Between the chiming, the crackling flames, and the simple comforts of this space, there's a small part of him that is, at least in some small sense, mollified from his terror. The stew is warm, and it doesn't have that sort of copper-laden smell that he'd expect from this sort of thing - though, perhaps that's due to differences in blood? Maybe even human flesh, too, would lose such a smell when cooked? He isn't sure. He tries not to think too hard about it.

Even still, propriety is in order, and he looks to Drelasa when she sits just to his side. He's not used to expressing himself with this face - instead of figuring out how a smile might work, he reaches over, giving a gentle, appreciative touch to her arm.

And, at last, he breaks his hesitance. There's attention upon him now, after all. He takes his first bite of the stew, uncertain of what to be prepared for.