"Which sword to use depends on what the other person has become, but for some... the silver sword was made precisely for them," Karl said calmly.
Thorin gave Karl a thoughtful look but did not respond. He understood what Karl meant: witchers did not hunt only monsters. If someone committed evil to a certain degree, or did something that crossed that line, he would also take appropriate action. This gave him a new perspective on Karl; Thorin had considered Karl merely a warrior and adventurer. Perhaps with some purpose — maybe for thrills, maybe for reward — they joined the expedition. But now, it seemed Karl had his own principles and a firm stance; he was not a sword to be wielded at will, but one who wielded the sword.
---
That evening, the company made camp on a rocky outcrop. It was a relatively open, level area, with a steep rock face behind it. The dwarves deftly unloaded their baggage, gathered firewood, and soon had a fire blazing. Karl tied up his horse, gave it water and hay, and even added a carrot to the hay. The horse ate contentedly, snorting with satisfaction through its nostrils.
When he approached the fire, what he saw made him frown slightly. Balin was standing before a large cauldron, stirring its contents with a long wooden spoon. The cauldron was placed over the fire, and the liquid inside bubbled and boiled, its colour an indescribable greyish-brown. The dish was a mix of various ingredients, including dried meat, beans, root vegetables, and some kind of grain. It had been stewed to a paste, and one could hardly tell what it had originally been. Worst of all was the smell.
The odour hit him straight in the face: a mixture of burnt, overcooked beans and the pungent aroma of an overdose of some spice. Noticing Karl approaching, Balin looked up and smiled warmly. He scooped up a spoonful of the thick pasty mass and held it out to Karl: "Want to try some? It doesn't look very appetising, but it'll fill you up."
Karl's cheek twitched slightly. He waved his hand, barely managing to be polite: "Thank you, but no."
He paused, then couldn't help but ask: "Is this what you've eaten on your previous expeditions?"
Balin was taken aback and carefully examined Karl; the witcher's skin was much fairer than theirs. Unlike the roughness one might expect from a man spending years outdoors — wasn't Karl a witcher? Logically, witchers should be accustomed to life in the wild and not be so fussy about food, so this was indeed strange.
"Uh, Karl, we're dwarves, not men, so our diet might be a little different." Balin raised an eyebrow in surprise. "In the wild, conditions aren't as good as at home or in a city. What does it matter if the food is bad? The main thing is that we can fill our stomachs."
Karl looked even more helpless. It wasn't just about the erratic diet. These dwarves, Balin and the like, clearly had no idea how to cook; they just threw everything into a pot and made a complete mess...
He looked at the pot of boiling porridge, then at the other dwarves. Was this really food for people? They seemed quite accustomed to this fare, already preparing bowls and spoons, waiting for the meal to begin. A little further away stood only Bilbo, staring at the pot with a complex expression, clearly not holding out much hope.
"Balin, is this pot of food ready?" Karl took a deep breath.
"It's ready. Shall I pour you a bowl first? Though you didn't say so earlier..." Balin nodded.
"No need, please take the cauldron off and set it aside. I'll show you what I can do," Karl interrupted.
Balin looked confused, his spoon-holding hand frozen in mid-air. He looked at Karl, then at the pot, and finally at the people around him. Thorin was studying a map, while the other dwarves were busy with their own affairs, and no one had noticed the conversation.
"You... you're going to cook?" Balin asked uncertainly.
"Yes. Put the pot away, thank you." Karl had already begun unpacking his bag.
Balin reconsidered and, despite his doubts, followed the instruction. He called Kili to help, and the two of them lifted the cauldron from the fire and set it on the ground to the side. The paste inside was still steaming, emitting its usual "unique" odour.
Balin was also curious about the witcher's skills. In the wild, food was merely a means of sustenance. Was Karl any different?
Soon, Karl took out cooking utensils from his backpack: an iron pot, much smaller than the cauldron the dwarves used. Then came the ingredients: several bundles of golden dried noodles, made from corn he had grown himself. Then there were mushrooms, dried pork, and bottles and jars filled with various seasonings.
First, he built a simple stove from stones next to the fire, placed the iron pot on it, and poured in clean water he had brought with him. While the water boiled, Karl sliced the dried pork into thin pieces and tore the mushrooms into small bits. Soon, the water boiled, steam rose, and Karl put the golden noodles into the pot. The noodles unfurled in the boiling water, emitting an irresistible aroma. Then came the pork slices and mushrooms, followed by various seasonings, a little greenery, a pinch of salt, and chilli flakes.
Finally, he added a little of his own rendered animal fat, and a rich aroma began to fill the camp. The scent was like a gentle hand, softly stimulating everyone's sense of smell. Gandalf snapped his head around, his nose twitching involuntarily, and his gaze drifted toward the fire. He stood up and walked toward the source of the aroma, and Thorin also looked up.
He had been discussing tomorrow's route with Dwalin, but the aroma interrupted his thoughts. Thorin took a deep breath, his Adam's apple bobbing involuntarily, and the other dwarves gradually stopped what they were doing. Bofur, Bifur, Dori, Nori... one by one, they gathered around the fire.
The stew in the pot was ready; the broth was a light golden colour, and the noodles were clearly visible. The pork slices were slightly curled, the mushrooms soaked in the broth, and a small handful of bright green spring onions sprinkled on top.
Gandalf pushed through Balin and was now at the very front. He licked his lips; his pipe was nowhere to be seen, and his stomach growled softly.
"Karl, quickly, give me a bowl!" Gandalf's voice was excited. "I swear by the Grey Cloak, this is the most wonderful aroma I have ever smelled in my life!"
"Gandalf! Get out of the way, I'm the leader here, I'll eat first!" Thorin pushed through from behind and unceremoniously shoved Gandalf aside with his shoulder.
"Thorin! Does being the leader give you the right to cut in line?!" Gandalf shouted, trying to push forward.
"By age! I'm the oldest!" Balin also joined the competition.
"By merit! I scouted the most routes today!" Kili exclaimed.
The dwarves chattered among themselves, jostling and shoving, not taking their eyes off the noodle pot, their mouths watering. Bilbo was squeezed to the very edge, and even standing on tiptoe, he couldn't see what was in the pot. He could only anxiously jump up and down to get a look.