Gariland feels a tug at his sleeve.  It's the boy.<br/><br/>"Right.  Come on, then!  Time to get you ready for tomorrow.  Unless, of course, you'd prefer to meekly concede to the likes of Pusamus and his watery soups.  It's<em>merely</em>a thousand terces and the honor of winning the Duke's accolades."<br/><br/>(Behold, the lad attempts to Persuade Gariland to return to his gustatory studies!  And with considerable effort<em>finally</em>secures a Prosaic Success.  Time to Rebuff, Gar.  *I do not presently have my notes, so any levies due to Trumped styles will be ignored for this test only*)<br/><br/>****<br/><br/>As Andar stretches his legs for a bit, he hears a couple of voices heatedly arguing in hushed tones in a curtained-off alcove off the main thoroughfare.<br/><br/>"And the ingredient...it will secure our victory?"<br/><br/>"Of course, my boy!  But we must keep it secret and safe until then.  No telling what these scoundrels will do should they find our prize entry."<br/><br/>Hmm.  The younger voice isn't too familiar, but the older one sounds kind of like that prune-faced fellow who was registering people for the Cooking Contest yesterday.