[Open Post] ..only want to glean the purpose..

[lanselos_du_lac]

Since they learned of Shen Yuan's death, things have been subdued; rightly so, Lancelot reasons. He has done what he can to be a support for those he loves, and to keep his own worry and anxiety at bay. He worries about how they are all doing, about whether or not they are safe, about what he can do to make anything better -- which often feels like nothing. It's unsettling, and he wants to stay settled and present for them, so he determines to find a way to be so.

As has always been the case for him, being outside helps. The weather is warming and true spring is settling in. (He has difficulty keeping track of what time may be like back in Britain¹, but he suspects that it is early summer there. If so, then he supposes that means he is another year older, which is a strangely hopeful thought.) And so, after his lunch with Susan, he heads back out -- he might ride, or walk through the woods, or explore the lake. Whatever keeps him out in the sunshine, under the sky.



^{1: He has not quite realized this yet, but he has generally stopped thinking "at home" when he means Camelot, or Britain in general. That this place -- no, these people -- have become home in so short a span is something he has to take by degrees, lest he worry about what it means for his relationship with those he left behind there.}

Comments

[lanselos_du_lac]

"One of many," lightly.

[sagramore]

He knocks back the rest of the drink, which does make his head swim a little. "One of infinite."

[futaille]

He laughs. "How was it?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Canst thou manage it?"

[sagramore]

"Please. I'm a skilled and seasoned drinker."

[futaille]

"Truly in one of the upper echelons."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I suppose we'll see, once thou'rt attempting to walk again."

[sagramore]

"Oh, wouldst thou see me walk?" He pushes himself off his stool.

[futaille]

"Oh, he'll still have his legs," Grantaire says with a laugh as he starts to mix another frankenconcoction for himself. "I would, at least."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"The both of thee outdo me." He sets down his empty glass, from the first drink.

[sagramore]

"We're both old hands at drunkenness." Sagramore holds his arms out from his sides like a tightrope walker and walks a silly but pretty steady walk -- the alcohol has not fully hit him yet.

[futaille]

He finishes his concoction, looks down at it, and as it's the most readily available, slides it over to Lancelot. "For practice." He starts on yet another one actually for himself this time.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Practice? Me?"

[sagramore]

"Is it really practice if thou'rt changing the recipe every time?"

[futaille]

"Practice in adventurous drinking, of course!"

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Ah, yes-- practice for me," wryly.

[sagramore]

"Oh, of course."

[futaille]

"I certainly need no practice in adventurous drinking." He finishes his own concoction. "... Of course, I seem to practice regardless."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I appreciate the opportunity," he says, taking up the glass and taking a long sip. He winces.

[sagramore]

Sagramore lets out a cackle of a laugh and begins to dance an imaginary dance by himself.

[futaille]

He takes a long drink of his own and makes a face before turning his attention to Sagramore. "What dance is that?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot turns to watch, making himself take another drink. It's not so bad, once you've overwhelmed your taste buds sufficiently.

[sagramore]

"A novel one," airily. "Unlike some of us, I know how to do novel things."

[futaille]

He grins. "I can verify that, yes."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Hrmm," Lancelot says, performatively. "Like whom, I wonder?"