After dinner, the lingering warmth of shared food and forced conviviality gave way to the practical tyranny of cleanup. With a glance that brooked no argument, Oathran herded Lazuardi and Stevan toward the sink.
It seemed one of his minor, unspoken wishes had been fulfilled in this constructed world. The mundane, tactile understanding of human domesticity. The knowledge implanted in his mind had granted him not just the theory of how food was made, but a visceral appreciation for it. Good stuff.
And with that appreciation came an equally crucial piece of wisdom.
No matter who cooked, no matter who savored the results, no one loved to do the dishes.
In this world, as in his true existence, he was not skilled at cooking. But he loved the food, especially when it was made by Cecilia's hands. So, he appointed himself to the task everyone else dreaded.
The scrubbing of plates.
