Cherry Pie sits on the plate, crust a honey-gold lattice that crackles when you press with a fork, the filling a glistening cherry red that seems to catch the lamp’s light and hold it. Steam lifts in thin, curling wisps, scented with vanilla, cinnamon, and a whisper of citrus. Take a bite and the crust yields to a tart-sweet center, the juice blooming on the tongue and leaving a warm glow in its chest, as if the pie itself were small shelter after a long day’s march. Lore laces the recipe with memory: bakers who kept weary riders fed, caravans that threaded rivers and mountain paths, and an old kitchen tale that the crust’s pattern mirrors a well-worn map, guiding those who hunger and those who trade. In play, Cherry Pie is more than a treat. It’s a consumable that fortifies body and spirit for a little while, restoring health and lifting morale so skirmishes feel a shade less perilous and journeys a shade more doable. Adventurers tuck it into their saddlebags before a lookout, cooks pass it to weary guards after patrols, and festival walkers savor it as the city lights begin to gleam. Its warmth travels well, its effect lingers, and for a moment you taste home in the road’s dust—exactly the kind of comfort that keeps a party intact when the world grows loud. On the market, the pie rides the current of supply and rumor. Saddlebag Exchange is the familiar bellwether, where traders post daily asks and bids, and where a batch can swing from bargain to prized. A plain cherry pie is affordable fare, a little silver buys something brighter, a recipe-laden version with extra zest might fetch a higher coin. The boards tell a chorus of stories: a flour mill in the lorn countryside readied more crusts for a festival, a bakehouse in a harbor city traded spice and patience for the round, ruby centers. What matters isn’t only the cost but the folklore: the pie’s journey from oven to campfire, from caravan wagon to shared table, a small ritual that stitches communities together whenever hands are full of work and eyes are weary from the road. Some specialist pies are rumored to carry stronger, longer-lasting buffs and are sought after by guild runners who carry messages between outposts, their deliveries made quicker by a steady bite. So Cherry Pie endures not as a mere snack, but as a beacon of hospitality on Tyria’s vast ribbon of path. A bite can reset a mood, steady a group, or anchor a moment in a day that’s otherwise hurried and hard. In its scent there’s a memory of home, in its bite a link to every trader, baker, and fighter who kept faith with one another when the road grew dangerous and the night crept closer. And so the Cherry Pie keeps turning up, a reliable thread that ties a hundred stories together as surely as a map ties routes.