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Anselm Tertullian

All will be amends...

0 · 224 views · located in Moderniterra

a character in “Hunt of the Bound”, as played by shmband

Description

Name: Anselm Tertullian

Gender: Male

Age: 34

Role: Hunter

Image

Appearance: Anselm is perturbingly pale in his complexion, almost to the point that his skin looks clammy and diseased. It isn't, but people are often reluctant to come to near or touch him. During his time in slavery, this has frequently worked to his advantage; he's sometimes avoides blows by people who didn't want to run the risk of contracting what they thought might be leprosy! One could also argue he looks a little too well fed for a slave. He has soft features and an extraordinarily wide, almost frog-like mouth. Not the prettiest of men on the whole, but nevertheless there is something disarming about his smile...something which simultaneously makes people feel self-conscious, but also suggests that Anselm is a man who can be trusted to get things done.

Personality: All of his life Anselm was a man in control of his own destiny, and for some reason he acts like that never changed. He is sometimes dangerously candid with his superiors, and gets away with it only because of the successes he has had in various lines of service. In his own way he is a 'charmer', in the sense that he's confident, cocky, rogueish...but beneath the surface there's something distinctly creepy about it. It would take a fool to believe that Anselm has their best interests at heart.

The truth of it is that Anselm is entirely selfish, and sees other people as entertainment. The reason he can maintain such a good demeanour is that he relishes the excitement, violence, terror and subjegation of the blood-oath ritual. He has a particularly dark delight in administering the punishment to female bound. There's just something about the look of horror and anguish in someone's eyes that thrills him beyond description. That said, he's not a particularly skilled fighter, he's just enthusiastic about getting the job done.

But day to day, he's the arrogant oddball who seems to be everybody's friend, talks obtusely and carefreely, and comes in handy for tasks which require an astute mind or the gift of the gab.

Fears: True subjection to somebody else, being rendered powerless.

Strengths: Charisma, bartering, foresight - In addition to household duties Anselm has a golden tongue and a sharp mind, and is often put to work in 'administrative' tasks such as running messages, performing market transactions of his mistress' behalf (including haggling the best deal), and conveying information back to his mistress...sometimes to the detriment of other slaves.

Weaknesses: Matched combat - he can handle a sword, hand-axe or maul well enough, but in a straight fight he'd neither the quickest or most agile. He's also a bit sluggish, lazy and disorganised in his own affairs.


History: Anselm's always lived an itinerant existence in Tarsha. His parents were merchants who sometimes ran illicit goods with their caravans. Despite this, Anselm's father was a noble, moral man who wanted better for his son. He'd hoped Anselm would join the army, or join the ranks of the priesthood...but as the boy grew and his uncomely appearance became more apparent, it was obvious that such high ambitions were wasted on him.

- TARNISHED -

Roleplay Sample: Anselm wiped the beads of sweat from his pasty brow, and despite the stifling humidity he couldn't help but grin, thinking of the other slaves hard at labour back at the manor. Being sent to the market for an ornamental brazier (which would probably only be used two months of the year, but that was none of his concern) scarcely felt like 'work'; indeed once he arrived at the intended stall and cast his eyes over the goods, it began to feel more like sport!

"Where does your bronzeware come from?" Anselm asked the market stallholder bluntly. The dark-skinned man squinted back at Anselm, and hesitated in his response.

"I have a select line with the ship-merchants that come into Nira." he said, trying to retain his composure. "All of the pots, bowls and braziers are genuine Byrinian craftmanship."

"So you say?" Anselm said with a sneer. "Because that one in the middle looks like an Octavius Morbius original...."

The man immediately balked and leaned in close to Anselm, whispering harshly. "Keep your voice down! Curse the gods I thought I recognised you. How did you end up here of all places?"

"Was this not my destination all along?" Anselm chuckled.

"Yes," Octavius hissed, "when you are your damned father were carrying a case of extremely valuable goods from the coast...which never arrived, caused me to fall into debt and reduced me to....this!"

Anselm laughed out loud. "Oh don't be so bitter Octavius. You should be proud of your work. I've seen no finer forgeries anywhere in the market."

"Shhhhhhh!" Octavius interrupted desperately. "Alright I hear you. Well it's lovely to see you again, but please move along so that I might at least hope to earn a crust of bread without you destroying the facade..."

"Actually I need to purchase a brazier for my mistress."

Octavius nodded grimly. "You're a slave?"

"Of course." Anselm continued to smile in a daunting manner, as though his fate were not a particular problem. Octavius shuffled nervously.

"Well then..." Octavius said, "The braziers are eighty..."

"Thirty." Anselm interrupted. "No more."

"Anselm don't insult me."

Anselm leaned across the bench and scowled into Octavius' eyes, speaking fierce words under his breath. "It was your consignment that was the reason the guards searched our caravan, the reason they threw my parents in prison and put me into slavery. Believe me, fifty coin off a brazier is a drop in the ocean in terms of the debt you owe to me and my family."

Octavius nodded, looking around at other market-goers who were starting to take notice of the commotion.

"Very well." he said, "Thirty. Where should I have it sent."

"Angela Edward's house, on the other side of the park."

"Edwards." Octavius sniffed. "You didn't do too badly for yourself then."

"No." Anselm said flatly. "Better than you will fare if I see your face around here again and have to start letting people know the sort of business you really do..."

So begins...

Anselm Tertullian's Story

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Character Portrait: Arya Tundra Character Portrait: Anselm Tertullian
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#, as written by shmband
The accounts ledger. Might as well be called the 'book of gibberish'. Anselm beamed in amusement, flicking through the pages of the vellum tome, making a few scribbles here and there. Not entirely careful or calculated, but plausible enough not to raise suspicions. Who ever looked at this book apart from him anyway? When Miss Edwards made a purchase in town, did anybody ask to see her coffers to ensure she was able to pay? Or did her creditors worry that her accounts might have run dry with the merchants? No, of course not. Miss Edwards was a part of the eschalon for whom no everyday thing was not easily affordable. Unless she saw fit some day to purchase a nearby city, or make designs for a new temple, it was vanishingly unlikely that anybody would ask to see the ledger which Anselm kept with more creativity than diligence.

He paced the balcony overlooking the front courtyard. It was easy to pretend that this was his own residence, and from time to time it was a pleasant fiction in which to indulge. Truth was, as soon as his duty was done, his quarters were no more opulent than those of the other slaves...which couldn't concievably be further from being described as 'opulent' at all. Even so, the clever design of the building provided good ventilation through the administrative enclave, and it remained one of the more desireable places for a slave to be on a day like this.

A scuttling cresendoed until the source of it appeared on the balcony a short distance behind Anselm.

"Instructions from Miss Edwards." the runner boy said flatly. "The new slave from Syra is to be put to work assisting Juno with the feast, and her belongings collected from her. Those two with Elizabeth and Sylvester will be serving tonight."

Anselm turned around and nodded grimly. A new slave...at the eleventh hour?

"A new slave from Syra you say?" he mused out loud. The boy shifted, naturally uncomfortable with having to contrive an answer from his own mind instread of just repeating a message he had been given.

"Yes, from Syra. Today." the boy said awkwardly. "A...er, woman. Girl. Woman...I..."

"Yes don't hurt yourself." Anselm said condascendingly. "Well this should be take as good news. Perhaps Miss Edwards wishes well enough on her existing servants that she has deigned to draft in some fresh meat to put forward as the bound tonight."

Anselm had read between the lines of the message. The new girl, Juno, Elizabeth and Sylvester serving. That meant only one thing for them. None of which were a huge surprise. Sylvester, perhaps, Anselm had expected to be kept as a novelty, but perhaps there was a shortage of other male slaves to be put forwards. After all, everyone knew it had to be one male and one female who were ultimately....'offered'...

Nevertheless, the sickly pale man leaned cruelly towards the boy and sneered mockingly. "Hmm, speaking of which, you must be of age for the bloodoath yourself now? How long have you been in service here again...?"

The boy went white as a sheet and trembled a little, before Anselm laughed out loud and dismissed him. As the boy left, Anselm remained pacing the balcony, his mirth giving way somewhat to annoyance that he had to deal with a new arrival when there was so much else to be prepared. Still, Miss Edwards wanted the new girl in the kitchen...Anselm was going to have to head that way anyway to check on the feast preparations. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Exhaling in resignation, he closed the ledger and swiftly breezed his was out through the upper hall, down the grand stairs and into the western vestibule. Indoors the smooth marble flooring was delightfully cool, and Anselm drew himself up to full height as he made his way in. The appearance of authority was a total pretence, but a new slave would not know this.

The new arrival was not difficult to spot. Her snow-pale skin was an instant giveaway...but her delicate beauty would have no doubt drawn Anselm's attention even if he had not been on the lookout for somebody. He suppressed a grin, walking towards the girls an stopping a respectful distance away, close enough to be heard.

"Syri." he spoke up, "Enough standing about. Today is a very important observance and there is much to be done. Follow me to the kitchen, evidently you've given somebody the impression that is where you'll serve best."

His eyes lingered on her a little longer than necessary, and he took a few steps closer, his gaze settling on her neck.

"Your custodians hitherto were not thorough enough," he said sharply, "you'll have to hand over that jewelry. We're slaves here and fineries do not become us."

He shot out his arm and held it there with his hand open.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Arya Tundra Character Portrait: Anselm Tertullian
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#, as written by Shané
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Arya stood near one of the marble pillars, waiting for whoever was supposed to instruct her. The slaves around her always had something to do, making her feel awkward, standing and doing nothing. Quite a few had bruising and she tried not to think of the reason. A movement caught her eye, and she turned to see an imposing figure come towards her. He had pale skin; the only one she had seen, and for once she'd did not feel quite so out of place. Her relief was short lived. He walked in with an arrogant stride, and his prideful appearance made Arya feel instantly nervous. He stopped, staring directly at her, and Arya swallowed her uneasiness at the realisation that this was who she had been waiting for.
"Syri.."
Arya immediately stiffened, her previously worried eyes adding a hint of anger. I have a name she thought coldly, but she held her tongue thinking of the nervous and bruised slaves she had seen. His accent was strong and harsh like most of the Tarshans despite his skin colour.
"Enough standing about. Today is a very important observance and there is much to be done. Follow me to the kitchen, evidently you've given somebody the impression that is where you'll serve best."
Arya instantly disliked the man. He stared rather pointedly at her, and as he came closer, she instinctively backed up slightly. He was evidently a slave, from the clothing and cuff, yet he walked around as though he owned the place. She'd been expecting...well, she hadn't known what to expect, but perhaps a little more understanding from those who had been through something similar to herself.
She eyed him nervously, careful to keep her mouth firmly shut. So apparently she was to work in the kitchen for some sort of 'observance'. She wondered about what it would entail, yet decided against asking. Hopefully something to do with food...at the thought her stomach clenched painfully. Yes, food would definitely be a good thing.
When her focus returned to the slave in front of her, she saw him gazing at her neck. Unconsciously she stiffened.
"Your custodians hitherto were not thorough enough," he said sharply, "you'll have to hand over that jewellery. We're slaves here and fineries do not become us."
Her eyes hardened at his extravagant way of speaking and the way he held out his hand, waiting/expecting for her to hand it over. She carefully unhooked the heavily beaded necklace, removing it gently from her neck. She had barely taken the piece off since Aden had given it to her, and her neck felt bare without it. She was careful to avoid looking into his eyes, lest he see that she was hiding something. It seemed he hadn't noticed the small bump and therefore her three most important possession were safe. Wordlessly she dropped the necklace into his open palm, reluctance written all over her face. Seeing that there was nothing to be done about it, she also removed the few bangles she had and placed it into his waiting hand.
She followed slowly behind him to the kitchen area. Everywhere she looked, pointless extravagance decorated the monster of a house. They passed a large dining room with a large oak table. There were five chairs placed carefully around it, with one at the head of the table. This surprised her somewhat, as she'd believed that their was only one mistress. Who where the other chairs for? There was a large amount of noise coming from the back of the room. The entryway to the kitchen was joined directly to the kitchen. When they entered the smell of food caused a sudden wave of dizziness to pass over her, and she automatically reached a hand to the wall to steady herself.
Slaves hurried to and fro from the kitchen area, and from the look of the meal, everything was almost prepared, only a few garnishes were left to do. The sight of so much food and water made her feel sick, and she was so tempted just to reach over and take something. The feeling overwhelmed her and she found herself asking about it.
"Do we get to eat before we work?" Her voice was soft, with a gentle, musical, almost lilting accent to it. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Arya flinched. She'd been told not to speak unless spoken to, and what little colour that remained on her face quickly drained away. She shuffled back a few paces, her eyes alight with new fear, trying to judge the males reaction. At best she prayed he'd answer her question or at the very least ignore her outburst.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Arya Tundra Character Portrait: Anselm Tertullian Character Portrait: Juno Lee
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Juno was in the middle of finishing the desert pastries when a few other slaves beside him started whispering. A dark eyebrow twitched with annoyance but the young slave returned to mixing the filling of a pie. There weren't any decent worker here. He almost smirked at that. Juno doubted that Angela thought anymore of him than what he thought of those around him. The only time he was useful was when he was in the kitchen. And even then, Juno only prepare what he felt like making. Sure, all of his cooking was amazing, but he was sure it irked her that he never took requests, or orders. He pointed at a woman who was surely a few years older, Juno tried to recall her name since she was actually someone that listened but nothing came to mind. He had not been there long after all. He pointed at the pie filling and she nodded in understanding as she took the bowl away. The aromas in the crowded kitchen gave him a sense of accomplishment. Cooking had always been one of his favorite pass times. His hands swiftly, expertly started dicing up some exotice fruits with a sharp knife. Meanwhile, a couple of other slaves came up to him with questioning eyes and he immediately sent them to stir the soup and fetching more ingredients. Everything was done with his eyes and the gesture of his hands and arms. Juno disliked speaking. There seemed to be no point to it whatsoever. It was bothersome to say the least. Though when he had to he did.

Juno had always thought of this place as his kitchen. Granted he had only been there for a few months.... but he was easily the best cook there and no one really challenged the way he took control of the meals and such. It didn’t mean that anyone actually liked him, it was more like respect. Angela could hurt him as much as she wanted but Juno hadn’t yet broken. He was much stronger than that and had actually endure much worse. So the young man set the fruit aside and surveyed the hurried atmosphere of the kitchen. It was probably the one place where he felt at peace. He made a lot of his homeland creations. It probably did not suit the household’s tastes but it was still better than what most of the other cooks could come up with. Juno smiled slightly as he observed the other people rushing about. Now that he thought about it, he sounded very arrogant in his mind. However, he should have that right at least. It wasn’t as if he took credit. The seniors did. But if Angela was intelligent enough, which Juno was sure she was, she probably knew who made most of her meals.

Juno searched for Sylvestor. Yes, this man he had actually learned the name of. He was decent enough. A good cook. Juno didn’t compare himself to him though, the two had very different styles after all, coming from opposite cultures. He felt a wave of pity. He was probably doing some physical labor for Angela. She seemed to love ordering him about even when she knew he didn’t have the greatest physical strength. Juno had run into him earlier but he couldn’t see him now. Hopefully, he was doing alright.

Then the door opened and he heard the sound of foot steps. Naturally he would turn to look and was surprised to see a very pale, fragile looking girl. Beside her was... a hunter. He turned away disdainfully. He didn’t like the man. He was so utterly pompous and self confident. He felt sorry for the girl. Being in his presence was something Juno would not tolerate.

"Do we get to eat before we work?" She spoke and the young cook turned to look at her stifling a sigh. It would seem that it was now a time to talk. Juno walked foward quickly and put a hand reluctantly on her shoulder. He was taken by surprise. She really was a skinny girl.

“A new slave, Anselm? I was in need of more hands anyway.” Juno glanced at her and willed her to stay silent. “Go wash your hands then help Azuria with the cake. She’ll tell you what to do.” He pointed with a long arm at a pretty slender woman with long red hair. She was also a few years older than himself and was one of the few he would call friends, along with Sylvestor. So Juno gave the new girl a gentle push. “Dinner’s almost done, Anselm. Was there anything else you needed?” The Kaskarian looked at the man coldly. "We have much work to do here."

Setting

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Character Portrait: Arya Tundra Character Portrait: Anselm Tertullian Character Portrait: Juno Lee
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#, as written by shmband
Anselms countenance softened at her cooperation...but not in a friendly way, more in a way that suggested he found this whole business tiresome and that he was at least glad she wasn't going to make it harder than it needed to be. As he took the items she handed over, he examined her eyes. They certainly were striking, and her beauty was undeniable. A Syri they had said...a fugitive or a captive maybe? Anselm didn't trouble himself too much with the affairs from the north, but he knew the people of the tundra ought to have learned by now that Tarsha would not be snubbed. That a delicate girl such as this ended up in slaver - and to be put forward as bound, no less - was a sign in itself that Syra was still paying the price for it's prideful error.

"Good." he said curtly, slipping the jewelry securely into his pocket ready to be turned over to Miss Edwards later. "This way then."

He strode directly towards the kitchen, where a symphony of aromas were already starting to billow around the scullary quarters. Anselm felt the tingling of his mouth starting to water. It wasn't something he could take for granted, but the last two years he'd been invited to the bloodoath table, and there was no reason to doubt that tonight would be any different. He'd not disgraced himself in any way...or at least, not in any way that he hadn't been able to give the appearance of being some other poor slave's fault...

The heat from the kitchen hearth as they entered could scarcely negate to coldness from the other slaves towards Anselm. It didn't bother him. He endeared himself to some of his fellow servants, not so well to others. In the kitchen, he had no friends, and that had been especially the case since that boy Juno had been taken in. Juno held a transparent mistrust of Anselm, it was obvious. In in a way that worried Anselm. It meant that Juno was insightful and clever...

He barely had the patience to answer the girls question about eating before Juno interrupted and spared him the effort. Anselm glowered at the boy.

"If it was merely help and not 'hands' you needed I'd have suggested you train up some of the vermin that frequent the pantry." he snorted. "But no, that is all. Oh, actually one other thing..."

His face changed into a smirk. "Once dinner is ready, do remember to await word as to who will be...serving. Tonight as you know, the role bears with it much resonsibility."

He looked at the Syri girl who had, with Junos help, put some distance between herself and himself.

"The midday break was a long time ago," he said, "if you weren't given food then then I pity you, because your next meal comes purely at the whim and favour of our mistress. But if I were you...I wouldn't accept anything that might make you less light on your feet. You'll understand my meaning in due course."

He snorted again and turned, making for the kitchen door.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Arya Tundra Character Portrait: Anselm Tertullian Character Portrait: Juno Lee
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#, as written by Shané
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Arya flinched as she felt a hand on her shoulder, glancing up to find a boy her own age confronting the other male servant. He was serious looking, with dark brown hair falling over his forehead, and intimidating brown eyes. He evidently didn't like the male in front of him.
“A new slave, Anselm? I was in need of more hands anyway.”
Anselm. So that was his name. The boy glanced at her, warning to hold her tongue, and Arya was only to happy to agree.
“Go wash your hands then help Azuria with the cake. She’ll tell you what to do.”
Arya gave him a quick nod. Turning in the direction of the woman. He gave her a gentle push in that direction, and Arya was only too happy to put some distance between herself and Anselm.
“Dinner’s almost done, Anselm. Was there anything else you needed? We have much work to do here."
Arya stiffened slightly at the ice in his voice, she dared glance back seeing Anselm glaring straight at him.
"If it was merely help and not 'hands' you needed I'd have suggested you train up some of the vermin that frequent the pantry. But no, that is all. Oh, actually one other thing..."
Something about Anselm's expression which worried Arya.
"Once dinner is ready, do remember to await word as to who will be...serving. Tonight as you know, the role bears with it much resonsibility."
Arya shivered involuntarily as Anselm looked directly at her. Clearly his words meant something to both of them, however Arya didn't understand. Whatever it was, it evidently wasn't something good.
"The midday break was a long time ago," he said, "if you weren't given food then then I pity you, because your next meal comes purely at the whim and favour of our mistress. But if I were you...I wouldn't accept anything that might make you less light on your feet. You'll understand my meaning in due course."
Arya stared at him in confusion, before glancing helplessly at the male that had helped her. His last words held no meaning to her, yet according to him, she would find out soon enough. The first sentence made enough sense to her however, evidently she wasn't going to be fed anytime soon. She prayed Miss Edwards would look favourably on her servants tonight.
Anselm had evidently had enough of the kitchen, and had turned to leave. Still confused about his words, Arya was tempted to ask, however her previous mistake held her back. She kept her mouth firmly closed, and attempted to ignore the growing feeling of fear and worry at what was coming up.
She already owed someone here, the boy, for saving her from Anselm. She didn't dare thank him however, but she gave him a grateful look before heading to the buckets in the corner.
As she carefully washed her hands she tried to figure out exactly why she'd been purchased. Miss Edwards had obviously wanted her for something from the way she'd been bartering with the slave trader. Currently the traits that she'd been wanted for were weakness, and now Anselm had hinted on speed. Her brow knitted together in confusion. It didn't make sense. Perhaps she was wanted for a messenger, and Miss Edwards had felt sorry for her. As soon as the thought entered her mind, Arya dismissed it. The woman didn't have an ounce of pity in her. Sighing in frustration, Arya gave up trying to figure it out, and instead headed over to Azuria.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Angela Edwards Character Portrait: Anselm Tertullian
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#, as written by shmband
Anselm had returned to his cell. He preferred to imagine the term 'cell' used more in the monastic sense than in the sense of being a prison, and in many ways both were accurate. But in being alone for a moment, he turned his thoughts to the night's events, and in a wave the hairs on his arms began to stand on end. It was a dread fascination, a terrible thrill...it was the only thing that allowed him to keep his composure. There was no wishing anybody good fortune who was to be involved in the blood oath. They were slaves. Fortune has abandoned them all long ago. To be sacrificed to the god was the closest thing to an early dismissal from service any of them were likely to recieve. Though of course...the lead up to the sacrifice was hardly an enviable affair, in his several years in Mistress Edward's service Anselm had seen some harrowing sights as beaten and bloodied victims were braced defenselessly, counting each agonising minute as their vitality slowly oozed from their bodies. It was a thing people celebrated in toast and song, but few people chose to watch for longer than was necessary. Anselm...he sometimes liked to watch...after all the deaths of the bound (or the hunters who failed to apprehend them) were part of a great ritual? And if ritual was a form of sacred theatre, then what was it if nobody was there to observe?

He suppressed a grin. The Syri girl...she would certainly be one of the bound. Cruel truth, the delicate creature would be restrained and prostrated for the branding - the first taste of the horror she would have to endure. Anselm did not expect she would provide much sport. Perhaps the whole sequence would be over farely soon tonight. But of course, there had to be two, and one of them would have to be a man.

Anselm took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. There was no point getting het up about it yet. There was still much to be done, but his role in it was more or less over. For now at least. He bend down and checked the thongs of his sandals, adjusting and tightening a few of them. All the better to be quick off the mark when he was released after the bound later tonight...

There it was. The initiation bells. Happy were those ignorant of their meaning...but such people would be few in this house. He drew himself to full height, turned and walked regally through the halls. He had not checked to confirm that his status was the same as it was last year, but he had no reason to suppose otherwise, and walked with confidence into the banquet hall.

His mistress was already there, and as he walked in his lowered his head respectfully, and kept his eyes to the ground in a display of submission as he made his way around to one of the designated seats. He did not speak a work until sat, and even then sparingly.

"An honour to sit at your table again mistress." he said simply, "As always your selections for the feast are most laudable."

It was a phrase intended to sound like he was complimenting her on her choice of menu, the truth being that he was voicing his opinion on her choice of bound...