RP:RTR, Feast Edition

Presented by The Redskull Trophy Ring

Teams:  Lita & Lanlan vs. Arlyeon & Quintessa
Objective: Create the best meal out of surprise ingredients
Celebrity Judges: Valrae, NPC Horatio, NPC Nanette

Event Overview

This cook-off competition is a lighthearted matinee event hosted by the Redskull Trophy Ring org and venue. Two teams will compete against the clock and against one another to prepare a meal for a panel of celebrity judges.

Each team would consist of a chef and a sous chef. Teams write simultaneously and have 20 minutes per post. Each team's posts will resemble a short duel, except that instead of fighting they will be working cooperatively to ICly prepare a fancy dinner and to OOCly craft classic cooking entertainment.

Format

Following entrance posts and some light setup, the announcer will check to see if the contestants are ready. Presuming they are, the announcer reveals the surprise ingredient table and starts the clock.

Posting order - rough content guideline:

Chefs - select ingredients, prep
Sous Chefs - prep, cooking
Chefs - cooking
Sous Chefs - cooking, plating
Chefs - plating, table presentation

After both teams finish, the judges will write their tasting posts for one team, then for the other, then select a winner.

Flagging and Foul Play

As in the past with other RTR events, players should use flagging to alert another player to wait before posting. This is to warn a player of an interaction that they wouldn't have otherwise been able to OOCly anticipate and give them a chance to react in their own post. Please review flagging under the main RTR page if you plan on posting anything that would interfere with a competitor. Since competing teams will be posting simultaneously, this applies to any team vs. team interference (which of course, ICly speaking, would be cheating).

If a contestant is flagged, that contestant's IRL post timer will freeze while they are waiting for the flagging player to post. Once the flagging player has posted, the contestant's 20 minute post timer will begin.

The Redskull Trophy Ring

The stadium set up for this competition's contestants is unlike any that has been used in the Redskull Trophy Ring. Instead of an open battleground for bloodshed and violence, the arena is orderly, practically symmetrical. A pair of identically designed kitchen stations facing one another like reflections in a mirror. Anything a seasoned or unseasoned chef might need is at the competitors' disposal; A washbasin with running water, wood burning ovens and cook-tops, a smoker, chests of ice enchanted to never melt in order to keep perishables chilled, positioned alongside a seemingly bottomless chest of unorganized kitchen utensils with a ladder positioned right beside it, oddly. In the very center of these twin kitchens is a massive, wooden table, with every edible ingredient (legal or otherwise) imaginable from across Lithrydel. A spotlight from above hones in on the secret ingredient of the competition for the evening, raised on a platform slightly higher than the rest of the table's ingredients. The secret ingredient is currently covered, but plumes of acrid smoke pour out from beneath several of the domed cloche coverings. Perpendicular to the cooking stations along one side of the arena is where a host of judges sit, including the evening's celebrity judge and commentator who all have the pleasure of tasting the competitor's creations.

Horatio Mugwump’s unblinking gray eyes survey the stadium with vacant intensity. The vampire’s haphazard, jagged, protruding mouthful of nosferatu fangs are tightly clenched in his signature look of otherworldly disdain, key to the vailkrin-based culinary celebrity’s image. Stiff though the pale, blue corpse may be, there’s something distinctly… incrementally… increasingly… unsatisfied about him. Dressed in a crisp, blood red chef’s frock and tall, rigidly starched matching chef's hat, the vampire levitates around the competition floor, making his final inspection and making sure that everything has been prepared to his very exact specifications. “Mortal…. craftsmanship. Pah.” Chef Horatio wheezes with a hollow, exasperated sigh as he picks up a spatula, turns it over in his grasp, and gives up. Setting it back with the other cooking utensils, he floats up to the judge’s booth, crosses his arms over his chest, and glides vertically downward onto an announcer’s podium. An audible thrum pulses through the stadium as his feet touch the enchanted stone dias, activating some sort of magical voice amplification. “Life eternal has been granted unto me,” he growls in his characteristic dry rasp, “and yet again, I have run out of time. May this farce of mediocrity compound the comic shame that is my career.” The crowd roars, delighted by his dreary, on-brand approach. Classic Horatio. Stiffly uncrossing his arms, he gestures at the general scene. The dwarven arena buzzes with the clamor of fans. Great banners of red and white (cream and oxblood, for color snobs) adorn the walls, and bustling dwarven staff rush to usher latecomers to their assigned seats. Horatio goes on. “These four unfortunates,” he unfolds his arms to point a fateful, bony finger at the contestants, “may yet redeem my cursed existence. Only one pleasure yet remains in my miserable,” he articulates ‘miserable’ with unnerving care, “unlife. I. Must. Feed.” Another surge of enthusiasm from the crowd as Chef Horatio wraps up the brief opening bit with his trademark tagline. Dramatically clenching his fist, the vampire chef floats up off the platform again and into his assigned seat.

Nanette Fernius, a bay centaur with a flaxen tail and mane, doesn't bother with a chair at the judging booth. Instead her four horse-legs keep her on her hooves, and her upper half is dressed in a scarlet, silk tunic for the occasion, covered in all manner of unnecessary shimmer and gold glitter. She may not be cooking tonight, but that didn't stop her from topping her head with a white toque that is embroidered with the words in some ridiculous, loopy script across its brim, “Eat well, Laugh often, Love much.” When her hands aren't on her stemless wine glass, more often than not held to her lips, she's drumming her manicured nails against the judge's table. Ignore the glazed over look in her brown eyes. She's alert. Alert enough to lazily wave her emptied glass out to one of the crew that helped with setting up the event that she's decided is now called Wine Boy, a poor elven man who was tasked with keeping her wine glass full. He reluctantly fills it again for her while she watches Chef Horatio fondly (perhaps too fondly. She's starstruck, perhaps more with how her heart thrums) come into view, speak, and eagerly awaits for her big moment of announcing the theme for tonight's event before she can get back to her glass. And Horatio, of course. She has no idea what he's saying, but gods is she dazzled.

Valrae is here. Her guards are too, somewhere, but they don’t linger like shadows now. Her hair is pinned back in an intricately twisted, golden bun. She’d chosen kitschy, dangling earrings that were shaped as blueberry muffins that almost matched her short blue sundress. The witch takes her assigned seat and sits with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her heels tapping with excitement as she watches the contestants prepare. She didn’t know many technical things about cooking but she loved to eat and felt that was good enough. She was also excited because the very famous Chef Horatio Mugwump would be hosting. Valrae’s aversion to vampires was her worst kept secret, true, but you’d be hard pressed to find many in Cenril that didn’t have an affection for the eternally unimpressed character. He was a household name, after all. The witch cheered along with the audience as he delivered his renown tagline, secretly hoping she could snag an autograph before the night ended. She’d even brought her copy of his cookbook. She’d never been so close to a centaur, but she smiled politely to Nanette Fernius all the same.

Quintessa is here in the blonde haired, yellow-eyed feline disguise she has dubbed ‘Astanet’, dressed in a pale, lime green cocktail dress with a bright red apron tied around her waist. Her lips are painted a matching shade of red and her winged eyeliner is beyond excessive, however, in juxtaposition of her prim and proper attire she is barefooted like a peasant, strolling around like she hasn’t a care in the world. Once she spots Ina she skips over to meet her, her hands coyly held behind her back. “Hey, you must be Trish,” she doesn’t explain how she recognizes her. “I’m Astanet, the last third of Team Tri-Tail. Nice to meet`cha!” She giggles at her own joke before she moves into her position in the arena. As her feline eyes gaze over the kitchen that had been provided she cannot help but feel a little impressed, but she doesn’t linger on that feeling long as she becomes accustomed to where everything was located. She is ready for battle. Once she takes a lap around the kitchen she stands at attention at her station, looking at the judges with a mischievous smile. “I hope to please all the judges today- Thank you all for coming out!”

Lanlan slithers into the arena cloaked in the cosmic dust of Yanno (™), harvested from its extant rings in a feat of pure daring and magical competence. And exaggeration for marketing potential. So perhaps no one notices him enter, unseeable as he is. But when it’s time to appear, he does so in dramatic dispelling of his invisibility spell, transmuting it immediately into pyrotechnic sparkles and smoke. When it dissipates, he’s standing there, seeming to have just arrived by magic! He’s wearing the imposing lumpy toque of a true arch-chef, and a sleek black coat with two rows of buttons running down the front. White gloves and pants for contrast. Today he intends to prove how multitalented he is, not only is he an ultra-adept wizard sorcerer, he’s also a master chef. And just in case he isn’t, he has a few tricks up his sleeves as proof that he’s great. Also, whether or not it was standard, he introduces himself flamboyantly. “Good evening, all! I would just like to say what an honor it is to be here, to compete in this most esteemed place,” he says, surveying the crowd. Then he turns to the vampire. “Horatio Mugwump, it is an honor to meet you, after following your long career for so many years. And Valrae Baines! Mayor of Cenril!” He almost seems like he has something else to add to that, but doesn’t. “And my competitors,” he says, speaking to them directly and hoping to lock eyes with each of them. “Certainly birds of a feather by the looks of you, no mere quacks in the kitchen. May you accept my blessing of luck as soon as the dinner horn honks.” Subtly he hopes, he’s weft a sneaky little curse into the words of his greeting, one that would make it especially difficult for them to communicate with each other. Unless they can speak gooseish! The trigger of its effects was the moment they would officially begin the contest. Last, he turns to Lita. “My ally, my heart! Though we haven’t met, I’m so happy we get to on this prestigious arena,” he says, and then adds in a whisper, “do you know how to cook at all?”

Valrae resists the urge to boo Lanlan and politely claps for him but only twice.

Arlyeon sits in the corridor leading to the stadium, her hands quickly patting over the cream-colored apron she's sporting as though she were making sure it was intact. On a practical level, it's less so for the sake of appearances, given that it's a relatively simple bit of fabric, beyond the sloppily doodled black & red fox face on the front- complete with googly eyes. No, the foxkin's concern is more to ensure that the faint lines of pixie dust that are rimming some of the interior pockets are still there. Something which she's satisfied with soon after- leaving her instead to finish polishing off the bottle of murky liquid she'd labeled as 'Tonic Water' - and then explained away as booze. It's none of those things, in truth- being a rather spicy take on a fire-breathing potion, useful for flambees...and maybe just adding a bit of colour to her face. Because, whilst it might fall beneath the notice of most- those familiar with the fox might pick up on the curiously faded quality to her pallour, like a painting left out in the sun for far too long. Thankfully, she doesn't have any awkward explanations to make when her cooking compatriot saunters over- the unfamiliar face shot a broad grin, "Nice! Pleased' ta meetcha. Lemme jus'-" She waves Astanet off, even as the girl moves to take her spot- buying herself the time to let out a small hiccup of fire, a necessity so she can properly gather herself and follow suit. And like Astanet, she too bears a mischievous look, which only seems to broaden as she pans over the gathered judges, "Lookin' forward ta' seein' if I kin impress ja palate." Still, once she's given her dues to the judge, she sets her attention to the competition. Mostly so she can afford a bit of clapping for Lanlan's showmanship, and an enthusiastic whistle, "Whoo- " ..Wait, she's his apprentice as Aya, and his 'colleague' as Trish, "ps. ...Ch'yeah, that's what I meant to Honk." She pauses, lifts up a finger, and turns her attention over towards Astanet, "Honk. ...Honk?"

Lanlan notices a distinct lack of clapping from Valrae. Good, this must mean she is pretending to look unbiased and is definitely in favor of him.

Arlyeon whispered something to Quintessa.

(Ina whispered to Quintessa, "Honk Honk. .... Ho- ...*Yeah, no, that isn't working, so the fox just begins pointing at certain food items- which are omitted here mostly out of laziness, and to keep a sense of dramatic tension for future readers.*")

Nanette may not have finished her next glass of wine but that doesn't stop her from waving her glass out for a top-off from Wine Boy. He needs a better outfit. Did she have it in her budget to hire him for these shows and get a charming little uniform for him? She hoped so, and mid-sip she flashes a smile at Valrae. "You need a drink too, don'tcha? Wiiiine Boyyyy~" Nanette lilts, gesturing with a little too much flourish at Cenril's mayor. The elf grimaces, but he's making bank off of this so he plasters a charming grin on his face and prepares a glass of wine for Valrae.

Quintessa said to Arlyeon, "Honk."

Lita has no idea how she's gotten roped into this thing. Usually she'd blame Leo. But it seems more appropriate this time around to place blame on a certain little Trixster bunny. She's dressed in the usual little black sundress, feet bare, raven curls pulled up into a messy high ponytail (because probably no one wants hair in their food). She mostly ignores the judges table and the crowd gathered to instead peruse the kitchen stations that have been setup. Everything looks so shiny and new, though she has little idea what most of the tools do. Her skill in any kitchen is limited to knowing that they simply, in fact, exist. But this seems a bad time to be honest. Lanlan's magical appearance is a bit cause for concern, not because he's surprised her by appearing out of thin air (no!) but she's apparently missed some sort of chef-themed dress code. Glancing at the other competitors with a but of a pout, she straightens a hand over the hem of her skirt in defiance of come arbitrary uniform necessity. She quirks a brow finally at the judge's table when Lanlan makes his boisterous greetings. "Mugwump?" She asks under her breath. "You keep that name?" She makes a face, something between pity and apology. Val gets a wink, being the only judge she recognizes. And the centaur in attendance gets a long stare as she tries to puzzle out the mechanics of such a creation's origin. Research for another time. Lanlan earns her attention again and a broader smile with that bit of flattery. "Not. A. Lick." She answers with all the confidence of some five star gourmet master. "This should be fun." 22:03:46Valrae tilts her head up to flash a bright smile toward Nanette. “That sounds perfect!” She chirps, happy enough to let the… Wine Boy fetch her a glass of white. “Thank you very much.” She says, once the chilled glass is in her hand. She passes him a few gold coins secretly when she thinks Nanette is preoccupied with staring at Chef Horatio.

Arlyeon said to Lita, "*There's a salute offered, alongside an enthusiastic* Honk Honk!"

Chef Horatio sees all. Chef Horatio hears all. His blank stare is deeper than the catacombs and offers onlookers a glimpse at the bleak horrors of life among the damned. He signs Val's autograph book. "Best wishes, your dreary friend, Horatio [stylized bat, cartoon hearts]"

Mesdoram arrives as a curious observer for this contest – this being his first public appearance since his play in Cenril. Presumably accompanied by Brennia, the false drow gazes as the judges, the contestants, and the wide array of cookware the competitors have to operate with. Little does anyone know (because he has spent the last 2 years as a homicidal tool of devastation under the enslavement of Nariv), Mesdoram is a passionate cook and knows his way around the kitchen very well. “Maybe next year I can cook for them…” He whispers up to Brennia – thinking many would be skeptical that his food is delicious and poison free until he makes his proper amends. Mesdoram promptly recognizes Val, Astanet, and Arlyleon from his play, but makes no plan to communicate with anyone tonight unless they were in the mood – Mesdoram would, however, give a nod and an inviting smile to anyone who catches his soften stare… his signature, intimating scowl now just an old memory like his previous life.

Lita said to Arlyeon, "Same?" Lita offers a universally recognized symbol for peace. "I don't speak bird."

Nanette received her cue to get the ball rolling, and though she's loathe to set down her drink or take her eyes of Horatio, she does just that. The centaur clops away from the other judges, but not without flashing another bright smile to Valrae first, and heads for the arena's heart, stopping just before the massive ingredient table. For the sake of the rowdy crowd and the contestants gathered, her voice has been enchanted temporarily to speak over them all. “For ages, these great beasts of the sky have made meals of us,” her whinnying voice begins.”Tonight, our contestants will make a meal out of them! Our ingredient for this evening's battle is,” Nanette raises her hands up, and with that magicked motion the metal cloches simultaneously lift and begin a dramatic, skyward ascent to reveal the secret ingredient. Spread across the large platters are the innards and various body parts of different breeds of dragon, conveniently labeled with small placards for contestants if needed. A few of those placards are already smoldering due to heat and flame, and in some instances acid, that certain saurian breeds possess. Hearts, brains, stomachs, liver, large lungs bloated with different foul and potentially dangerous smokes, large clawed feet, and tongues primarily. There are even whole dragon horns available for use, resting atop platters piled high with fine and coarse powders that must be the same horns but ground up. A vat of dragon's blood (unlabeled, potentially a mixed batch from all the dragons harvested for the event judging by the way the vat's contents seem to gurgle and hiss, and oddly emit plumes of frost, spark, and flame), is also wheeled in by a pair of very strong gnome attendants, covered head to toe in layers of hooded robes and gloves to stave off the effects of some of that harmful ingredient if it does manage to spill. Once the gnomes have scurried away, Nanette shouts as some of the smoke plumes clear away and she motions dramatically to the gruesome spread, “DRAGON.”

Leoxander didn’t have a lot of free time these days, but he might have stopped by to see what the competition was about if nothing else, having never attended one before. Likely to stand out among the crowd of fans and their colorful attire, the rogue lingered in the corridor, leaning against the stone wall with arms folded over his chest and his gaze scanning the stadium set up and the spread. Val catches his attention briefly, but as blue eyes drift across the people present, his sharp eyes narrow slightly on Mesdoram and Brennia and he finds himself watching the couple over the competition for a while, studying the behavior of the drow and the dark-winged avian for his own reasons, just as that secret ingredient was announced. Good. More population control to those damned things..

Elhaym snaked her way between spectators with the sort of maneuvers typically reserved for the societal elite. The girl offered no warnings; she swept past people with purpose and temerity. Despite her self-assured motions, Elhaym wore the simple, no-frills, raisin black dress of a commoner in her Wednesdays, neither brimming with the frugal pride of a red-rimmed and eye-catching piece at week’s end nor mundane with the tans and beiges of week’s beginning. And yet, between the playful cast upon scarlet lips and the shining emeralds of her eyes, the girl looked more akin to nobility garbed carelessly in bedroom attire. Elhaym reached her destination - one of the only quieter spots in the arena, high upon the maenianum secundum in legneis, where she could keep careful watch over not just the main event, but the churls of life’s churn filling seats beneath her. They disgusted Elhaym. She was better off above them.

Valrae had winked back at Lita, offering her a toothy grin and a dorky double thumbs up. When the time came for kick off, she places the nearly empty glass aside and leans forward at the judges table in anticipation. But when the mystery ingredient is revealed, her stomach pitches and rolls. Her face turns a little green. She eyes Horatio, wondering if he could even sample any of the dishes now…

Brennia is beaming with a smile that spreads ear to ear and pokes dimples in her cheeks. Her fingers are laced with her husband‘s as they find their seats and of course are both dressed proudly in Alithrya’s gold and white. The avian has been enjoying the meals Mesdoram makes for her and finds his passion for culinary arts endearing, but she is starting to share this hobby with him and is just as excited to spectate this event! Her wings shudder once they are seated and one of them drapes along Mesdoram’s back. They couldn’t have left Alithrya unless Aiset and Drhada are accompanied with them to ensure their ‘safety’, but Brennia doesn’t mind. She leans in and places a soft smooch on the crow’s cheek after encouraging, “you definitely should enter next year, my love. I’ll help chop the vegetables,” she somewhat jokes about their time spent together making meals.

Chef Horatio feels Valrae's inquisitive stare. With stiff, creaky snaps, his head turns to face her, glazed eyes staring straight through her and into her primary, insubstantial essence.

Horatio said to Valrae, "It seems tonight will call for spitoons."

Valrae said to Horatio, "Something like that,” She nods while thinking she might need something more like a vomit bucket.

Lanlan himself is actually bird themed today, though nobody knew it before this very second. In the interest of haste, he floods magic into an ornately carved wooden idol hidden in his pocket, and ethereal wings of many-hued magnificence erupt from his back. They hardly seem to beat at all, but yet he glides over to the utility chest and begins sifting through the mess, before becoming extremely impatient. After a frustrating amount of time, he uncovers several implements he thinks he might need, even if he didn’t know exactly what he was going to do yet. He finds a series of random objects that seemed better used in a torture cave than a kitchen, but then again he didn’t know. He’s got a spiky mallet, a manual-meat-grinder, a melon scooper, and a cheese grater. Next, a series of bowls, and then he’s ready to browse the ingredients. He flutters over to the dragon graveyard and freezes. “Oh this is disgusting,” he laments, and he looks up at the judge’s booth to look mournfully at Valrae. He grabs the only thing that could ever be considered ‘clean’, a big dragons horn, curved menacingly and possibly meant to be used for bludgeoning. He probably has to use more than one ingredient, maybe, and he suffers. “They’re called sweetbreads for a reason…” He whips out his wand from his sleeve and channels brains into one of the large bowls before returning to their station. “Here,” he says, giving Lita the big bowl of brains obviously, “Start blending this with…six cups of sugar.” He starts grating the horn over a slightly smaller bowl, making incredibly slow progress. He looks over at Lita’s pile and gags, “Why am I here,” he moans. “Why am I here.”

Mesdoram spots Leoxander from his vantage point and recognizes the rouge relaxing up against the wall. The false drow frowns a bit remembering how Leoxander pulled him from the accursed pit and never properly thanked the man. Taking a big inhale, Mesdoram politely points out Leo to Brennia from their seats – whispering some hushed words about Leoxander’s selfless act.

Nanette almost lowers her hands, but realizes mid-motion that her spell is still active (poor horse doesn't use magic much), and those levitating cloches almost come crashing down from the air. The pair of gnomes sweep in with a save, magicking the metal dome coverings away with far more competency than she possessed and away from the cooking setups. Wine Boy is doing his job well, especially now that he's pocketed some coin. He refills Valrae's glass happily and figures he may as well top off Nanette's again as she starts clopping her way back to the judging booth. He looks disgusted at the notion of consuming dragon, while the centaur looks accomplished and hungry. And thirsty, because the first thing she does once she's squeezed her way back to her place among the judges, is take another drink. “I prefer reds,” Nanette says unnecessarily to Valrae, since her glass is clearly filled with some red wine. “Shame he doesn't have red hair...” Her tail swishes in time with her disappointed tone. Was she talking about Wine Boy or Horatio here? The world may never know...

Quintessa rushes over to the ingredients, her eyes already on the potatoes and onions- a staple really. “Hooonk!!” she calls over to Ina in a loud goose honk, not bothering to carry them over and instead throwing them in a wide arc over to her sous chef. She even throws a few sweet potatoes just in case. The reason the odd feline is saving time like this is because she needs non-dragon blood, lots of blood, and the blood run-off. Astanet takes all of the containers and bowls holding meat, and throws all the meat out on the floor carelessly- she doesn’t need it, and she brings all the blood back. Other things gathered are mushrooms, butter, milk, virgin olive oil, sugar, eggs, cream, and chocolate, lots of chocolate. Another thing the chef remembers to bring is the alcohol, Amaretto specifically, but she’ll grab a few for herself on the way back. Finally the blonde feline finally selects her piece of dragon- a fatty slab of belly meat, which she delivers to Ina’s station with a “Honk honk honk.” Next she moves back to her own station, grabbing the butter she’d need for her puff pastries on the way along with the flour, utilizing all the advanced kitchen tools available to her to create a dough and form it into rough balls. “Hooooonk!” she calls back to her sous chef, glancing over to check her status. There was still much more prep to do. After her dough is done she quickly moves on to trim the stems and clean her portabella mushrooms and combines them with baby spinach and bits of thyme.

Mesdoram whispered something to Brennia.

Chef Horatio clutches his hand into a claw and raises it. Black flames sprout from his knuckles and soon wreath his arm down to the elbow. From the aether, fell howling wraiths appear and drop onyx spitoons in the shape open-mouthed skulls onto the judge's table, one two three, for Horatio, Nanette, and Valrae. The cursed emerald eyes of the skulls, frozen in an eternal scream, twinkle up at them with tempting lustre that might inspire avarice in the most stalwartly monastic hearts. "See, now *that* is craftsmanship." Horatio's bushy eyebrows raise, impressed for the first time tonight. He sighs. Why can't everything come straight from the bone-hoardes of the fell litch lords? It's so hard to find good help.

Arlyeon has a grin plastered on her face, but in effect, she's currently undergoing a certain sense of existential terror. Mostly because, what had gone from a relatively -simple- plan that could probably be executed by blindly gesturing about become notably -not- with the introduction of the secret ingredient. For a brief second, a part of her brain almost entertains serving up a literal bloody Mary, just to see if their macabre judge would deign to take a sip- but it's Astanets diligent collection of the goods that gets the foxes mind back in the game. That, and the whole, having potato's thrown at her part. Without skipping a beat, she begins to catch and juggle the produce turned projectiles, redirecting them to the countertop as their momentums lost- a process she repeats until the barrage ends. Still, she's not idle once that's done- instead arranging a number of pans and pots over the wood burners- a few spits of that potion-prepped fire breath put to use in quick starting them to the desired temperature- allowing her the luxury of getting the pans ready for the olive oil when it arrives. The pots are handled differently, however, as they're loaded up with water in as roughshod manner, just enough that they can produce steam- before she tosses a bowl over each. With the first she begins to empty in the vast bulk of milk they acquired, alongside a healthy serving of butter. "Honk." She intones, wiping the sweat from her brow on her sleeve, giving the contents a whisk, before her attention skips over to the hunk of dragon meat. "-Honk-" she says, rolling her eyes, before she takes a knife from the table and cuts off a few thin slices and hurls it into one of the pans, along with a discreetly produced quantity of the pixie dust she'd smuggled in with herself- which is also added to the oil as a 'flavouring' agent. "On Hon Hon Honk!" Which simply leaves the last part of her prep work- emptying all the non-draconic blood into the secondary bowl, and dropping a bunch of miscellaneous spices like pepper, salt, and allspice into the mix. That's blood pudding-y enough, right? Whatever, it's fine. She'll just keep the two pots stirred, and get to peeling potatos. For both herself and Astanet. Speaking of which, she turns her attention to the feline, and lifts up her hand in a tentative high five motion. Out of solidarity, and not at all because she needs a bit of luck to make sure she doesn't torch the meal. Yeah.

Lita is second guessing this whole endeavor as the secret ingredient is announced to be dragon. This bothers her on more than one front, only one of them being that the blood is of some deadly amount of concern. She's no idea if the stuff cooked would be less deadly but she's no interest in finding out today. Dark eyes narrow at the sight of the vat of dragon's blood being wheeled into the prep area. She'd have to keep an eye on that, then. Leave it to somebody to pop a hole in that thing and flood the competition floor. She wriggles bare toes as she glances down at the floor for a brief moment. She catches sight of the pirate lingering nearby and offers a brief smile and a 'what the heck am I doing here' look. She can practically hear him smirk as he says something like, "Representing our island as best you can." And her mind does a grand impression of that gruff and brooding drawl before it lights up a cigarette. And then she's moving on, glancing up at Lanlan again. Maybe she should be chopping potatoes. That's something people did when cooking, wasn't it? Lanlan though is a flurry of movement, between Surprise, Wings! he's also gathering utensils and cookware and ingredients and she is content to stand by and watch. "Stop doing that!" She huffs as she ducks under a wing when he passes by again. Maybe this would be easy, though. Except he's shoving a bowl of brains at her and she's left to gag at it. Reflex. "Seriously!?" She complains. She huffs the bowl onto a table and reaches for a container of white powder. In her haste to get it over with and mild disgust, she forgets you're supposed to read labels on things and sets about dumping six cups of flour atop the brains. She reaches for a spoon and sets about stirring with enough velocity to kill eggs. The mess turns dry and sticky and she's pretty sure that's not right so she waits for Lanlan to turn his back a little and adds a bit of water and some of that bone powder from the dragon table. Maybe he won't taste it.

Leoxander met Mesdoram’s look from the distance since he had already been staring toward the newlyweds from the edge of that tunnel, not entirely swallowed up by the shadow but partly camouflaged for his usual black attire. He could be stealthy without being quite so subtle; the rogue didn’t look away to disguise his stare but locked on significantly to the drow’s for several moments before a slight shift of his line of sight settled on the white and gold dressed woman beside her. She certainly didn’t act awkwardly or in danger, even if she was once more accompanied by bodyguards or escorts. He wasn’t sure which. Finally, his attention trailed back to the contestants at work trying to make their dragon cuisine edible, and inwardly he felt a little bad that Cenril’s mayor had been coaxed to sit at the judges table. A little amused about it, too.

Leoxander sent Lita a smirk from the spot he occupied when the timing was right.

Khitti quietly made her way into the stadium and found a seat by herself, away from others. When was the last time she'd been here? When she'd gotten Tenbatsu Kaji? No. It was when Gevurah and Quintessa had had their little pet duel and things had not gone as planned. There's a brief glance towards everyone else in the stands, before her attention settled on the chaos in the middle of the arena.

Valrae laughs a little nervously at Nanette, “Most are a little too dry for me.” She replies easily, trying to puzzle out who exactly she’d like to have red hair. It was anyone's guess really. Maybe it was both. She’s distracted by the ongoings of the kitchen though, impressed by Lanlan’s typically flashing magic. The small smile that tilted the corners of her lips evaporated like mist in the morning sun the moment he chose brains, actual brains, and carried them over to Lita though. Lita’s reaction to him was relatable, to say the least. She was scowling then, borrowing a coping mechanism from the archmage’s own book by assigning this choice as one born from malice. He’d only picked the worst thing on that table knowing she would have to eat it! Clearly, he was still angry with her. As she pouted into her wine, her eyes moved to Astanet. She was interesting to watch, even if the honking made it difficult to know what she might have been preparing. At least she looked competent and capable. Trish was doing well too, catching everything tossed her way. It made for a entertaining show! The appearance of macabre spittoons was another fine show of magic. She claps, her eyes all but sparkling as she listens to the vampire’s complaining. He was disparaging even as he offered complements! Magnificent.

Brennia looks Leoxander’s way and is careful to not let her emotions play out in her expression when she recognizes him. She already knows this man, she was introduced to him through Hudson and even healed him once during the Rynvale ceaseless thirst curse. Her opinion on Leo is white complicated seeing as he choked her when they first met, but Mesdoram is hell bent on ripping people apart and introducing their innards with his blades… so she decides to never - ever tell him that. She replies in a whisper.

Brennia whispered something to Mesdoram.

Nanette may look relatively indifferent to the thought of consuming dragon parts, but that's because this judge had a trick up her sleeve. One that she might need to slip Valrae judging by that reaction. From the side sleeves of her tunic, she reveals a little glass shaker full of some sort of shimmering powder. She had a pair of the little shakers, and proffers one to the governor but not before sprinkling a bit into her own wine glass. “This is a flavor...enhancer. Makes anything taste absolutely divine.” It's pixie dust, illegally procured by some means that apparently Wine Boy is aware of judging by how he conveniently steps in the way of potential onlookers to help shield just what the centaur is passing over to a political figure. Nanette can't read a room, apparently. Blame the wine and Horatio's heart-stopping magical display. She's tempted to use the spittoon as a second wine vessel.

Quintessa reaches out to connect her hand with Ina’s and something strange happens. Reacting to both Quintessa’s changeling curse of bad luck and Ina’s own luck based shenanigans, when they touch hands for a ‘high five’ a burst of powerful bad luck echoes throughout the arena, carried by the sound of their clap. It causes pots and pans to spontaneously fall and milk to spoil- even someone’s seat in the crowd collapses and drops them on their butt. Quintessa senses this and freezes to give Trish a wary look before giving her a shrug. “Honk.” She couldn’t focus on that for long. She immediately gets back to work, grabbing a large cast-iron frying pan and putting it on medium heat. She slices onions into it and adds oil and salt, letting them sweat it out as she works on other things, most notably her dessert, which was the whole reason she got the chocolate. Using a cheeky cantrip, she chills her heavy cream and combines it with her chocolate, adding sugar to taste as she whips it into a mousse. During the whipping process the blonde performs one last trick, employing sleight of hand to spike her dish with a ‘potion of charm person’ from a tiny vial hidden in her bosom. With this added her famous dessert “Charming Chocolate Mousse” was complete. Now the mushroom mix is added to caramelized onions, releasing the scent of thyme into the air. Once this was cooked she’d transfer them to the pastries, wrapping them in intricate crisscrosses before she adds an egg wash and places it into the runic oven. Now she just had to rely on Ina to bring this meal home. Turning to face her at the last second, Astanet just manages to catch her pot before it falls over the ledge. “Honk!” She cries out in surprise.

Mesdoram would warming smile towards Khitti should she elect to match his gaze. He has experienced mix feelings since his apology to her, but is happy to have more words with Khitti should she desire them. For the time being, he would smile, give her space, and sit peacefully with Brennia in the stands – wrapping his arm around her waist as they shine in the Alithyra gold and white attire with their two body guards. He nods and snuggles her closer as she whispers about Leo, silently arranging a meeting between the three of them. “Your veggie slicing skills reign supreme, my love. Your stew could mop the floor with these entries.” Mesdoram sweetly kisses Brennia’s exposed shoulder supplanting his encouraging words to his wife. Watching how the others prepare the dragon, he wonders how he would prepare his own fillet should he bring some home tonight.

Valrae watches as Nanette pours some mystery powder in her wine. A small but terrible war begins to rage inside of her then. On one side, there was sense. The good sense that told her you should never accept mystery powder from strangers and especially not in a room full of strangers. The other side, the winning side, was the part of her that knew that eventually there would be a full plate of actual dragon brains in front of her and she would be fully expected to eat them and do something other than vomit. She finished the glass in a single turn and waved sheepishly for the Wine Boy, whose actual name she’d seemed to have forgotten to ask for, to refill it as quickly as possible. “Thank you.” The witch manages, speaking to both of them.

Leoxander only choked the people he tolerated enough to let live? Yeah, that must be it. Although he didn't specifically recall Brennia among those he has physically assaulted in the past, he did have reason to spare glances her way now and then to keep a quiet tab and some mental notes on her demeanor - without making her too uncomfortable but being obvious about it. Finally uprighting enough out of his lean to uncross his arms and reach for a back pocketed flask, taking a pull from it while his sun-spotted nose twitched now and then at both offensive and pleasant smells. One in particular that separated itself from the rest in his mind… it wasn’t food, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint where he recognized it from.

Khitti did not offer Mesdoram a smile in return. Nor did she offer one to anyone else that might think to gift her one. She looked terrible, to be quite honest, with ever-darkening half circles beneath her olive-green eyes, and her hair, though braided back, looked as if she couldn't quite tame it just right, and her clothing was all wrinkled, as if she'd worn the black dress, leggings, and black cardigan for three days out of the week already. But there was something... some sort of spark behind the depressed look in the redhead's eyes that cooking--even just watching someone cook--managed to bring out of her. She could live vicariously through them, even if she did not have the energy to cook herself, and this managed to keep her out of her own dour thoughts for a time.

Horatio || "Brain... dumplings?" Chef Horatio tries to pre-empt team LanLita, speculating aloud about what exactly they planned to do with that scrambled brain.... batter? "Daring is the father of greatness." The vampire mutters ominously, tapping his fingers on the judges' table in rapt anticipation. "Brain... noodles?" There's a fine line between genius and madness, folks.

Leoxander regarded Khitti’s appearance. Not with a smile, and not even with obvious concern. It had been a moment since he’d seen her but Khitt clearly wasn’t suffering the same turmoil as the female witch was. For a second he considered approaching her despite how inapproachable she seemed to be at the moment, but anchored himself with indecision and distracted himself with another drink from his flask before he twisted the attached lid back into place. He might have caught a familiar shimmer from the stadium set up, but was far enough away that he didn’t bother drawing up the black fabric over the lower half of his face, yet.

Lanlan notices something strange almost immediately with Lita’s process. Normally sugar doesn’t create a poof of white smoke when it lands in a bowl. Unless of course… it was powdered sugar! He nods approvingly at her surprising ingenuity. Unfortunately there is a massive oversight he’s forced to come to terms with: six cups was way too much, and there will certainly need to be more brains added to the mixture. Much more. But he’s busy. “Umm…Yes,” he says to himself, and wills a facsimile of life to enter the grater so it will continue working without him. After a slithery tendril of ethereal power enters the object, its scaly shavers become more like a shark’s teeth, and the thing curls around the horn and begins munching it into power everquicker. Then he flits over to the mutilated dragons again, hovering over them as he musters the will to gather some more up. Then an almost tangible shockwave of misfortune washes over the place, and a table leg breaks suddenly, sending all the ingredient piles over the end of it. After a brief hesitation, he attempts to save them. He lowers his stance and chases bowl after bowl in his indecision, and one by one they all fall down and cast their ingredients up and onto him. All he has is what’s in his hands, and he can’t say for sure what it is. He rises and turns slowly, smoldering eyes on Ina. He confirms when he sees how much fun she’s having, obviously at his expense: she did this. Suddenly this was no longer about winning, it was about them losing. His wings carry him not just to his station, but over it, and he dumps his load into Lita’s bowl, before turning a magical glance toward the enemies’ HQ. Slithering tendrils of mana wind out of his fingers and into a wide assortment of the tools they were using. As with his grater, they animate in menacing forms to wreak general havoc on their setup. Bowls begin barfing their contents menacingly toward their mixers, salt shakers spin over their enemies’ eyes, ladles bap with fury!

Nanette ;; What poor luck after that meeting of hands. A bit of that pixie dust she sprinkled into her wine glass manages to get up Nanette's nose, and she sneezes. It's a powerful sneeze, enough for her glass to slip from her fingers and clatter to the floor - and not shatter, surprisingly. With all her drinking, naturally she had to get her hands on a shatterproof glass. There's magic in how it's created and while she may not understand the details, it's the greatest invention ever made. She has at least ten of them at home! That little bit of pixie dust that went up her nose doesn't seem to have been enough to cause a problem. With her tolerance level, she'd need a bit more than that. And wine in her terrifying spittoon now, which she's handed over to Wine Boy. "Be a dear, would you get those gnomes..." She motions to the wine puddle on the floor. They'll clean up her mess. She uses this as an excuse to sidle over to Valrae instead of Horatio. Gotta play hard to get, you know? Can't be too obvious, even if every free moment she gets Nanette is staring at him. “How about I try some white wine this time?” And under her breath she adds to Valrae, after Horatio's wonderful observation, “He's breathtaking, isn't he?”

Valrae managed to spot Khitti in the crowd and attempted to offer her a smile. There was worry in her dark eyes though as she noticed the disheveled appearance and tired eyes. Her attention was pulled away by Chef Horatio and his talk of brains. Her stomach pitches again but she doesn’t linger on the feeling. She’s distracted by the sudden tingling that starts in her chest and creeps up to flush her cheeks. She blinks once, twice. When she turns back to watch the contestants the noise and motion was more fascinating than it had been before. The colors seemed brighter. The smells that reached them were more tantalizing. Valrae brings her wine glass up to her lips and her next drink is so sweet she forgets to savor it, emptying her third glass as quickly as she had her second. Yep, she’d be two sheets to the wind long before the brains found her table.

Brennia follows Mesdoram’s gaze to Khitti and instantly her heart sinks. The witch won’t look her way and Bre wishes to go to her, but more than likely doing that would cause Aiset and Dhrada to be on edge. Damn it all. She gently excuses herself and informs her husband, “I’ll be right back.” More than likely he is far too enthralled in the competition and she lets Aiset escort her to where Khitti is sitting. The pair of them has been through a difficult ordeal and Brennia hopes that has made them a little closer for it. “Khitti?” The fellow bard’s slightly raspy alto timbre greets Khitti and she gestures to the empty space next to the redhead. “May I sit?”

Valrae offers her glass out to Nanette with a grin. "Uh... Breathtaking. Fascinating. Both work. Not my type but the gossip columns all say he broke up with Natalia whatshername months ago." She leans in to whisper, "You know, the avian woman who was in all those plays about wars on other planets."

Nanette tried her best to conceal her glee at that news. Her eyes were glued on gossip columns all about Horatio but to actually -hear- someone say that the break-up was real, why it made her heart flutter. "She didn't deserve him," she eventually whispers back. "Nobody truly understands his majesty." Except Nanette, of course.

Lita is more surprised by Lanlan dumping what few ingredients he's salvaged into her bowl than she is by the table leg collapsing into a crooked heap and sending bowls and appliances crashing to the ground around them. She'd been pretty intensely focused on the stirring of this happy little accidental mixture of stuff resembling anything edible. "Are we making casserole?" That was a thing, wasn't it? Dump everything in a bowl, throw something crispy on top and scorch it a little? Maybe cheese would help? She gathers whatever Lanlan's grater has been shredding and adds that to her bowl as well. He's gone to wreak havoc with the other contestants. The chef is gone? She's been left to her own devices, here. Great. She grabs an egg, crushes it whole in her hand and drops it- shell and all- into her bowl. She'd read somewhere that eggs were binders, or something. More vigorous stirring. Like it owes her money. She finds a dish she assumes can be cooked in and plops- It makes an unhealthy and unnatural dense sound- the mixture from the bowl to the dish before spreading the stuff a bit more evenly in the dish. Their oven isn't lit. Was that one of her jobs? Fire seems like a bad idea. But the other team's is. Perhaps they'll be distracted by Lanlan and she can slip this dish into their oven. Nothing to see here, she'll just offer Trix a friendly little smile, trying to be reassuring and she's not at all eavesdropping on their cookery stations, even. Just trying to make sure they have something edible to serve up, here. Or at least, by definition, cooked.

Valrae nods and hides a laugh behind her hand. “Mhm. I mean, *you* might…” She suggests, her eyes twinking with mischief.

Mesdoram indeed was enthralled by the cooking contest, but did sweetly nod to acknowledge Brennia's departing words. For some reason, his gaze is drawn to the judge with a heavy taste for the alcohol... he briefly remembers all the whiskey he consumed to drown out all the voices... he then remembers there will be no more internal monologues with Hawkeye and wonders how his elven brother is holding up. "I should visit that man soon..." He whispers softly to no one.

Elhaym flicked and thumbed her bored way through her tiny grey notebook, drawing half-hearted illustrations of the faces of audience members she might like to rob later this evening. The flashier their garb, the likelier they were in for a spot of trouble to come. Not that it would matter. The richest among them had plenty to spare for sweet Elhaym. In fact, they had flesh enough for the chop shops, as well. Not that she had ever brought a corpse to one of those darling little establishments yet - not a fresh one, anyway. Apathetic eyes traced briefly past a fellow redhead and Elhaym winced; this one looked three feet into the grave. Best to leave that one to her own decay.

Arlyeon s' hand hangs in the air for a moment or two after the fact, her expression going from surprise, concern, recognition, and then a sort of sly assurety as her luck filching is essentially dispersed over a far broader area than normal. It's actually a bit entertaining to witness the ingredients center stage going off, or the almost pendulous tilt of the cauldron in the center as two of it's wheels decide to spontaneously pop, and set it's contents sloshing about. Which is hilarious, until she remembers she actually -likes- Lita, "H-Honk!" She flails a second, and her home made heavy cream nearly goes off the table, before Astanet recovers it, and drags Ina's attention back to the contents. Done, which meant- add sugar, cocoa powder, give it a stir- and then panic over everything else that needs doing. Specifically, now that the olive oil had time to be infused with the flavour of the dusted dragon meat and it's fats- it's promptly hauled out of the pan, if only to be replaced by the diced up (sweet) potato slices. A few of the left overs that can't fit in the pan are also added to the blood bowl- mostly because at this point, the foxkin has no idea how to thicken it. Which stops mattering the moment it's given life by Lanlan, and it cordially decides that enough is enough- the metal pot contorting, if only to belch forth a spray of boiling hot water, and macabre potato mush. "HONK?!" She squawks, first in panicked surprise- even as she all-too-fortunately skids out of the way. And then her eyes narrow as Lanlan looms high, her teeth gritting together in a defiant, "Honk." Without a seconds hesitation, the Foxkins takes in a breath, if only to promptly vent the rest of the fire that's been welling up inside her since she imbibed her potion- enough so, in fact, that she doesn't just mention to blacken her pudding- she also sends the pot firing forward towards Lanlan's dish supply. Whoops, sorry about your plating. An irritated and oil filled pan jerkedly hops a burner towards Ina in the aftermath, and it's all she can do to grab a nearby plate and slam it down onto the handle- launching the home fries into the air, if only so she can then punt a savage sieve after them- an assortment captured, even as others are sent sailing to the wind. The hot chocolate, at least- is somewhat easier to deal with, if only because it's rampant flailings mean the Fox only has to force a trio of bowls within it's vicinity to get a taster ready. It also means that it's -absolutely- not her fault that Val's bowl happens to be left near an open flame so the heavy cream can thicken uncomfortably- something whcih is only further facilitated by the addition of ameretto to the three- before the bottle starts to act up, and finds itself -also- hurled across the room. "Honk." The fox gestures from the still agitated sieve of fries, which now seemed to be in the process of getting away, and then over to her feline companion. "Honk Honk!" A cutting board is lifted up as an impromptu shield as a knife, and bottle opener both hurtle towards her- only to be swung like a bat through the spice rack as it marches authoritatively towards her position. "Honk."

Horatio || Obsessed with the goings on down in the arena, the bizarre strategies of the contenders, the promise of new and inventive cuisine despite the obvious setback of merely *adequate* equipment, Chef Horatio very nearly overlooks the mention of his recent ex. Very nearly. "That... harlot." He mutters through jagged fangs, adding a layer of seething vitriol to the word 'harlot' sharp enough to score dragon hide. "Her very mention sours my palate. Wine boy." Chef Horatio beckons, and the elven lad skids across the floor on his heels, dragged by some invisible force. "Bring me. A wine. Suitable to my tastes. Do not disappoint me." Nice knowing you kid. The color drains from Wine Boy's face, even as he nods his panicked assent and hurries off on his doomed, likely final, mission. Chef Horatio's eyes never leave the field of competition.

Elhaym was, admittedly, slightly distracted by honks.

Valrae chokes on her wine, surprised to have caught Chef Horatio’s attention with her gossip. If she hadn’t already been so tipsy, it might not have been as shocking, considering he was a vampire and she was seated right next to him. Never mind all that though, he was confirming everything the Blind Lurker had reported earlier that week! This was huge!

Nanette ;; “Oh I like you,” Nanette grins at Valrae. Someone who can actually see that she and Horatio are meant to be. She only dreamed of him nearly every single day during her pastry chef courses and tried to make a name for herself to get the Chef to notice her. Why can't he drag her over to his side like he did to Wine Boy?! She's practically seething with jealousy now, and downs the remainder of her...sixth or seventh glass, we've lost count already.

Khitti || Crimson brows furrowed as Brennia made her way to Khitti, the redhead immediately aware of her appearance again, quickly decided to hide it all away beneath the hood on her cardigan. The avian asked if she could sit and all Khitti could do was stare at her. She wanted to shake her, try to make her see reason, that staying with that snake--the Queen of Alithrya, of course--wasn't safe. She just stared and stared and ultimately sighed, shifting her attention back to the cook-off. She didn't tell the avian yes, but also, she didn't tell her no. "Your shadow isn't welcome here," she said at length in a whisper to the avian, with a brief side-glance towards the woman's escort, Aiset. "And if they do not return that which I have claimed, then I will overwhelm your shadows with my own." Despite her threat, there's a faint smirk as her olive-green line of sight bounced around to each of the contestants, the witch watching the chaos and imagining her own chaos in the kitchen. Before Brennia might do or say something, Khitti reached out and touched the woman's hand with one of her own, giving it a gentle squeeze. She's not mad at Brennia, but truly all these situations between Caluss and now her friends going missing is maddening for the witch.

Valrae smiles warmly at Nanette, her wide eyes glassy with drink and whatever else had been slipped to her. She still didn’t know. The room felt a little hot but it didn’t bother her somehow. Nothing really seemed too anymore. She wasn’t even thinking about the brains. “I like you too!” She chirps. There were disasters happening in the kitchens. The loud clamoring demanded her attention. She watched as Trish dodged flying utensils and Lita crushed eggs. The witch leans her elbows on the judges table. It was suddenly the most fascinating thing she’d ever witnessed.

Leoxander didn’t miss much. And at some point the captain’s attention rose to the nosebleeds, or the place for people more important than most, seating one. A red haired woman he couldn’t put a name to, with a face that he probably didn’t recognize at all, taking notes. It seemed an ideal time for another dose of liquor from his flask for the brief time that he studied the female jotting things down, but the observation didn’t last long. In the end, that was why he had shown up; a cooking competition wasn’t really anything that would interest him, but it was a valid excuse to scout denizens from whatever corner of the world they’d traveled from. But sure, part of his excuse for his presence could be to support his squad and his second in command, though he shook his head with a muted but amused chuff of a laugh in his chest as he watched Lithrydel’s ‘Barefoot Vampressa’ at work.

Lanlan eyes the saboteurs across from him, measuring their progress and hypothesizing their next attempt to undo him. They wouldn’t have to do anything at all, and in fact a spot of sabotage might be a boon at this point. He isn’t sure what it’s supposed to look like, but this grotesque pink mucus thing must not be correct. Presentation is everything, and nobody wants this much pink. They were running out of time he knew, this thing needed to be ovenized and bedazzled. Quick. Lanlan may not know anything about cooking, except this: butter. He heaps piles of it into the bowl Lita mixes, along with a few squirts of multi-colored food dyes. It had a nice hypnotic swirly effect in it. “Okay,” he says, “Oven it up.” Curiously, Lita goes to put in their oven, and that’s when he notices theirs isn’t on. There’s a brief temptation to be upset, but as soon as their abomination is away from him he suddenly feels infinitely better. There’s not much to do now but wait for the baking process…and the best part! The plating process. He’s perusing over various options when suddenly, they explode. A missile fires right through them, hurtling into the crowd leaving nothing but shards of ceramic behind. Panic overcomes him again briefly, but he looks into their now empty bowl of sludge. “It could work,” he says to himself. “It could work.” He begins slathering up edges of plates with the leftover sludge, while heating a pan on a stove-top burner. “Hey help me,” he says to Lita. A type of peace occurs where he’s so focused on his art, he almost forgets what he’s using for glue. At the end, he’s created some strange structural plates, shaped kind of like sail boats. The heat hardens their thin layers of sludge into a kind of super-adhesive cement, and bonds the shards together adamantly. When at last the baking is finished, he divides the strange beast, which ends up being a moist bread type thing, into cubes. He punctures the onto the top of his ‘plates’ where they stay like a star on top of a christmas tree. Together, he and Lita bring these strange ornaments to the judges. “For your enjoyment,” he says profoundly and proudly, unaware of the damage that was indubitably about to befall their organs.

If Quintessa (Astanet) was terrible at one thing, it was presentation. Just look at the state of her public image. Now, however, it was up to her to put together this meal. Her mushroom wellington was perfect, she was sure of it. The Charming Chocolate Mousse? Always a hit. Famous Vailkrin blood pudding was sure to be popular with at least one judge… but alas that was already a casualty. The fries were of course spiced with only the best, but now she had to catch them before they too were lost. With a large plate in hand she raises it above her head and defy saves the fires as she backs into Trish’s station, holding them under an angry salt shaker, who salts them nicely despite its attitude. The only issue was the rest of these blasted animated objects! Wielding a large ladle she defends her territory from Lanlan’s assault, a loud “Honk honk hoooonk!” in protest to this blatant invasion of her sacred space. They would never destroy what they created! Leftover puff pastry is used like a net to slow the oncoming assault and an entire bowl of animated blood is sent sailing across the kitchen in the direction of the audience as the feline whacks it with precision. The battle had been won but not the war. Astanet moves quickly to plate everything for the judges, spiced home fries as the appetizer with their drinks first, the chef informing them that they were titled “Honk honk-honk,” and “Hooooooonk.” A nice Amaretto infused hot cocoa a la heavy cream and pixie dust infused home fries cooked in the fats of dragon belly. She leaves them for a moment and retrieves the main course, lovely “beef” wellington, and the dessert, the Charming Chocolate Mousse- made with love (and magic). “Honk honk honk-honk.” and “H-Honk. Honk.” Sadly, she’s just stacked all the food together like they would at a mess-hall barracks, but she believes the taste (and the potion) will carry it to victory. She doesn’t need to turn food into some horrific yet beautiful, probably inedible art piece. Astanet folds her hands behind her back as she gives the Arch-chef a smug smile. “Hoooonk~” she coos out in a taunting tone before snickering to herself.

Nanette ;; “Now -what- do we have here?” The centaur sets her glass down once Lanlan and Lita's peculiar plate is placed in front of her. She's delighted. “What an avant-garde display!” Nanette marvels at Lanlan and Lita's dish, uncertain with how she should attack it. But first, a generous sprinkling of pixie dust on top of her portion that she tries to mask with some showy flourishing arms hidden beneath wide tunic sleeves. You can't really hide the shimmer, but if the audience doesn't notice, well... Fork in hand, she shovels in a bite. Now pixie dust will make anything taste phenomenal, but it will not alter a food's texture. So when she chomps down on a bit of broken plate, while it's delicious and sweet, it takes her utterly by surprise and she has to shield her mouth as she chews. “What -is- that?!” She exclaims, then spits a portion of the broken shard of porcelain into her napkin. It's obvious that it's a bit of a plate, but that pixie dust sure is some powerful stuff. “I didn't see anything like this on the ingredient table...” Emerald eyes linger on Lanlan and Lita with awe. Sneaking in ingredients? How clever! Now these two are talented. She jabs her fork in their general direction. “You clever critters. This is delicious and I must have the recipe.” And she pops that chipped fragment of plate back into her mouth along with one of those delicious dragon bread brain cubes, chews, then swallows. She has strong teeth. Ignore that her gums are probably bleeding. She certainly is. Or she just isn't aware of it.

Nanette said, "It'sh jusht sho- " Her mouth is getting stuck together, but she still tries to exclaim over the stickiness. "S'chewy"!"

Arlyeon sidles up behind Lanlan and clears her throat, which would maybe sound a bit more intimidating, if it didn't also accompany a sound akin to a rubber chicken being sat on.

Lanlan said to Loravelle, "I call it...Dragon Brain Jubilee."

Brennia concern knits her brow together and she wishes to find a way to help Khitti, but she must do right by her vow to her friend, Regi. This recent version of the Queen isn’t the true one and Brennia knows this, but she must play a part until she can get down to the root of the problem plaguing Reginae. Khitti’s hostile words aimed at her guard are mistaken to be aimed at Brennia and he loops his arm around her slender bicep to pull her back a step or two. The avian believes the harsh words are for her as well- at first, but she catches that glance to Aiset. At this time, she is unable to navigate how to ease Khitti’s mind while remaining without the guard’s suspicion. Brennia gives Khitti’s hand a squeeze in return with a look of resolve in hopes she somehow conveys without words that she knows what she is doing and there is a purpose for the avian in Alithrya. It will be a silent and thankless duty to keep her vow, but it is important to her. “You’re in my thoughts,” she offers while being escorted away from the witch- who successfully spooked Aiset.

Valrae watches, her eyes transfixed on Lanlan’s peacock feathers. The colors seemed to move and swirl together and beat like a heart. It was with a sense of great mourning that she looked away from them to the strange, sail boat shaped mess that was placed in front of them. There was color there too, muted and almost chalky, but it was just as captivating to the witch. “It’s so pretty!” She says, the earnestness in her voice making it clear that somehow she wasn’t lying. She takes up her fork and gingerly attempts to separate a small bite. It fought back, seemingly glued together stubbornly from its time in the oven. Eventually, she manages and takes a testing bite. Something crunched between her teeth. Thanks to her new best friend and a little powder, the sensation was actually a welcome one. It broke up the mushier textures in her mouth. There was little to taste. It was meaty, which normally would have made her instantly sick, and buttery and a little eggy too. It was somehow firm and not, sticking to her teeth and sticking her teeth together. The witch manages to swallow. “Mmm.” She says, fighting with it for another bite. She eats this one more quickly, frowning as she misses the crunch of her first bite. “Is it breakfast casserole?” She asks Lanlan, going in for thirds. Before her fork reaches her mouth again, the witch’s stomach makes a very loud gurgling sound. Embarrassment blooms red on her cheeks but she doesn’t have time to linger on it. She reaches for the spitoon and makes it just in time to hurle the entire wine and dust soaked contents of her stomach inside. This goes on for several long, awkward moments. The cursed contents of the spitoon sizzle. Someone hands her a wet towel and water and they rush away with the vomit bucket as it begins to roll with pink smoke.

Quintessa said, "Honk..."

Lanlan bows graciously as she compliments him, and then waits a second after Trish honks at him. And then after a very impertinent waiting period, he turns to her. "Oh hello Trish, I didn't see you there! Did you have something to say to me?" He wanted to hear a disgruntled honk before dispelling the quackeling curse

Nanette said to Lanlan, "I call it a work of art. You are incredible. THIS is incredible. I must finish the whole plate, but alas..." She motions to their competitor's dish. "I'll come back for seconds, don't you worry."

Lanlan said to Valrae, "It's actually meant to be all the day's meals in one bite," he says appearing to be in control of what he's talking about. And then as she barfs. "Yes! That too is intentional, you see this elegant little meal is so packed with all the nutrients required, that your body actually purges the rest, as it is not needed. As such it is perfect for long journeys in the wilderness or even just to stay in peak fighting condition!"

Nanette said, "Now that's innovation right there."

Leoxander hadn’t been near enough to catch any of the conversation between Khitti, Brennia and her guard, but he did glance their way and silently hoped the witch kept her cool. Not that he particularly cared when others got into their tiffs or feuds, but a certain degree of decorum would be a form of insurance for a just-in-case decision recently discussed. He didn’t intervene, but he did keep an eye on the avian as she made her retreat, landing his vision on the redhead once more, briefly, before he rolled his shoulders back individually for some pops and stretches, determining it was about time to head out while most attention was fixed on the culinary judging. The rogue wasn’t a picky eater, but he doubted he’d have an appetite anytime soon from what he’d witnessed of the event.

Khitti actually smirked at the guard as it became obvious that she'd spooked him. To think the Queen of Alithrya employed such cowardly people! Aramoth must truly be ashamed. Brennia would get a smile, as well as a "likewise", and the redhead would return her attention to the cook-off.

Arlyeon, having already partly resigned herself to this curse, and now almost certain that Lanlan was now responding to her precisely because she couldn't properly respond back- until she could somehow make amends for...whatever had cued it, decides to be a complete clown about it- one arm theatrically extended towards him, even as she offers up what she assumes will be a sultry sounding honk of, "Yeah, you wanna hook u- h" Except it's not a honk, is it? Her arm snaps back to her person like it was bitten by a snack, flailing at the space between them. She pops up a single finger, as though looking to interject with a comment, or question, and then decides that the best course of action is to abruptly wheel in place, rigidly travelling towards the rubble of center stage- to find the nearest bottle of (now somewhat spoiled) cooking wine. Glug, Glug, Glug. 00:50:29Lanlan said to Quintessa, "My that is an interesting pattern of speech you have there?" Then he dispels the curse of quackening for her, and it falls away from her in a staggering amount of white goosefeathers. "Where are you from that they speak like this?"

Valrae listens to Lanlan with the rag still covering her lips, nodding. “I see…” The sailboat plates are cleared away and room is made for the next dishes after Valrae has tidied herself, rinsed her mouth, and apologized for the seventh time. Which was good, because Valrae decided she was starving again. She braces herself with more wine before digging into the fries like a woman starved, “Perfect!” She comments but when she tries the cocoa the curdled cream assaults her senses so horridly that not even Nanette’s mystery powder can save it. Valrae gags. Loudly. “Oh.” The witch pushes it away from her. “I think that might have gotten too much heat.” Her tone was apologetic. The “beef” wellington was up. It was savory and well seasoned, so the witch says as much on her second bite. “This is good. A little gamey.” Maybe that was to be expected, what did she know? She was only breaking nearly thirty years of a diet absent of meat for the first time today. Finally, it was time for the chocolate on her plate. She didn’t know what it was, Valrae didn’t speak goose, but a cautious sniff of her spoon told her all she needed to know. The first bite was heaven. It might have been delicious on its own, but with the pixie dust and the charming potion, the taste was something that sober Valrae would search for possibly for the rest of her life. She nearly moaned. “Oh my gods!” The witch spoons more into her mouth, eating until nothing was left on her plate. “Is there more of that?” She asks both Trish and Astanet. “I think I’m in love.”

Once Nanette unsticks her mouth with the help of another glass of wine, she turns her attention to Astanet and Trish's plate, sprinkling a bit of her pixie dust on top of everything too with a little less of a flourish this time. It's coming on a bit strong and her movements have gone sluggish, which is made worse with all that wine. “A feast piled onto one plate. Impressive.” And a drink, which she grabs for first, gives it a curious sniff, and almost pouts because she can't tell if it's boozy enough by scent alone. Then the pixie dust hits. Well, this is perfection without even taking a drink, but she does all the same. Her reaction is embarrassing due to her half-equine nature, but the neighing sound she bellows is a positive sound. Promise. “DELICIOUS!” All manner of propriety and manners goes right out of the window, along with the desire to use cutlery. There's just so much to sample on this plate. The wellington, the mousse, the fries....the mousse. That mousse. She's eaten almost all of it and the potion mixed into it has definitely worked its magic on her. “Now this is...” Her eyes shift from what little remains of the mousse to the bready crunchy sticky cubes on their plate boat and has to do the unthinkable. Plucking one of Lanlan and Lita's sweets from the plate she tasted from (she shooed whoever tried to take that particular plate away from her since she wasn't finished), she scoops up a bit of Astanet and Trish's mousse with it and takes a bite. Now -this- is heavenly. But which is better? She can't decide, so she continues scooping and eating in a most undignified way. “The four of you should make -” She finishes chewing, then swallows. “..Honk-honk Brain Jubilee...honk?” Yes. That's the name now. “Everything here is just lovely. The mousse is my favorite. This is going to be so difficult....” She pops another mousse-covered cube into her mouth.

Horatio || Wine Boy returns with an oversized, opaque wine bottle overwrought with intricately lined designs that more closely resemble ribcages, muscle tissue, and wasps nests than anything else. A gemlike, polished bezoar is set into the bottle right above a lable comprised of... gently bleeding runes set in burnt parchment? "Aaaah." Chef Horatio sighs, accepting the bottle gingerly in both hands, turning away from the competition during the few crucial moments when missiles are flying, animated cookware are marching an assault, and general chaos erupts between the contestants. Of particular note, the animated bowl of blood seems to be living its best life amid the stands, prompting red and white guards to hurry in with billy clubs and animal control lanyards. "My finest cleanser," Horatio extracts the resin-sealed cork with a "pop" and a puff of burgundy-violet vapor that coalesces into a pair of intertwined snakes, then dissapates. Fortunately for Wine Boy, a member of Chef Horatio's staff had the forethought to send him with a Chef Horatio (TM) brand ivory chalice. "You have done well," the nosferatu congratulates the elven lad, slips a delicately enbalmed pixie mummy out of his sleeve, and tucks it slowly into Wine Boy's breast pocket. "Don't spend it all... in one place." Turning around, he pours himsel a glass, offering the chalice his full attention before, "yes, YES," looking up just in time to see Lanlan and Quintessa presenting their respective dishes. He takes a small sip, and faint violet lines of vapor curl up from the corners of his mouth. "I. Must. Feed." Plucking up fork and knife, he takes Quintessa's plate first to unblinkingly study it. At the sight of the blood pudding, he can't hide his excitement. Utensils daintily in hand, he works his way around the plate, slicing off dainty bites and carefully poking them the bristly mess of teeth that he must, unfortunately, call a mouth. One by one, he chews and spits, chews and spits, transferring each bite from plate, to mouth, to spitoon. "Wretched." "Incomparably vile." "Putrid discharge." He samples the much-anticipated blood pudding. "Aaah. Hmm." A hint of color enters the blue corpse's cheeks. He swallows. "Unfit to wean a motherless jackal." Perhaps to Quintessa's distress, the mousse, her ace in the hole, he spits unceremoniously into the spitoon with the other rejected bites. "A crime a disservice. Your cooking stands a black mark against yourself, your race, and life as a whole." Taking his napkin, he daubs the corners of his mouth. "Three out of five stars, four out of five for the wellington."

Quintessa said to Valrae, "Oh yes, I can make it for you again any time you want. Just say the word, Miss Mayor."

Valrae had jumped at Nanette’s bellowing and then laughed and laughed until her sides ached. “It was so good!” She agrees, bumping her shoulder against… Maybe it was one of her front legs? Valrae doesn’t know. It was an affectionate gesture anyway. It was Chef Horatio's reactions to the meal that stole her focus though. Her friends were going to be so jealous. She got to witness a master in action and was sitting right next to him! He said all the best things too, all the worst things he was known for. And then it was time for the dread star revelation! Four stars?! The wellington got four?! Valrae nearly squealed in delight.

Quintessa said to Nanette, "Honk-honk Brain Jubilee... My gods, you've stumbled onto something truly decadent. This gives me new inspiration..."

Valrae said to Quintessa, "My people will write your people."

Quintessa said to Horatio, "Yes, Chef Horatio. I understand, Chef Horatio. I'll do better next time. Thank you, Chef."

Quintessa whispered something to Lanlan.

Nanette ;; “Right?!” She felt Val nudge side somewhere, and her large and sturdy frame sways a little. She's gonna need to collapse somewhere after all the drink and dust and whatever this mousse is because she's resorted to just licking the plate clean after devouring everything else on it. Chef Horatio had such a stronger palette than she did, but sometimes he could be so negative. Nanette wouldn't talk back as his mind is clearly far more brilliant than hers, but she can't help but begin to develop an 'I can fix him' mentality to get him to be less grumpy and more smiley. ...Or maybe just toward her. Gods if he smiled at her she just might faint. Instead she nearly spills the remainder of her chocolate drink at the thought of Horatio's toothy grin. An airy, dreamy sigh follows, and then she turns her attention to Astanet. “Please, you must keep on cooking. You're wonderful.”

Arlyeon should probably be grateful that Quintessa is currently doing a sterling job of being their social face, because for her part- she's busy throwing away a partially chugged bottle of cooking sherry- which has all the complex afternotes of 'Regret, dissapointment, and too much salt'. The perfect chaser to those complex notes of somehow soured grapes. Was there anything left over that wasn't plated? The hot cocoa- right. She's just going to grab the whole pot of left overs, whatever sparse fries hadn't been put on the judges plates (including a few retrieved from the floor and counters), and meander back over- dipping the latter into the former. Good comfort food, at least.

Lanlan does not get the reaction he expects from Ina, which is something of a relief…but he still didn’t know how to respond. “I-what? No. Here?” Then suddenly she’s gone to fill herself with some cooking wine. “What.” Overall, things aren’t looking good for him, but there is still a bright and shining silver lining. At least he didn’t have to taste any of his concoction.

Chef Horatio carefully cleanses his palate, plucks up his utensils again, then turns his attention to the much anticipated Brain Jubilee. With care unbefitting the abominable casserole, he daintily carves it into perfect slices and selects his bite. He holds it up, studies it in the light, observing the oily rainbow sheen that thinly coats the tiny cube of gray, porous, shell-speckled casserole. "They say," he rasps, "the first bite is with the eye." Astonishingly, he willingly takes the bite in his mouth. There is an audible squelching and crunching as his fanged mouth chews, chews, as his desiccated tongue carefully dissects the many... unconventional notes. "Dissonant," he breathlessly remarks, "agonized. Tormented, the forlorn cry of a soul cast eternally beyond the light of paradise who," he spits the bite into the spitoon, "upon crashing to the brimstone and raising his broken head sees written upon the soot-blackened gates 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter'." Daubing the corners of his mouth again, he nods slowly. "The crescendo of my hatred and contempt has touched upon exquisite, deafening peaks heretofore unknown to me. Five stars." He picks up his wine, hesitates, sets it back down, and goes in for another bite instead. "Your place, surely, is secured among the howling, tortured legions. If I ever again," he spits, "give such a glowingly negative review, may the wraiths drag me bodily to face the just condemnation of the gods." He continues to slice, sample, and spit as he talks.

Valrae rises from her chair, swaying a little and using the table as a brace for herself, and claps. The audience goes wild with her. Five. Stars. Five of them. It was unheard of. Unreal. If this didn’t end up on the front page of the Blind Lurkers, no one was ever going to believe her. She probably wasn’t even going to remember.

Lanlan is suddenly silent. And Still. His eyebrows tremble as if touched by lightning and then, "Did he? Did he just say five stars?" His fabricated magical wings suddenly pulse with power as he rises even further off the ground, ascending to an exalted state. Was Horatio a longtime hero of Lanlan's, and the most special and specific person who's approval Lanlan secretly always longed for but never dared to even attempt to garner because of the sheer crushing heartbreak that would befall him should he fail? Maybe not, or maybe yes and Lanlan only never realized it until now. The esteem is converted directly into energy in his blood and bones, and his eyes glow first. Soon after, the rest of his skin begins to glow as he seems to be transforming into a being of pure magical energy, such was the power of the compliment he had just received. It seems he might really be off to take his place among the gods.

Lanlan looks at Quintessa from his enlightened height.

Lanlan whispered something to Quintessa.

Quintessa firmly clasps Lanlan’s shoulder and gives him a nod of recognition and respect. “Truly visionary.”

Arlyeon is, admittedly, lost on the proceedings. In part, because the moment her brain caught up to 'What. no. Here.' and processed the implication, it left her with very little in the way of words. But hey, what use were words when you were tilting a pot of amaretto tinged hot chocolate down your gullet, At this point, she's achieved a state of brain fried that has her wondering if Lanlan's abrupt ascendancy is some signal that she's actually asleep, and this is some sort of potion induced dream. Or maybe some after effect of her fire breathing potion- or the start of a booze and pixie dust buzz. She takes another sip from the bowl, runs dry, and decides to begin running her finger along the rim to get the leftovers. "...." She might be mumbling, it's hard to tell. It's fine, this is all going over her head at this point.

Horatio || When at last he has finished tasting his dish, amid the tumult of the astonished crowd, beneath the glowing body of Lanlan apparently on the verge of discorporation, he leans to confront the other two judges, reading their reactions and tryng to see whether or not they share his (correct) opinions. "The Brain Jubilee." The seemingly depthless vacancy of his stare bores into them with unfiltered intensity, either unaware or unconcerned about how such a vision might affect them in the middle of a pixie dust trip. "I will have no other answer." Below, a couple of the RTR's dwarven owners are emerging from one of the arena corridors holding a trophy adorned with a golden, bone-in ham. They will no doubt expect a clear verdict upon reaching the table.

Quintessa whispered something to Lanlan.

Nanette is still torn, but that potion hidden in the mousse is working its magic on her. To her shock, she wants to oppose Horatio's decision. “The mousse!” But maybe...maybe acting in opposition to him will make him notice her in some way. That and the mousse is just so dang good. This leaves Val to break the tie...

Valrae sat back in her seat just in time to hear the Chef’s final answer. It was unsurprising after the review that left some still screaming in the stands. It was his eyes that struck her. She was immobilized, panicked even, and sat so still that she even forgot to breathe. She looked for all the world like a frightened baby deer. Nanette’s objection breaks the spell. Valrae blinks and turns to face the centaur. Her brow furrows as she mulls the decision. The only thing she wanted to eat again was the chocolate. The brains had made her vomit. But Horatio was renowned! How could he be wrong?! The witch begins to sweat, fanning her face with a napkin nervously. “I…” The dwarves were nearly upon them. “The brains.” She finally whispers, just as the golden ham reaches the table. It was clear she already felt like she made the wrong choice, the mousse was better. But who could argue with an unheard of five star review?! It definitely had nothing at all to do with the archmage or bias. At all.

Lanlan is still hovering high above like a beacon of light, though Nanette causes him to waver just a bit. It’s Valrae’s reluctant and loving lie that causes the final burst of power to erupt from him. The ethereal wings trail off into technicolor ribbons that writhe with rippling energy before wrapping around him and coating him in a vibrant cocoon. Then there’s a flash of light, and Lanlan is Lanlan again, without the wings, without any apparent adornments. He’s so full of grace as he descends, appearing nothing but gracious and pleasant. He deserves this. Ever so slowly, he drifts lower and lower until he touches down again on the mortal plane. First one foot, then the other, as if gravity was only a suggestion that he could ignore. He’s metamorphosed into the exact same person apparently, what a stunning change. He moves to accept the grand trophy. “My infinite gratitude to the three of you most honored judges, and to my fellow chefs, and of course, my ally in this endeavor. Her help is so greatly appreciated.”

Chef Horatio stands decisively the moment Val renders her vote, breaking the tie bringing tonight's event to its final culmination. "The Brain Jubilee!" The nosferatu howls at the approaching dwarves, who smile approvingly. Beckoning Lita and Lanlan over, the two well-dressed, jolly, and particularly stout dwarves say something beneath their beards, though it's impossible to hear them beneath the uporar. Regardless, their eyes say it all. Just as they hold up the trophy, as they extend it out toward the glowing Lanlan, a last fain whisp of animus twirls through the air. It slips into the golden hamhock which, promptly animating, begins swinging around on its trophy stem, rather like a solid gold boxing glove. With a dull "clang, clong" it knocks out one dwarf, then the other, and will then fight its best to escape, whether Lanlan is already holding it or not.

Arlyeon isn't quite sure how long she's been trailing a finger through the mostly clean bowl, but the cocoa supply has long dried up- leaving her with little reprieve from the curious reality unfolding before her. She's still not quite sure if it is, but the dryness in her mouth doesn't feel imagined- and so, she awkwardly turns towards Astanet, extending one hand as though to shake, before switching it up to a stiffly executed wave, "It's good ta' see- ..such a, uh, promising contender in tha' culinary world. Ch'yeah. That." She casts a sideways look towards the trophy, and the two laid out dwarves, before her attention flicks back, "Maybe sometime later, we can catch up and trade notes. Work together on somethin'." Her brain is starting to gather itself again, picking up on details- like Valraes taste in cuisine, which might be helpful if she ever needs to curry favor with the witch.

Lanlan offers to take Lita’s hand so they can take the trophy together, but an errant flux of his magic seems to have escaped him during the strange cosmic event that occurred to him after the ultimate compliment, and has animated the trophy wildly outside his control. Perhaps a lingering need to ‘escape at all costs’ incarnated into it, driving it into a terror. He’s focused on the adoration of the audience and doesn’t see the wind up, but after soundly clocking the dwarves, it slams into Lanlan’s shin dropping him to one knee. With fluidity impossible for such an object, it curls its weight behind and flicks back! Knocking Lanlan up under the chin and he falls flat onto his back. Then it intends to continue making its escape, clanging on the stone floor and splashing through the dragon-mess.

Valrae || The flying ham was the final nail in the night’s coffin. With this new, albet mild, threat of danger and clear inebriation of the Mayor (who was still gawking at Lanlan’s magical show), the Cenrili guard appears to collect the blonde and cart her away. The carriage ride home was filled with several stops. Valrae would need a week to recover from this.

Chef Horatio claps his hands twice, crosses his arms over his chest, and floats offstage without so much as a word to the contestants or other judges. A couple of stage hands are waiting by the side of the ring with his coffin. The lid flings itself open, the nosferatu floats in, and it slams itself shut over him with abrupt finality. While the stagehands carry him out, the some of the RTR staff are rushing up to the judge's platform to try and address the trophy situation, ministering to Lanlan and the fallen dwarves. While security chases down the last of the animated cookware, the crowd begins filing out.

Lanlan comes to his senses gradually, and sees the enchanted trophy carving a brutal path on its way to the exit. Its incredible dexterity combined with absolutely precise timing and crushing blows have allowed it to ultimately escape. Lanlan doesn’t accept this however, and rushes off after it; the well-earned prize of a hard-fought battle. The clanking sounds grow quieter and quieter as the trophy goes further and further away, Lanlan chasing behind.

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RP:RTR, Feast Edition

Event Overview

Format

Flagging and Foul Play

The Redskull Trophy Ring