Just when Alayre was about to speak, one of the rascals hailing from the Great Snow-Ball War pelts him with a snowball. It's cold enough as it is without the added snowball to the face but Alayre copes with it silently as he wipes it off. "As any Orlesian proper? Hm. You're doing far better than myself." He says before comically waving his fists at his attackers.

A flurry of giggles are heard from the mischievous youths as they scurry off quickly like little rabbits. Alayre merely chuckles in their wake as he glances back at Leblanc. "I must admit, I quite prefer this party over the one hosted for the Herald. I haven't seen this many smiling faces in awhile." Out of courtesy or because of the fact he hit the mead earlier, Alayre decides to sit. He's not too close and not too far, just right near the fire.