Book One, Chapter One, Post Thirteen

One by one the other guests seem to be beginning their meals, but still Flynn waits. He makes a curious noise as the High Lord continues to wait for his guests to supp, and he considers for just a moment letting his host continue his vigil. The audible burble of his stomach quickly stymies that notion, and he greedily takes his first bite.

The High Lord doesn’t seem to mind as people begin to eat. It gives him a moment to survey those who have gathered. As the last person’s plate is set in front of him, High Lord Fennix raises his fork and knife and begins to eat. His wife leans over to whisper to him, and he gives the slightest dismissive shake of his head.

Terrence engages the woman next to him in a subject which he assumes is of mutual interest: his acting credentials. He goes on at some length. “—Which is hardly surprising, since every theater critic in Old Asphyxten is a Tiefling or some lesser devil or other. Do you know what they said? ‘OVERBEARING!’ ME? RIDICULOUS! But, despite the infernal machinations of the Asphyxten entertainment media, the public appreciates my work. My one-man show packed them in—er, to the square outside the fishmongers. One patron said that she found that my interpretation (through the medium of puppetry of course) of Old Man Ghasp to be 'uncanny'. No, wait... she said, ‘upsetting’. Same thing. In any event, she was very moved.”

The woman Terrence speaks to nods in attempted sympathy, humming when she should, but she is mostly focused on her food. The soldier sitting on the other side of Terrence grunts then mutters, “Shouldn’t refers to our king like old man.” His common is a little broken, but his point is clear.

Even through the din of the gathered guests all eating, the nattering of the young, blond man stands out. Finally, Flynn points a fork full of potatoes at him. "You talk an awful lot for someone with so little to say. Put that mouth of yours to actual use and enjoy some more food. Listening to you, I find it so hard to believe that you have a chance at a meal like this very often. Best fill that belly while you can and save us all from any more of your story." Flynn proceeds to stick the fork in his mouth, as if to demonstrate.
Terrence looks shocked. Then thrilled. He smiles wildly. The casual contempt, the assumption of authority, the pedantic sarcasm--at last! The celestial forebears had finally answered his prayers. They had sent him the one thing that every genius actor needs to make his mark in the world: The Director.

Terrence answers, "Yes, yes! Of course! Hunger! The most primal of all motivations!" He puts the fork in his mouth in imitation of Flynn and chews vigorously. "Like this, sir?" he asks hopefully.

"No. What?" Flynn narrows his eyes and leans forward slightly. "Are you mocking me? You can't be serious right now."

Oh no! thinks Terrence, he hates my performance! "I can be serious! I was going for ravenous! Give me a chance! I can do this." Terrence attempts to portray a less light-hearted version of hunger as he shovels salad into his mouth. He locks eyes with The Director as he chews. "You shay jumph and I ashk how high, shir," he offers, flecks of pear dribbling down his chin and onto his plate.

As the handsome man makes an absolute fool of himself by shoveling the last of his meal into his mouth, arms and utensils and bits of food flying every which way, Terrence knocks the hand of the server who moves to replace his empty glass with a full one.  The amber colored drink spills all over Terrence, and the container falls to the ground, shattering over the stone floor.

All eyes turn to Terrence and those around him.