Feast of Roasted Parsnips glows on a dented tin plate, its honeyed glaze catching the lamplight and throwing a warm, amber sheen across the wooden table. The parsnips are thick and honest, their edges caramelized to a crisp whisper, the centers tender as a whispered rumor. Steam lifts in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of thyme, a hint of garlic, and something faintly resinous from the roasting coals. The surface bears a light drizzle of oil that makes each bite slick, a glaze that refuses to slide away from the teeth, inviting a second or third forkful as if coaxing memory into the present moment. Its color is a soft gold with flickers of bronze where the heat kissed the surface, and the aroma tastes almost like a family kitchen tucked into a market street, where a grandmother would roast parsnips to soothe a traveler’s weariness after a long day of bargaining and weather watching. Lorekeepers tell of caravans that carried this dish from the bread-baked towns beyond the Nornir Pass, a humble staple traded for news and stories, the recipe passing hands like a coin and a tale told around a shared bench. In practice, the Feast of Roasted Parsnips feels like more than a meal. It’s the kind of food that travels with a party, a portable hearth in a pinch, and a quiet reminder that sustenance is always part of a larger story. In gameplay terms, a bite or two mends the body after a skirmish, restoring health while lending a momentary edge—stamina renewed, focus sharpened, and spirits buoyed as if the mind had been dragged from a fog by a thread of warm steam. Some players swear the dish carries a subtle boost to vitality and to the speed of healing over time, a careful balance that makes it worth stashing a few in the saddlebag for long marches or when defending a frontier outpost against the night’s chill. It isn’t flashy, but its utility is the quiet backbone of any night-watch routine, a reminder that comfort and resilience are often born from something small yet well-tended. Markets in the belt of this world churn with the same steady rhythm as a kettle on a wooden stove, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where such humble icons find their moment in the sun. I watched a stall there, the merchant’s hands steady as he arranged a plate’s worth of roasted parsnips beside a tiny jar of rosemary oil, the vendor’s price chalked on a slate so worn it looked part of the table itself. The exchange offered a modest price—enough to tempt a traveler who’d traded a tale for a bite earlier, yet not so dear that a hungry crew couldn’t afford an extra order if weather and time permitted. The way the vendor spoke of the dish—how it travels, how it sustains—felt like listening to a short, shared chapter of a longer epic, where every bite carries a memory of road, of campfire, of a small mercy amid the day’s bustle. So the Feast of Roasted Parsnips remains more than sustenance. It’s a compact story you can eat, a warming thread that ties travelers to kitchens, markets, and the people who keep the flame alive in the shared, wandering world.