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There's something extraordinarily intoxicating about mead that tastes a tad too much like honey and leaves in his mouth the aftertaste of cinnamon. And perhaps it is that or perhaps it is the lack of missing arrows today but his mood is on an upturn sharp enough to allow him to be unabashed in where his gaze drifts. It skims over the curve in a woman's back, a slender goblet between delicate fingers, and over the strong line of hunched shoulders belonging to someone who's mouth seems to be set in a permanent frown.
And then he notices a bard, plucking a lute and giving tune to a song who's lyrics he doesn't hear, for he's standing before he feels the chair's warmth disappear from under him. The crowd dissipates around them, unnoticed, unheard. "Eames," the bard says, and Arthur is strung up like a fish, hook, line, and sinker.