Among woodlander tribes, the food most commonly associated with vermin is, likely, prison gruel.
Frankly speaking however, this is a complete misconception.
For one thing prison gruel is fed exclusively to prisoners. And while some of those prisoners will inevitably be vermin themselves, they would all no doubt be greatly offended by the notion that their kind subsists on such a distasteful thing.
As you are probably aware by now, I am something of a glutton myself and possess an insatiable curiosity. So, upon being given the opportunity to observe the dietary habits of vermin with my own eyes, and to record them for all future generations to know, I leapt at the chance!
Broadly speaking, vermin cuisine can be divided up into three major sub-groups, each boasting their own distinctive qualities.
The Vermin Kings, Emperors, Warlords (their titles vary, their egos do not) have a diet built around grandeur and luxury. I do not think it would be much of an exaggeration to say that they live to eat! Their every meal is a match for even the bottomless appetite of a hare, with dozens of courses boasting only the richest and most valuable of ingredients.
The food itself is eerily reminiscent of our own (though this is no surprise as more often than not it is procured from or produced by captive woodlanders) though I am told there is a secret ingredient that enhances every dish.
I do not know, and have not been told what it is for a certainty (it being, after all, a secret) but I've narrowed it down to either:
a) The power and prestige such excessive banquets display
Or
b) The plotting, scheming and treachery ever-present among the vermin elite
The food itself is rarely enjoyed by more martially-inclined warlords, and even the greediest of spoiled princelings must proceed with caution when faced with an irresistible platter of dainty cakes; stuffed with spiced butternut, topped with wintercream, and layered with poison. `
The real winners, and the ones that frequently do the vast majority of the actual eating are the vermin lucky enough to be assigned the role of taste-tester.
Despite it's high mortality rate, it is considered by many to be the most desirable position in any given horde. So much so that a stunning four-tenths of all recorded attempts to poison a warlord turn out to -in fact!- be schemes to off the taste-tester in the hopes of being elevated to their position!
I was lucky enough to speak to a newly-promoted stoat by the name of Burglesnot who put it most succinctly:
'Death might lurk behind every mouthful, but as long as there's food in me mouth, an' food in me belly, it'll be worth it.'
Having seen for myself the wide smile on Burglesnot's face as he choked to death on his last, large slice of whiskey pudding, I am almost inclined to agree.
Moving away from the palaces and fortresses frequently built in such a way to inspire awe and fear in all who see them (but vermin architecture deserves it's own separate conversation), we next turn our attention towards the galleys of vermin vessels.
The life of a pirate is built on a coin toss, plunder and glory on one side, a watery grave on the other, and nowhere is this better reflected than in their food.
The delights of all the world's delicacies (stuffed flatbreads from the Southern Sands, an abundance of sweet and sticky fruits of every shape and colour from the Eastern Islands, the fiery stews of mongoose merchants, the delicate, floral cakes of Southward rabbits- my mouth waters at the very thought of it all!) are all too often marred by long stretches of tightened belts and grumbling bellies (wherein I was told to keep to my cabin and avoid the crew, lest they began to think of me as an emergency ration pack).
When rations are available, they will generally be the sort familiar to anybeast who fancies themselves a sailor; hard-tack, clams, fermented fish and whatever you're lucky enough to haul up from the ocean's saucepan!
The biscuits of vermin ships tend to be a good deal saltier, and a good deal mouldier than the hard-tack of other seafarers. They are most commonly consumed by dipping or soaking them in seaweed grog- a corsair specialty I can most politely describe as 'an acquired taste'.
I am told that every barrel of seaweed grog has cultivated it's own culture, to the point that the most refined drinkers will know at once from which barrel a tankard was drawn up. The most prized of all grogs have been allowed to age and ferment for decades, and produce a green and bubbly liquor that spits and hisses like a captive serpent.
Despite it's tempestuous mood, a tankard of seaweed grog mellows out the most hardened of pirates, who, I have found, make for pleasant company when inebriated. Venomous grudges, old quarrels and fresh wounds are all washed away by the sweet and bitter tones of their grog.
By their third tankard, the roughest and toughest of vermin scum become cuddly and clingy- a tad too clingy if I do say so myself!- but it is a joy to watch their black hearts crack open, and reveal the shades of gold buried deep, deep… deep within.
Shanties soon follow, belt out over the open ocean at the top of their lungs, until the giggling marauders no longer have the strength to sing and their legs turn to jelly.
Much like the drink itself however, these refreshing glimpses of sweetness are followed by something cold, harsh and bitter.
This is only tangentially related, but the position of Captain seems to be decided by whichever searat is best able to shake off their drink and greet the morning. They will frequently spend a great deal of time dusting themselves off, adjusting eye-patches, peg-legs, and hook-paws, so as to be presentable before rousing the rest of the crew.
Traditionally this is done by giving whichever corsair is unfortunate enough to be sleeping nearest to them a couple of sharp kicks (no more than twelve, no less than three!) and shouting at the rest for the majority of the morning.
All prior camaraderie is promptly forgotten, as the corsairs push and shove each other out of the way, nurse hangovers and ready themselves for another long and harsh day of looting and plundering.
Back on to the subject of food; When it is available, it does little to improve their mood.
For one thing vermin are not quite as adept at preserving vittles, giving their pickles an oily bite that is hard to describe, and is often followed by the deeply unpleasant aftertaste of rotten fish.
A great many corsairs boast missing fingers (and in some cases limbs) from shucking clams, which are considered a rare treat and something of a delicacy (provided, of course, that yours does not come with a finger attached).
What they lack in supplies, vermin try to make up for by foraging (and snaffling, of course, but that goes without saying).
Fresh fish is speared or clawed up from the waters, where it is either roasted on the deck, or else added to the barrels of pickle in an effort to preserve it (and balance out the range of pickle-quality available for future meals).
The type of fish varies greatly depending on the climate. Skytahn, the Quatermaster and Head Fisher aboard the Scurvy Tides (incidentally, a fisher!) spoke to me at length about her most impressive hauls; fearsome tiger sharks, an entire pack of deep-sea squid and even a mythical narwhal!
(The creativity of vermin boasting truly knows no bounds! Who ever heard of a fish with a horn on it's head?)
Skytahn further recounted to me the harrowing tale of the Scurvy Tide's former Quatermaster and Head Fisher (a rat by the name of Gorsepots) who was dragged deep into the abyss by a colossal whale three times larger than the ship he was trying to procure it for.
But then, I suppose it should come as no surprise that vermin have a tendency to bite off more than they can chew.
And now, we at last come to the category you are most likely to encounter; the scoff of common vermin! Ho ho!
These are the ones most likely to plunder your orchard and pick your garden clean, or else hide in the shadows by your window and make off with a fresh pair of morning loaves.
Your missing lettuce, cabbages and turnips however, must be attributed to woodlander neighbours, for no self-respecting vermin would ever be caught dead eating a salad.
Though all vermin have sweet tooths, their rugged lifestyle of never contributing to society in a meaningful way leaves much to be desired in the dessert department.
A stick of honey is considered a luxury. In light of the great pains taken to procure it, this reputation is not unfounded.
They are known to make jams when given access to fruits, but owing to their lazy nature it is often either runny (from not cooking it enough) or flavoured with bits of char scraped from the bottom of their little cauldrons (from cooking it too much).
Their pastries are rough, their fresh loaves blushing with bits of char, and their dumplings misshappen. If they have managed to make off with the butter of any unsuspecting woodlanders recently, they are always fried.
On such rare and blessed occasions, the common vermin feasts, gorging himself on fatty goodness! Fried tubers are a common favourite, often complimented with onions, garlics, whatever mushrooms are available locally and any cheeses they managed to pilfer. This is often mopped up with slices of crudely-shaped loaves.
When there are no locals to make off with the goods of, soups are the lifeblood of everyday vermin. Each as unique as the ones making them, they are often made in a communal cauldron that is usually large enough for a beast to bathe in; Which I believe they do with some frequency, especially in times of scarcity when they need every bit of flavour they can get.
With the exception of whichever beast's turn it is to flavour the broth, the rest of the band will scour the surrounding countryside in search of ingredients. Everybeast is expected to contribute, and failing to do so frequently guarantees a turn in the cauldron.
The ingredients vary, though they tend to be fairly straightforward; roots, bulbs, vegetables, yesterday's leftovers, a lucky catch of fish.
Beans are thankfully rare, for though the rustic flavour greatly compliments a vermin broth, it tends to make the vermin themselves rather unpleasant company when eaten in excess.
Whether fried or simmered, vermin dishes are often flavoured with a variety of wild herbs (and in some cases hemlock, ragwort and giant hogweed, bless their hearts), though there seems to be a general preference for those of a more pungent nature.
Small wonder these beasts are known for their foul odours!
At this point, we must ruffle some feathers, and discuss the stuffed quail hanging in the corner.
The point in which vermin diets most differ from our own is in the abundant use of eggs and poultry.
Much to the amusement of my various hosts, who teased me for it rather relentlessly, I was not brave enough to try any of these dishes myself.
A step away from eating birds is eating beasts, I reasoned, though vermin liken it more to the consumption of fish.
As the gnarly old ferret 'Gorehowl the Destroyer' put it:
"The overgrown pigeons are just as like to eat us if given the chance. An' the beasts that'd rather be eaten than eat, have like as not, already been eaten. Anyhow, some vermin eat beasts too."
He went on to explain to me that among the cannibal tribes (the Flitchaye, the Painted Ones etc etc) mice such as myself are said to possess a quite delectable flavour and are considered a rare delicacy.
Gorehowl the Destroyer declined to comment on how he knew this, but assured me he had never eaten a mouse before.
He failed to assure me that he had no intentions of doing so in the future, though by now I have gotten used to the rough and tumble teasing that vermin consider a bit of harmless jesting.
Indeed, vermin mealtimes tend to be a raucous affair, boasting a great deal of banter and camaraderie quite reminiscent of the more rambunctious of our feasts!
Though knives are ever-present at the dinnertable, the vermin utensil of choice is the grubby paw, and if you are on the smaller side of beast, do not be surprised to find one rummaging about your plate in search of the choicest morsels.
Where entertainment is concerned, vermin usually provide their own, but be warned! Good manners are a work of fiction here, as many a gentile soul has learned to their sorrow.
For one thing, slugfests are not uncommon, nor are they considered unwelcome. The less martially-inclined will often use these convenient distractions to pilfer from the plates of their larger and clearly better-fed companions and many vermin cooks take great pride in how greatly and how often their food is fought over.
An aged rat by the name of Scabbatha often recounts to me an occasion in which no less than twelve vermin slew each other over the last slice of her signature Black-hearted Burnt Crumbleberry!
Belching contests take place with some regularity too, and are all but lethal for those with more sensitive hearts and noses. By now I had felt I was acclimatised enough to their bizarre aromas to give it a go, but my participation in one proved to be most unwise and left me bed-ridden for days.
Much like the beasts who play them, vermin games tend to be crude, rude and unsavoury.
This, however, is not always the case when it comes to their music.
For a certainty, their ballads are ribald, their shanties spine-chilling and their lullabies grizzly. But vermin love a good song as much as anybeast else and will not turn their nose up at a gentle hymn or a festive carol.
Stories, too, are often shared over a meal. And by this I do not mean the tall-tale-telling, braggadocious boasting and excuse-peddling that are the beating heart of every vermin conversation. I speak of myths, legends, heroes, villains, battles of wit and blade, tales of love and woe and heartbreak and triumph.
A good storyteller is a highly valued creature in any horde. Words as smooth as silk, strung together with a silver tongue, will brighten any meal, such that even the vermin with nothing to chew on but scraps and bits of old leather are left satisfied.
Much like architecture, the fine arts of vermin literature (if such a primarily oral tradition may be considered literature) deserves it's own separate conversation and I have made note to explore it in finer detail at some point in the future.
Returning to the broader topic of food, an observatory note should be made that the level of cleanliness on display in a vermin kitchen or at a vermin banquet falls short of even passable woodlander standards.
One might forgive the common searat in his leaking galley, or the weasel maid in her open-aired scullery but this is true even for the upper echelons of vermin.
A weasel of the name Blorgle, who serves as head cook to Bragnar Coldfang, self-proclaimed Emperor Of The Lands Of Ice And Snow; possesses both a keen intellect and an enviable collection of stains upon his apron, which I am told has been in his family for three generations and has not once seen a washboard.
Most vermin do, of course, give their pots and pans the occasional scrub.
If possible, this unenviable task is usually delegated to a slave or captive. If none are available, the youngest or lowest-ranking creature present will have to do- though these have an unfortunate tendency to grease a pan or garnish a meal with their spit.
The cleaning utensil itself is often grimy and always questionable, but in these matters, I am inclined to say that it is the thought that counts!
I should also warn you, dear reader, that this lack of cleanliness often extends to the raw ingredients.
Vegetables, when consumed, are often unwashed and never peeled. Due to poor storage they are frequently speckled with bits of mould and less-frequently-but-still-all-too-often riddled with insects of varying degrees of edible. This gives their mash, stews and sautes a distinctive bit of crunch that is not entirely unpleasant (so long as one's mind does not linger on what the source of that crunch was).
Vermin cuisine is characterised by these lazy imperfections that nevertheless give it an authentic flair all of it's own.
I have just been told that it is my turn to flavour the broth today, and all my vermin companions are looking rather famished so I shall wrap this up with some closing thoughts.
Looking through my writings, I fear somewhere along the way they have descended into rambles! Still, I hope I have made my point clear and shed some light on the oft-underestimated culinary prowess of vermin cooks. The most simple of ingredients is rendered unrecognisable in their paws, occasionally for the better.
I shall leave you with the following:
If you are at all familiar with the local pirates, ask for their finest barrel of seaweed grog!
If you are being mugged at the turn of a dark road, offer to trade some of your cheese and butter in exchange for some of their bread and jam!
Set up a picnic near the hunting grounds of the Juska, and lay out some candied chestnuts to draw them out!
The food of vermin must be experienced to be believed, and if you ever have the opportunity, I would greatly encourage you to do so.
Just not their prison gruel. Nobeast is fond of it.
Excerpt from the diary of Ferdinand Sparkbottom, recovered from a particularly well-engorged band of never-do-wells.
Footnote: Mostly wanted to play around with narrative voice a little, and got a liiiiittle bit carried away and I will now probably make a bunch of other silly 'vermin from the perspective of woodlanders' ficlets because there's a lot that can be poked fun at.
Frankly speaking however, this is a complete misconception.
For one thing prison gruel is fed exclusively to prisoners. And while some of those prisoners will inevitably be vermin themselves, they would all no doubt be greatly offended by the notion that their kind subsists on such a distasteful thing.
As you are probably aware by now, I am something of a glutton myself and possess an insatiable curiosity. So, upon being given the opportunity to observe the dietary habits of vermin with my own eyes, and to record them for all future generations to know, I leapt at the chance!
Broadly speaking, vermin cuisine can be divided up into three major sub-groups, each boasting their own distinctive qualities.
The Vermin Kings, Emperors, Warlords (their titles vary, their egos do not) have a diet built around grandeur and luxury. I do not think it would be much of an exaggeration to say that they live to eat! Their every meal is a match for even the bottomless appetite of a hare, with dozens of courses boasting only the richest and most valuable of ingredients.
The food itself is eerily reminiscent of our own (though this is no surprise as more often than not it is procured from or produced by captive woodlanders) though I am told there is a secret ingredient that enhances every dish.
I do not know, and have not been told what it is for a certainty (it being, after all, a secret) but I've narrowed it down to either:
a) The power and prestige such excessive banquets display
Or
b) The plotting, scheming and treachery ever-present among the vermin elite
The food itself is rarely enjoyed by more martially-inclined warlords, and even the greediest of spoiled princelings must proceed with caution when faced with an irresistible platter of dainty cakes; stuffed with spiced butternut, topped with wintercream, and layered with poison. `
The real winners, and the ones that frequently do the vast majority of the actual eating are the vermin lucky enough to be assigned the role of taste-tester.
Despite it's high mortality rate, it is considered by many to be the most desirable position in any given horde. So much so that a stunning four-tenths of all recorded attempts to poison a warlord turn out to -in fact!- be schemes to off the taste-tester in the hopes of being elevated to their position!
I was lucky enough to speak to a newly-promoted stoat by the name of Burglesnot who put it most succinctly:
'Death might lurk behind every mouthful, but as long as there's food in me mouth, an' food in me belly, it'll be worth it.'
Having seen for myself the wide smile on Burglesnot's face as he choked to death on his last, large slice of whiskey pudding, I am almost inclined to agree.
Moving away from the palaces and fortresses frequently built in such a way to inspire awe and fear in all who see them (but vermin architecture deserves it's own separate conversation), we next turn our attention towards the galleys of vermin vessels.
The life of a pirate is built on a coin toss, plunder and glory on one side, a watery grave on the other, and nowhere is this better reflected than in their food.
The delights of all the world's delicacies (stuffed flatbreads from the Southern Sands, an abundance of sweet and sticky fruits of every shape and colour from the Eastern Islands, the fiery stews of mongoose merchants, the delicate, floral cakes of Southward rabbits- my mouth waters at the very thought of it all!) are all too often marred by long stretches of tightened belts and grumbling bellies (wherein I was told to keep to my cabin and avoid the crew, lest they began to think of me as an emergency ration pack).
When rations are available, they will generally be the sort familiar to anybeast who fancies themselves a sailor; hard-tack, clams, fermented fish and whatever you're lucky enough to haul up from the ocean's saucepan!
The biscuits of vermin ships tend to be a good deal saltier, and a good deal mouldier than the hard-tack of other seafarers. They are most commonly consumed by dipping or soaking them in seaweed grog- a corsair specialty I can most politely describe as 'an acquired taste'.
I am told that every barrel of seaweed grog has cultivated it's own culture, to the point that the most refined drinkers will know at once from which barrel a tankard was drawn up. The most prized of all grogs have been allowed to age and ferment for decades, and produce a green and bubbly liquor that spits and hisses like a captive serpent.
Despite it's tempestuous mood, a tankard of seaweed grog mellows out the most hardened of pirates, who, I have found, make for pleasant company when inebriated. Venomous grudges, old quarrels and fresh wounds are all washed away by the sweet and bitter tones of their grog.
By their third tankard, the roughest and toughest of vermin scum become cuddly and clingy- a tad too clingy if I do say so myself!- but it is a joy to watch their black hearts crack open, and reveal the shades of gold buried deep, deep… deep within.
Shanties soon follow, belt out over the open ocean at the top of their lungs, until the giggling marauders no longer have the strength to sing and their legs turn to jelly.
Much like the drink itself however, these refreshing glimpses of sweetness are followed by something cold, harsh and bitter.
This is only tangentially related, but the position of Captain seems to be decided by whichever searat is best able to shake off their drink and greet the morning. They will frequently spend a great deal of time dusting themselves off, adjusting eye-patches, peg-legs, and hook-paws, so as to be presentable before rousing the rest of the crew.
Traditionally this is done by giving whichever corsair is unfortunate enough to be sleeping nearest to them a couple of sharp kicks (no more than twelve, no less than three!) and shouting at the rest for the majority of the morning.
All prior camaraderie is promptly forgotten, as the corsairs push and shove each other out of the way, nurse hangovers and ready themselves for another long and harsh day of looting and plundering.
Back on to the subject of food; When it is available, it does little to improve their mood.
For one thing vermin are not quite as adept at preserving vittles, giving their pickles an oily bite that is hard to describe, and is often followed by the deeply unpleasant aftertaste of rotten fish.
A great many corsairs boast missing fingers (and in some cases limbs) from shucking clams, which are considered a rare treat and something of a delicacy (provided, of course, that yours does not come with a finger attached).
What they lack in supplies, vermin try to make up for by foraging (and snaffling, of course, but that goes without saying).
Fresh fish is speared or clawed up from the waters, where it is either roasted on the deck, or else added to the barrels of pickle in an effort to preserve it (and balance out the range of pickle-quality available for future meals).
The type of fish varies greatly depending on the climate. Skytahn, the Quatermaster and Head Fisher aboard the Scurvy Tides (incidentally, a fisher!) spoke to me at length about her most impressive hauls; fearsome tiger sharks, an entire pack of deep-sea squid and even a mythical narwhal!
(The creativity of vermin boasting truly knows no bounds! Who ever heard of a fish with a horn on it's head?)
Skytahn further recounted to me the harrowing tale of the Scurvy Tide's former Quatermaster and Head Fisher (a rat by the name of Gorsepots) who was dragged deep into the abyss by a colossal whale three times larger than the ship he was trying to procure it for.
But then, I suppose it should come as no surprise that vermin have a tendency to bite off more than they can chew.
And now, we at last come to the category you are most likely to encounter; the scoff of common vermin! Ho ho!
These are the ones most likely to plunder your orchard and pick your garden clean, or else hide in the shadows by your window and make off with a fresh pair of morning loaves.
Your missing lettuce, cabbages and turnips however, must be attributed to woodlander neighbours, for no self-respecting vermin would ever be caught dead eating a salad.
Though all vermin have sweet tooths, their rugged lifestyle of never contributing to society in a meaningful way leaves much to be desired in the dessert department.
A stick of honey is considered a luxury. In light of the great pains taken to procure it, this reputation is not unfounded.
They are known to make jams when given access to fruits, but owing to their lazy nature it is often either runny (from not cooking it enough) or flavoured with bits of char scraped from the bottom of their little cauldrons (from cooking it too much).
Their pastries are rough, their fresh loaves blushing with bits of char, and their dumplings misshappen. If they have managed to make off with the butter of any unsuspecting woodlanders recently, they are always fried.
On such rare and blessed occasions, the common vermin feasts, gorging himself on fatty goodness! Fried tubers are a common favourite, often complimented with onions, garlics, whatever mushrooms are available locally and any cheeses they managed to pilfer. This is often mopped up with slices of crudely-shaped loaves.
When there are no locals to make off with the goods of, soups are the lifeblood of everyday vermin. Each as unique as the ones making them, they are often made in a communal cauldron that is usually large enough for a beast to bathe in; Which I believe they do with some frequency, especially in times of scarcity when they need every bit of flavour they can get.
With the exception of whichever beast's turn it is to flavour the broth, the rest of the band will scour the surrounding countryside in search of ingredients. Everybeast is expected to contribute, and failing to do so frequently guarantees a turn in the cauldron.
The ingredients vary, though they tend to be fairly straightforward; roots, bulbs, vegetables, yesterday's leftovers, a lucky catch of fish.
Beans are thankfully rare, for though the rustic flavour greatly compliments a vermin broth, it tends to make the vermin themselves rather unpleasant company when eaten in excess.
Whether fried or simmered, vermin dishes are often flavoured with a variety of wild herbs (and in some cases hemlock, ragwort and giant hogweed, bless their hearts), though there seems to be a general preference for those of a more pungent nature.
Small wonder these beasts are known for their foul odours!
At this point, we must ruffle some feathers, and discuss the stuffed quail hanging in the corner.
The point in which vermin diets most differ from our own is in the abundant use of eggs and poultry.
Much to the amusement of my various hosts, who teased me for it rather relentlessly, I was not brave enough to try any of these dishes myself.
A step away from eating birds is eating beasts, I reasoned, though vermin liken it more to the consumption of fish.
As the gnarly old ferret 'Gorehowl the Destroyer' put it:
"The overgrown pigeons are just as like to eat us if given the chance. An' the beasts that'd rather be eaten than eat, have like as not, already been eaten. Anyhow, some vermin eat beasts too."
He went on to explain to me that among the cannibal tribes (the Flitchaye, the Painted Ones etc etc) mice such as myself are said to possess a quite delectable flavour and are considered a rare delicacy.
Gorehowl the Destroyer declined to comment on how he knew this, but assured me he had never eaten a mouse before.
He failed to assure me that he had no intentions of doing so in the future, though by now I have gotten used to the rough and tumble teasing that vermin consider a bit of harmless jesting.
Indeed, vermin mealtimes tend to be a raucous affair, boasting a great deal of banter and camaraderie quite reminiscent of the more rambunctious of our feasts!
Though knives are ever-present at the dinnertable, the vermin utensil of choice is the grubby paw, and if you are on the smaller side of beast, do not be surprised to find one rummaging about your plate in search of the choicest morsels.
Where entertainment is concerned, vermin usually provide their own, but be warned! Good manners are a work of fiction here, as many a gentile soul has learned to their sorrow.
For one thing, slugfests are not uncommon, nor are they considered unwelcome. The less martially-inclined will often use these convenient distractions to pilfer from the plates of their larger and clearly better-fed companions and many vermin cooks take great pride in how greatly and how often their food is fought over.
An aged rat by the name of Scabbatha often recounts to me an occasion in which no less than twelve vermin slew each other over the last slice of her signature Black-hearted Burnt Crumbleberry!
Belching contests take place with some regularity too, and are all but lethal for those with more sensitive hearts and noses. By now I had felt I was acclimatised enough to their bizarre aromas to give it a go, but my participation in one proved to be most unwise and left me bed-ridden for days.
Much like the beasts who play them, vermin games tend to be crude, rude and unsavoury.
This, however, is not always the case when it comes to their music.
For a certainty, their ballads are ribald, their shanties spine-chilling and their lullabies grizzly. But vermin love a good song as much as anybeast else and will not turn their nose up at a gentle hymn or a festive carol.
Stories, too, are often shared over a meal. And by this I do not mean the tall-tale-telling, braggadocious boasting and excuse-peddling that are the beating heart of every vermin conversation. I speak of myths, legends, heroes, villains, battles of wit and blade, tales of love and woe and heartbreak and triumph.
A good storyteller is a highly valued creature in any horde. Words as smooth as silk, strung together with a silver tongue, will brighten any meal, such that even the vermin with nothing to chew on but scraps and bits of old leather are left satisfied.
Much like architecture, the fine arts of vermin literature (if such a primarily oral tradition may be considered literature) deserves it's own separate conversation and I have made note to explore it in finer detail at some point in the future.
Returning to the broader topic of food, an observatory note should be made that the level of cleanliness on display in a vermin kitchen or at a vermin banquet falls short of even passable woodlander standards.
One might forgive the common searat in his leaking galley, or the weasel maid in her open-aired scullery but this is true even for the upper echelons of vermin.
A weasel of the name Blorgle, who serves as head cook to Bragnar Coldfang, self-proclaimed Emperor Of The Lands Of Ice And Snow; possesses both a keen intellect and an enviable collection of stains upon his apron, which I am told has been in his family for three generations and has not once seen a washboard.
Most vermin do, of course, give their pots and pans the occasional scrub.
If possible, this unenviable task is usually delegated to a slave or captive. If none are available, the youngest or lowest-ranking creature present will have to do- though these have an unfortunate tendency to grease a pan or garnish a meal with their spit.
The cleaning utensil itself is often grimy and always questionable, but in these matters, I am inclined to say that it is the thought that counts!
I should also warn you, dear reader, that this lack of cleanliness often extends to the raw ingredients.
Vegetables, when consumed, are often unwashed and never peeled. Due to poor storage they are frequently speckled with bits of mould and less-frequently-but-still-all-too-often riddled with insects of varying degrees of edible. This gives their mash, stews and sautes a distinctive bit of crunch that is not entirely unpleasant (so long as one's mind does not linger on what the source of that crunch was).
Vermin cuisine is characterised by these lazy imperfections that nevertheless give it an authentic flair all of it's own.
I have just been told that it is my turn to flavour the broth today, and all my vermin companions are looking rather famished so I shall wrap this up with some closing thoughts.
Looking through my writings, I fear somewhere along the way they have descended into rambles! Still, I hope I have made my point clear and shed some light on the oft-underestimated culinary prowess of vermin cooks. The most simple of ingredients is rendered unrecognisable in their paws, occasionally for the better.
I shall leave you with the following:
If you are at all familiar with the local pirates, ask for their finest barrel of seaweed grog!
If you are being mugged at the turn of a dark road, offer to trade some of your cheese and butter in exchange for some of their bread and jam!
Set up a picnic near the hunting grounds of the Juska, and lay out some candied chestnuts to draw them out!
The food of vermin must be experienced to be believed, and if you ever have the opportunity, I would greatly encourage you to do so.
Just not their prison gruel. Nobeast is fond of it.
Excerpt from the diary of Ferdinand Sparkbottom, recovered from a particularly well-engorged band of never-do-wells.
Footnote: Mostly wanted to play around with narrative voice a little, and got a liiiiittle bit carried away and I will now probably make a bunch of other silly 'vermin from the perspective of woodlanders' ficlets because there's a lot that can be poked fun at.
