Morning sun blazes gold across the dwarven camp, glinting off polished brass pipes and fittings and dew-slick canvas alike.
Penelo, Lula, and Raikya sit around a food-filled table, dissecting the impossible deliciousness of dwarven pastries in exhaustive, borderline scholarly detail, comparing crumb structure and glaze consistency like a panel of very devoted, very biased judges.
"It's the flake-a-nosity that truly brings out the flavour-nisms." Penelo says, cream dribbling off a chin held high.
"Indeed, indeed." Lula agrees, "The cream-to-crumpiness ratios are perfectly balanced."
"Those are not real words," Raikya chuckles, tossing a pie to Frostlick.
Off to the side, Sera flexes for a cluster of the princess's guards, spinning increasingly implausible tales of her adventuring days.
