016 – Old Gihn Potstickers
by inkadmin
016 – Old Gihn Potstickers
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The interior of Lellen’s Dumplings was dim and smelled of nutty kalan flour, drying sausages, and something sweetly fragrant that Ai couldn’t identify.
It was far from a large establishment. Four sturdy wooden tables, a counter with eight stools, and a small kitchen behind the counter. Bunches of dried herbs and strings of cured sausages hung from the ceiling beams, casting long shadows in the light of tallow-oil lamps. There was a lone customer in the corner, an old man who looked to be finishing up his meal.
Behind the counter was a woman who was wiping down the already spotless surface with tight-lipped determination.
She was blonde, her straw-colored hair pulled back into a severe, utilitarian bun. She looked to be in her late thirties, though the lines around her eyes and mouth spoke of a life lived in the harsh sun of the canyon. She wore a simple apron over a Gihn-style tunic. Povi had her nose, her chin, and—perhaps Ai was projecting—the same desperate desire in her eyes to be useful. To belong.
This had to be Lellen.
She looked up as the bell above the door chimed. For a split second, Ai saw the exhaustion in her eyes, a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical labor. Then, a mask of professional cheer shuttered into place.
“Welcome, welcome!” Lellen called out, her voice a little too bright, a little too loud for the empty room. “Sit anywhere you like. We have plenty of space tonight.”
Ai chose a table seat. Aru crawled underneath, curling around his bone with a contented sigh. Lellen bustled over, wiping her hands on her apron.
“What can I get for you, mistress karra? You look like you’ve come a long way.”
Ai thought for a moment.
“I’m visiting. I’ll have—the one thing I’d regret not having if I left Avna tomorrow.” She said, keeping her voice light.
Lellen blinked, surprised by the request. Then, a genuine smile touched her lips, softening the lines of her face.
“That’ll be the Korga’ula dumplings,” she said without hesitation, “With Hindan berry sauce. It’s a local specialty.”
“Then I’ll have a serving of that,” Ai nodded. “And what’s good to drink?”
“We have a Hindan berry cordial, if you have a sweet tooth,” Lellen suggested. “I also have kalan beer, but fair warning—ours tastes like rancid bread and is only really good for getting drunk and forgetting which way is up.”
There was a flicker of something in Lellen’s eyes when she mentioned the cordial. A ghost of a memory. Nostalgia.
“I’ll take the cordial.” Ai decided.
“Coming right up.”
Ai leaned back in her chair as Lellen retreated to behind the counter. She closed her eyes, listening to the sizzle of oil hitting a hot pan.
The shop reminded her of the game. Not the combat, not the world-ending stakes, but the quiet moments. The downtime.
She remembered sitting in a tavern belonging to the neutral clan Cormorant [kkaw], listening to [Stormold] argue with [Hadrian’s_Fyre] about the optimal seasoning for roasted dinosaur.
“It’s pixels, you idjit,” [Hadrian’s Fyre] had laughed, his voice gravely through the voice chat. “It tastes like whatever the devs decided ‘savory’ tastes like.”
“It’s about the roleplay, [Hadrian]!” [Stormold] had countered, slamming a digital flagon onto the table. “If I don’t believe that the dino meat is garlic-roasted, then what the hell are we even fighting for?”
“Garlic hasn’t evolved yet, silly, don’t you read the lore?” [sunny_side_up] had just giggled, tossing bits of kalan bread to a stray Falwyr, a tiny cat-sized raptor.
Ai smiled at the memory. They had spent so much time pretending. Pretending to eat, pretending to drink, pretending to be big goddamn heroes.
Now, she was here, and the woman frying dumplings behind the counter was all too real. A wet nose nudged her hand from under the table. Ai reached down, finding Aru’s soft fur.
“I’m okay, boy,” she whispered. “Just thinking.”
Lellen returned with Ai’s food after a few minutes of careful cooking.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
On a simple earthenware plate sat a dozen crescent-shaped dumplings, fried to crispy golden perfection on the bottom and steamed translucent on the top. Their appearance caught Ai off guard—they looked almost exactly like the frozen gyoza that Mom had fried up for her growing up, only made of real ingredients.
Next to them was a small bowl of dark red dipping sauce and a wooden cup filled with an equally red liquid that sparkled in the lamplight.
“Korga’ula,” Lellen explained, setting the plate down. She gestured to the dumplings. “Is a local spice sausage we make from Korga—you know, those tusked beasts that forage for food in the canyon? We cure the meat with salt and shakor root, then add some local herbs and grind it down. The wrapping is kalan flour.”
She pointed to the sauce. “Hindan berries grow along the river, all over the canyon. They’re quite tart, so I cook them down with a little honey until the sauce gets nice and thick.”
Ai speared up a dumpling with the provided wooden fork—two prongs, she noted—and dipped it into the sauce before taking a bite.
Crunch.
The bottom was perfectly crisp, crackling between her teeth. Then came the chew of the wrapper, followed immediately by the savory richness of the filling.
The meat was dense and flavorful, fatty without being greasy. The spices were warm—similar to cinnamon, maybe some cloves, and something that tasted like sage. But it was the sauce that made it special. The tart, fruity acidity of the berries sliced through the richness of the sausage, brightening the entire mouthful.
It clearly wasn’t gyoza, despite the similarities. The flavor profile was completely different. No garlic or chives—not that she’d ever had the real thing—and definitely more gamey, more herbal. But the feeling was the same. It was comfort food, the kind of food made by hands that had made it a thousand times before, according to a recipe that had remained largely unchanged for generations.
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