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(A waiter—an owl wearing a tiny vest—swoops in with their desserts: a plate of neon-colored pastries and something that might be a gelatinous cube, pulsing faintly.)
Waiter: (in an impossibly deep voice) Your desserts. Bon appétit.
Wizard 1: (staring at the owl) Did that owl just speak?
Wizard 2: (unfazed) Obviously. This is a high-class establishment.
Wizard 1: (squinting) I think it called me a pumpkin.