A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Oliver turned and stepped towards him. He stood behind a table laden with dishes. Beside him, there were many other tables, and many other cooks waiting behind them. "I suppose I am," he told the man. "I'm new here – am I allowed whatever I want?" Continue your adventure with empire

The question seemed to surprise the cook, for he raised an eyebrow in surprise. "But of course, ser. There's a range of different dishes down the length of the line, whatever takes your fancy, ya just need point, and we'll get it scooped onto a plate for you."n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

Oliver grinned at the man's direct manner. The cook likely didn't know why he was grinning. A week away from Solgrim, and Oliver was already missing the more rough-spoken accents of the country folk, to the point where even a comparatively well-spoken servant was enough to make me feel nostalgic.

"I'll have that then," he said with a point. "Is that beef?"

"Beef, and a nice sweet sauce to go with it, yes ser. Would you like any potatoes with that? Perhaps you might be interested in the salty loaves that we cook up here – they're good with the sweet sauce, I can tell ya," the cook said.

"A salty loaf and the beef sounds perfect," Oliver said.

"Right you are!" The cook agreed, returning his grin. He hastened to cut some meat for Oliver. "How much do you want? Hm? This much?"

"Can you double that?" Oliver asked hesitantly. It still felt incredibly strange to be able to eat so much. Even at Lombard's mansion, where the maids had insisted on feeding him until he was full, giving him all that he'd asked for, he was still a long way from growing used to it.

The cook broke out into a grin this time. "Ser, as far as the cooks are concerned, all this meat is yours – you nobility pay these wages. The more ya eat of it, the happier we are. So you take as much as ya want, and if you fancy more, it'll be a compliment to see you come back."

"Thank you very much, then," Oliver said, accepting the meat and the loaf, returning the cook's smile.

Faced with such friendly energy, it was hard to pay Volguard's warnings much mind, but as soon as he turned on his heel, and was forced to face the rows upon rows of eating students, that smile quickly faded, and he was forced to once more face the reality ingrained in the unfamiliar place.

He looked for a place where he might seat himself. There were only around a quarter of the students – that Oliver could see – wearing blue. The other tables were filled with yellow-shirted students, both male and female, and as far as Oliver could tell, every single one of those places was taken.

The only small pockets of space were on the blue-shirted tables, amongst the nobility, where they were eating at a considerably slower pace than the rowdier serving class.

The hall was filled with loud conversation, much of it coming from the yellow side – for the dining hall was quite obviously divided, with all the noble tables grouped together in the area that was closest to the door, and closest to the many roaring fires that burned in the hearths set into the stone brick walls.

"Gods, they're a rowdy bunch," he heard one noble comment, as a particularly loud bout of laughter came from the serving class half of the hall. Oliver noted the comment, and spared a glance at the boy who had said it, studying him, wondering what about the boy made him look so miserable.

Was it his thick black eyes that hung so solemnly over his eyes, or was it those wide ears that seemed liable to catch every bit of noise?

The boy caught him staring out of the corner of his eye, he turned rather abruptly in his seat, as though to confront him. But something made him pause. Oliver saw the recognition in his eyes – though Oliver was quite certain he had not seen the boy before. But it was not him that the boy was recognizing, it was the pin that clung to his chest.

"…Patrick," he heard the boy mutter under his breath. That stirred some of the students around him, and they were looking at him as well. They weren't openly hostile, but they were close to it. None of them brooked the slightest bit of friendliness, but neither did they seem to be in a hurry to make an enemy out of him.

Instead, from those eyes, it was more like he was a diseased man, and they wanted as little to do with him as possible.

He spared them a forced smile and a nod, before he went turning away, feeling their eyes on him, and hearing the muttered conversation that followed along behind him as he took his steps.

It was the nobility that the stares came from. The serving class students did not appear to care much for who he was. A handful of them looked at him, noted his badge, and then simply went back to the conversations that they were having before.

From that treatment, it was the yellow side of the room that Oliver was finding himself more inclined towards, but even without being told so, it was painfully obvious to him that it would cause more than controversy if a noble was to seat himself amongst commoners.

Distracted by his thoughts, he found himself walking for longer than he would have liked to, his plate of food in one hand, as he scanned the benches that he walked along for a possible place.

As he walked, he must have wandered a little too close to the yellow bench, for a rather excitable boy – engaged in animated conversation – chose to hop off his bench at the same time that Oliver was passing.

Oliver was lucky to catch sight of him out of the corner of his eye, else he was quite certain that his food would have greeted the floor. Instead, he found himself ducking to avoid an out swung arm, that passed over his head, and disturbed his hair.

The boy hadn't hit him – and large boy that he was, he seemed nearly a man – but the surprise of feeling his hand touch something must have unsettled him, for what had been a hefting backwards off the bench now turned into an awkward scramble, as he sought to dodge whatever it was that he thought was behind him.