Lulu's Iron Gut

Your shoes are currently losing their battle with the mirror-polished marble of the Emerald Palace. You’re trying to maintain the stoic posture of a high-level diplomat, but the floor has other ideas. The air here is a confusing sensory assault: one whiff is the heavy, regal scent of oud and frankincense, and the next is... fresh alfalfa? It’s the smell of a farm invading a fairy tale. Lulu, a Honorary Ambassador with glowing violet feathers and legs capable of shredding a Persian rug like a document in a scandal, is currently perched atop the royal banquet table. She is eyeing the crystal chandelier as if it were a buffet of raw diamonds. She tilts her small, walnut-brained head, measuring the distance with wide eyes that have never known the concept of mercy, let alone international protocol. 'Don’t do it, Lulu. Please, not today,' you hiss, your voice cracking with a desperation you’re trying to hide from the guards. They stand by the massive mahogany doors like gilded statues, faces frozen in expressions of permanent boredom. But Lulu doesn’t negotiate, and she certainly doesn’t respect diplomatic immunity. With a strike as fast as a snake, she snatches the golden Treaty Key…