Wallaroo gently guided Janderius into the keep, her own footsteps plodding and heavy. The mage had expended far too much energy, she thought. She had too. The three-spirit manouver was tricky at the best of times, and it had drained her to move those ladders. She could barely think. Certainly not enough to find the right words in Common, and she pointed Jander towards his bed, murmuring softly in Pandaren to get some sleep, silly mage.
She nudged the man towards bed, then turned and plopped down on a stool, her heart weighted. Fel things afoot. More dissent from within. The fort badly damaged, again. She sighed, dragged herself up, and making sure the mage was at least sleeping, for now, headed to the tavern.
She felt the spark burning low in her, but needs must. Bloody gloves and armor was removed. Carefully wiped down. Weapons were rinsed and oiled. An apron. She grabbed it, headed into the kitchen, and without a word began to cook. To brew. And brew some more. There would be a strong beer needed to warm hearts after tonight. A soft tea to ease troubled souls. She could not rest, but she could *do* something. She was not as useless as she had been.
Come dawn, there were loaves of fresh bread, cauldrons of stew simmering, kegs of beer and pots of tea gently steeping. Smells that soothed and warmed drifted from the kitchens of the tavern in great wafts, chasing away the smells of blood, ash, and dirt.
A pandaren lay curled up next to the ovens, fast asleep and covered in flour.