"The men seem to be in high spirits," Cain commented, his voice drifting with a slight, uncharacteristic slur. It was only his third cup, but Cain had always possessed a mind of crystal and a body of glass; the wine was clearly beginning to cloud the former while heaving the latter.
Kroll, oblivious or perhaps just indulgent, seemed more than happy to keep his brother's cup brimming.
"They've just won a victory," Kroll grunted, leaning back as he surveyed the chaos. "They're drinking, they're rutting..."
A sudden, violent commotion erupted at the far end of the hall. A table groaned and snapped as a warrior was slammed onto it, blood geysering from a fresh opening in his gut. A girl's scream pierced the air, only to be drowned out by a wave of raucous, drunken laughter.
"...and seemingly gutting each other while they are there," Blake finished, his tone dry.
