Quentan rose from his bedroll on the floor by the fire and with a jaw popping yawn, rose and prepared for the day. He spent the first hour praying to Torag, obtaining his spells for the day and his daily devotions before he rose and stomped... quietly... into the kitchen. The smell of burning oatmeal caused his nosehairs to curl, but he eyed the contaption on the counter warily.<br/><br/>With a huff, he checked the temperature of the stove and decided that perhaps the best thing to do was to keep it simple.<br/><br/>He retrieved flour from a bag, some milk and salt. With surprisingly dexterous hands, he began to make a large portion of bread dough, but stopped short of the kneeding. With a pan laying on the counter, he pinched off chunks, rolled them and placed them onto the pan. When he was done, he slid the pan into the oven and waited patiently for the biscuits to brown and set, took a rag and pulled it back out to set aside. "Ye find ana buttar or jamm in th' place?" he asked the other two as he dropped the bread into a basket and covered it with a cloth.<br/><br/>He thought for a moment, "Tis me goal ta go an' talk ta th' clerics up at th' church an' sees what theys kno' o' th' prisoners... Anaone goin' wif meself?"