They were heavily armed and radiating an immense amount of petty, judgmental energy.
"Look at those sconces," Sir Gallahan murmured to Sir Lucas, gesturing with a pristine, silver-gauntleted hand toward a wall fixture shaped like a screaming boar. "Solid brass, yet they haven't been polished in a month. And the rubies on that pillar? Asymmetrical. It is an aesthetic tragedy. I feel visually assaulted!"
"And I am being physically assaulted by the temperature," Sir Boris grunted, his massive chest heaving as a bead of sweat rolled down his scarred face.
The giant of the Vanguard was practically baking inside his heavy plate armor. "If this dinner does not feature an ice-cold keg of ale, I am going to throw my war hammer through the nearest glass window."
