Mmm. Do you not know the best way to preserve the flesh of an elf is to salt it and smoke it? We make for fine jerky, plenty of muscle that is very flavorful. We do not pickle so well. Not enough fat to us to make it worthwhile. Have you ever seen or heard of a fat elf, my friend? I think not. Though...there was this one elf from the Anderfels that I might safely call chubby. There was a bit of a squish to his middle, and a great deal of give to his very fine rump. He very nearly had a womanly figure for how it sat around his hips and rear.

[Stories. Stories were easy and comfortable and well known to him and a way for him to remind himself of normalcy. Especially when he considers the weight he's lost, the time he's lost, and the thing that is apparently taken from someone upon their revival. As he has all his limbs and senses and memories he cannot think of what it was that was taken from him. He'll sort it out later, perhaps, but he would rather not think of it at all. instead he wishes to sit and spin absurd tales with Isaac.

It was more familiar that death and dying. Safer.]

Mm. Perhaps I might prepare a meal for you? Or craft something of leather. Or perhaps I might make you some very fine poisons? I will have to check to see how the garden has transplanted in my absence but the nightshade and magebane should have taken quite well.

[The request? Ignored. Well. He does stop hugging Isaac. But not without combing his fingers through the man's hair with a cheeky smirk.]