He glanced up, briefly, and was snare-snatched and clutched by the black-gold heterochromia of the womer across from him. She had not cracked her platter, either; she watched him across it, cheeks flush-lush and heavy eyelids fruit-flesh fresh. Then she looked away, and her delicate hand rose to grasp the handle of one of the sea-porcelain pitchers, and a breast-gush of froth flowed into her goblet; glugging amrita, purest white against the black iron. And Jon looked down, hearing the clink of the pitcher set back down on the table, and then lifted away the lid of his dinner.
Steam kissed his face with droplet-dimpling blossom burst; a rush of familiar flavors crushed against his nose like old clothes or dried flowers, and quite suddenly he was no longer in Alinor at all, no longer anywhere in Tamriel that he had visited for the past fifteen years. He was back home, at last, back in the cramped little clay-bricked kitchen of his childhood with the richness of fresh-boiled rice twining