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“[color=#951bff]Don't believe in ketchup,[/color]” Penne offered, apropos to nothing, as she and Alasdair made their way to the table of food. She’d spotted a bottle of the disdainful stuff among the accoutrements, and as was often the way, found herself incapable of withholding comment. “[color=#951bff]Tomatoes and corn syrup? Total hoax. Not a condiment. Not a sauce. Candy. Criminal candy.[/color]” 

Thankfully there were other, more worthy offerings on display. Rodian stew, Doumercine filets, Lorenzian pasta—prepared by a Lorenzian, or at the very least someone who had learned to make pasta in Lorenzia. She filled a tiny porcelain bowl with some ricotta ravioli, a modest ladle of an aromatic brown butter sauce, and topped it with a few Rosarian meatballs. 

There was a bar as well, open of course, and she ordered herself a glass of red. Part of her yearned for something a bit stronger; despite her diminished state, she still had the tolerance to make a Rodian vanguard blush. But there were social expectations here, as her father had so keenly explained, and while she was certain she had handled the paparazzi flawlessly, she couldn’t afford to be stumbling over herself in front of, more or less, every important person in Estora. 

Oh well. The liquor wouldn’t go to waste under Alasdair’s watch anyway. The man’s own resilience put hers well to shame. Having a Templar who wore his vices on his sleeve ought to have caused her some degree of discomfort. Not so. Penne liked knowing things, especially things about people she spent lots of time around. And even inebriated she was more confident in his capabilities than the rest of the gathered muscle. She would take drunken experience over novice vivre any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Still, she hoped he would eat something. Some protein. Some carbs. He looked a bit gaunt. 

“[color=#951bff]I had a cousin who carried a dried, preserved goldfish in his pocket everywhere he went,[/color]” she went on, popping a meatball into her mouth. “[color=#951bff]Called it his business partner. Took it out in meetings and talked to it. Listened to it. One time this Estoran diner served him pasta with ketchup. Just ketchup. Not even a shaker of parmesan. He marched right into the kitchen and made the cook drink the whole bottle. Man spoke to dead fish, still knew ketchup was wrong.[/color]”

She nodded to herself, content with the sageness of her fable. Her father had always blamed Estorans for ketchup, though she didn’t know herself whether or not they’d invented it. Seemed a fitting assumption for a country so averse to seasoning.

“[color=#951bff]He’s dead now—horse kicked him in the head at the derby. The cousin, not the cook.[/color]”