[ He would, however, likely keep himself at two glasses for the rest of his visit. Not that that's anything to discount; Godfrey has kept his one-glass limit strict through their travels. Nothing has motivated him to bend this rule prior to this evening.
What has changed? Godfrey can't say. Not precisely; that is to say, he cannot give a singular, satisfying explanation. The closest his own thoughts come is to say that everything has. There is little about this evening they're sharing that isn't unorthodox for him, at least slightly. He's yet to intrude on the quarters of any of his new companions in this manner, lounging so casually in their private corners of their campsites. He has shared things which only few people know - stories he's been reticent to tell even in Baldur's Gate. Stranger still, he feels at ease about it.
One more paltry glass of table wine in the company of a friend who is trying for him seems, perhaps, an innocent enough diversion to add to the pile.
He sets his own down as Gale works his way nearer, just a little unsteady on the rocky ground. Godfrey's hand comes to his. Strong, rough fingers cradle the hand around his glass gingerly, just enough to hold him steady as he extends. They don't move as Gale steadies, and Godfrey pours more dark wine. He pours him a respectable glass - something vague in him dictates this line, between "respectable" and some shadowy alternative. Not too heavy, lest he be pressured to drink more than he might have; not too stingy, lest he think Godfrey thinks him some sort of sot who needs mediating. The glass is perfectly respectable when Godfrey pulls away; just tiptoeing to half-full.
Godfrey finishes his own glass and pours himself just a little less. ]
no subject
[ He would, however, likely keep himself at two glasses for the rest of his visit. Not that that's anything to discount; Godfrey has kept his one-glass limit strict through their travels. Nothing has motivated him to bend this rule prior to this evening.
What has changed? Godfrey can't say. Not precisely; that is to say, he cannot give a singular, satisfying explanation. The closest his own thoughts come is to say that everything has. There is little about this evening they're sharing that isn't unorthodox for him, at least slightly. He's yet to intrude on the quarters of any of his new companions in this manner, lounging so casually in their private corners of their campsites. He has shared things which only few people know - stories he's been reticent to tell even in Baldur's Gate. Stranger still, he feels at ease about it.
One more paltry glass of table wine in the company of a friend who is trying for him seems, perhaps, an innocent enough diversion to add to the pile.
He sets his own down as Gale works his way nearer, just a little unsteady on the rocky ground. Godfrey's hand comes to his. Strong, rough fingers cradle the hand around his glass gingerly, just enough to hold him steady as he extends. They don't move as Gale steadies, and Godfrey pours more dark wine. He pours him a respectable glass - something vague in him dictates this line, between "respectable" and some shadowy alternative. Not too heavy, lest he be pressured to drink more than he might have; not too stingy, lest he think Godfrey thinks him some sort of sot who needs mediating. The glass is perfectly respectable when Godfrey pulls away; just tiptoeing to half-full.
Godfrey finishes his own glass and pours himself just a little less. ]