An old fire smoldered under the pot in the cooking alcove, orange-red cinders glowing in the darkness of the early morning.

All night it had burned to nurse a herbal carrot stew that was still hot, a rich, hearty scent wafting from it after having simmered for hours. Mathilde stuck her hoof in a heavy cotton sack set next to the fireplace and used her now-heatproof hoof to tip the pot enough to pour some of the soup into a bowl.

She shook off the cloth and set it aside. Daily chores kept her busy while she waited for the stock to cool off enough for a taste—when she remembered, it was almost cold. Mathilde licked the bowl and ruminated on it as the flavour filled her mouth. Or rather, the lack of flavour. The stew tasted more plain than it should’ve been.

“Oh, dearie me,” said she, her ears wilting to a shocked half-mast. Mathilde looked to the bushels of drying herbs hanging off the wall next to the alcove and picked ingredients to remedy the sorry state of her food. Some of the herbs were running low, a few meager stalks where a full bushel should’ve been. She grabbed a wooden ladle with her lips and held it between her teeth to give the stew a couple of swirls.

Droplets of stew flung onto the countertop when she hurried to settle a heavy iron lid on the pot to make sure the stew would simmer and stay warm till lunch.

“Dearie me,” Mathilde repeated, wiping the counter clean with a cloth. A heavy sigh escaped her, flanks rising and falling. Perhaps she was too hard on herself, but cooking was one of the few things she could pride herself on, and to produce such a subpar result was defeating. She’d even let her herbs run so low only scraps were left!

This, at least, she could remedy.

She pushed her neck through the herb satchel and left the cookery, hooves clip-clopping against the stone flooring.

—

The best herbs were found in the Dungeons.

Mathilde wasn’t much of a dungeoneer herself: she had the plain looks and the reserved mind of a surface Courser. Never had she heard the call and she didn’t think she ever would. As a filly she’d fantasized of her future exploits, but now in her middle age, she knew all too well that the Dungeons could give riches untold and in the same moment take even the best Courser, like a twisted payment.

She didn’t fancy losing her life, and she didn’t want to see anyone else do so either, but such was the fate of Coursers since time immemorial. Mathilde herself found enough contentment in sometimes wandering the topmost level of the Dungeons to search for rare herbs that grew nowhere else.

But carefully: at the first sign of danger, she retreated. She’d been blessed with an acute sense of direction, remembering every twist and turn of the hallways she wandered through—once some mysterious Courser had even tried to recruit her as a guide! Me? Oh, I’m flattered, but… No thank you, I’m not made for the Dungeons, that’s what she had said.

A tinny clattering sound made her jump to the side, almost dropping the herbs pinched between her lips. She tucked them into the satchel, huffing air from her nostrils, ready to retreat once she figured which direction was safe, but all she saw were abandoned clay pots, porcelain cups and glass bottles.

Then, the sound again!

Mathilde leaned her head forward and craned her neck, reaching to see better without letting a single hoof more from where they were planted.

“Is someone there?” she asked, feeling a little frivolous for that.

Her answer came in the form of a click like porcelain dishes being cleaned, a small cracked teacup skittering into view. Mathilde huffed again, her body tense and ears pricked up. The small thing rolled on its side, hit a crack on the paved floor and fell on its side. Its lid opened and closed like a mouth. On a closer look, the lid and the upper half of the cup had a couple of shard-like teeth.

“A-Are you stuck?”

More clacking. An aged clay pot appeared from behind a pile of shattered pots, the two objects joined by a third, a deep olive glass glass bottle with beady eye-like dots in its cork.

“Oh,” went Mathilde, thinking for a moment and then relaxing. “Have you been abandoned?”

She stepped closer and used her muzzle to right the teacup, which immediately started dancing around her front hooves.

“Well, aren’t you a sweetheart. Like a little chick.” And like chicks, their mouth-like lids (and corks) opened and closed. She sniffed them and they nibbled on her nose without doing any harm. “You’re hungry?”

All three of the animate objects scurried around her, crowding her face.

“Sweethearts, calm down, now. I have something for you… Ah, well, I’m not quite sure what you all eat… But, herbs, if that pleases you?” She didn’t know if her little friends knew what she said (probably not), but somehow they all looked very excited, prancing about like foals in their first months.

Mathilde reached into the satchel and pulled out a random assortment of herbs she’d picked: the cup, the pot and the bottle only grew more insistent, lids held open for a bite. They shared their meal without more of a fuss, all of the three settling after a couple of bites.

She got nary a thanks, but it was well enough to see the little things scurrying back into the shadowy corners of the room to hide, like she’d just nursed an anxious foal.

“Oh, rest well now,” she said.

Her herb satchel was lighter after the encounter, but at least someone was impressed with her actions. She wanted to keep watching them but she had to hurry back to prepare a feast: she turned and picked up a brisk jog for her journey back.

Mathilde hoped to see the little things again. Maybe they’d like some sweet buns, tiny and special-made just for them.

For the first time in however long, Mathilde had something to look forward to, and someone to care about… Even if they were small abandoned pots and cups.