There was food. So much food. More food than she'd ever seen in her life on one table.
Red's knees had almost gone weak upon beholding the feast, all worries about the criminal brand on her hand going clean out of her head. So much. It was the sort of thing she had dreamed of as a child, hollow-eyed and bone-thin. No way that six people could finish this. Groby could probably feed a whole village with this spread and still have leftovers for the dogs and pigs and the rats. Was this was it was like to be rich? How could one person have so much food when there were poor people on the other side of the city? Children like how she'd been back then, when she was weak.
Feeling sorry for hungry people who weren't here wasn't going to get them fed though. Rathi had always said to be thankful for whatever you got. To not let anything go to waste. So that sweat of those who had toiled and and the blood of those that given their life for her meal, their sacrifice might live on in her strength.
This food, it was delicious. But she couldn't eat of this. Not all of it. Not even if she ate until she burst.
She would just have to do the best she could then.
Red sits a little apart from the others, slightly abashed by their hearty eating, visibly tense as she doggedly studies her plate, trying to decide just how much more venison and bacon she could stand before her stomach rebelled. Though her armour shines bright and her tunic is freshly washed, her hair is still wild and tousled, a small tear already rent in her tunic sleeve from playfully wrestling with Rico on the way here, the tips of her boots scuffed from where she'd kicked pebbles into the drain. And she'd chosen to remain in her travelling clothes - a poor choice, she'd guessed, based on the twitching eyebrow of the herald at the door. (A pretty dress, she knew, would have been more proper. But she hadn't worn a dress since she'd left her father's house at all of ten years old, and there was no power on earth that would make her willingly wear one again. Nor would she spend on something to be worn but once.)
From his end of the table, the Lord-Mayor pops the cheese into his mouth, chewing with mild relish before waving at an aide to clear his plate. Porcine-like as his visage might be, the more perceptive of you would have noticed by now that the gleam in the man's eyes has likely little to do with his excellent Ustalavian vintages. Indeed, Grobaras is reputed by even his bar-room detractors to have a mind like a sharpened bear trap, making it a decision most unwise to underestimate him.
"My friends," announces the Lord-Mayor as he genteelly settles back into his high-backed chair, one outstretched hand accepting a goblet of warm brandy from a liveried butler. His voice is uncharacteristically deep and mellow for a man of his size. "I believe there is the matter for which I invited you here to discuss. As regards our mutual concern over Magnimar's communications with our holding at Turtleback Ferry. If you would be as kind as to join me at this side of the table?"