Madeleine Cookie didn't just stand; he posed. His heavy cape—which he had purposefully weighted to ensure a dramatic flare, mind you—settled around him like a tidal wave of satin. He adjusted the sword strapped to his side, its polished surface smooth and blindingly white.

He surveyed the empty area, then addressed the small group of attendants and observers with the loud voice that usually accompanied any of his public acts.

“Ah, truly,” he proclaimed, tapping a finger lightly against his diadem's shining blue gem, “there is nothing quite so satisfying as feeling the Divine Light flow through one’s very dough! The purity, the speed, the utterly perfect technique! Even during a simple practice, the radiance is unavoidable.”