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A silence stretches between them for a long while after that: Macaire finishes his drink, then looks up, waves to a server, and holds up three fingers. He says not a word while they wait and the mugs are brought, sliding only one of them in Talbot's direction and keeping the other two close by. By nature of his race, Macaire figures it's going to take him just a wee bit more to reach a pleasanter state of being.

" .. oi worry, sometimes," he says finally, halfway through the first new mug, his voice softly rounded by his sorrow, kept hushed by his fear. As if what he worries about is the gods themselves hearing and taking his words as a suggestion on how to move the future forward --

"Oi look at them wee little bairns, putting ribbons on they Guardians, they as dain't know how tae fight, and dain't want tae be knowing .. but oi cannae think of that. Mayhap 'tis because oi'm ainly a soljer, so oi've always ainly known what'll be before me, but all oi know for certain sure is that oi will fight. Oi donnae want tae, but oi will. If we cannae fight them -- if we cannae win -- that doesnae change my path." He shrugs, uncomfortable to have confessed all of this and made himself sound the fool. He finishes the mug, head tilted back, swallowing determinedly, and then pushes it to the end of the table and takes a swig from the next one. " .. oi cannae think of that," he says again, mournfully.

"Aye," agrees Macaire, and there's a gravelly weariness in his voice that has nothing to do with physical exertion. As much as he fears the start of the war that they have both foreseen, as much as he aches for the futures of the Guardians and their chosen, there is a palpable relief in having met Talbot. Here is someone who understands. Until now, Macaire has been uncertain and uneasy, a lone soldier capable of seeing the incoming danger but lacking the orders to tell him how to respond to it. The only orders he's had are from society as a whole, a sense of disbelief and a simple "stand down" when all of his instincts are telling him to prepare for the worst.

And here, just in time, is someone who can lead him to those orders. If it weren't that Talbot had just confirmed his worst fears, he'd cheer -- the relief is that overwhelming. As it is, he just sounds tired, and knocks back his third drink with only a small hiss of breath afterwards to show he's just had enough to put most men under the table in a few short minutes.

"Aye," he says again, nodding his head without any great appearance of drunkenness. "The-marra will be best, right? It dain't do tae go before a commander sae well seasoned. Oi can meet ye jest at sunset."