Maybe the picture Buck painted wasn't the standard most would consider as romantic, but ironically enough — and funnily too —, it was something right up Legolas's alley, as they say. It reminded him of the old days, of the good times in the past. Hunting and feasting on the game they caught and fruit they gathered, only wine something traded that the forest could not provide with. True enough, the gutting and cleaning was hardly pleasant, but it was the sad necessity to have something better later.

"Star lit dinners in the wild are just as romantic, although in a different manner," he shrugged, smiling a little softer — as if he was about to suggest they should actually do it — but still with that edge of teasing to it, "And the hunt, the preparation, they are precious in their own right. Do not think me so squeamish that I would be bothered! Or be unwilling to stand a stain or two on my shirt. It is hardly pleasant, indeed, but for a good cause!"

It helped he had enough money to buy a new one, of course, but even so! For an elf of Mirkwood, or Eryn Lasgalen as it was called after the war, to be squeamish of the hunt and the field dressing, it was unheard of.

"Lâche pas la patate," he parroted next with a laugh, his accent smooth but in the very continental French kind of way, but his tone was confused, as he tried to make sense of the phrase, "I think that one you will have to explain, unless I should always keep a potato on my person to not let it drop!"

Beer was one of those drinks that was deceptively easy to down quickly. Granted, not for him, but he had witnessed many a time that those who drank the quickest, wound up napping their intoxication away under the tables the soonest. Granted, again, most, if not all, of Rainbow were quite seasoned drinkers, so that happened rarely. All the same, Legolas arched a brow a notch, at Buck's pace, but matched it anyway, least someone got it in their head he could not keep up.