Alchos sat on the edge of the firelight. His friends slept nearby, with stars overhead.
He flexed his hands, feeling the hardened knots of what looked like scars crossing them. The color of them never felt right and he had taken to rarely removing his gloves, but some tasks necessitated the act.
Leaning forward, he picked up and then twirled the knife in his right hand and leaned down, making his first cut. A bit of blood trickled out and he sighed.
There were repeated thunks as the knife rose and fell, rhythmic; almost a song. One, two, three, one, two, three. He rose, lifting the lipped cutting board and carrying it and the meat within towards the fire.
There was a bit of fat already in the pan, melted in anticipation of the moment. Carefully, he used the knife and tongs to lay the meat in the pan, adding a few vegetables he'd had waiting. They began cooking with a satisfying sizzle. He watched for a moment, lost in thought.
"Shit," he swore and hurried back over to his pack. He grabbed a small book out, leather-bound and with dirty pages. Inside, a neat, flowing hand had written recipe after recipe. Alchos, practices, flipped through it quickly and landed on the twenty-third page. He nodded to himself, then scooped two small pouches out of his bag. He crossed back to the fire, took a pinch from one of the bags and sprinkled it over the food. He repeated the action twice from the other bag. Using the tongs, he stirred the food and then moved to replace the items in his bags. As he placed the book back in its pocket, he ran his finger over the name Thera Ohme.
He crossed back to the fire and continued cooking, basking in the peaceful night.
