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It is the usual ceremony and entourage of vassals walking into the Great Hall with your foreign guests. When you think about it, it is amazing how quickly you've acclimated to the oddity of publically dining for every meal before an audience of supernatural bipedal goats and strange foreign dollmen. Modern notions of private dining with portions enough for one person per meal are something the Baphomets of Camelot cannot understand, nor is it efficient.
The kitchen of the Castle is intended to feed hundreds. Just lighting the fireplaces to cook takes an enormous amount of effort and firewood, so it is wasteful to cook a small bit of food for one human. Even Ser Rodomonte and Lord Mordred bowed to necessity and sacrificed privacy to dine in the Great Hall. The Baphomets could sustain themselves on Mana only, but eating good food helps to stretch their existence out a little bit longer.
So you listen to the same prayers and give the same false toasts of friendship, but today there's a twist. It turns out that hangovers can plague dolls. The Romans look decidedly green around the gills and tired; that bottle of Absinthe packed quite a wallop.
Legatus Gaius sits to your right, looking at his food with disinterest and impatience to start talks regarding the escapee. Though his porter has been carefully cutting up select morsels of food and waiting to feed his master, the head refuses to open his mouth to eat. You've been strategizing how to handle the situation to your advantage and decide to let the dollman stew with his thoughts until he can't take it any longer.
"This is no time to relax and dine elegantly! Property of Roma has absconded from the <span class="mu-i">Zama</span>! What news do you have of the escapee? A mere galley slave cannot have gotten far! The Imperator will make you pay if you steal her property."
At last, the bodiless head barks out his annoyance, unable to remain diplomatic. The Great Hall falls into silence as the highest-ranking Baphomets of Camelot turn to watch the proceedings with great interest and narrow eyes. A shiver of indignation ripples through the ranks.
<span class="mu-r">"How much?"</span>
This shuts up the envoy. This simple, short answer is full of polite menace; after all, he just accused you of an intent of theft before your vassals. You take a sip of well-watered ale from your cup and give the Roman a bored look.
"How much for a corpse? There's no guarantee that you'll get your escapee back alive. My Baphomets are outraged about the intrusion of strangers in the City, and darkly mutter that it is a ploy to defile the sacred soil of Logres. Make no mistake, my honored guests, that I am the guarantor of your safety. My will and command are the shield between your countrymen and those who clamor to purge you from the island of perfection."
