“Tell me you washed your hands.” Jeff groans from the doorway, watching Janson’s fingers rake through cake batter. “I’d rather not help spread the Tanaabian Death Plague.”
“Please,” Drake scoffs, rifling through cabinets for a pan sans-grime. “Kirkwall created it.”
“Hey, watch the door.” Janson warns, flinging goo toward Jeff’s hat with deadly precision.
Despite their efforts, Varric interrupts from the other end of the kitchen. “Ah boys, you shouldn’t have.”
The trio turns to face the dwarf, frozen mid-act. Jeff scowls in defeat. “How the hell?”
“No. Really.” The dwarf is deadly serious. “Don’t.”
They salute instinctively. “Yes, sir!”