Fenn… would have used the excuse of “oops, habit” if beanpole hadn’t already brought it up as an example of bad-ness if one were to steal too much or something. Instead, the young puck looked mildly uncomfortable, as if he were sitting on a bed full of nails. He didn’t like to think too hard about the theoretical consequences of his actions. That just made him frustrated and fraught with unwanted patches of ice.

OOP. VERY TRAGIC POSSIBILITIES. SO SORRY. LESSON LEARNED. NOT HAPPEN AGAIN, he wrote with a muffled snort, not sure how else to dismiss Beanpole’s words. How did he get trapped in this lecturing limbo again?

Oh, right. The promise of food.

Speaking of which, the waitress brought it over with a kindly wave. The boy’s ears pricked up at the sound of dishes clinking against tabletop. Finally! For Nevin, there was boring bread and some water. A sort of dark soupstuff and several mugs of mysterious cider were dropped before Fenn and the Beanpole man. Gleefully, two bowls of the soupstuff were stolen over to Fenn’s side of the table. His free hand tapped out a patch of frost for him to scrawl in. I CONSUME MUCH TOO. BEANPOLE NOT TELL NAME. TELL NAME, he wrote hurriedly. Ignoring the (stupid iron-wrought) utensils, the boy lifted one of the steaming bowls up to his face and took a gulp of his free meal. His bottomless stomach was met with…

...chili and sausage stew? Fenn gasped and put down his bowl as his mouth watered. Spicy! Spicy enough to melt the poor frostchild’s tongue, or at least that was what he made of the taste. He expressed this displeasure with one out of the two sounds he was capable of making.

“Hisssssssss!”

Immediately, he grabbed for his cider and took a swig. A swig which was just as quickly spat out in surprise, leaving a frozen patch of cider on the tabletop. Cinnamon? Who the hell thought it was a good idea to make drinks spicy? An ugly grimace came to the boy’s face as he sat, stunned, wondering how on Althanas he was supposed to put out this hellfire that danced over his tongue. There was just enough self control within the little fae to not pitch a complete fit about the sorry semi-painful state of his mouth. He did not, however, possess the same self control over his magic. As far as his magic was concerned, this was a fucking attack upon his tongue! A cold breeze fluttered about the fae, snowflakes flickering into existence. A thick sheen of frost built up on anything Fenn touched -- his seat, his section of the table, and his awful horrible no-good spicy surprise soup and cider. Possibly, it was spreading to the other’s parts of the table too, but the boy was not currently concerned with that.

If Fenn weren’t worried about giving his direwolf a taste for human flesh, he would’ve probably promised right then and there to let her gnaw up the bony Beanpole bastard if the two were ever within gumming distance.