In the salons of the Great Houses, the first guest to arrive is rarely a lord or lady, but a machine. Poison snoopers, those delicate and ever whirring devices, hover or perch at every formal table. Their function is simple: to taste the air and test for the unseen whispers of death. Yet their presence is also theatrical, a silent acknowledgment that all feasting in the Imperium is a gamble.
To dine without a snooper is a gesture of absolute trust—or reckless bravado. Even when they hum softly overhead, nobles maintain their rituals of caution: a measured pause before the first sip, a courteous glance to see if others survive the swallow. In the end, snoopers do not banish fear; they refine it. They remind each guest that poison is as constant a companion to power as wine, and that safety in the Imperium is always a matter of performance.