The mixture was something he'd concocted from elfroot, tobacco, cloves and dried apple peels and a few other ingredients he didn't know the English names for. It was sweet and pleasant - the perfect thing for a party on a chilly late autumn evening while the drinks flowed and the party-goers amused themselves with parlour games of the variety intended to tease and intoxicate.

He was - more-so than usual as he'd sprawled out among the cushions like some particularly spoiled tomcat that thought he was king of the neighborhood.

Beleth's question was received with a monotone chuckle.

"Because," said the Medicine Seller, taking a long hit of the pipe as it was passed to him, "I do not particularly want or need one."

He passed the pipe on to Thranduil, not commenting on the way the Nevarran's interred their dead. His sword and scales had been mighty twitchy since setting foot in the city, unable to make up their minds on whether or not his services were required, and it had, in turn, left him irritable all the way to the tavern.

"For our esteemed leader... A task, perhaps. Or a question?" He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder. I wonder."

He was, of course, stalling as he thought of something suitably personal without bringing down the mood of the party.

"Perhaps an embarrassing anecdote from your younger days?"