"Where I'm from, we just throw what we've got in a pot and hope for the best." He takes another, little sip, and his nose wrinkles. "Might have to get back to you on this one."

He holds the can back out to her. There's a moment of hesitation, and then, venturing and a little awkward: "It was the Blight, for me." She shared, so it only seems fair to even it out. Like war stories. Camaraderie. Lothering was long ago enough now that it's more like a scar than a wound. "Definitely would've been bodies, though, if something like that happened here. Or... bones, at least."