>>6109628>>6109637After being admonished not to steal anything - NO, NOT EVEN THAT - Zivka slinks inside the larger village and checks it. Two of the troopers form a backstop and her hound paws in, scenting the air, glad to be out of the sun.
No one's shown up for the last hour, so this might be the only way to get some information.
The building is one of those common types around here, wind-worne bricks and homely corners. Brushed by a hundred hands through the years. A large centrals square room with a few alcove splitting off and a stairway that leads to the roof. Looks well to do, internal furnishings decided. Not. . . disturbed.
The opposite, really. There's a central table of smooth wood with ceramic plates set out for a family of eight, six central pots with a few berries and roots in (local delicacy) and one singular loaf of black bread based on some crushed agricultural product.
Nothing has been touched. But they've put out the good cutlery, it's silver all the way around and sixteen pieces no less. That's impressive, for a place like this. Tempting to filch a few, they'd go for near a coinbit each.
So, what's this then? They prepare what looks like a light meal, pour some water in jugs and pots, lay out the bread, break out the biteroot and the salt, set the plates, decorate the table with a few figures of saints far and fancy, and then . . . collectively get up, walk out and walk away?
The bread is clearly still good. It looks soft, even. Freshly baked. The hound picks up the scent first but as it whines near the alcove in the back there's a small fireplace built right into the wall, which has the low trace of recent fire and bread. Clever artifice really, vents the smoke right out.
Alright, scratch the prior: They spend hours making bread from good stock, laying out plates, finding the nice knives, gathering roots and stingberry, set the chairs, dust the place out and over with the broom in the corner and THEN leave. . . ?
... ???
That frankly does not make it one bit less confusing. It's might be ritualistic but it's also <span class="mu-i">economics</span>. Let's not disdain the hard working frontier settlers, they're literally the salt of the earth, but socioeconomically they can't exactly go around throwin away perfectly good meals on a whim rather often. There's enough food here to feed eight people and be a feast. So where's the feasters?
One of the troopers eyes the bread. He does not lick his lips. But, well, I mean, the implication is there that that's what he'd like to do.
You've got hours till the dark comes in, a ready set table, free roam of a fairly well to do house which clearly has bits worth taking and no trouble. Not the worst thing to have found.
Any other genius plans?
( One of the troopers checks the roof: That's empty too )
