don't mind him taking a shit in the pfp

Wiping the sweat off of his forehead, his hand went back to stirring the crock pot he was making for some of the injured and hungry soldiers he was tending to earlier. Adjusting his apron and tossing his cap over to the side, he let out a huff as he pushed his glasses up his nose.

Glancing to the side momentarily to check on the wounded soldiers, his gaze fell back to stirring the boiling crock, almost lost in thought but quickly snapped out of it, reaching to the side for some salt to season the delicacy.

From time to time, his hand went to the hilt of his saber, out of instict to check if it was still there. Old habits.