At the royal breakfast table, laid out beneath tall windows with morning light pooling gold across silver platters and steaming pastries, Vuvi snorts the instant she steps into the room. Pip immediately finds the marble floor endlessly fascinating, gaze dropping and staying there.
The table itself bucks under the weight of it all. Towers of fruit, warm bread still steaming from the oven, spiced sausages, and a dozen unfamiliar dwarven dishes nobody's quite brave enough to ask about yet.
Everyone else is already seated, tucking in, sunlight glinting off polished silverware.
Everyone except Veena, who sits rigid at the table wearing a considerably smaller, far more dignified gas mask than her usual rig, arms crossed tight, looking like someone personally stole her plate right out from under her.
Vuvi chuckles softly, sliding into her own seat. "You're going overboard. You don't have to wear it all the time."
