Preparing to head to the kitchen, Igris looked with curious eyes at the blonde woman who had suddenly blocked his path.
"Can I help you?"
Matheld, with her arms tightly crossed over her chest, replied in a stern and supremely confident manner.
"Fight me."
While the surrounding crowd was stunned by this sudden challenge, the Vaegirs, highly familiar with Nord culture, immediately guessed what was about to unfold and turned to each other with knowing looks. Igris, unable to make much sense of what he had just heard, simply stared at the woman standing before him.
"I don't understand? What do you mean?"
The blonde woman fixed her ocean-blue eyes directly on Igris and clearly stated her intention with a determined, authoritative tone of voice.
"If you want me to serve under your command, you must defeat me in combat. If you cannot, do not expect me to obey your orders."
After staring blankly at the woman's face for a few moments, Igris slowly began to grasp the situation. Rubbing his eyes in sheer exhaustion, he thought to himself.
'This woman is essentially a Viking to the core, right... meaning she refuses to submit to someone weaker than herself.'
Already exhausted enough as it was, and burdened with the monumental task of preparing food for a large group of nearly a hundred people, Igris desperately looked for ways to wriggle out of this troublesome challenge. After quickly weighing his options in his mind, a rather brilliant idea sparked.
"Before you fight me, you must defeat two of my men. If you cannot best them, there is absolutely no point in our fight."
Matheld slightly raised her chin and smiled with an arrogant smirk.
"Show them to me so I can kick their asses, and then I will take you down."
Igris raised his eyebrows slightly.
'A true Viking woman.'
Then, with a perfectly calm voice, he selected her opponents.
"Dwalin and Gilan. If you defeat the two of them, I will grant you your fight."
Standing on the sidelines enjoying the spectacle, the two named individuals were caught completely off guard and were literally stunned upon hearing their names. Igris, however, continued to address Matheld without losing a single ounce of his calm composure.
"Is that a problem for you?"
Matheld nodded without a moment's hesitation.
"Child's play! Let me go grab my axe and shield."
As Matheld confidently walked away to retrieve her weapons, Igris took a deep, relaxed breath and prepared to continue on his way. His plan was actually quite simple; by nature, he was not the type of man who enjoyed raising a hand against women. At least, not unless they truly deserved it... Elise, the most notorious human trafficker and slave trader in Middle-earth, was naturally a massive exception to this rule and sat at the very pinnacle of Igris's blacklist. The Arwen incident, on the other hand, had been a deeply complex misunderstanding from the very beginning.
However, in the current scenario, fighting a woman so thoroughly steeped in Viking warrior culture—even under the guise of a sparring match—meant engaging in a brutal struggle where limits would be severely tested. Moreover, he absolutely refused to deal unnecessary violence to someone who would be joining the ranks of his own comrades in the future. Therefore, he had opted to throw the team's best fighters into the fire without a second thought.
He had barely taken two steps when Gilan approached silently from behind, clamped a tight grip on Igris's arm, and yanked him aside, grumbling furiously.
"What the hell are you doing! Why are you dragging me into this?"
While the surrounding crowd dove into excited, hushed conversations, Dwalin came storming in from the side, looking far more enraged than the Ranger. Being dragged into such a brawl without even being asked for his consent did not please the fiery dwarf one bit.
"I second that! Why are you making decisions on your own! @###@@!"
Looking at the swearing, furious dwarf and the Ranger who looked thoroughly displeased with his current predicament, Igris sighed as if giving up and initiated the negotiations.
"Here is the deal, Dwalin. You help me out with this, and I will buy you two full barrels of premium ale and cook a feast out of five kilos of lamb ribs."
Hearing this sudden and highly lucrative offer, Dwalin's blazing fury was extinguished in an instant. After a very brief mental calculation, he nodded in utter satisfaction.
"Deal! Besides, I was actually curious to see just how good this woman really is with an axe."
Rubbing his thick hands together hungrily, Dwalin departed from their side, looking highly pleased with the outcome. Gilan, however, stood his ground with crossed arms, staring expectantly at Igris.
"And what exactly is my cut in all this?"
Igris replied, plastering a wide, knowing smile across his face.
"A sack of coffee."
But Gilan batted this offer away with the back of his hand without a second thought.
"You're going to give us coffee anyway. I refuse this offer! I gain absolutely nothing from this!"
Igris wasn't fazed in the slightest; on the contrary, he widened his grin and continued.
"I hadn't finished my sentence."
Gilan raised a curious eyebrow and nodded, gesturing for him to go on. Igris dropped his voice to a low, mysterious pitch and spoke calmly.
"I will also give you a book."
Hearing this, Gilan's face immediately dropped in disappointment.
"What in the world am I supposed to do with a book!?"
Igris threw a friendly arm over Gilan's shoulder and began to elaborate.
"It is not just an ordinary book! It is a book written personally by me, packed to the brim with recipes from the world I come from."
Gilan looked at Igris with eyes full of skepticism, still far from convinced.
"What are you getting at?"
Igris paused for a moment; he genuinely thought Gilan would have deduced his true intentions by now. Letting out a deep sigh, he decided to spell it out for him.
"My friend! Who is the woman you fancy?"
Trying to figure out where this convoluted conversation was leading, Gilan muttered suspiciously.
"Jenny."
Igris nodded affirmatively and dropped the critical question.
"And what is Jenny's favorite hobby?"
Right at that exact moment, lightning struck in Gilan's mind. With sparkling eyes and raised eyebrows, the realization dawned on him.
"So you are suggesting a cookbook for me to give to Jenny as a gift?"
Igris chuckled, visibly pleased that his scheme had worked perfectly, and nodded.
"Yes, a book filled with exotic recipes and revolutionary cooking methods that have never even existed in your world! I think Jenny will absolutely adore it, don't you agree?"
Gilan sank into deep silence, running a rapid mental assessment of the situation. Honestly, the idea appealed to him immensely. Rather than receiving ordinary bouquets of flowers or expensive jewels, Jenny would always prefer to be gifted a brand new, unheard-of recipe that she had never tried before.
Meanwhile, Igris was laughing inwardly as he observed his friend's contemplative state. In truth, he had been planning to give these special recipes to Jenny from the very beginning. The woman had opened her own inn and run it with phenomenal success for years; she was a highly celebrated chef who had made quite a name for herself across Araluen. Once she arrived, Igris intended to gladly support her in opening a grand new inn. By passing on all the modern culinary knowledge he possessed, he planned to ask her to train a new generation of master chefs. Thus, in the current situation, Igris was losing absolutely nothing.
As Gilan weighed his decision, Igris played his final, trump card.
"Besides, haven't you been relentlessly complaining that you haven't had any proper competition since arriving in this world? Well, here is your golden opportunity."
Hearing this, Gilan turned to Igris with an expression of absolute serenity and slapped him squarely with the truth.
"My friend, while you were sleeping as soundly as a baby for 17 days, I was crossing blades with the elite elves of Rivendell. So, I have already tasted the competition I was thirsting for... but I accept your offer. I want that book."
With the agreement officially struck, Igris nodded happily and smiled.
"Perfect! I'm counting on the two of you. Besides, it isn't even certain if she can actually manage to beat Dwalin."
Having neatly sorted out the impending crisis, he turned on his heel and started heading toward the royal kitchens. He called out to Bilbo, who was waiting silently for him by the great doors.
"Let's go, Bilbo. We have a small army to feed."
Bilbo nodded in agreement and fell into step beside Igris, and the duo began to walk side by side. They left behind a boisterous hall that was practically vibrating with the electric anticipation of the impending brawl. As they walked the grand corridors, Bilbo finally surrendered to his burning curiosity.
"What exactly are we cooking today, Igris?"
Igris pondered for a brief moment without breaking his brisk stride.
'I want to whip up something a little different today… ah, I've got it.'
After finalizing the grand menu in his mind, he spoke.
"The names of the dishes we will be preparing this time are: Reibekuchen, or as I prefer to call it, Potato Fritters."
Bilbo's swift steps briefly faltered upon hearing a bizarre word he had never encountered in his entire life.
"That certainly has a strange pronunciation."
Igris nodded, fully validating the Hobbit's natural reaction.
"It definitely sounds that way to someone hearing it for the first time. Anyway, the name of our second dish is Honey Roasted Parsnips."
Bilbo's eyes widened to the size of saucers in sheer astonishment.
"What! Parsnips and honey!? Did I hear you correctly!?"
Igris chuckled warmly, trying to soothe the Hobbit's culinary shock.
"Believe me, it sounds terribly weird at first, but the taste is actually quite spectacular…"
Then, as if whispering a secret to himself, he thought.
'Of course, I will need to make a few clever tweaks and additions...'
After a rapid session of mental planning, he unveiled the rest of the menu.
"Let's toss some potatoes into the oven again, but this time, let's simply wash them, slice them right down the middle, and shove them straight in."
Bilbo was certainly no stranger to the inner workings of a kitchen, so he immediately asked.
"Leaving the skins on, right?"
Igris confirmed with a nod and asked, as if casually testing the Hobbit's expertise.
"Have you ever prepared them that way?"
Bilbo replied with a remarkably relaxed shrug of his shoulders.
"Oh yes, sometimes when I am simply too lazy to bother with a proper meal, I just chuck the potatoes straight into the oven—after giving them a good scrub, of course."
Igris smiled, feeling a strong sense of solidarity between fellow cooks.
"I understand you completely. I will also be crafting a brand new, revolutionary dish called Pizza."
Bilbo looked up at him, brimming with curiosity.
"What kind of dish is that?"
Igris answered in a deeply mysterious tone.
"You will see when we make it. As for the final course, let's whip up a large batch of menemen again. It is quick, easy, and since everyone absolutely devoured it at breakfast, it guarantees that not a single soul will go hungry."
Bilbo nodded emphatically, giving his full seal of approval to the menu. As the duo pushed through the large, arched kitchen doors, they offered a slight, respectful bow to the elven guards stationed on duty; the guards returned the polite gesture with equal, fluid grace.
Stepping inside, they found the colossal kitchen entirely empty; the dinner hour for the elves had passed long ago. Igris and Bilbo did not waste a single heartbeat before rolling up their sleeves. While Igris materialized a pristine white apron from his invisible inventory and securely tied his bandana, Bilbo smoothly slipped into his own little apron.
Their very first objective was to breathe life back into the dying fire pits. They tossed thick, fresh logs of firewood into the glowing embers of the large stone ovens, rapidly raising the ambient heat. After thoroughly scrubbing their hands clean, the duo marched straight toward the towering sacks filled with potatoes.
With practiced, rapid-fire movements, they meticulously washed three enormous sacks of potatoes and swiftly cleaved them in half. Locating the expansive, flat trays the elves typically used for drying fruits and vegetables, they began arranging the potatoes inside. After generously drizzling them with rich olive oil and tossing them thoroughly with a complex blend of aromatic spices, they spread the potatoes evenly across the trays and shoved them deep into the blazing heat of the ovens.
Just this preliminary preparation phase alone had consumed well over an hour of their time. During a brief, much-needed moment to catch their breath, Bilbo circled back to the topic he was most intensely curious about.
"So, how exactly do we go about making these honey parsnips?"
As Igris strode purposefully toward the corner where the heavy flour sacks were stored, he began rattling off precise instructions.
"It follows the exact same logic as the potatoes. Wash the parsnips thoroughly, then line them up neatly on the empty trays. Ensure the trays are packed full, but avoid stacking them too high on top of one another. Once that's done, coat every single one of them generously in olive oil."
While Bilbo frantically jotted down this bizarre new recipe in a small leather-bound notebook he pulled from his waistcoat pocket, Igris vanished into the flour pantry. Mere seconds later, he reemerged, hugging a colossal sack of flour to his chest, and continued his lecture.
"Next, you add black pepper, cumin, rosemary, wild thyme, and three to four crushed cloves of garlic. Give the tray a vigorous shake so the parsnips roll around and get beautifully, evenly coated in the oil and spices. After that, shove the trays straight into the oven..."
As he cascaded the snowy flour into a massive wooden kneading trough, he simultaneously began putting his grand pizza dough plan into practice.
"After letting them roast for a few minutes, pierce them with a knife to check if they are cooking through. If they have softened nicely, drop small dollops of butter—about the size of a small walnut—right between them. Finally, we will drizzle them with golden honey, scatter some fresh, vibrant parsley over the top, and they will be ready to serve."
Bilbo looked up from his notebook and stared at Igris in profound amazement.
"Is that truly all there is to it?"
Igris smiled down at his thoroughly bewildered expression and nodded firmly.
"Exactly that. Now, stop your dilly-dallying and get to work."
The very second Bilbo received the command, he scrambled toward the elves' cool, cavernous vegetable pantry without wasting a fraction of a second. Before the Hobbit could even cross the threshold, Igris made sure to holler after him.
"Bilbo! You can do the exact same thing with carrots as well!"
As Bilbo disappeared down the dimly lit pantry corridor, his voice echoed back from the depths.
"Alright!"
Igris, meanwhile, was operating like a machine, relentlessly pouring flour into the trough prepared on the central marble island of the kitchen. When his trained eye judged the amount to be sufficient, he sprinkled in salt, a generous glug of olive oil, and just a tiny pinch of sugar. Next, he drew steaming water from the large copper cauldron that the elves kept perpetually heated, and poured it smoothly over the dry mixture.
As he rolled his sleeves higher up his muscular arms and plunged his strong hands into the dough to begin the grueling kneading process, a highly amusing thought flashed across his mind.
'I offer my sincerest apologies to all Italians everywhere; given our current, it is going to be exceptionally difficult for me to properly respect your culinary culture.'
While Igris worked in a steady, powerful rhythm with the gargantuan lump of dough on the wide marble counter, Bilbo suddenly emerged from the pantry, hauling a woven basket piled so absurdly high with vegetables that it nearly matched his own height. Igris paused for a moment, turning his head to watch his little friend's heroic, yet comical, struggle and chuckled softly.
"Do you need a hand with that, my friend?"
Trying desperately to maintain his precarious balance on violently trembling legs, Bilbo ground his teeth together and stubbornly continued to haul his heavy load.
"No… I've got this… ugh!"
Following several agonizingly slow steps, the young Baggins finally reached his destination and immediately began washing the carrots at the elegant, stone-carved elven fountain where crystal-clear water flowed continuously.
After several minutes of intense, perfectly synchronized labor, Igris, utterly satisfied that the colossal mound of dough had finally achieved the silky, elastic consistency he demanded, covered it gently with a clean linen cloth to let it rest. He then instantly pivoted to begin the next massive batch of dough.
Bilbo, having meticulously scrubbed the very last carrot in his hands, grabbed the empty trays and initiated the precise preparations in the exact sequential order Igris had dictated.
At the end of a grueling, half-hour sprint of non-stop, high-octane pacing, Igris—fully exploiting the superhuman stamina granted by his hybrid bloodline—had successfully kneaded and neatly lined up four monumental spheres of pizza dough across the counter. Simultaneously, Bilbo was efficiently sliding the final, seasoned trays of carrots into the appropriate, roaring sections of the grand ovens.
After expertly stoking the raging fire of the secondary stone oven with a heavy set of iron tongs to achieve the perfect baking temperature, Igris spun back around to the counter, entirely focused on preparing the absolute most vital component of any pizza: the rich, vibrant sauce.
However, the exact millisecond his hand reached for the basket overflowing with plump, red tomatoes, a horrifying reality violently crashed into his consciousness. He froze completely solid right where he stood and violently slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead.
"Oh no… I completely forgot that I actually have to peel the damn tomatoes for the sauce!"
Poor Igris... In all honesty, the menu he had initially devised was both wonderfully practical and delicious. However, the entire situation morphed into a nightmare when it came to hand-crafting enough pizza sauce to feed a ravenous horde of nearly a hundred people. Peeling such a large quantity of tomatoes one by one required a great deal of time and patience. His broad shoulders instantly slumped in utter defeat. Letting out a long and profoundly sigh, Igris buried his face deep in his hands.
"I can't back out now… the dough is already fully prepped and waiting."
After a brief moment of thought, an idea struck him, and he quickly went to the door and called out to Bilbo.
"Bilbo! I will be right back!"
Bilbo, who had just finished arranging the trays and was leaning over to examine the beautifully browned potatoes, watched in astonishment as Igris quickly left the kitchen.
"Where in the world is he going?"
After muttering the question into the empty air, the Hobbit shrugged and refocused on his culinary duties.
His mouth watered at the sight of the sizzling, beautifully browned, appetizingly golden-orange potatoes in the oven. He smacked his lips, and a loud, eager rumble rose from his stomach. He picked up a hot, fried potato, blew on it to cool it, and then popped it into his mouth.
He slowly chewed the potato, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, almost closing his eyes to let the rich and complex symphony of aromas spread across his palate.
"Mmm… it is absolutely exquisite! It is so much better with all these extra, vibrant spices!"
Normally, back in the quiet comforts of the Shire, Bilbo would bake his potatoes in the plainest manner imaginable and consume them with nothing more than a pinch of salt; at the very most, if he was feeling particularly adventurous, he might sprinkle a dash of black pepper or a few chili flakes. However, the potatoes, made with Igris's seven-spice blend, had a richer flavor.
The Hobbit quickly ate a couple more potatoes and swiftly returned to his work.
Bilbo rummaged through the elegant elf cupboards and found delicate, boat-shaped porcelain plates; he immediately began piling french fries onto them. Holding the plates in his hands, he couldn't help but admire the fine craftsmanship and the intricate, flowing patterns that elegantly adorned the porcelain.
"Ah… these engravings are so beautiful and elegant. I wonder if the Elves would be kind enough to part with a few of these for me?"
As a cheerful smile tugged at the corners of his lips at his own innocent question, his eyebrows suddenly slammed together in a harsh frown. The joyful, wondrous expression completely vanished from his face, instantly replaced by a mask of deep, gnawing anxiety.
"But if I do take these back with me, I must absolutely ensure they are kept under lock and key! That wretched Sackville-Baggins witch actively tried to make off with my dear grandmother's silver spoons! I am absolutely certain she will try to get her greedy little claws on these too!"
The moment this disturbing thought entered his mind, Bilbo froze in place. His eyes widened in terror, and the blood drained from his face, making it as white as chalk.
"Wait a minute! I didn't tell a single person when I rushed out the door! Those scoundrels wouldn't assume I was dead and auction off my beloved house and family heirlooms, would they!?"
Bilbo trembled at the weight of this terrible possibility when the enormous kitchen door creaked open and Igris rushed in. Seeing the Hobbit's panicked expression, he slowed his steps, raised his eyebrows, and asked curiously.
"Bilbo, are you alright?"
Bilbo looked at Igris with a pale face, as if he had seen a ghost. Startled by his friend's sudden change, Igris approached him.
"Is there a problem?"
Bilbo struggled to swallow the lump in his throat and, in a trembling voice, recounted the worst nightmare of his life.
"I am deeply worried about my house and my belongings..."