"Unforgiving? Urianger, please." As far as Thancred's concerned, he'd gone rather easy on him, but he has to remember that mages often don't feel the need to engage in physical exercise when most of their energy goes into manipulating aether.

As soon as he realizes that Urianger's setting the table, though, he steps over to help. He stares down at the tablecloth, the plates and utensils, and is struck by how they've been forced to make a life here. It's odd, given that he never truly settled down in his five years on Norvrandt. He'd always been on the run, never wanting Ryne's pursuers to catch up with them.

Thancred takes a seat when indicated and pours himself a glass of wine, admiring the spread. He will say this, the Castle produces some decent food, far better than he would have access to were he on the road constantly. It doesn't make up for their relative imprisonment here, but he'll take the upsides when they come.

Though when Urianger extends such formal thanks to him (granted, all he does is formal), Thancred glances up from his wine glass with a refreshed smile. "You see? It was hardly so bad. 'Twas no trouble, friend, and if I'm right and it does make sleep come to you more easily, we can make a habit of it." He makes himself a plate with a drumstick, bread, cheese, and some of the fruit.

As he takes a bite from the drumstick, he eyes Urianger across the table. "Did you receive any other useful suggestions from our fellow Summoned?"