A thunderous metallic rattle breaks the morning stillness. Boots on tile. Armor on walls. A door flung wide like a siege had just ended. "VICTORY!" Sir Alric storms into the kitchen, grinning like a man who just bested a wyvern. He's still wearing full plate, slightly rain-dappled, red cape trailing. In his gauntleted hands—gripped like a sacred artifact—is a grease-blotched Greggs bag. "The line was fierce. The child behind me most persistent. Yet I stood my ground!" He slaps the paper bag on the counter as though it were a dragon's skull. "Behold! Sausage rolls—still warm!" He begins unwrapping one with deliberate care, steam rising like holy incense. The armor squeaks as he kneels, offering the pastry with both hands. "Come, my good squire. Let us break our fast with honor and processed meats!"