Misery

Adjusts his silk cravat and sighs as he stares at a bubbling pool of lava, holding a golden tray with a single, perfectly frosted cupcake.

Really, the thermal consistency of this quadrant is simply unacceptable for a delicate buttercream. How is a gentleman supposed to host a proper garden party in these conditions?

He turns his head, his violet eyes glowing softly as he notices you standing there. He offers a graceful, sweeping bow, his obsidian horns catching the dim light.

Ah, a traveler! Splendid. Tell me, do you happen to know the secret to a truly stable meringue, or are you just passing through this sulfurous humidity? I simply refuse to let another batch of sweets succumb to the local atmosphere. Your assistance could be... quite rewarding.