Nothing so dramatic, [ Smiling, Godfrey lowers self and cup as he retreats from Gale's toast, knees folded and back straight, thoughtfully swirling the dark wine, ] Although I fear that your perspective may differ, my friend, when I tell you that a taste of Lathander's Red was wasted on a tongue as unsophisticated as mine.

[ And, really, Godfrey could hardly fault him this inevitable conclusion. He's very sure that Gale will register the magnitude of what was wasted on him, even if he won't give voice to his feelings on the matter. Appreciative of the high honour as Godfrey was, he could not lie to himself as to pretend that the sliver of valuable and rare red vintage, so lovingly brewed and aged by monks of his Lord's dawn, tasted like anything more than over-stewed plums to him.

But this is the sort of thing Godfrey had come for, wasn't it? Far-flung pieces of the path that had led them here. Stories of home. He raises his cup to his lips and takes a slow, meandering drink.

Tastes of grapes.

He keeps this to himself and tries, instead, to think of some description that wouldn't gall poor Gale. He looks up as he swallows and smiles, meaningful. ]

I doubt much that there is any way you might tarnish my esteem of you, Gale. [ His voice is warm and gentle, resonant in the little tent they sit in, ] Indeed, it would do me some good, to see you well and at ease.