure you.”
The Painter touched her arm, consolingly. “You also provided the cookfire and water and vessel, after all, Miss Mercenary. Your light is what led all the rest of us here. Please don’t downplay what you’ve already done so far.”
The Merchant, who’d tied his mules up, plopped down by the fire with a thud. “There’s no shame in sharing,” he said. “Every task is lighter and every meal is more joyful when you share it with others.”
The Scholar yawned. “Yes, all those sentimental things are very true. Anyway, would you be so kind as to wake me up when the soup is done? And don’t forget to ask anyone who comes by for some garnish to add. Anything’ll do. I’ll see you after my… nap…” And he rolled over and fell asleep right there, head resting on his closed tome.
More and more, people gathered around the bustle and smoke of little encampment by the Airmid’s banks. The Mercenary convinced them all to contribute an ingredient or two to the arrowhead soup. A mild Priestess stopped by with some bottles of cream, which further thickened the broth. A Blacksmith, hefting a dead fox over his shoulder, offered its meat. A Knight contributed some carrots that she had been planning to share with her horse, and an Archer even offered some onions from his bag.
At the end, a Barbarossa on his wyvern landed near the now-lively encampment. The Mercenary, who had gotten quite accustomed to waving people over, gave him a shout.
“Heya! We’ve got one shield full of soup going and I think it’s almost ready to serve, but you can have some if you’ve got another ingredient to toss in!”
The Barbarossa clutched his stomach. “I don’t have any food on me, actually,” he said.
“Really?” said the Mercenary. “It doesn’t matter if it’s just a little; arrowhead soup is way better than the sum of its parts.”
The Barbarossa thought briefly of the small vial of mild stomach poison in his pocket. “I don’t have anything edible on me at all,” he reaffirmed.
“Then…” The Mercenary thought on this for a little bit. This was the first person to join the encampment who didn’t have any ingredients with him at all, but that was all the more reason she couldn’t turn the Barbarossa away. The Mercenary knew the pain of hunger, and of not being able to buy yourself any food while those with coin could eat heartily nearby.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “You’re welcome to a bowl of soup and instead of adding an ingredient, you can help wash the dishes.”
“For real?” he asked, happily.
“Sure!” she replied. “Everyone else has added enough by now that we can easily spare you a meal; and anyone in the world with some sense can wash out a bowl. That’s what I’ve learned today. Everyone can partake and everyone can contribute.”
“...Yes,” the Barbarossa said. “Yeah, I can totally wash out a bowl, no incident. You’re right!”
He settled down around the fire with the Mercenary and the other travelers, resolving to reward each of them for their kindness when he came into his inheritance; for the Barbarossa was really a Prince, traveling in disguise.
But that is a story for another time.