Watermelons at Fountain

Three ripe watermelons split open, their scarlet flesh speckled with black seeds glistening in the torchlight, sit half-eaten in a wooden crate. Shockeye's knife blade scars the rind of one remaining melon as he rants about the audacity of cooking class defiance, while Varl tears into another with greedy hands, juice dripping onto his tunic. The fruit’s sweet scent mixes unpleasantly with the metallic tang of the restaurant’s back-alley trade.