White Cake

White Cake sits on a chipped porcelain plate, its icing a winter-white gloss that catches the lantern light. The sponge is pale and tender, a tiered suggestion of baker’s pride, each layer separated by a whisper-soft veil of cream and vanilla. When you cut into it, the crumb dissolves with a sigh, and a faint breath of citrus and almond unfurls as the glaze beads catch a warm glow. The crusty edge yields to the tooth, and a clean sweetness lingers, like frost on a quiet morning. Some cakes wear fruit and spice, but this one keeps its silences—there is something almost ceremonial about its purity, a reminder of gatherings where voices rise in laughter rather than flame. Lore drifts with it as softly as flour dust. It is said the White Cake was born in a caravan kitchen that followed refugees through rain and ruined gates, a recipe rescued from a shelved diary amid the rubble. Bakers swore the white icing could hush quarrels, that the act of sharing a slice stitched a moment of calm into a crowded square. In the oldest marketplaces of Divinity’s Reach and the river towns beyond, it became a symbol of generosity—cakes as offerings to heal the rifts between rivals, a sweet quiet that spoke louder than swords. For those who bake and barter, the White Cake carries memories of long nights where flour dust hung like a prayer in the air. In gameplay terms, the cake is more than a pretty plate. It’s a pragmatic little boon: a slice goes down with health restored and a brief lift to the resolve of allies nearby, a small but timely nudge when routes grow perilous or camps are sketched in at the edge of night. Cooks prize it for festival events and cooking dailies, where the simplest treat can become a shared moment of relief in a busy field. Adventurers carry it for quiet celebrations between skirmishes or to seal a promise at a makeshift hearth. Its presence signals home in the world—the idea that nourishment can be a bridge between people, not merely a break in the march. Market chatter rounds out that idea. If you wander into town and hear a merchant’s steady pitch, you’ve likely crossed paths with the Saddlebag Exchange, where White Cake menus flutter between traders like white banners. The price floats with the crowd, modest for a casual spend and a reminder that sweetness has value in a market of risk. The cake’s value isn’t just in its bite; it’s in the story it carries through the stalls, in the glances shared over a plate, in the reminder that peace can taste like vanilla and sugar, when someone offers a slice instead of a quarrel. It remains, after all, a quiet celebration.