The evening was actually... not wretched. Increasingly not wretched the more he had to drink, he suspected. Pleasantly warm inside, he was sitting at a table with Oghren, who was dealing, Teagan, Ser Donall and a young soldier he had briefly spoken with and fought beside here at Denerim. He tried desperately not to sound awkward, because for the life of him he couldn't remember the lad's name. (Lad? Oh, yes, and you're so old, Alistair.)
"So ya see, my hand wins, because the Knight of Flames is wild this hand, and The Tower doesn't count for anything because the Moon is in play. So, that gives me full colors, ya see?" Alistair suspected the dwarf was cheating, but he supposed if he could keep track of things when he'd had fully double the alcohol that any of the rest of them had consumed, he deserved to win something. Surely, they would also be losers in the morning light.
"So, Donall, I'm so pleased to see you again! I feared that when Lothering fell, you were lost!" He might as well talk about something; he wasn't going to learn anything listening to Oghren explain his hand. The rules just seemed to keep changing...
"Really? From Redcliffe? We really must talk, my dear, "Teagan was only sounding slightly slurred as he spoke to the woman serving the ale, a slight blond-ish woman. He definitely sounded... sleazier? He supposed he'd better keep an eye on the bann...