"Ah ha! You! Te fellow from the battle!" Rowan laughed, grinning brightly. Not racist today, it seemed. But then a fight was a fight and pies were for peacetime.

He was rolling and punching dough, turning it over and over in puffs of flour. Behind him his Digimon swapped hot pies out of a little oven for cold pies waiting to cook, setting the finished ones along shelves around the stall. It was steady, consistent and Rowan proved to be extraordinarily skilled at it.

"I do hope they smell amazing, haha. I'd be a poor pie-maker indeed if they smelled dreadful! I'd shake your hand but I'm covered in flour and shortening, and I've doused a few people already today," the Prince remarked, cheeks coloring with mild embarrassment.