He's been imbibing as little as he can--getting embarrassingly drunk once is enough for this month, or his entire life, thanks--but there's only so much that one can avoid without looking like it's the company he's shunning. (And there's precious little to be done about the smoke; on the other hand he's comfortably warm inside and out for the first time in months and things matter so much less. That's nice. That's very nice.)

Only Ser Coupe's got any frame of reference for how foreign all this is, how little an opportunity a Circle mage had to experience a drug-fueled slumber party-- And when she calls his name he jerks his head in her direction with shoulders rounded over a guilty conscience; all of this simply isn't done, reason for discipline or transfer or worse. Liking templars enough to befriend them doesn't mean there aren't instincts about why they'd speak to him-- But it's for an easy question and he's quick to relax back into his puddle of cushions. "Anders," once he's had time to process through the layer of wool wrapped around his thoughts, "since I'd get no sleep for his constant haranguing."

Among many other things; Maker be praised he's not so far along to feel like airing any of those is a necessity. He leans forward to pick up a glass without fumbling--thank you, Thranduil--expression flickering briefly puzzled as he reviews the rules of the game in his head. ...Oh, he doesn't drink this yet. That's for when he runs into something he'd not answer.

"Beleth--one unvarnished opinion on," he gestures grandly around them, "necromancy. Just what do the Creators think about all of this?"