Silver Insanity

The bartender mutters "Don't need another cook; got a perfectly good..."

Then he looks up. "Waitaminute. You're THE Mr. Willoughby? My apologies sir!" He manages to snap a salute - some remnant of long lost military training coming to the fore - and gestures to the open doorway behind him. "My kitchen is yours, of course. I'll admit I don't know much of this Twill character, but," he gestures at the common room behind you, "I'll find out who does, and make sure they're ready for interrogation!"

Willoughby smiles pleasantly. "Thank you, sir! You are most kind." There is a prim, silent blur towards the kitchen.

He is called the Eternal Valet, and, in truth, the essence of serving never changes. The uniforms may change with fashion, the exact nature of the clientele may shift with the prosperity of the kingdom; but there are always tasks to be prioritized and delegated, desires to be anticipated and met. In this case: a potato stew in need of spices, side dishes in need of cooking, customers who are waiting. Where the inn's own stores are lacking, Willoughby supplements them with his own provisions. (Careful, careful, not too much, he thinks. Remember the uncertain road ahead.) He tiptoes past the cook's ego with all the tact and finesse he can muster. It isn't long before the Two Mermaids' patrons discover that their ale is being served on a glittering silver tray.

Thanking the barmaid for a wonderful nap once she grows tired or needs to get back to work, Ametrine stretches and flies into the kitchen. "Whatcha workin' on, Mr. Willoughby? Can I help? I'm not really good with cooking, but I can... um... get... things off the top of the cabinets for you!"

Though he is earnest, the cooks discover quickly that Ametrine's accuracy in bringing them the right ingredient requires telling him the approximate color and the shape of the container it is in.

While assisting them - which of course includes tasting each and every ingredient before it is added to the their recipe - Ametrine begins a pet project to create lemonade, using known physcial properties of the substance: It's yellow, and sweet, and has a lot of water. Substances with one or more of these characteristics are added to the black barrel he keeps in his bag.

Willoughby is pleased with, and amused by, the little dragon's attitude, and allows him to help. He begins setting aside small portions of the ingredients for Amertine to taste, so that Amertine's curiosity can be satisfied without getting dragon spittle in the food. (And what on earth is he doing with that bag...?)

While serving, the Eternal Valet listens carefully to the conversation in the inn.

Most of the conversation in the Two Mermaids is mundane, although discussions of local gossip quickly fade away as the patron's attention turns to simply eating the best meal any of them have ever tasted. Even the music stops; the bards can tell there's no need for additional entertainment to keep the patrons distracted.

Not all the patrons react so predictably, however. The man hiding in his dark green cloak gives Mr. Willoughby a suspicious look, and pecks cautiously at his food, as if expecting it to bite him.

The trio of adventurers take the sudden increase in quality of board in stride, and continue to discuss their latest plans - apparently some sort of expedition to a cave or tower or something a short distance to the east.

The other Ailuris takes one sip of the wine you gave him, and sets it carefully back down on the countertop. "Musht be shome mistake," he mutters, staring nervously at the glass. "How'm I shupposed to drink to forget, when thish is the same shtuff that... shame shuff..." He shakes his head. "Whoever heard of drinking to rmember?"
Then he carefully takes another sip, lost in thought, tail drooping all the way down to the ground.

The two bards gladly sit down to eat after their performance. The foppish one eats daintily, composing odes to the quality of the fare inbetween bites. His burly companion simply digs in, with a muffled "Thank you," each time you refill his plate.

Willoughby waits for the orders to die down. When he has a spare minute, he drops in next to the Ailuris at the bar. "The same stuff, you say...?" he asks, frowning slightly. "Same stuff as which, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Same stuff the sherved at the duke's table, back when I was..." He trails off into incoherent mutterings, then adds, "I know, I know, you don't believe me. An Ailuris? Guard Captain? Hah. An' you'd," he takes another sip, "right; couldn't do anything when it mattered."

"The duke...?" Willoughby prods gently. "Are you from Phee, or Bor, or a place close to them...?"

"Phee, good shir."
Sip.
"But when Lord Antleburry's daughter left..."
Sip.
"And we couldn't even catch that bastard..."
Sip.
"Well, it was me, or me and my men, sho..."
Thud.

The Ailuris collapses, having finally found his original goal of temporary oblivion.

Ah, Lord Antleberry. A jowly, pugnacious fellow with a bad temper. Willoughby had always suspected that Lord Antleberry would eventually run into a problem he couldn't shout into submission.

Still, the question of precisely which bastard has proved so elusive is very intriguing...

Willoughby arranges the guard captain into a position which looks slightly less uncomfortable, and makes a mental note to get him to a bed in the near future.

For the moment, though, his attention is drawn to the hooded figure in the corner of the room. Willoughby slides over to that corner and sits down neatly, regarding the cloaked man pleasantly. "The food I cook isn't usually poisoned, sir," he remarks. "It's considered unprofessional."