[Subtleties of facial expression are too often still lost on Illarion, their nuances difficult to ((feel)); but the little hum of interest does not go missed. Maybe, maybe if...

Maybe they'll see where the rest of this conversation goes. (And oh, what he'd have to say on the conservation of elven insufferability across worlds!) That he's hit on a question already that's a little sore isn't a great sign, but hardly a fatal one either. Letting the other man ask the questions seems to be the safer ground, for the moment.]

We changed ourselves--to have more children, you see?

Elves live forever, unless they are killed; but, much to our sorrow, we bore very few children. One egg hatched, for every two-score laid in nests; our mothers might strive for centuries to conceive us.

[As he gets into the rhythm of the history, the old litany of his people, Illarion sits up straighter and uncrosses his arms. This deserved a certain dignity.]

This would not have mattered so much if we did not have much cause to die--but we did, for we long ago pledged our aid to mortals, had they need of us.

And so often did they need us! [A little flourish of his fingers emphasizes that need. ] Most of them for our skill in war, for that is where their straits were most dire and hopeless. So we came, their shining heroes and banes of tyrants, and we fought, and we died in our droves and myriads alongside our mortal allies.

[The conclusion of all this bloody heroism is likely quite easy to predict.]