While Maple Syrup baked cookies, Rita sat beside her, using lightning to set up a desk and work on her history assignments. The ship's cat vice-captains had already taken advantage of Marmang's impending destruction to visit the main cities and snap photos.
Marmang's players dispersed. Those not turning into cookies hurried to pack and rest, while those waiting to become cookies queued up for Maple Syrup—five minutes per batch.
The scent of freshly baked cookies lingered in the air, gradually becoming stronger, almost tinged with a faintly burnt smell.
Rita cautiously glanced at the cookies. Their color was deepening, and it was clear that the baker's patience was wearing thin.
Between batches, a small sea squirrel, about the size of an oak owl's head, scurried to her side, holding a glowing orb.
