Proper Food

The inn smelled like old firewood, fried something, and indecision.

Lindarion made it to the common room half a step behind Ashwing, who burst through the swinging door like a noble conqueror who had just woken from a nap and remembered food was a thing.

The dragon didn't walk. He pranced. Tail high, wings slightly out, claws tapping like he had a soundtrack only he could hear.

Lindarion followed, scarf half-twisted, boots slightly uneven, and dignity bleeding out of his posture one step at a time.

Ren was already seated at the nearest table, trying to balance a buttered roll on Meren's head.

Meren looked dead inside.

"Is this breakfast," Lindarion said flatly.

"It's performance art," Ren replied.

"You should be arrested."

Ashwing made a noise that sounded like approval.