Bowl of Chocolate Cherry Frosting gleams in a shallow porcelain dish, the glaze catching the room’s lamplight as if a night-sky river had spilled onto the counter. The frosting itself spills in glossy waves of dark chocolate, the surface a mirror of the firelight, with ribbons of cherry-red that look almost alive when you tilt the bowl. A pinch of cocoa dust clings to the rim, and a whisper of vanilla lingers in the air, mingling with the faint, sweet tang of candied cherries tucked into the swirl. The texture is velvety, almost silk-smooth, with a tiny bite of cherry crunch when you dip a spoon into it. It’s not merely a dessert; there are hints, too, of old kitchens and hurried banquets, where recipes were passed from baker to scavenger, from table to market stall, each generation adding a line or two to its lore. In the days when hunger follows every expedition, the Frosting becomes more than a garnish; it’s a small act of memory. People speak of it like a tiny compromise with the world after a long skirmish: a spoonful can soften the edge of fatigue, a moment of warmth that steadies the hands and brightens the eyes enough to notice a far-off skyline you’ll corset your courage around again. Some cooks insist that the cherry’s brightness cancels the chill from a grim night, while the chocolate’s depth steadies a traveler’s breath. In kitchens, it’s used as a catalyst—paired with a stout loaf or folded into a pastry, it unlocks a sense of home even when the road is dust and thorn. There are merchants who claim it can be worked into a larger feast, a centerpiece that invites stories to be told as the candles burn lower. And for the player who discovers it in a crate or a stall, it’s a reminder that even a simple topping can tilt a moment from hardship toward connection, turning a quiet meal into a shared ritual. Market talk threads through the story, too, because the frosting travels with the weather and the tides of demand. I’ve watched a row of stalls tremble with excitement on festival afternoons, when a fresh batch is rolled out and the crowd leans in as if listening for a whispered rumor. That’s when the Saddlebag Exchange becomes a living ledger, a braided street of voices that talk price in lozenges of silver and careful, practical copper. It’s not about extravagance, really; it’s about balance. A bowl that costs a few silver on a calm day will hover higher when supply tightens and the merchants trade tales of new harvests or delayed crates. The exchange ledger, pegged to a wooden post under a striped awning, records each sale, each hopeful grin, each nod from a curious buyer who has learned to trust the frosting’s old-world charm as a small signal of welcome in a restless world.