The Cookie Crumble, Bakers of St. Mystere

A ride to St. Mystere, the township of the Societal Legion. Taking the Iron Horse to the small township, you wonder about the large station the train stopped on. For such a large station, the town is certainly small yet charming. Unlike the other buildings that stand high and mighty in Cairns Cross, the town of St. Mystere does not crawl unto the skies, rather puffs their chimneys as they sit short like a colony of mushrooms. Simple coloured roofing and stone pavements, the township was clean and well maintained, it is all they had. Upon exiting the station after flashing your ticket to the automaton station man, you see a small fountain surrounded with gardens, the post office on the left bringing mail unto the train, while a series of houses follow to the centre of the town. An inn stood tall, one of the two in the city, serving bread and beer till the dead of night, and the perfect place to gather after a long days work in the mines or the factories.

Walking further through the stone pavements in a beautiful city, you stumble across a little gem in a corner. A small establishment seen through a pane of glass, inside are a series of loaves and pastries adorning the kitchen with the colour of freshly baked bread, tasty chocolate paste or powdered sugar. The smell of bread entices passersby to enter, to stay and buy some baked bread, made with love and care. The smell continues to invite you inside, and the door rang a bell, you see not only pieces of bread in baskets and shelves, but also a series of stools facing a small fire oven and a set of knives, where the baker would cut the bread as wanted or accompany you over a glass of coffee and mead.

Your eyes wander around the small establishment, and you see the bakers. An old man whose body well fed adorned by a ragged apron, with a face tested by time and dough, scars abode but was as strong as iron. Pumping the accordion to the fire and sliding the loaves of bread unto the kiln to bake, while a beautiful porcelain doll of a girl, no more than the age of 18, hair tied with a ribbon and sweat reflected her bright face, kneading the dough with gentle care and delicacy. Every knead is an infusion of all the love and care of the world, into a single secret mix of eggs, flour, yeast and milk.

The girl then gazed towards you after hearing the bell and smiled. She wiped off the sweat with her rag and walked towards the table in which stools adorn one of its sides. You could’ve sworn that when she closed the door, the dough was still kneading itself. Magic? No, you’re just tired, perhaps some bread would be good for you.

WELCOME TO THE COOKIE CRUMBLE, We are the Bakers of St. Mystere

If you’d like to buy a piece of our creation, please, we would be happy to serve you! If you would like to talk about your day, then, by all means, we’re here to listen. How about a pot of coffee or a glass of mead with that love? <3

Don’t be a stranger, please come in for some fresh bread


Emotion Pastries (Leaves you with the feeling of chosen flavour)

Butterbread Variants

Loaves (May be sliced)

Pastries (Orange for made by request, yellow is present daily. Pie flavour changes every day, and seasonal

Cakes (Two Baked everyday, may be made upon request)


The Baker, Kate Stirling

The Old Man, Dieter Von Stirling

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As the sun rises over St. Mystere, the roosters shouted aloud to greet the morning light. The church bells were rung, it was the townsfolk way to know that the day is about to start. The morning dew was still fresh and the air was purified from the smoke of day.

Kate opened her eyes slowly as her dream world slowly slipped away from her grasp, only for reality to sink back in. She rolled her shoulders back like the driving rod of the iron horse, and flexed her fingers from years of kneading dough and milling flour. She yawned once, before sitting, gathering her consciousness. Looking outside as dawn breaks.

She got up, and flicked her fingers. Her bed and blankets tidied up upon her command. She made her way to the mirror, and she flexed her elbow and imagined her hand grasping on a bucket of water, and turned her wrist 180 degrees got rid of -clockwise, as if getting the water bucket to come in front of her. She washed her face with icy cool water gathered from the rain before, while she used her magic to summon the hairbrush and let it uncurl any tangles on her straight and amber hair. The ribbon flew to her from the drawer, and tied itself unto her hair. She then took a cloth and tied over her forehead and making her hair neat.

As she looked at herself and wondered about why she still has butter on her face, she flicked her fingers to ignite the stoves in the kitchen below her room. It was morning, and breakfast is upon the bakery of St. Mystere once more.