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I remember where I was on the day that the Second Sundering began. I daresay few who were alive at the time would ever forget it, except perhaps the very young or very infirm amongst us. A mild and pleasant summer day in Waterdeep, the sort that makes one throw open the windows and breathe in deep, content to lie in the sunshine for long periods at a time as if one were a lizard, or an overly slumberous house cat.

Or in my household specifically, an overly slumberous tressym.

On the dreadful day in question, I was a brash and bold young man of twenty-five, revelling in my recent elevation to the position of Chosen of Mystra. After a late and lazy breakfast at the Sleepy Sylph, a delightful establishment just down the block from Blackstaff Academy that serves an excellent quipper on toast as part of their morningfeast offerings, I journeyed on to the Academy. Obviously I was no green schoolboy at such a point, on my way to stain my fingers with charcoal taking notes on alchemical reagents; Blackstaff remains one of the foremost research centres in all of Toril — the prestigious and elusive libraries of the High Temple of Mystra in Halruaa notwithstanding, due to their pointed absence from Toril until recently — and I was on my way to conduct certain academic studies that were better served in a library far grander than my own personal collection of tomes.

I had stopped to speak with Archmage Vajra Safahr — who I am sure needs no introduction, the venerable Blackstaff herself and current master of the academy, a woman of admirable talent likely on par with my own — in the lobby of our fair institution. Vajra was on her way to a meeting with city legislators regarding zoning permits, and I recall her harried and distracted state as I called out to her to enquire after her health. It was, as most who lived through the event will recall, around midday; there was noise from the street beyond the doors of the academy, the vast busy-bee buzzing of the grand Market Square only a few blocks away a distant drone that would not quite be blocked by silencing spells until one reached the regal rolling incline that curled up the interior of the tower in place of stairs.

We had exchanged pleasantries when it occurred. We felt it, the both of us, before the world itself reacted around us, because the rebirth of a dead god is a vastly magical event, plucked violently against the strings of the Weave. Our conversation fell abruptly silent, and in the moments that followed the world followed suit — the sounds of the Market Square fell away, the muted sounds of conversation and laughter in the Academy tower lulled rapidly into silence. Even the animals, the sounds of seabirds a constant squawking symphony in the background of our days given how Blackstaff sits but a hundred yards or so from the beach, vanished so suddenly that one would have expected them to begin falling dead from the sky above, a macabre rain of death.

Given the god in question in the process of rebirth, it is in fact a wonder that is not how He heralded His renewal.

What followed in that silence was a wave of cold so immense that I am told there were rumours of water troughs freezing over in seconds, that spooked pack animals huffed and wheezed and pulled against their ropes as if desperate to escape from some unseen predator. Throughout Waterdeep, the frail and elderly were seen to collapse in a swoon, and the census bureau later recounted that there had been an unusual number of deaths registered that day.

I myself developed quite the headache. 

My plans for a scholarly afternoon of academic challenge were postponed, as I made myself available to the Lady of Mysteries post haste, to ensure that she was secure in her station and did not require the defence of her Chosen in light of this act of mors-apotheosis. It was in counsel with Mystra and several of her other Chosen, Elminster Aumar chief amongst them, that I learned that the god in question was none other than Bhaal, Dark Lord of Murder, and that his rebirth heralded the onset of a new and tumultuous age which we would later come to understand as the Second Sundering.

In a long and roundabout way, it was with the rebirth of Bhaal that I would come to find myself in the Chionthar Valley in 1492 DR in the first place, only a hundred miles or so from the recently ravaged city of Elturel, with a parasitic passenger in my head. So in a sense, Lord Bhaal is in fact responsible for my fledgling attempt as a food writer and self-proclaimed gourmand, although sadly my journeys along the Chionthar River were not in pursuit of good food and good company!

As many of you have now heard, due to certain interviews published initially in the Baldur's Mouth Gazette and reproduced in other papers of note along the coast, as well as certain musical sagas by the Ladies Alfira and Araja Thruum, I was amongst the group of reluctant adventurers involved in the Battle of Baldur's Gate and the conquest of the threat known as the Absolute. I would beg you, dear readers, please pay no accord to the writings of one Volothamp Geddarm, whose rambling accounts of those months are both highly facetious and contemptibly inaccurate.

Our journey began on the banks of the Chionthar River, when the nautiloid — a mindflayer spelljammer craft out of legend, a vessel so ancient and so powerful as to have arguably been the basis for spelljammer flight altogether — upon which we were reluctant passengers plummeted from the sky after having been set upon by githyanki warriors atop ferocious red dragon steeds, as well as all manner of violent fiends and devils of Avernus. A party of like-minded survivors was quickly established by Sir Carmela Tavares de la Vasquez, a Tormish knight of Tantras, and it was amongst this rag-tag company of fellow adventurers that I spent my first evening in the wilds.

The air was thick with the smell of smoke, and the unmistakeable stench of burning cephalopodian flesh — as a true-blooded son of Waterdeep, I consider myself quite partial to a good seafood dish, and with the mighty Chionthar at our side it would have been the most sensible option to consider fishing for our supper. I think I speak for all of my fellows that anything even remotely seafood related was the last thing on our minds that night, and it would be a long time before any of us could look a plate of calamari in the face and not wince!

We were all of us quite miserable on that first night, shell-shocked from the abrupt nature of our capture and the horror of what we believed to be our imminent deaths at the hands of ceremorphosis. There were more than a few terse arguments and sniped comments, and upon reading the atmosphere of the camp, I took it upon myself to prepare such a hearty supper that the fireside would be awash with smiles and laughter in no time. I consider myself somewhat of a deft hand in the kitchen, if I must say, and I had assumed such skills would be transferrable to an outdoor setting.

Dear readers, I was vastly humbled that night. Our provisions were limited, our funds all but nonexistent, and there was no local Aurora's Emporium for me to slip on down to in order to restock my precious collection of rare herbs and spices. What I wouldn't give to have had one of Aurora's Whole Realms Catalogue with me in my luggage, to place a convenient, rapid order which could have been fulfilled in minutes with the use of secure, excellent teleportation spellcrafting by their trusted network of wizarding associates. I always use Aurora's Emporium when in need of restocking tamarind paste, and I can always rest assured that my purchase is being shipped directly from the tamarind groves of Talashar, which I find have a far richer depth to their flavours than the tamarinds of Calimshan. For those looking to replicate the tried and true version of today's recipe, simply use your Aurora's Whole Realms Catalogue and place an order for "Gale's Let's Beef Friends Stew — Full Recipe". Remember to use the code TARA upon ordering to enjoy 15% off the total cost of your order, and you too will soon be making friends with everyone around your dinner table!

Beef Cormyruignon has well and truly established itself as a firm classic in the last century since it was invented in Marsember. While the exact origins of the dish are disputed — several chefs are known to have claimed ownership of the recipe, and I'm sure we've all heard the tales of the infamous Chef's Brawl that took place in the street between the Roaring Griffon and the Leaping Eel taverns, when no less than seven cooks from establishments throughout Marsember confronted one another in a wild fracas that caused two of Harmuth Isle's three docks to burn to the ground. 

It is well and truly a dish worth fighting over, in this humble chef's opinion — tender beef chunks, slowly simmered in a rich red wine gravy to melt-in-your-mouth perfection, swimming in a sea of perfectly cooked root vegetables. I prefer to serve it spooned over a bed of mashed potatoes with a loaf of fresh rustic bread, but it goes just as well over plain buttered noodles or rice.

Attempting to make this slow-cooked symphony over a campfire with sub-par ingredients was not a grand success on my part. It was edible, truly, I will allow myself some small vanities for succeeding as much as I did, but it was a great pleasure of mine to recreate this dish at a later date for my travelling companions, to show them what a delectable experience of the senses it can be when cooked to perfection. For you, dear reader, I will be including the correct recipe, with my annotations as to where we went so dreadfully wrong that night on the banks of the Chionthar. 

ProfRhyme

DruidwiththeD(uck)

MamaK

TehDarkSpare

BromphGaenre

SteelWatchSue

MorenaDekarios