[color=silver][center][h2][color=#915027]𝔏𝔢𝔦𝔣𝔲𝔯 𝔊𝔲ð𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔰𝔰𝔬𝔫[/color][/h2]
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The crown had spared no expense preparing today's banquet. In all his years, Leifur had never set foot inside a castle before, and yet all its decorative splendor paled in comparison with what the tables had to offer. Rows upon rows of food and drink, many of which the viera had never seen before. When he'd made his way to the table at the far right, he'd noticed some of the common folk hesitating to touch the food at all, as if afraid they'd ruin a precious work of art.

Leifur, as evident by his overflowing plate, had no such trouble. 

They'd yet to be briefed on the details of what was to come, but that didn't mean one couldn't - [i]shouldn't[/i] - start their battle preparations early. They said armies marched on their stomachs, and Leifur intended to eat enough to march straight to Valheim's goddamn capital if need be. At least [i]some [/i]of the expenses spent would go to a worthy cause that way. Because as delicious as the food was, Leifur found it ridiculous that the king would sink funds into a [i]feast [/i]while the world outside was struggling to survive. How many could this banquet have fed, clothed, and housed? 

He'd eat his fill and take some food with, and gods help whichever guard tried to stop him. 

The harmony of fork, knife and quiet conversation was disturbed when a particularly gaudy man stood and attempted a toast. How many heard him and how many cared, Leifur didn't know, but he wasn't among either. He was too busy cutting venison to raise his gaze, the scent of the peppered meat so strong it threatened to overwhelm all five of his senses. What bits and pieces of the man's speech [i]did [/i]manage to reach the viera's ears were nothing but drivel, though. The man seemed to think they ought to be in awe that women had answered the call - to be [i]moved [/i]by it, somehow. 

Leifur did move, but only to refill his bowl of soup. Pumpkin; his favourite. 

The boy must not have met many women in his life, the viera man concluded as he swapped fork for a spoon. No matter, he would learn what mattered in battle in due time - or die before he could. Either way, his ignorance was a temporary nuisance and safe to ignore.

A noble-looking sort - Caradoc, a familiar name - stood at the fool's beckoning to give a short, sensible speech of his own, and no sooner had he sat down than another stood. A woman whose likeness seemed familiar as well. Too many years, too many faces; Leifur had always been better at remembering names. Her speech was less sensible. She was right in one thing, though; the king was, without a doubt, a fool.

[color=#915027][i]Am I a thug,[/i][/color] Leifur wondered idly. But not for long, because the bread was fresh and enticing, and he was nearly done with his soup.

The gunbreaker sat a couple of seats away from the epicenter of the ruckus, but the constant vying for attention had made him look over more times than he'd intended. And so, he caught sight of a new face as she settled into a seat. A viera, but unlike the ones he'd met before. She seemed quiet, timid, [i]hesitant[/i]; all traits Leifur didn't readily associate with the women of his kin. And then there was that device in her hands...

Leifur's eyes lingered on her. He was staring. A wiser man would have at least tried to hide it, but Leifur was not wise in the way of manners, and did not avert his gaze even as he stabbed into a piece of boar; he'd almost forgotten to finish it. His plate looked like a battlefield, bits and pieces of meats and sauces all intermingled and forgotten in favour of a new battle with a new dish.

It was only once the man realized he'd ran out of butter that he tore his gaze away from the viera girl to search for it. There. Too far to the left, where all the noisy people were. Great.

[color=#915027]"Someone [i]not [/i]engrossed in theatrics,"[/color] the gunbreaker looked at no one in particular, and addressed whomever happened to hear. One of his hands was extended and waiting, one still holding a knife - sideways, like a weapon, not like a utensil. An old habit. [color=#915027]"Pass me the damn butter." [/color][/color]