Mola sank into the chair, a long, shuddering exhalation escaping her lips as if she were releasing the entire weight of her exhaustion into the plush velvet.

  Bazren: "Damn. If I hadn't been watching the whole thing, I'd have guessed you had to hunt our lunch all by yourself with how spent you look."

  A poisonous glare was the only reply Mola could muster. A young waiter, his uniform crisp and his smile professionally bright, approached their secluded corner table.

  Waiter: "Good afternoon, madams and sir. May I serve you?"

  Mola: "Of course! You should've already started. We're starving."

  She shot Bazren a look of petty, triumphant superiority.

  Mola: "Or at least those of us who *can* be, are."

  The comment glanced off Bazren's indifference, but the waiter, unperturbed, simply nodded.

  Waiter: "Who will be having the rotisserie chicken?"

  Mola's hand shot up, a flicker of genuine excitement in the gesture.

  Mola: "Right here!"

  With a gentle movement, the waiter placed a plate laden with golden-brown, glistening chicken before her.

  Waiter: "And the spiced tripe?"

  Mola: "He'll take that."

  She nodded towards Xayn. The waiter set down a steaming bowl of the rich, aromatic stew. He moved to the final dish.

  Waiter: "So the fish salad goes to the madam over here, then."

  Bazren's new eyes narrowed, her gaze falling upon the artful arrangement of leafy greens and pale, flaked fish.

  Bazren (muttering): "Salad...?"

  Waiter: "The fish salad is one of the house specialties, ma'am! Great if you're trying to lose some weight."

  Bazren: "If I'm *what*?"

  The waiter's face flushed a brilliant, panicked crimson.

  Waiter: "T-that's what the other madam commented!"

  Mola offered a sickly-sweet smile that didn't reach her eyes.

  Bazren: "Oh, it was, was it...? My friend has a very peculiar sense of humor. But actually, I'm not a big fish fan. My buddy Mola is though, and since chicken is a lean meat..."

  In a single, swift motion that was too fast for the waiter to properly track, Bazren switched her plate with Mola's. The heavy ceramic of the chicken platter landed before her with a solid, final thud.

  Bazren: "I won't ruin my diet."

  The tension in the air was thick enough to taste. Xayn, ever the mediator, broke the silence.

  Xayn: "Thank you. We'll call you if you need anything else."

  Waiter: "Certainly...! If you'd like any drinks, you can fetch them by --"

  Mola: "I KNOW WHERE TO FETCH THEM. Let us eat!"

  She glared down at the unwanted salad, her knuckles white around her fork.

  Waiter: "O-of course. Enjoy your food!"

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  The waiter bowed hastily and beat a swift retreat.

  Mola: "You're lucky we're in the middle of all these people, Bazren..."

  Bazren: "Huh? Why? You didn't seem to have a problem starting a scandal in the middle of lunch service, just then."

  Mola took a deep, steadying breath, the effort visible.

  Xayn: "Well. As the gentleman said, enjoy."

  Bazren was the first to act. She lifted a piece of the warm, roasted chicken. The aroma, rich with herbs and rendered fat, hit her first -- a complex, overwhelming sensation for a sense she had forgotten she possessed. As she took a bite, her eyes widened.

  Warmth. Texture. Flavour. An explosion of salt and spice and savoury meat bloomed on her tongue. It was a cataclysmic, sensory overload. Hot tears, startling and foreign, welled in her eyes, tracing paths down her new cheeks. A choked, half-laugh, half-sob escaped her.

  Bazren: "Holy shit..."

  Mola watched her, a flicker of envy in her exhausted gaze.

  Mola: "Seems like the chicken is pretty good."

  She turned to Xayn, who still regarded his dish with a stoic curiosity.

  Mola: "Go on then, Xayn. Stuffed cow stomach. Yum-my."

  Her sarcasm was thick, but Xayn seemed not to notice.

  Xayn: "Meat is meat, is it not? The part of the animal one eats is of little concern, in the end."

  He took a fearless bite. The effect was instantaneous. His body went rigid, his own eyes watering as the complex, spicy flavour assaulted his senses.

  Bazren: "YEAH. It's good, isn't it Xayn?!"

  He closed his eyes, chewing slowly, deliberately, a profound, incredulous smile spreading across his face. He inhaled deeply, as if trying to commit the very memory of the aroma to his soul.

  Mola: "What fun. What joy. I'm glad you're both having a good time."

  She stabbed a piece of fish with her fork. The taste was clean and fresh, but her enthusiasm was a ghost.

  Xayn: "I didn't think I'd ever taste again, let alone something so... delicious."

  Bazren: "You're preaching to the choir, brother..."

  Mola's gaze darted between their enraptured faces.

  Mola: "So. Your stolen bodies came with working tastebuds, then. Lucky you! Not so lucky for whoever you stole them from, I guess."

  Bazren was too consumed by her meal to offer a retort, but Xayn had regained a measure of his composure.

  

  

  Xayn: "So, Mola..."

  He paused, swallowing a mouthful of the rich stew.

  Xayn: "Why don't you tell us about the man named 'Sir Vivi'."

  Mola's hand tightened around her fork, her body tensing.

  Mola: "How did you hear about him?"

  Xayn: "How would I not? It is all anyone is talking about in this inn. He murdered a man just outside, mere moments before we arrived for lunch."

  Mola (muttering): "That was him, was it..."

  She cleared her throat, pushing her plate away slightly.

  Mola: "He's the one who's going to put you two in the dirt. You know..."

  She slammed her fists on the table, the cutlery rattling.

  Mola: "... Where you belong."

  A calm, unthreatened smile grew on Xayn's face.

  Xayn: "Sure. But I'm more interested in what he is. By all accounts, he seems rather super-human."

  Mola shrugged, picking at a piece of lettuce.

  Mola: "Master Purdamma is the one who used to know him well. Far as I could tell, he is human. Larger and much stronger than any human, but... I suppose that is how he was born."

  Xayn: "I see. A human you believe to be stronger than the three of us...?"

  Mola: "Three of us...? I never sa--"

  Her gaze flickered to Bazren, who was now looking back, a piece of chicken held mid-air, her expression expectant.

  Mola: "Oh. Aren't you too old to be a tattletale...?"

  Bazren: "Eh. Aren't you too young to have those big bags under your eyes?"

  Mola grit her teeth.

  Mola: "Flesh-stealing corpse-slut."

  Bazren: "Witch bitch."

  Mola shook her head, disengaging.

  Mola: "Look. Nothing looks superhuman about him. But, truth of the matter is he has yet to fall in battle. For a guy in his twenties to show up out of nowhere and start trouncing veterans left and right, winning tournament after tournament... Yeah, no way foul play isn't afoot."

  Bazren: "If only your Master was still around so we could ask her about him, huh."

  A sharp, familiar pain lanced through Mola's mind, a voice of scornful warning.

  Purdamma: "Vivi...? What could you possibly want with him, Mola? Steer clear of that man's path. He's flown too close to the sun himself, nothing but a bad influence for you."

  Mola flinched, shutting the voice out.

  Mola: "Yeah, tough luck, isn't it. Still, what does it matter? Bazren seemed sure she could beat him."

  Bazren: "Hah. You think Xayn's asking because he's concerned he'll lose?"

  Xayn smiled, a slight exhalation through his nose. He understood her confusion.

  Xayn: "Oh. Make no mistake -- losing is no option."

  He leaned forward, his new body language shifting, becoming more focused, more intense. His voice dropped, low and confident. Predatory.

  Xayn: "All I'm wondering is if he's worth more to our journey dead, or as an ally."