Glaffin grins widely, preventing himself from chuckling at the elf's assumption, "Didn't find them anywhere, and you're unlikely to find any outside of a dwarven hold, which I understand there are few of on this continent. It's a well known recipe among my kin, since we use them to light deep reaches under the earth where are is scarce and flammable gas is always a possibility. I whipped up this batch in the time it took us to travel from that bandit camp to the edge of town."

The tin with the remaining four cubes rests under one gloved hand, fingers drumming on its surface as he considers Iskandar carefully before extending his other arm, offering his hand to the elf.

"Glaffin Pickthrower, alchemist, smith, and cleric of Thorus when I'm called to be. I'm a lot better than I have any right to be at the first two as well." He boasts mildly.