"I'm guessing Jols' ale didn't agree with you last night," Lancelot says, and sounds entirely too happy about it. Dagonet just grunts. Doesn't move, because, if he does, the hammering will start again. "Oh, it was more than just the ale," Galahad says, and lifts his own mug, grin impish. "There was also the whiskey. And the girls." "Girls?" Gawain raises an eyebrow. "As in, more than one?" Galahad holds up three fingers. "That's my boy." Bors slaps Dagonet on the back just hard enough to have Dagonet seeing stars again. He moans, tastes bile in the back of his throat, and has to bite his lip to keep from losing what little still remains in his stomach. "I'm proud of you," Lancelot grins. "One more, and you'd have tied me." "Shove off, you've never had four women in your bed and you know it," Gawain snorts. "You can barely handle two." "And you've been watching me enough to know, I suppose?" Galahad laughs and slaps his knee at Gawain's dumb-founded expression. Bors calls for another round and some grub. Dagonet continues to clutch his head and pray for death. "Here." Dagonet glances up, sees Tristan sitting, serene and composed, beside him. His braids gleam from a recent wash, and his tattoos stand out in stark relief from under alert eyes. "It will help clear your head." Dagonet takes one look at the oozing, thick liquid, the color of cold gruel, seeping over the sides of the mug. "Doesn't look too appetizing," he manages in a hoarse croak. "Trust me." Tristan's eyes caress Dagonet's. "It will help." Dagonet holds the gaze for another moment, feels the warmth on his face like sunshine after a snowfall. "Alright," he says, and picks up the mug.
|