"Ishnu-dal-dieb," Ellarinne squeaks, the phrase perhaps an expression of gratitude or a ritual blessing from her tone. Her ears are bouncing slightly with anticipation as she takes the plate and snatches up a fork -- seemingly having no issue with either despite the covering over her eyes -- and digs in.

There is no other way to put this: she moans in sheer sensory pleasure. "Delicious! The pastry is so light and crumbly, and the eggs are so fresh! You said this came from your farm? You're doing a wonderful job out there sir, wonderful indeed." The only thing wrong with the quiche is that it's gone too quickly; despite Ellarine's attempts to stretch it out, her zeal works against her; it's not too much longer before the slice has been reduced to only a few small crumbs, and her ears are drooping with sorrow. Farewell, fair quiche. You will be remembered well.