After the healer left, the maid decided to head to the mess hall, taking the servant's entrance to the left of Eral's room.
Not wanting to be in the way of the hectic atmosphere. It was a small and narrow tunnel with only two doors. One you entered and one you left. Sometimes she would find the children playing in them.
As she entered the mess hall from the tunnel exit, the large silver pot was still on the iron stove, no longer steaming. She moved towards it, grabbing the poker by its side.
All she could do for now was start handing out the Grover special she and Hyrne had created. Poking the logs to rekindle the heat from the unburnt sides of the wood with the long metal bar, she felt the warmth flowing onto her hand as she stabbed into the dormant, fiery beast.
Standing up from her battle with the flames. She removed the lid, and her eyes fell into what was a creamy substance, slowly bubbling around the edges where it met the pot.
Steam and heat were flowing around the edges of her hands, from the soup and the stove underneath it. When she filled the final bowl, she pulled out the drawer, searching for clean cutlery.
Not long after the quest for spoons, a shuffling of feet came from the corridor, slow and broken. Louvan heard a commotion from afar not long ago, but it wasn't her place to nose around; they had their jobs, and she had hers.
As they got closer, one by one, the soup and fresh spoons disappeared, being scooped up into the hands of the guards.
All taking their share and moving away, they were now heading to the circular wooden tables, some alone, others in groups. Faces that spoke in a loudness the eyes of the maid couldn't miss.
They were all delving into the creamy reflection of Hyrne's Grover special. Not one of hunger, but one of sadness.
Before any spoon sailed around the food in front of them, a new sound would fill the room.
Tapping gradually drummed into banging, starting from the table to the far back, then the front. It was coming from all around now.
Louvan's eyes saw the up-and-down motion of hands and the sound originating from the spoons. Growing, now with rhythm as others joined in.
Just as it started, it ended, falling into a whimper. Arms shot up one by one, holding something in the air with one hand; it was the soup raised above their heads.
As the last bowl was scooped up from the guard closest to the maid, something broke out, pushing words ahead into the room; another copied him until all of them were in sync, speaking as one.
All the guards: (Echoing) "For the fallen, for the lost, for the ones who pass to the other side. One day, we will meet again! Carl Trevyr! Carl Trevyr! (pausing) CARL TREVYR VAR REM!" The brown ceramic bowls lowered, not slamming to the table but falling gently, and like snow, the food melted away into the now quiet mouths of the guards.
The maid put a hand to her pendant.
It was a custom for any fallen guard or adventurer, as the lives of both were a bond that brought them all together.
Feet came from Louvan's right, from the corridor.
A man shot into the room, looking at the counter where the maid was standing.
As Louvan was finishing up pouring the soup just moments ago, Busy hands were putting all the extra utensils away into a drawer, lost in the thought of the chant that came from the men, just learning of the loss of Carl. She had no words, just thoughts of prayers in her mind that drowned out the world.
A body jolted into the maid's peripheral vision, something grabbing the slender wrist and pulling her away from the counter and her thoughts.
Without thinking of the tightness of his grip or pull, as there was no time for pleasantries. The clattering of ladles and spoons was falling onto the stone.
From the flashing blur coming into focus came a frantic expression and words.
Eral: I NEED YOUR LITTLE HANDS! (shouting so all could hear, solely aimed at one.)
Louvan: ERAL! What is the meaning of... (shocked)?
Her question was cut short when she saw the worry in the eyes of the man pulling her away, letting her wrist be yanked in the direction of the corridor.