It is a leap of faith; a gamble. But it is a calculated risk, based half on intellect and things-remembered and things-not-quite-said and not-quite-heard, and the other half on the desperation that a pair of eyes, a pair of hands outside these two plus two might make sense of something which he, Tiernan of Winter Diamond, Prince, aka Terry Winter, Esquire, has to admit to himself he no longer knows how to solve.

     Another swallow and the matter -- tease or serious -- is dropped. For now. "So, I hear things have been quite ripe around here lately. Fighting, whoring. I'm upset no one sent for me!

     Point of fact he's lucky you're only mostly drunk instead of completely drunk, or else he might have a gladius buried to hilt in his gut right about now. "Villiages in Sussex and Kent loyal to Arthur are being razed. The Saxons swear they are not behind these raids yet claim that if peace is to remain he best do something about these raiders."

     "I have been sober. I have been drunk. I have been splendid. I have been soiled. I suppose there's no escaping it in the end, but I don't want to be a total fatalist. I leave that to Saxon minstrels."

     He holds his helm in the crook of his arm and cocks up an eyebrow. "The only thing keeping Olwen out of this tent is my own despicable reputation," Drustan glides. And then he winks to Morgaine. "Can you hear me, boyo? How many fingers am I holding up?"

     And so the day of the Tourney has arrived. With the Saxons at least marginally pacified as of late, Arthur...

     Gossip in the gardens? Drustan gives Comet his head, allowing the stallion to nose the earth for treats. Gloved hands lay the reins criss-crossed before him. "I think we should all stay out of the gardens. Nothing good ever comes of them." Somehow, even when he thinks of her, he keeps himself upright. "So... what's the gossip..."

     When Ywaine eventually finds you Drustan he's wearing a nice swollen eye and a split lip that reopens and bleeds every soften. One eye (the other is almost swollen shut mind) Narrows as Ywaine approaches and he says, "I think you're starting to have a lot of fun with this game of cat and mouse you and my father are playing."

     "I think I am going to stop drinking," he utters the extraordinary in such an ordinary fashion. "It is not bringing me solace. It's not even bringing me escape." Drustan chuckles. "So... your wine then... and that's the end of it." A pronouncement. Maybe he'll even stick to it.

      ...When the bards speak of this night (oh sing, great calamity!), they will say that the first thunderbolt of the storm was struck by Drustan's own hand.

     "Mmm... that is a tough question, really. But, sometimes, I would say, we must play out the game which has been set for us, keeping ever watchful for a way closer to what we want. We may never get there," Morgaine muses, "but then again, we'll never know if we keep pitying ourselves, hm?"

     Galahad's clapping is soft and dramatic, but his smile seems genuine. The sun is with him, shining in his fair and youthful face. "Pure?" he chirps, grinning now. That is the story, yes.

     Neither Christian nor Pagan is Drustan. He worships a goddess who walks the earth. There is only one of Yseult. And she is so in his heart and soul, what room is there for Christ or the entire Celtic pantheon? He celebrates all holidays, and none.

     Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, so a poet shall one day say...