The Rise Bakery

The yeast is well, so we shall feast Minors Do Not Interact Dedicated to medieval kink posting

[a-bakers-honor]

Welcome to The Rise Bakery

Call me Rye. 23 and trans masc. Masc adjacent pronouns and queer.

I carry a deep love for food and the people who make it. I also carry a deep adoration for medieval blogs. Thus, two loves are combined. However this blog will engage with kink at times, so minors and ageless blogs, do not interact.

The Rise Bakery is located in the center square of the capital, a busy place to be certain. It sees many faces, from knights, to jesters, farmhands and blacksmiths. So please, do not be shy.

My asks and dms are open

Tags: #rye posting for pretty much everything, from kink to one off posts

#rye proofing for photos which will most likely be food that I make

#order pickup for asks

[knightclubbing]

will there be gluten free and vegan options at the grand feast

[a-bakers-honor]

I’ll add it to the list

[a-bakers-honor]

good morning rye, I missed you

it's been awhile since I've been to the bakery. Been off travelling around the seaside again. I read the last letter you sent me over and over until the edges frayed and it fell apart in my palms. You know I travel light, but I do everything I can to cement your words to memory so I'm not without my favourite baker

I'm back in the capital on war work. So I can actually pay you for treats instead of playing in trades. Unless of course you'd like some new bread knives? I've been learning how to work with different metals too, maybe I could make you something to wear?

I'm dashing about this morning, I can't linger too long. But if you have anything on the shelves with lemon, I'll take one for the road. Do you still wrap up early on Fridays? Maybe I can slip away from the forge to help you unwind, I mean, pack up

Until then my sweet baker,

A wandering blacksmith

Darling Cove,

It's been a while since I've seen you. Though to be quite honest, I lay awake some nights, in an attempt to burn the image of you to the backs of my eyelids. Something to ground me, I suppose. You flatter me as always, and I'll be sure to write you with a sturdier paper in the future.

You know I don't mind playing in trades, at least when it comes to you. I'm not in the business of needing new things very often. I don't adorn myself with lovely objects to wear neither. However, if you'd like to help me resharpen my knives, that would be quite helpful. I find it quite tedious work by myself.

I'll wrap up some lemon bars for you to take. They're easy to eat on the go. As for Friday?

Well, why don't you help me sharpen my knives. We'll see how eager I am to unwind after that.

Sound like a date?

Yours,

Rye

[knightclubbing]

dont put a leash on me, it implies i would run away if you dropped it

[a-bakers-honor]

Collared knights are overdone anyway. I find I think of knights less and less as dogs and more and more like little birds. They’ll always come back to their roost.

[a-bakers-honor]

There is peace in the monotony of my days. An early wake. Wander the streets before others even dream of opening their eyes.

Down the road, boisterous laughter carries from a tavern. Rowdy knights, soldiers of the like, spending a late night with friends and comrades catching up. Comparing scars. Telling drunken stories. It calls to me, lures me like a siren in the water, hungry for blood.

So, I ignore the call. It’s easier these days to do so. To continue with my routine, as I have for many years now. Even though we are the same, the knights, the soldiers and I. Same build, same hands. Same callouses. Same blood lust.

But that life is not mine anymore. And entering that tavern will not bring back those I have lost. Only pull me deeper into a drink I didn’t want to begin with.

The doors of the bakery unlock clean, with a quiet click. I only need to light one candle these days. I know this place like the back of my hands. I know every floorboard that creaks, the bags of flour I need to use first. Where every pot, pan, and tray is located. I could work here blind if I so needed.

But I know soon the sun will rise. My doors will open so the smell of fresh goods waft into the roads. And I will greet the faces of people I used to protect. And in some ways I still do. Providing food, and goods is how I keep my oaths.

In some ways, the knights, the soldiers, and I, we never stopped being the same. My oaths never broken. They just changed with time.

[evilbaron]

Fuck it I’m just gonna Baron my evil shit from now on.

[a-bakers-honor]

Did you want more raspberry tarts while you, uh, ‘Baron your evil shit’, sir?

I’ve also got a wild berry pie coming out of the oven in a few minutes.

No use being hungry while you plot.

[a-bakers-honor]

Good day, Baker Rye. I am here to enquire over your capacity for larger orders. As a certain @evilbaron will be hosting a Masquerade Ball in the near future, we will of course require only the best catering, and I have heard your name in a great many recommendations.

-are those apple pastries? Ah - I will have one of those, too.

@your-evil-adviser

Though you bring a rather foreboding shadowy cloud with you, I’m more than capable to fill any order. I’ll need a date, a time of delivery, and half the payment up front, with the other half given upon delivery.

Coin is coin. Though I hope your pockets are deep, as my prices are not cheap.

Take as many apple pastries as you like. I’ve already started a tab for you.

[severtheheart]

i dont wanna be loved or cared for i wanna die in war

[a-bakers-honor]

The smell is thick. The heat is never ending. The blade is heavy. The body even more so. The weight, the weight, the weight. I haven’t been able to see for hours. Swing, thrust, impact I push to the side, and proceed to hit till it cannot fight back any longer.

After the next one I am done for. I can stand no longer. The impact will take me this time I’m certain. My sight will never clear, the weight never taken, the smell always there. Amongst the pile of brothers in arms on a path to victory.

But I blink. I blink, and I am home. I am home and beneath my hands is no longer a blade and a body but a bread knife and a loaf. Scarred hands that wield it. Callous that will never fade. My sight has long since returned. The smell in the air is sweet, of powdered sugar in the air.

But this man? He is not me. When I was me I was a young fool on deaths door, bruised and blooded taking out foes and allies alike. In my place is a withering man, with a thousand yard stare.

The only thing that chains us, links us together, is the weight. A body that will always carry the heft of an armor we can never take off.

[knightclubbing]

one thing about me is that i will burn dinner and im sorry

[a-bakers-honor]

Knight that burns dinner x Baker who will eat it happily without complaint because it’s food and he’s actually not picky in the slightest

[bbearbutch]

I need nasty switch 4 switch sex until we're both exhausted and cuddling

[a-bakers-honor]

Catch me and the local blacksmith getting down like this

[knightclubbing]

just opened an envelope with my bigass sword #my bigass sword #it was a bill #violence

[puppypupz]

"thinking doesn't suit you" has got to be one of the hottest things a guy can say

[a-bakers-honor]

What I say when someone at my counter has been taking forever to order.

Seriously, knights, don’t let your squires pick for you. It stresses them out

[a-bakers-honor]

Aftercare isn’t common. Not for people like us, like me and him. Not when the ruinous filth that he did to me was more than I’ve ever let anyone do. Most would leave after that. A pleasant thank you is the most I have known.

Yet here his is. He remains. Slept the whole night in my bed, arm over my waist. His armor is back in his barracks just as he should be. But he’s here. Standing by my bed, holding the most rubbery burnt looking excuse for eggs. His scars proudly on display in my home. Long healed, unlike mine that are still a bit red.

He looks at me with a gentle gaze and says something I can’t quite catch. I’m just fixated on the food.

A gift, to give food to one who always feeds others. A gift, to sit with someone like me.

I eat the burnt eggs. I break bread with him. And when he leaves, I rise, being horribly late to open my shop. And as the tunic falls over my chest, I hope he visits me soon. And will give me a chance to learn him as he has learned me.

[a-bakers-honor]

Excuse me sir

I have but two farthings and must travel far from court today to visit my ailing lady mother

What might you recommend to sustain me on so small a budget?

- @squire-peg-in-round-hole

Two farthings won't get you very far in the capitol, squire. I could get you a small loaf of bread, but that would run your funds dry.

There's some food from yesterday I could give to you now. Bit stale, but beggars can't be choosers. Go around the back, I'll let you take your pick. But I would recommend a seed bread, and a meat pie or two. Will keep you full longer.

Keep your money. Come back when you can pay. But I will count this as the beginning of a tab.

[knights-hand]

Knight who dies protecting their liege. It's far more casual than one might expect for such an idealized death.

One second they're making small talk in the garden.

The next the noble peaks out from a corner and see their loyal guardian lying still and bloodied on the ground.

The next, the king is assigning them their replacement.

Perhaps their liege thinks of them and weeps. Perhaps they spare them no more thoughts once their replacement is in place.

Perhaps they replay their last conversation. It was mundane, about the on going repairs to the barracks walls, and the knight was about to make a comment. They wonder endlessly what they were about to say. They'll be wondering for the rest of their life.

[a-bakers-honor]

There are spaces that the liege cannot fill. Moments of quiet understanding. Instances where the royal’s knight could not help but share bits and pieces of his life. But it’s quiet now. As it was before him. As it is after.

They visit his spots. Places he loved most. Places that can never be anything beside his. An abandoned building that holds wild flowers. Spots in town a royal would never go. Yet the Royal wanders. Tries to find his boisterous laugh. Tries to find his scent. A texture that reminds the Royal of his calloused hands. Something.

He visits his guardian’s grave in the dead of night. He always had odd sleep patterns. And when he collapses against the grave, begging the gods to give his guardian back, he hopes his knight hears. Wishing deep down he will honor his oath to his liege one last time.

[severtheheart]

Feeling my hands after wearing gloves and gauntlets for a while is always strange. I often forget I am still flesh and bone below the leather, silk and steel. Almost feels wrong. I forget how warm and soft living bodies are. It's disturbing. Weak.

[a-bakers-honor]

It’s early in the morning when knights like these come in. You can tell they’ve returned from something they shouldn’t have seen.

When they pay they jump at the every feeling and texture. The smooth coin between their fingers. The wooden counter. On the days I bake something particularly strong smelling, I can tell how their eyes flick about. A strong smell is never a good sign.

I always ask them to wait at the counter. Walk them to the furtherest table in the bakery. Let them sit in a corner where they can see the entrance, where the loud sounds that will soon echo through my establishment can be muffled.

At ease, my knight. You are home. If this kingdom is not yours, these four walls can be. For even just a moment.

[the-forcemascinator]

human knight who's name ends up in the hands of a Seelie prince.

[a-bakers-honor]

Baker who trades old fae recipes in return for the human knight’s names, and is getting pretty fed up with it. And is also running out of old fae recipes.