[Hayame had never been one for decadence. Perhaps it was more accurate to say that she had never been given the opportunity to know if she were the type for it, but she had been born in the bitter cold of a frontier breeding stable as a slave. An overseer of her own kind, yes, but her privileges had been crumbs of dignity and being allowed to keep her arms, not coins and gold and finery. Those, she had secretly resented, even as she pretended to accept them as the natural product of society's proper form, with those above rewarded for their surely just efforts.

... But in Kenos, and in these false Oracle trial dream worlds? There was no longer any need to pretend. She wears her distaste openly as she begrudgingly attempts to search for the shard of this world. The man is Meridian, and so to impress the Oracle surely she must demonstrate a willingness to fight for his world as well as her own? But, sixteen hells, how stuck up can one man be- ?]

It seems you have found a good use for that "food"...

[Hayame does not reach for it, (yet?), because she is busy staring at Fane's handiwork, watching the rotted food slip down the fine painting of... a visage she has seen so much of in this accursed home that is full of wails and laughter and moans and any other sort of noise a damned soul could make. It is a foul place, and yet something about it is so...]

Never have I seen a man so in love with his own aggressively average face.