Eating is great until you find yourself stranded in the northern wilds without trail rations or the first clue which plants are safe to eat. Or stuck in a strange city on another planet, for that matter, without a single coin of the local currency in one's pocket. Doing away with food altogether might be a slightly unconventional way to carry out the promise to oneself that one would never go hungry again, but by the time money stopped being a concern in Asmodia's life she had come to rely on the convenience of never having to worry about it at all unless she especially desired the experience.

Not habitable suggests something even more violent than ousted, and Asmodia's eyebrows climb even as she keeps chowing down on the biscuit thing. So much for that residence, though she'll hardly miss it. She swallows thickly, briefly regretting biting off nearly half the thing at once, and glances down at the furry brown nose poking its way out from under the bench. "Donkey rat," she explains. "His name's Biscuit." At an insistent squeak, she rolls her eyes and adds, "Yes, he does -- and it's going to be his own fault if he makes himself sick eating human food." Take that, Biscuit.

"I take it your friend wasn't one of the Rebels?" she asks cautiously.