The Roasted Ox

Two months before the Tournament of Gossamer, the Uninvited were living quietly in Revillon — or as quietly as that group ever could. Kilijan was out in the market, lugging a basket full of ingredients for what he proudly called his famous stew. The others called it something else entirely. Back at their quarters, Weneon, Greg, and Manasa sat around a half-eaten pot of yesterday’s “famous” stew, each spoonful heavier than the last. They’d endured it for weeks — hearty, yes, but relentlessly brown and depressingly identical. Their salvation arrived in the form of Tamil, their teenage dragonborn friend. He burst in with his usual enthusiasm and nostalgia, talking about a place he used to visit back when he lived at the orphanage: a restaurant near the Spring of Humans, called The Roasted Ox. He painted it in rich detail — smoked meat so tender it fell apart on the fork, ale brewed with springwater, and an open fire where travelers told stories late into the night. By the time he was finished describing it, the others were practically drooling. Greg set down his spoon, looked at the stew, and muttered, “We’re leaving.” The decision was unanimous. They ditched Kilijan and set off for The Roasted Ox before he could finish shopping.

Their journey north from Revillon was a mix of guilt and excitement. Along the road they passed the Falco Tavern, still buzzing with hangovers and stories from the night before. Manasa kept his hood up — he’d spent the previous night there, drinking and playing music until dawn, and was in no hurry to relive it. From there, the group crossed the Materia Swamp, a sickly green expanse where the air smelled faintly of sulfur and wet moss. By the time they emerged, boots caked in mud, the landscape opened up into rocky cliffs and wind-blasted plains. “The Roasted Ox,” Tamil said, pointing ahead with wide eyes. “Just over that ridge.” Their stomachs growled like wild beasts.

They didn’t make it far before Greg suddenly froze mid-step, clutching his gut. “Don’t wait up,” he grunted, darting behind a cluster of bushes. While Greg was indisposed, Weneon, Tamil, and Manasa waited nearby. That’s when the goblins attacked — three of them, sloppy and overconfident. One raised a bow, but Weneon’s reaction was instant: a crack, a flash, and the goblin went down cold. The remaining two dropped their weapons and begged for mercy, tripping over each other in panic as Manasa towered above them. Meanwhile, Greg — squatting and grumbling — looked up and saw a figure standing at the tree line. A dark elf, motionless, watching him. Greg stood, trousers hastily adjusted, and confronted him. “Name,” he demanded. The elf said nothing. Greg’s patience lasted exactly two seconds before he uttered a word of power. The elf vanished — banished to another plane. When the others arrived, they waited silently for a minute. Exactly on cue, the dark elf reappeared in the same spot, drenched from head to toe, water dripping from his silver hair. Greg folded his arms. “Plane of Water,” he explained. “Short trip.” The elf finally spoke, his tone sharp and dry. “Sagiatto.” Before he could leave, the air cracked. A blue dragon erupted from the cliffs above, sand and stone raining down as its wings spread wide. Sagiatto barely had time to draw his blade before the creature dove for him. The Uninvited — all except Tamil, who stayed behind frozen in shock — charged to help. The battle tore across the ridge, flashes of lightning against the stone. Weneon’s blades, Manasa’s magic, Greg’s fury — and Sagiatto’s dark precision — brought the beast down at last. When the dust settled, the dragon lay smoking in the ravine, and Sagiatto stood panting beside them. Greg clapped him on the shoulder. “Dinner?”

The smell of scorched scales and ozone followed them the rest of the way. But when they finally reached The Roasted Ox, Tamil’s excitement crumbled. The restaurant was gone. Half-buried in weeds and rubble, its chimney collapsed, its hearth cold. The signboard — half-rotted — still hung by a single nail. The laughter and warmth Tamil remembered were just echoes now. He stood staring at the ruins for a long time. Then quietly, Greg suggested, “We could teleport home.” Just as he began the incantation, a movement caught their eyes — an ox, standing by the road, watching them. Its hide was singed, its horns chipped, but it looked oddly calm, as if waiting to be noticed.

Later, under the fading light, the Uninvited sat around a crackling fire. The smell of roasted meat filled the air. Tamil laughed until tears rolled down his snout, Sagiatto said little but smiled, and Greg looked proud of his improvised spit roast. Back in Revillon, Kilijan sat alone at a long table, surrounded by bowls of untouched stew, the candles burning low. He stared at the door, waiting for his friends who would never admit what they’d done — and who would never again complain about his cooking quite so loudly.