Brownie's Joy
Even when he would rather not, once a schedule with a superior, a partner, or a subordinate came to an end, an after-party often had to follow.
It was a fate not even Guildmaster Ulfred could escape.
There was no helping it.
Not everything in the world ran on pure reason.
Sometimes business had to be settled and relationships forged in private settings.
And so Catherine and her party, who had descended like a bolt from the blue, left behind only the faint fragrance of adventure and vanished like the wind.
Ulfred welcomed it wholeheartedly.
Ever since becoming guildmaster, he had hated such gatherings even when they were free.
Who in their right mind enjoyed meeting people who made his stomach twist and his head throb just from facing them while stuffed into clothes that did not fit?
No—once he had risen to this post, the number of people with whom he could comfortably share a drink and a meal had become vanishingly small.
In that situation, when a VVIP who was practically the living core of power sat with him and then left cleanly, without lingering regret, how could he not be delighted?
Of course he had accepted the regular commission to procure Alrune stalks, roots, and leaves once every two weeks, but that was no problem.
Commissions finished quickly and cleanly.
When it came time to renew, he would only have to see the proxy for a moment.
Yet something snagged in a corner of his mind and memory.
To be honest, he was not entirely ignorant of the reason.
Pacing aimlessly around his office, Ulfred glanced at the tray he had carried with his own hands from the reception room and set on his work desk.
Wooden cups still bearing traces of light-brown and black liquid.
Little pots of cream, sugar, and milk.
And above all, the lukewarm kettle from which the nostalgic fragrance of memory still rose, blanketing the office that reeked of musty parchment and ink.
Yes. The nostalgic fragrance of memory.
The scent of adventure Ulfred himself had forgotten.
"Alrune's Tear, was it."
Among the countless monsters and beasts, Alrunes were fairly profitable for adventurers.
The heads and fruits found use in magic research, alchemy, and many other fields, so every last one discovered was hunted, purged, and harvested.
The remaining by-products, however, had few takers and were mostly left to rot.
Extremely rare commissions for those leftovers did come in from time to time, but they were scarce—so scarce that scraping the whole of vast Coldon yielded only two sacks.
Squeezing even the leftover Alrune scraps that were usually thrown away like trash… the Alrunes themselves would have every right to shed tears.
"Ssssss… haaaaaaa."
Ulfred picked up the lukewarm kettle, pressed his nose to the spout, and slowly breathed in and out.
The fragrance that had once stabbed so fiercely had lost much of its strength now that it had cooled to lukewarm.
What could almost have been mistaken for the reek of scorched beans had mellowed.
It was cool enough now to gulp down in one go.
Yet for that very reason, behind the bold aroma of roasted beans, a new note emerged with every breath—something sweet yet profound, like well-seasoned applewood kindling.
"I ate a lot of apples, too."
They had probably been the fruit he ate most often until the previous guildmaster lured him into putting down roots in Coldon.
Ulfred had never particularly liked apples.
They had simply been the most common fruit in his childhood, and when he wandered as an adventurer people said they were good against scurvy, so he had tucked one away whenever the chance arose.
Yes. The green scent of apples.
That, too, was the fragrance of adventure that summoned memory.
At least for Ulfred.
"…Karem."
And Ulfred thought of the most famous little chef currently in Coldon—no, in all of Iceland. Wait, his body had grown; he was a young man now, wasn't he? Certainly an exotic and rather handsome face. If the chief magic advisor had a taste for that sort of thing, she might well fall for him.
In any case, drinking Alrune by-products as a beverage rather than poison…
Ulfred had never heard of such a thing, so he was certain Karem had invented the drink.
The thought was not wrong.
At least in this world, Karem was the first.
Anyway, Ulfred added a little cream and sugar to the Alrune's Tear that had cooled and grown more bitter and astringent, stirred it, and slowly savored it as he sat in his chair.
"…Haa. Look at the life I've got."
Today's stack of work still loomed high on the desk. A sigh escaped him, but work had to be done. The pile of documents he had set aside while entertaining Catherine.
And into his field of vision slipped the two commissions Catherine had just submitted.
The original commission stamped complete, and the standing contract for a once-a-month regular order of Alrune stalks, roots, and leaves.
Sipping the sweet taste and aroma of Alrune's Tear latte, Ulfred slowly set the cup down, stroked his bristly chin with a wrinkled hand, and considered.
The consideration was brief.
That evening.
On the request board of Coldon Adventurers' Guild Branch One, two regular-supply commissions that gave off a sweet, profound fragrance were pinned side by side.
Just as when they had arrived, the streets and squares of Coldon's inner city were quiet except for the people clearing snow. The party walked toward Winterhome at a slightly slower pace than on the way in.
To Karem's eye, Catherine looked somehow pleased.
"Did Alrune's Tear take your fancy that much?"
"It did."
Catherine nodded calmly and tapped the floor with the staff she had reclaimed from Mary.
"How could I not be glad, when I can finally toss that ghastly substitute of yours into the rubbish bin?"
"Calling it rubbish is a bit harsh."
"Hah."
Catherine glared at Karem, then whipped her head away.
"Chicory root? Dandelion? Just try bringing that monstrosity out one more time."
She rubbed her ears vigorously over the hood of her robe as if she had heard something she would rather not have.
"I'll ban you from the kitchen."
"It… was pretty bad, yeah. Hmm."
In his previous life, the history of chicory root and dandelion as coffee substitutes stretched back a good hundred-odd years. When war disrupted the coffee supply they had been widely drunk as replacements, and over time they had settled into the role of health drinks. Of course, because they had begun as coffee substitutes, their reputation for taste had always been abysmal, then and now.
"I'm not exactly fond of Alrune's Tear either, but I'll be honest. Compared to that substitute dishwater, Alrune's Tear is salvation."
It had been a flavor far too destructive for the guardian of flour-and-dairy products. Karem let out a small hum under Mary's chilly gaze and nodded.
"But there's one thing I need to correct."
"Which part of what I just said?"
"The part where you said you're not exactly fond of Alrune's Tear?"
Mary snorted, adjusting her grip on the sacks as if the remark were beneath even curiosity.
"It smells nice, but it's nothing but bitter. What's there to like?"
"But when you add plenty of cream and sugar—"
"That and what I drink are entirely different things."
Mary shook her head as if the idea were absurd; her expression carried the same seriousness a dwarf showed when discussing beer.
"Think about it. The same cream is called whipped cream once it's been beaten into foam, and cookies use flour, milk, butter, and sugar as their basic ingredients, yet they often receive different names simply for a change in form."
Mary nodded with a serene face that seemed to contain all the seriousness in the world.
"Therefore I strongly insist that the Alrune's Tear I drink—loaded with cream and sweetened with sugar—deserves a proper separate name."
"…Hmm. Then maybe just Cream Alrune's Tear—"
"Discard any thought of attaching such a wretched name."
Mary's head snapped around; twin sparks lit in her eyes.
"No, kid. Even so, that name is too much."
Catherine agreed and shook her head as well.
"Cream-Alrune's Tear? Has that rotten naming sense from your previous life flared up again?"
"No, it was literally called that even in my previous life."
In Italy, which competed for first place in coffee culture, caffè meant coffee and latte meant milk. Of course Mary preferred cream to milk, but that only turned a café latte into a café crema.
And strictly speaking it was espresso with cream added, not ordinary coffee.
"I can never permit such a ghastly name for the soft, sweet drink I enjoy."
"I can't think of anything. Why don't you name it yourself, then?"
"Pardon?"
Mary answered in a short, startled squeak, as if flustered.
"Well, you're the one who drinks Alrune's Tear with cream and sugar the most. So Mary—why don't you give it a name?"
"…A name I invent myself."
Karem had tossed the words out without much thought—just "then you try"—but Mary sank into genuine contemplation, her already expressionless face growing even more so.
One might wonder whether a mere coffee-like mixture warranted such seriousness, yet serious she was. A name was a symbol, proof of existence, and power in its own right.
"I thought your naming sense was improving a little. Cream Alrune's Tear, though."
"Yeah… hearing it repeatedly, it does sound off."
"Not 'off.' Worst."
True enough, the name lacked consistency and simply did not fit. Cream Alrune? Unless there existed a monster called Cream Alrune and something made from it had been named accordingly, the combination was nonsense.
"Better to call it Alrune's Tear with cream added. Didn't you say a similar drink existed in your previous life?"
"Yes. Coffee. Same taste, but it drives away sleep and has a tonic effect."
"Is there a version for what that one usually drinks?"
Of course there was.
The thick liquid brewed from deeply roasted Alrune.
Coffee that carried an even deeper fragrance went by this name.
"Espresso—concentrated coffee. Add cream and it becomes café crema."
"Crema? Cream?"
Catherine had thought before that the languages overlapped in odd places.
Then her face hardened.
"Wait. Does that mean 'café' itself means—"
"Coffee in Italian. Which would be Servianus here, I suppose."
From the way Catherine pressed a hand to her forehead, one could feel that café crema and Cream Alrune's Tear were essentially the same sort of name.
"…I've decided."
In the meantime Mary, who had not looked this serious in recent memory, finished her deliberation with resolve.
"I shall call it Brownie's Joy."
"That does sound right."
Alrune's Tear. Brownie's Joy.
At least it sounded far more plausible than Cream-Ala-whatever. Consistency, too.
"'That does sound right'? What is that supposed to mean?"
Mary narrowed her eyes, as if she had heard something else.
"No, I mean you named it well."
"Something feels suspicious."
"But if it's 'Joy,' is that because of the cream inside?"
"Isn't that obvious?"
Certainty shone in Mary's eyes as she nodded.
"I will admit it. If one does not praise Alrune's Tear for its aroma at least, one is lying. But its bitterness and astringency I cannot forgive."
"You ate the tiramisu that used it just fine."
"That was thanks to the exquisite harmony of bitterness and astringency."
The exquisite harmony was accurate. Ladyfingers, cream cheese, whipped cream, and the bitter, astringent coffee—if any one element was lacking or excessive, the tiramisu fell apart.
"An Alrune's Tear that even a house-spirit Brownie can drink with joy. That is why it is Brownie's Joy."
"And you also heap sugar into it, I take it?"
"Contractor. Isn't more of a good thing better?"
Catherine did not deny it. Neither did Karem.
After all, cream, milk, and sugar had been added to the coffee.
"But wouldn't topping it with whipped cream be even better than plain heavy cream?"
"That is a truly insane idea. From now on Brownie's Joy will be served with an entire dollop of whipped cream on top."
No house spirit alive would be able to refuse it.
Attached Materials
— Brownie's Joy (Café Latte)
A picture drawn by ChatGPT.