The middle of the day, and the Inn is deserted - how amusing, if understandable. Most of the denizens of Rhydin were creatures of the night, after all. He strolls in through the back alley door, for once, shaking the snow from his boots before stepping into the commons.
The Inn looks quite different when it's deserted like this, chairs and tables scattered about empty, mugs and bottles left all helter skelter around the commons, the fire in the hearth cold and dead. With a sigh, he heads for the bar, intent on coffee. He's got it down to a routine by now, a few quick gestures perfectly fluid in their economy - dump the stale coffee and spare grinds, replace with fresh filter and grinds, fill machine with fresh water, push the button. The coffee machine wheezes into weary, complaining life - and not for the first time, he resolves to buy a new machine for the place, maybe one of those Mr. Coffee pots/espresso/cappuccino makers. Call it a Christmas present.
With the cup of life on to brew, he turns his attention to the commons. It's pretty cold in here - we can't have that. There's a fresh stack of wood laid in by the fire, which is good because he doesn't feel like going back out into the snow to fetch more. He lays in a fresh fire and, with a flick of thought, ignites it. No need for tinder from this tender. He snorts at the thought, realizing he's obviously more tired than he'd thought, and begins gathering the dirty mugs and empty bottles from the scattered tables around the room, humming to himself as he does so. Glasses into the sink, bottles into the rack by the back door - he's not sure what they do with the empties, maybe they're sent back to the brewers to be reused. Not his concern.
Some of the tables are covered in sticky substances he'd rather not think about, so he gets a clean rag and a bucket of bleach and sets about cleaning them - since he's waiting for the coffee to brew, and he's got nothing but time, anyway.
Scrub, scrub, scrub...
Well, that should do it. The coffee's gotta be ready by now, right? A peek over the bar. Nope, the ancient machine is still taking its sweet time. Feh.
Well... more tasks to busy oneself with. He dumps the old water from the kettle and refills it with fresh, prods at the burner the kettle always sits on. With a little convincing (and some help priming the pump), he gets the water going. The cider crock is empty, the dregs of last night's cider still coating the bottom - with a sigh, he sets about cleaning and refilling it. And you know, since that gorram coffee is still taking its sweet time, he might as well make some cocoa - fresh and from scratch, of course, heating the milk and mixing the chocolate. He sets that up in a crock next to the cider, notes that the coffee has finally brewed and pulls down one of the few remaining clean mugs. Ah, cup of life... which reminds him, the next step is the dishes. He looks at the stack and shakes his head wearily.
"Alright," he says, dropping his pack behind the bar, then slipping out of his coat. He feels naked without that black leather shield between himself and the world, although the truth of the matter is that he's anything but. He rolls back the sleeves on his gray button-up shirt, exposing lean arms corded with muscle and braided with scars, far more than is seemly for anyone of his (apparent) youth. Humming under his breath, he gets to work on the dishes - cheating, it's true, using his kinship with the flame to burn clear the more stubborn dregs and disgusting things to be found at the bottom of the mugs and goblets, and to keep the dishwater steaming hot.
The work goes quickly, his hands a veritable blur as he scrubs, rinses, dries and sets aside the stack. It's hardly the first time he's done dishes, after all... nor is it until he's done and setting aside the last of them that he realizes there's probably a much larger, better suited for the task sink somewhere in the kitchens.
The kitchens are foreign territory to him, though - while no one's raised a complaint or a question about him being behind the bar, the last time he ventured back there a burly man with a knife and an apron had chased him back out, hollering in gutter-French. He wasn't sure if he wanted to risk it again... although, come to think of it, he was getting hungry...
He sips his coffee and stares speculatively at the door to the kitchen. Shall he or shan't he? He looks around the empty room and shrugs. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He pushes open the door to the kitchens, and stops dead. If anything, it's even messier back here. He sidles back out of the kitchen, shaking his head. "Okay, I definitely did not sign up for this," he mutters under his breath. That thought gives him pause - technically, he didn't sign up for any of this. As he'd explained to Asha a few nights ago, he was merely a 'civilian volunteer.'
This wasn't his job - hell, if anything, it was more of a hobby.
He crosses his arms and stares at the kitchen door. Impassively, it stares back.
Ah, what the hell. He always was the champion of lost causes... he pushes his way into the kitchen, grits his teeth, and begins to clean.
It wasn't going to be a thorough scouring, and besides, the place looked well kept enough. For the most part, it was clutter - whoever had been experimenting in here last night had never learned the concept of 'clean as you go'. Dishes, pots, pans, items of cookware so obscure Paladin had no idea their purpose, much less their name - all lay scattered about willy-nilly. There was dough on the ceiling where something had apparently exploded on the stove - he didn't think he really wanted the story behind that'un. To make the work go by faster, he turned it into a game, part martial exercise and part dance - lithely he spun, catching pots and pans and sending them, clang clang clatter, into the sink - each throw carefully measured, perfectly accurate, sending up barely a splash from the dishwater. Licks of flame spun from his hands, scouring free caked food, igniting grease in a flash, each so carefully controlled they don't leave so much as a scorch mark. It's been a while since he's had a chance to practice, and he actually somewhat relishes the opportunity, losing himself to the rhythm and flow. Maybe he can make a new form out of it - martial art kitchen cleaning. It would make an excellent companion art to all those martial art cooking styles he'd encountered over the years...
There we go. The place actually looked somewhat civilized again... the pots and pans would take a while soaking, even with all his inner fire there wasn't a whole lot he could do about that, cleaning his hands with a rag, he steps out into the commons - and freezes as he senses another presence. Sloooooowly he turns to look at the women at the bar, his eyes betraying quite the 'deer in the headlight' expression. Heaven forfend the great warrior, the eternal wanderer, city guardsman and freelance hero, should be caught cleaning.
Somehow he manages to keep himself from blushing. He steps up behind the bar, discreetly rolling his sleeves back down and buttoning them into place. "Good evening," he says, then corrects himself. "Noon, rather." He's pretty sure they have no idea what he's been up to. "May I help you?"
And the day rolls on from there.
The Inn looks quite different when it's deserted like this, chairs and tables scattered about empty, mugs and bottles left all helter skelter around the commons, the fire in the hearth cold and dead. With a sigh, he heads for the bar, intent on coffee. He's got it down to a routine by now, a few quick gestures perfectly fluid in their economy - dump the stale coffee and spare grinds, replace with fresh filter and grinds, fill machine with fresh water, push the button. The coffee machine wheezes into weary, complaining life - and not for the first time, he resolves to buy a new machine for the place, maybe one of those Mr. Coffee pots/espresso/cappuccino makers. Call it a Christmas present.
With the cup of life on to brew, he turns his attention to the commons. It's pretty cold in here - we can't have that. There's a fresh stack of wood laid in by the fire, which is good because he doesn't feel like going back out into the snow to fetch more. He lays in a fresh fire and, with a flick of thought, ignites it. No need for tinder from this tender. He snorts at the thought, realizing he's obviously more tired than he'd thought, and begins gathering the dirty mugs and empty bottles from the scattered tables around the room, humming to himself as he does so. Glasses into the sink, bottles into the rack by the back door - he's not sure what they do with the empties, maybe they're sent back to the brewers to be reused. Not his concern.
Some of the tables are covered in sticky substances he'd rather not think about, so he gets a clean rag and a bucket of bleach and sets about cleaning them - since he's waiting for the coffee to brew, and he's got nothing but time, anyway.
Scrub, scrub, scrub...
Well, that should do it. The coffee's gotta be ready by now, right? A peek over the bar. Nope, the ancient machine is still taking its sweet time. Feh.
Well... more tasks to busy oneself with. He dumps the old water from the kettle and refills it with fresh, prods at the burner the kettle always sits on. With a little convincing (and some help priming the pump), he gets the water going. The cider crock is empty, the dregs of last night's cider still coating the bottom - with a sigh, he sets about cleaning and refilling it. And you know, since that gorram coffee is still taking its sweet time, he might as well make some cocoa - fresh and from scratch, of course, heating the milk and mixing the chocolate. He sets that up in a crock next to the cider, notes that the coffee has finally brewed and pulls down one of the few remaining clean mugs. Ah, cup of life... which reminds him, the next step is the dishes. He looks at the stack and shakes his head wearily.
"Alright," he says, dropping his pack behind the bar, then slipping out of his coat. He feels naked without that black leather shield between himself and the world, although the truth of the matter is that he's anything but. He rolls back the sleeves on his gray button-up shirt, exposing lean arms corded with muscle and braided with scars, far more than is seemly for anyone of his (apparent) youth. Humming under his breath, he gets to work on the dishes - cheating, it's true, using his kinship with the flame to burn clear the more stubborn dregs and disgusting things to be found at the bottom of the mugs and goblets, and to keep the dishwater steaming hot.
The work goes quickly, his hands a veritable blur as he scrubs, rinses, dries and sets aside the stack. It's hardly the first time he's done dishes, after all... nor is it until he's done and setting aside the last of them that he realizes there's probably a much larger, better suited for the task sink somewhere in the kitchens.
The kitchens are foreign territory to him, though - while no one's raised a complaint or a question about him being behind the bar, the last time he ventured back there a burly man with a knife and an apron had chased him back out, hollering in gutter-French. He wasn't sure if he wanted to risk it again... although, come to think of it, he was getting hungry...
He sips his coffee and stares speculatively at the door to the kitchen. Shall he or shan't he? He looks around the empty room and shrugs. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He pushes open the door to the kitchens, and stops dead. If anything, it's even messier back here. He sidles back out of the kitchen, shaking his head. "Okay, I definitely did not sign up for this," he mutters under his breath. That thought gives him pause - technically, he didn't sign up for any of this. As he'd explained to Asha a few nights ago, he was merely a 'civilian volunteer.'
This wasn't his job - hell, if anything, it was more of a hobby.
He crosses his arms and stares at the kitchen door. Impassively, it stares back.
Ah, what the hell. He always was the champion of lost causes... he pushes his way into the kitchen, grits his teeth, and begins to clean.
It wasn't going to be a thorough scouring, and besides, the place looked well kept enough. For the most part, it was clutter - whoever had been experimenting in here last night had never learned the concept of 'clean as you go'. Dishes, pots, pans, items of cookware so obscure Paladin had no idea their purpose, much less their name - all lay scattered about willy-nilly. There was dough on the ceiling where something had apparently exploded on the stove - he didn't think he really wanted the story behind that'un. To make the work go by faster, he turned it into a game, part martial exercise and part dance - lithely he spun, catching pots and pans and sending them, clang clang clatter, into the sink - each throw carefully measured, perfectly accurate, sending up barely a splash from the dishwater. Licks of flame spun from his hands, scouring free caked food, igniting grease in a flash, each so carefully controlled they don't leave so much as a scorch mark. It's been a while since he's had a chance to practice, and he actually somewhat relishes the opportunity, losing himself to the rhythm and flow. Maybe he can make a new form out of it - martial art kitchen cleaning. It would make an excellent companion art to all those martial art cooking styles he'd encountered over the years...
There we go. The place actually looked somewhat civilized again... the pots and pans would take a while soaking, even with all his inner fire there wasn't a whole lot he could do about that, cleaning his hands with a rag, he steps out into the commons - and freezes as he senses another presence. Sloooooowly he turns to look at the women at the bar, his eyes betraying quite the 'deer in the headlight' expression. Heaven forfend the great warrior, the eternal wanderer, city guardsman and freelance hero, should be caught cleaning.
Somehow he manages to keep himself from blushing. He steps up behind the bar, discreetly rolling his sleeves back down and buttoning them into place. "Good evening," he says, then corrects himself. "Noon, rather." He's pretty sure they have no idea what he's been up to. "May I help you?"
And the day rolls on from there.