When the communal oven coughed smoke and the Harmony bar dipped, Rowan muttered that he'd always been better at putting out metaphorical fires than dealing with people's feelings — then he added, under his breath, “Tonight I'll try both.” The HUD ribbon above his vision blinked in familiar blue: Palate 82, Sear +3, Balance 1 (novice), Guild Hearth Node Integrity 62%. A tiny icon of a loaf winked at him like a judge with a sense of humor.
He shoved a scorched spoon into the stew pot with a practiced snarl and shoved aside a cluster of new players arguing about “authentic texture tags.” The kitchen smelled of stock and wet wool: a rain had curtailed the outdoor vendors on the plaza, so everyone funneled indoors to the guild’s communal table. A vendor's audio feed—chittering, enthusiastic—talked up pressure-brewed cloud tea three streets over; Rowan could almost taste the sweet steam through the platform. Not important tonight, he scolded himself. Yet even the thought of someone else's tea stirred a memory of better mornings.
The small quest stack floated at the periphery: Repair: Oven Flue (low), Stew for Watchers (routine), Mentor: Newcomer Flour Work (social bonus). Rowan accepted the first two without fanfare. His hands moved like a player who'd logged years: he scrapped charred bits, adjusted the flue with a twist, and slapped a new strip of programmable sealant into place. Each mechanical action ticked a tiny success chime. His Sear skill registered a subtle glow as the oven breathed cleaner air.
A novice named Torre tried to flambé for the first time and instead sent a modest plume of flame toward the ceiling ornament—a ceramic gull wearing a tiny chef's toque. The gull's feathers singed in a ridiculous puff and an NPC on the bench made an exaggerated face, producing a laughter emote that bubbled through the room. "If you wanted pyrotechnics, tell me up front," Rowan said, catching Torre's wrist and guiding the pan with a firm, corrective twist. He flipped the pan, tamped a crust, and the crowd's mood adjusted by a few Harmony ticks.
Kira crossed the room: small, decisive, and carrying a tray of salted buns that steamed like tiny apologetic clouds. She passed him a bun with a glance that said both thanks and reminder. "We need the stew to carry them tonight, Rowan. The watchers have bad nights when the hearth slips."
He chewed, listened to the murmured taste reactions—HUD: Watcher Buff +6, Social Warmth +2—and scrolled through the node diagnostics with a fingertip gesture. Anomalies blinked: a shallow, uneven drop in communal resonance, localized to their node. He frowned and pushed his hair back. The oven hummed like a satisfied beast. The problem wasn't the oven, not yet. But the Harmony bar stayed stubbornly low, and the loaf icon winked again, as if to say, "You're overdue for something larger than a patch."