"Heh. All this ruckus, over a pampered little girl..."
The words seemed harsh, but Eyvel says them with an obvious tint of amusement, hands rested on her hips as she watched aspiring chefs of all kinds bustle about the mess hall, panicking about tomatoes and spices and what was her favorite food again?
In her capacity as a mercenary, Eyvel had offered her assistance in preparing for the festival in Baile. Their demands were large, and the pay that came with it? Even larger. The woman scoffs at herself. Not that a lady of Yngvi was particularly hurting for gold, but it would be nice to donate to the local charities and orphanages.
She wasn't a master chef, but she made meals for the Orgahil on occasion. 'Perks' of being one of the only women on the ship. Even during those years in Sigurd's army, she insisted on working for her own keep, fancy noblewoman or not. And when Mareeta, Little Leif, and Little Nan were still in her care, she cooked for them too.
Gods knew Finn was hopeless in that area.
Looking away from all the ruckus, her gaze lands on the person next to her—namely, the side of her sister's face. Edain. Even now, Eyvel was in shock that her sister had survived Belhalla... that she survived Grannvale.
She had even been the one to raise Seliph in Sigurd's place; the boy that would become the continent's hero.
...Though, she supposes she could say the same for herself and Lord Leif.
Still. She wishes she would have had that chance—that time—with her own children.
"Think you could test the stew, Sister? My sense of taste is alright, but I've no doubt yours is far better."