[PQ] baker's dozen [seasonal event]

Deimos the Reaper You can't take back the cards you've dealt on this long and lonely road to hell the throne must be such a sad and lonely place Without need for death and destruction, menace and mayhem, the Reaper had been forced to find other methods of entertainment and occupation. The latest diversions had been carpentry and assistance in assuring shops were rendered hospitable, noteworthy, and open for business. Part of this had been pure selfishness, methods and calculations meant to ensure he’d be able to acquire weapons, potions, and other necessities when required; a soldier’s life leant heavily on their alliances, skills, and the knives, daggers, and cutlasses they held. Cold-blooded machinations weren’t his only forte, but he bit into their meticulous scruples on a regular basis. Presently, his gaze was cast on the dilapidated bakery, mind whirling at the lack of goods and fine smells coming from its threshold. As a child, he’d snuck off with dozens upon dozens of rich sweets and divine, luscious pastries – eating them in the shades and shadows of hallways, parlors, or orchards, smug at the notion that his mother couldn’t catch him licking his fingers. His father would’ve laughed, hardy and massive, and Stone would’ve been the image of her namesake: raw disappointment and disapproval bristling across her features. The memories blistered away though, one-by-one, and he was left with an open door beckoning for him to enter and proffer something. He wouldn’t be much for delicate craftwork or cleaning; too big, too broad, too likely to smash any remaining works of opulence. The burly warrior was suitable for devastation, ruin, and the occasional heavy-lifting; he’d somehow managed to wind his way into woodworking when Tristan and Remi needed it. His talents were also not fashioned into gardening, that had been more of – the thought drifted away and he swallowed, suddenly prying his gaze away from wild weeds and savage sprouts, making his way closer to the aperture. When he poked his head in, he was surprised to see Amalia there – stare widening slightly in surprise before sinking back into his routine nonchalance, sliding his gaze over the rest of the ruins inside the once-mighty confectionary. Didn’t she also run the library? How did she find the necessary time to oversee both? Did she sprint from one to the other, or were either of them simply hobbies (the way he relished in hunting, in sparring, in training)? It likely wasn’t any of his business, so he remained silent on these wiles, standing on the threshold instead, offering what little talents he possessed (fire and brimstone, death and desecration, might and might and might) into the dusty hallows. “I can help.” With what would be the real evaluation; he had an inkling she didn’t demand taste-testers.

_{Photo and Table by Time
Photo taken at Hero's Square in Budapest, Hungary}