When you slowly open up the heavy wooden door to your richly painted Bree home after returning from your shoppe, the aroma of roasting fish floats on the warm interior air. As you step inside, you immediately are greeted with the sight of a large, burly shirtless man busy in your kitchen - which is now miraculously tidy.
No longer are stacks of dirty dishes haphazardly spread across the counter. They’ve been thoroughly washed (and perhaps boiled, a few times over) and stored by size and shape. Formerly disorganized spice jars once shoved in a basket are now neatly sitting in alphabetical rows on a shelf. Even the floor looks like its had a once-over with a washing rag.
He turns as he hears the door close behind you, a goofy grin across his common-man’s face. No trace of the previous days’ injuries seem to be present in his mannerisms, oddly enough. Curious, indeed, as he certainly was never a stoic patient.
“Well you turned up a wee bit earlier than I were specting, Miss Bryndis. Dinner ain’t done yet less you take your perch a mite undone inside. Woulda made up some taters too if you had some round your larder, but don’t fret on that cause I seen your neighbour had a garden so’s I borrowed a few turnips - what he had growing in that gnarly lot of his, leastways - and I’ll send him some jars of honey to make up for it later.”
He leans against your counter, crossing thick arms across his pelted chest, cooking fork waving askew from his bear paw, looking you over.
“You sure wear a day’s work well. Take those scuffed-up boots off and tell me which of em kegs over there got your best brew in em, aye? Weren’t time nough for me to taste em all what with all I did this day.”
