Indeed, his patience for counsel, and unasked for at that, was at its limit, and so was his patience for remaining in this place where his mere presence still invited looks wary and hateful. Or simply of the unpleasant kind, all for his outburst earlier. Understandable, in a way, but there'd have been no need for it had the Man kept his hands to himself, and his words deep in his throat — perhaps to choke on them, even! — so he did not feel terribly shamed, merely... annoyed.

"Enough to last me some hundred years, for sure," he answered cheekily, but not wholly unfriendly. Yet all the same, he was reluctant to let this Man, Martel, to walk away just yet. A rifter, much like himself, and one who seemed to have been here for a stretch of a time. Surely he had knowledge and information that could be of use, and surely, making an ally or a friend out of him would benefit him rather than hinder. "But simple conversation I would still welcome, if you would spare me not only your fist but also your time now."

He gestured towards the door leading out of the tavern and into the fresh air. The stench of this place, and the many eyes fixed on them, did not make for a good spot.

"I would appreciate that greatly, I — Legolas, son of Thranduil," a touch of good-will here, a small bow of the head, but his smile was small and soured by the circumstance.