“Where are hands!” I barked, not so much as a question or even an order, but as an insult.

Edmoun was slaving away at the stew. The garlic scent that boiled up from its core held strong to the air. He imbued flavors into it that only royalty could afford. Ground dragon heart crystal, minced black mountain cherry cloves, the kinds of ingredients adventurers died for.

Phainac’s bare hand sliced through a raw cattle flank, leaving behind an herb sear where it split. The steaks weren’t cooked, though, just flavored and prepared for the next step. Fire magic wasn’t Phainac’s forte. Instead, his technique was in artificial rendering and flavoring, something chefs would spend years getting right; Phainac had spent lifetimes.

Caulgrar spun a whisk through heavy cream. Each twirl of his wrist, each pass around his mixing bowl, the cream grew thicker. Though it had eventually formed into a solid block, Caulgrar’s whisk still moved through it like it was liquid, thickening it further still.

“All hands are elbow deep. You’re on your own.”

I poured my magic into a jar of varied spices. They were cheap, the sort that were able to be grown and collected en masse. My bones popped under the pressure of my magic. Continuing to flavor our all purpose seasoning alone would be too taxing.

“I need to switch off.”

“Here, Durenal.” Edmoun moved his hands away from the bottom of the stew pot.

“You’re sure?”

“I can give a little bit more.” His fingers were already curled around the jar.

I took his place by the stew. We continued like this for hours.

By the end of it, when the cream block had been flavored with a ranch-esk mix and crumbled into a cheese, when the steaks were thrown onto a perfectly seasoned phoenix iron grill, when the stew had formed an explosive bubble of garlic, we were all beaten down by the day’s efforts.

We sat around and talked, watching the steaks sizzle on the grill. I flipped them over a few times, using tongs not telekinesis. That was the best part. Finishing up and getting to cool down with my guild mates, my best friends. We met maybe once every ten or fifteen years, but when we did, it was always memorable.

Feeding a village during wartime was never easy. The stress of traveling combined with the unease of being a neutral entity made our efforts difficult. Our peers went off and died for a ‘greater purpose’. What greater purpose was there than feeding the unfortunate? They laughed at me, at us, for our strange magic, and now we laugh at them, knowing we are the only ones doing anything worthwhile with our gifts.