[color=f52713][b]"DINNERTIME!"[/b][/color]

[color=4682b4][i]"Oh...merci mon dieu..."[/i][/color] Inès sighed, relieved to hear the call of dinner as an end to her hours-long utility as a pillow for Franz's comfort. Indeed, it was sweet, for Inès ultimately knew that Franz would have done the same for her, had their positions been switched and she came to his aid, but neither could she reject the reality that such immobility - and inactivity - drove her well past tolerance and well into boredom-induced insanity. 

[color=4682b4]"Franz,"[/color] the Shocktrooper called to her companion, nudging him awake, whilst also extending a generous - yet gentle - assistance toward the man getting on his feet that would clearly suggest she wished to stand. Somehow, Inès had wondered, given the past few weeks, if awakening others was to be a habit, that she may very well become the company bugler.

[color=4682b4]"Dinner's ready. Let's go eat."[/color] she urges on, exiting from the tent with a steady look back, as if she made certain Franz would follow. 

Dining standards for the military were generally mediocre, generously speaking, and those served in the field lesser than such a meager title. More often than not, the food itself on offer did nothing to alleviate such judgements, the disgusting slop in a can they foisted upon soldiers as food often making matters worse for the troops at hand. What was supposed to be some manner of potato and meat stew instead blackened and soiled inside a cold, grease-laden broth. For ingredients that were largely salted for preservation, Inès gave the packagers credit; even one who had only modest ingredients herself could not make a largely fiberous meal taste acidic. Maconochie, it was called, and was famously lambasted as, [i]"An inferior grade of garbage."[/i]

A meal taken and prepared for the crew was, appropriately, a gift that Inès graciously appreciated, even if the scent coming from the table would have indicated they were otherwise eating char-burned scrapings from a meat pan. Though her face would never show it, whatever manner of concoction was preferable to whatever waste logistics and supply would foist upon them otherwise. At the long table, Inès took her seat at the side of Franz, across from Freya, and well in good company.

...well in good company of their one and only Corporal hoisting about a loaf of buttered bread as if he had found some holy relic itself, to everyone's amusement, Inès' note. Inès appreciated the change of pacing, sure, being the first truly cooked full meal she'd had in weeks now, yet Jean was...clearly a bit too excitable about it. 

Thoroughly nonplussed, Inès' nonamused features remained rather blank while eyes and ears turned to the Darcsen Corporal. 

[color=4682b4][i]"Uh...Jean? Ça va?"[/i][/color]

Inès mentally noted that she likely already had an answer to such an inquiry. At minimum, it was polite to ask, if Inès' lack of formality in her query betrayed her true thoughts behind that expression. An unamused sigh flowed throughout her body, the rather unimpressed woman retiring once more to her seating. She would look about for a fleeting moment, taking view of the general demeanor of the company at hand whilst she did serve herself. Manners, it would seem, would have to wait, yet Inès knew that much was only formality she seldom had time to acknowledge. And as she folded her legs, prompt to dine, Luke's rising mood she did notice. She would pause before she dug in upon the first wishes of Luke escaping his mouth, almost freezing her utensil as she passed eyes over the scene. That would soon turn to cautious listening, never fully looking over the two as expression soon turned to fumble, then to apology, then to [i]faux pas[/i] once again. Even whilst the poor fool threw out his racial retorts as some uncultured troglodyte, Inès did look upon the display and give a smile.