"Marshmallows. Mortal tradition." He waves his black nailed fingers. "Puffy, sickeningly sweet, they make your teeth fall out. They're delicious with chocolate. That's after they're poked and cooked over a fire. I've heard it's an art not to turn them charcoal black."

It's not an unfamiliar feeling—he finds that everything in Drabwurld is a little familiar. Either from a mesh of mythology and history or what memories he has from the Otherworld.

He glances him up and down, and then adds, "Miiiight not be your thing."