I got more than I bargained for when I asked for a depiction
The scene has thickened like a well-fed levain...
Late Afternoon, Sourdough Starter Room Perimeter
Balrog stands firm, her wings folded with theatrical restraint, blocking the door like a velvet rope at a club no one wants to enter. The sourdough starter inside pulses ominously, occasionally burping out a yeasty tendril that slaps against the doorframe before retreating with a gurgle. It’s quieter now—thanks to the pygmy hogs, who are licking their snouts and burping politely in a nearby patch of thyme. One of them hiccups and a small bubble of starter floats out of its nostril.
Balrog mutters, “I could crisp this whole corridor in a heartbeat. But what if it dreams? What if it remembers?”
She’s been staring at a particularly expressive clump of starter that seems to be mouthing the word “Brioche” in slow, sticky syllables.
Elsewhere in the corridor
A gerbil—wearing a small knitted scarf and carrying a bowl of soup—ambles past. The soup is carrot and coriander, steam curling up like a question mark. No bread. No spoon. Just vibes.
She pauses, sniffs the air, and says to no one in particular, “Smells like moral ambiguity and fermentation.”
Then continues on, humming a tune that sounds suspiciously like the theme from Bake Off: The Reckoning.