The barn and it's oodles of hay, while suitable for a night of lodging, was hardly secure or stable enough for anything close to permanent. So early the next morning, Oliver took leave of the group to try and procure something warmer than the pajamas he still wore. A bit of careful haggling (made difficult given the language barrier) soon procured him a coat of some thickness, and he was grateful to bury himself in it, hands stuck within the deep pockets.
He was just on his way back towards the barn they had found when his arm was grabbed by a man passing by him. The rapid-fire Russian landed on deaf ears, and Oliver was dragged away to destinations completely unknown. It wasn't until his coat was stripped off and he was thrust into the relative warmth of the palace kitchens that he got an inkling of what it was they thought he should be doing.
"Perfect," he muttered to himself, casting a glance at the others in the kitchen before he shuffled forward towards a pile of dishes. A scrub brush was taken in hand and it was then that he heard the muttering coming from nearby.
Muttering in English.
Oliver raised a brow and started to edge closer towards Will and his stack of dishes, occupying himself by scrubbing at a dirty one. "You speak English?" he asked, keeping his voice down so they didn't attract any further attention.