[ Familiar. Despite the destructive force of his shoulder on another hand, another bristle settles, and for the moment Zelgadis lets himself consider the novelty of food preferences. ]

Fish is fine. There must be salt around here, or we can make our own if the institution is lacking. What kind of vegetables are we talking?

[ Because food talk seems to be a universal meeting point, and easier to settle on than the roiling Everything going on behind his eyes at present. ]