Why should Red Wolf mind the challenge of this upstart dragon? She sits, on the other end of a high-class banquet, and any threat to her seat must first contend with this phalanx of high society. Han has hardly taken her first step forward, and already the waters rush in to swallow her whole.

Which startles her more; the soft, but firm touch of Emli on her wrist, or the discovery that the extra forks weren’t just spares? What is she to say to place-setting drills and pouting faces and, and, certain? Phrasings?! She mumbles out her thanks, and instinctively knows she’s done [i]something[/i] wrong. (No one will tell her what, but they’ll make her pay for it.) The meal offers little refuge. Nothing here looks familiar. Some dishes ask for forks. Some dishes ask for hands. Others are not dishes, they are garnishes, and only some of those are edible. It’s anyone’s guess which is which. Cups of sauces surround platters full of savory meats, and perhaps they are the table’s, or perhaps they are for pouring. A small plate orbits her larger one, and that may be hers, or it may not be, and everybody here already knows but her, and the only way she can find out is by watching everyone else, intently, but not too obviously, and her stomach rumbles at the smell of it all, but she has to wait, she has to look, she has to, she has to, she has to.

(She has to. If it is to happen, for her, [i]she[/i] has to do it.)

Unless, food should happen to be on her plate already. Unless, somebody were to keep her wineglass full. Unless, the person sitting next to her (so close to her) seemed to always be having what she was having, and slowly, so that she can watch how it is meant to be eaten. Unless, somebody were to fold up her pancakes into tasty little bundles, with just the right blend of flavor and texture so that every bite is crunchable and perfect. With every dish, pour, and touch of the hand, Emli plucks a little weight off of Han’s shoulders, and only when it is gone does she realize she was carrying it in the first place. Only by the overwhelming relief a full glass brings her does she realize she was worrying about fetching more, and now she doesn’t have to. 

It’s. Nice. Unusual, but nice. So unusual that, moments later, she will mindlessly reach for the pitcher again. When the tray of those scrumptious pancakes passes through, she’ll try to grab some without thinking. Patience, Emli, patience. She has not snapped at you yet for your forwardness. Her eyes flash surprise, confusion, the barest hint of alarm, but then she relaxes, pliable in your expert hand as you guide her back where she belongs.

She is on edge. She sits in the den of her most hated enemy, and knows not what she plans. She sits beside a loyal agent of the enemy, and knows not what to think. But she is starving. She is thirsty, for water, for strong drink, for company. She is tired, so tired, weary from toil and injury. And isn’t it so nice, to have such simple needs met, gladly, without having to do a thing herself?

Patience, Emli. Patience.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh this one? Which one?” Han blinks, peering through a whirlwind of fine dining back into the present, the person sitting next to her. “Oh. Uh, that one. Uhhhhhhh.” She rubs her neck, struggling to remember. (Her eyes had been locked on the priestess as she nibbled on a strawberry. Sitting so close, how could Emli miss the heat rising in her cheeks?) “Oh yeah, that one. Wrestled a tiger that got a taste for village livestock. Jerk got a few good swipes in, before I threw them over the nearest river. Learned his lesson after that.”

(Nobody saw her do it. The good villagers of the Flower Kingdoms had given her the cold shoulder, but not before she caught wind of their tiger problem. She could’ve stoked the fires within her, sent a surge of vitality through her body to heal her wounds, but she’d have been stuck in the wilderness afterwards, little more than a defenseless lump. By the time she’d found a safe place to crash, the wounds were too old to simply erase.)

Han follows Red Wolf’s conversation, for there still is some part of her clinging to her words, searching for the knife she’s [i]positive[/i] must be there. And, come to think of it, who [i]was[/i] this other guest? She was with them when they all left, but was she with them in Hell itself? Not that she could remember...

Weird. Very weird.