Slice of Allspice Cake with Ice Cream sits on a chipped porcelain plate, its edges crowned with a drizzle of amber caramel and a stubborn dollop of vanilla ice cream that refuses to melt in unison with the warm cake. The sponge is a pale bronze under a crackle of sugar, a tender crumb that yields to the bite with a soft sigh. A dusting of allspice—little sparks of cinnamon and clove—speckles the top, releasing warm perfume as you lift the fork. A mint leaf trembles at the edge, like a small flag signaling a welcome in any busy market. It looks like a fragment of a late afternoon bakery absorbed by the sun, a story baked into its crust. People who carry on long journeys know this slice by its scent first: sweet, spicy, a little smoky, with cold ice cream cooling the back of your throat after a sprint toward the next objective. In the stalls of Divinity's Market, I watched merchants trade it with the same care they reserve for maps and sea-charts. There is a certain ritual to eating it: the cake softens the ice cream into a creamy ribbon; each bite is a small map change, a waypoint marking a pause in the ongoing voyage. The lore says the cake was first created by a caravan's baker who learned spice lore from distant sultans and salt-tinged winds along the Spice Road. When the long routes faltered, the cake became a comfort, a portable memory in a jar of sweetness that travels with you. Within gameplay, slices like this are not mere dessert. They hold a touch of magic that temporarily steadies nerves and sharpens focus, a small reward that makes a tenuous camp more livable. It restores a small amount of vitality and grants a brief boost to certain stats, enough to make a fight or a ferry-ride across a river feel less punishing. Players love its portability: a single slice fits in a saddlebag and can be shared with allies around a campfire, turning a rough night into a patched-together victory. In markets and caravans, cooks barter for it as readily as for a sturdy rope or a vial of lamp oil. Its value is not just taste but trust: a proven morale booster that makes an ally lean on you less and smile more in the face of a looming siege. Onto Saddlebag Exchange the price drifts with harvests and rumor. On some days a slice will fetch a few copper; after spice caravans arrive, a stout silver is not unusual. Traders tell stories of rival bakers who adjust the recipe to claim a larger share of the coin, yet the original flavor remains the same: a keen edge of allspice, a memory of home, and a promise that sweetness can outlast fear. I wrap the plate in a napkin and tuck it into my pack, a quiet ritual for a weary traveler, a reminder that even in a world of peril, simple comforts endure. The bite returns us to stories shared, and the road ahead feels a little brighter for a moment.