Nineteen
The evening passed by in the blink of an eye and in no time, the wine bottles were dry and the pots and pans empty. Triss returned with lots of compliments to the chef and our customers left, happy and full with a new appreciation for pride.
I had no doubt that the Prideling community would be buzzing with talk about the Forked Tail and Lana’s fermented pride.
With the party a success, a satisfied atmosphere hung in the kitchen as we tidied and locked up. I did my best to help with clean-up but despite my little crash course in cooking over the week, I was still mostly useless in the kitchen. Hopefully, I’d be able to change that over the years to come.
“See you later,” Triss waved as she grabbed her jacket. She was the last to leave, apart from Lana and I.
“Byeee,” I call
