Runamandor, the baker. (part I)
In the silence, interrupted only by the creaking of the wooden planks beneath his weight, he hobbled down the stairs. His thoughts not fully formed for the coming day, was only now beginning to coalesce into anything more substantial than pancakes.
Delicious pancakes. Without any excessive syrup.
//Say whatever you will, but consuming something that already had enough sugar to kill a horse, added with a layer of another thing that contains more that enough to kill a few elephants ... well, either you're just a moron, or you haven't discovered what eating healthy is.//
The inherent paradox of his own reasoning didn't bother him as much as it should've, some might say, yet if there was one thing that Runamandor felt it was this: the uncountable years of his existence had not changed him as much as he thought it would've. No, it had not. Nor had it made him dull witted.
In the kitchen he promptly busied himself with the preparation of the first item.
The ember glow of the coals cast cascading shadows on his face, and the scars that were hidden in light, became pronounced in the shadows. It gave him a menacing look.
NOTE: this short piece gave me the idea to write a new novel, which I am currently working on. (05/16/2018)