Dedicated Chef

(The man speaks extremely fast, his bloodshot eyes darting between a notebook and some seafood. He makes hurried notes with a hand covered in scallion bits.)

(The rusty rings of the notebook suggest it's been well-used and poorly maintained.)

(You take a closer look at the messy drawings and lines, and make out the names of a number of spices and cooking techniques. This is probably the man's recipe.)

(Turning to leave might be wise, but as you pivot, your foot squelches loudly in a puddle of sticky fluid.)

(The man snaps his attention to you.)

(Marcus grabs the bag of ingredients you've collected and drags it into the alley, mumbling about his recipe.)

(After a while, Marcus rushes out from the alley, not realising how comical he looks until he trips and faceplants into the snow. He scrambles up with an embarrassed grin.)

(He presents a packet of fish and shrimp marinated in a dark, aromatic sauce. The pungent smell hits you even through the sealed membrane.)

(Marcus grabs the bag of ingredients you've collected and drags it into the alley, mumbling about his recipe.)

(After a while, Marcus rushes out from the alley, not realising how comical he looks until he trips and faceplants into the snow. He scrambles up with an embarrassed grin.)

(He presents a packet of fish and shrimp marinated in a dark, aromatic sauce. The pungent smell hits you even through the sealed membrane.)

(The biting winds of Icelake have turned Marcus's face a ghastly white. To the casual observer, he might as well be a statue carved from ice.)

(However, Marcus is entirely oblivious to the harsh environment and the sorry state of his health.)

(The man is wholly focused on quickly jotting down and then dismissing various recipes and cooking methods.)

(The job sounds tougher than last time, but you can't help breathing a little sigh of relief, at least this time, Marcus isn't asking you to sample anything raw.)

After a long while, you finally got the obese Frostspines Marcus needed.

(The man speaks extremely fast, his bloodshot eyes darting between a notebook and some seafood. He makes hurried notes with a hand covered in scallion bits.)

(The rusty rings of the notebook suggest it's been well-used and poorly maintained.)

(You take a closer look at the messy drawings and lines, and make out the names of a number of spices and cooking techniques. This is probably the man's recipe.)

(Turning to leave might be wise, but as you pivot, your foot squelches loudly in a puddle of sticky fluid.)

(The man snaps his attention to you.)

(Marcus is peeling Borealberries without a word. The man appears more and more like a statue of ice. His brow twitches occasionally, betraying a pain he's never known before.)

(The berries and peels are bloodied and muddy, some crushed. Marcus's hands are raw and bleeding, suggesting he climbed a cliff to gather these berries.)

(One side of Marcus's clothing is soaked in blood. Though he's managed to stop the bleeding, it's clear his injuries are still severe.)

(Marcus dismisses further talk of his injuries, tossing the berries into the stew, tasting and adjusting the seasoning.)

(Despite his injuries, Marcus painstakingly trims, skillets, and simmers the fish, his dedication unwavering.)

(After considerable effort, the aromas blend into a delightful explosion of flavours. Marcus serves up a bowl of the steaming fish stew, his face expectant for your critique.)

...

(This is the third time you see Marcus. He's seated quietly, a lunchbox in his lap. The man looks utterly spent, his skin shrivelled up, as if deprived of sleep for quite a while.)

(His injuries have yet to be properly treated. In a warmer city, those wounds might have festered and started to smell.)

(With trembling hands, Marcus opens the lunchbox. A rich aroma of vegetable stew and meat patties rises into the air, surprisingly appetizing.)

(It's not the kind of steak the rich feast on, but a humble, nourishing meal, solid enough to fuel a labourer through an entire day of hard work. Tucked alongside are a few star-shaped hash browns, a quiet, thoughtful touch.)

(You take a bite. The food, ordinary in appearance, bursts with flavours that invigorate your spirit. Even the cold of Icelake seems to fades away.)

(Beneath the lunchbox, a recipe filled with corrections is neatly placed. Marcus nods his head, indicating it's now yours. He awaits the food critic's review with a smile.)

(Marcus gives a long sigh of relief. He slowly lowers his listless arms and closes his weary eyes.)

(Marcus gives a long sigh of relief. He slowly lowers his listless arms and closes his weary eyes.)

(From Marcus's satisfied smile, it seems he just received the feedback he's been waiting for.)

(The man speaks extremely fast, his bloodshot eyes darting between a notebook and some seafood. He makes hurried notes with a hand covered in scallion bits.)

(The rusty rings of the notebook suggest it's been well-used and poorly maintained.)

(You take a closer look at the messy drawings and lines, and make out the names of a number of spices and cooking techniques. This is probably the man's recipe.)

(Turning to leave might be wise, but as you pivot, your foot squelches loudly in a puddle of sticky fluid.)

(The man snaps his attention to you.)

(The biting winds of Icelake have turned Marcus's face a ghastly white. To the casual observer, he might as well be a statue carved from ice.)

(However, Marcus is entirely oblivious to the harsh environment and the sorry state of his health.)

(The man is wholly focused on quickly jotting down and then dismissing various recipes and cooking methods.)

(The job sounds tougher than last time, but you can't help breathing a little sigh of relief, at least this time, Marcus isn't asking you to sample anything raw.)

After a long while, you finally got the obese Frostspines Marcus needed.