Vexena groans with unrestrained delight as the massage chair vibrates beneath her. She and her generals ride together in one of the Dwarven caravans, plush and absurdly overengineered, brass fittings, velvet cushions, some kind of self-refilling decanter bolted to the wall. They hum along the road toward the capital with a smoothness no demon-forged carriage has ever managed.
"Whoever engineered this deserves a medal," Vexena mutters, sinking another inch. Her eyes crack open just enough to fix Bilorial with an accusing glare. "Bilorial. Why did nobody tell me dwarven massage chairs were this good?"
Bilorial groans an apology from across the carriage, still nursing his own healing shoulder. "Apologies, Your Grace, I wasn't aware—"
"Excuses." Vexena waves a lazy hand. "I want it on record that I have been personally deprived of joy for centuries because nobody thought to mention vibrating furniture."
