[ The elf is in his gleaming half-plate, the watersilk cape emblazoned with the Unseelie King's sigil pinned to his shoulders. He's been a bright point in the feast, brightly smiling, gracious with those others who are obviously new. The goblet of wine in his hand pauses halfway to his mouth. ]
Begging your pardon, I... don't understand.
[ But a look at the cigarette seems to jog a memory, and after a moment of hesitation, he adds, ]
eeee!
Begging your pardon, I... don't understand.
[ But a look at the cigarette seems to jog a memory, and after a moment of hesitation, he adds, ]
You mean fire...?