Murder Boner Diplomat

[Keshian]

Huey still plays. He get's all his play-time in on "my" account.

Which is really just another one of my multiaccounts 

[Hobb]

               Hobb rounded the stairs leading to his private dining room, using both hands to make sure his rusty blue morion sat perfectly on his head. The room was empty save for the serving girls standing near the back wall. His presence obviously made them uneasy because their before statue-like bodies now quivered. It was slight, but Hobb noticed. He noticed everything. Taking his place at the front of his table, he didnt waste anytime starting his meal. A clap of his hands sent the servants rushing to the serving table where this nights feast waited. Tonight was special for Hobb, and for once in a very long time he would be eating something different.
               With HoC dissolving and the Murder Boners still  thinking strategus was viva pinata, Hobb's Empire was forced to take up the trade that its vassals previously handled. This meant dealing with the barbarians known as the free companies of calradia. Hobb hated these mongrels usually, but their was one thing they did manage to deal well. That was bring exotic dishes of food to his Empire with bland meal choices. The serving girl placed Hobb's dinner in front of him and lifted the lid.
               Staring back at Hobb's hungry eyes was not the prettiest of sights, but fcc foods never were. The former pigeon was terrible disfigured, its eyes bulging from its head. The bottom half of the bird was ripped open and the whole thing was covered in what appeared to be some sort of white cheese sauce. Hobb's stomach grumbled as he picked up his eating fork and knife. Pausing only to take in the smells one last time, he cut a piece of his meal and plopped it into his mouth.
"Delicious" he said. "These savages sure know how to treat a pigeon."
               

[Tanken]

Which is really just another one of my multiaccounts 

A Confession! Bannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! 

[Kalam]

Perspiration poured down Kalam's temple. Thankfully, it's sure advance was halted by the chef's hat that he wore for such occasions. The heat from the cast iron pan irritated his eyes, but he slaved on over the coal stove. First, the vidalias and crushed ginger. The intoxicating scent of the series of spices he distributed over the onions carried strong notes of cinnamon, coriander, and cumin. A bowl containing a plump, home-raised pigeon fed on nothing but beer-soaked sweet corn was presented.

The phyllo dough was artfully draped over the ceramic bowl. Kalam's off-tune humming accompanied his movements as he ladled the mixture into the pie. The sheets were layered with a care that only comes with dedication to the lifelong pursuit of gluttony. A praline mixture served to separate each sheet, and when the dish was finally baked, the ruffian covered the pastilla in confectioner's sugar and cinnamon.

"Yes," he said to Matey, who was complaining about Kalam never being there to play chinese chess with him. "...I think this will serve to satisfy the Velucan. Have it sent along with the other gifts, please. Remember- it's the pastilla. Whatever Epic Mealtime dish Joe came up with is for the Frisians. They like Quebecois food, I'm sure."

"Alright," the shielder replied. He didn't really hear what that dirty fake ninja said, though. He was too busy talking about how Kalam and his wife and that old guy with the crossbow never gather to play chinese chess in time. Always spending too much time in the kitchen. What did he say again?

Kalam walked out of the room, presumably read for a long bath. It was too late to ask the hack which package was supposed to be sent where. Matey stared at the packages. One had what looked like a delicate pie in it. It looked too complicated to be good. The other one had some sort of disfigured bird with a cheesy white sauce.

Which one was Kalam's package, and which one was Joe's? Shrugging, he decided to mail the latter. It looked easy to prepare and eat, which was how the FCC diplomat liked his food. The pie-thing could be fed to Joe's horses.

[Matey]

Perspiration poured down Kalam's temple. Thankfully, it's sure advance was halted by the chef's hat that he wore for such occasions. The heat from the cast iron pan irritated his eyes, but he slaved on over the coal stove. First, the vidalias and crushed ginger. The intoxicating scent of the series of spices he distributed over the onions carried strong notes of cinnamon, coriander, and cumin. A bowl containing a plump, home-raised pigeon fed on nothing but beer-soaked sweet corn was presented.

The phyllo dough was artfully draped over the ceramic bowl. Kalam's off-tune humming accompanied his movements as he ladled the mixture into the pie. The sheets were layered with a care that only comes with dedication to the lifelong pursuit of gluttony. A praline mixture served to separate each sheet, and when the dish was finally baked, the ruffian covered the pastilla in confectioner's sugar and cinnamon.

"Yes," he said to Matey, who was complaining about Kalam never being there to play chinese chess with him. "...I think this will serve to satisfy the Velucan. Have it sent along with the other gifts, please. Remember- it's the pastilla. Whatever Epic Mealtime dish Joe came up with is for the Frisians. They like Quebecois food, I'm sure."

"Alright," the shielder replied. He didn't really hear what that dirty fake ninja said, though. He was too busy talking about how Kalam and his wife and that old guy with the crossbow never gather to play chinese chess in time. Always spending too much time in the kitchen. What did he say again?

Kalam walked out of the room, presumably read for a long bath. It was too late to ask the hack which package was supposed to be sent where. Matey stared at the packages. One had what looked like a delicate pie in it. It looked too complicated to be good. The other one had some sort of disfigured bird with a cheesy white sauce.

Which one was Kalam's package, and which one was Joe's? Shrugging, he decided to mail the latter. It looked easy to prepare and eat, which was how the FCC diplomat liked his food. The pie-thing could be fed to Joe's horses.

Fixed it for you. RP is in italics duh.