The barbarian continues to pout for a few more minutes, until-- with a rather feral sniff that contrasts sharply with her petulant expression and delicate, exotic features, she turns to eye the wine cask... apparently, it smells good.  She then turns back to door-staring and resumes her peevish frowning.  Giving an exaggerated sigh, she unlaces her boots-- the studded leather greaves coming clear from one bronzed leg and foot effortlessly.  She shakes the sand out in the direction of the door, then props each beside her.  With one raised eyebrow, the barbarian eyes the tap and then looks over the other elf slowly.  "Usually, you tree-loving types are less..." she can't find the word 'domesticated', "village-like."