They’re drinking, drunk. Bowerstone is cold and it’s not very fun, and people outside are robbing travellers for something to do. So they’ve retired to the Riveter’s Rest, where the industrial air is heavy and the beer has bits floating in it. There’s no planning this evening, the Prince is far too busy inspecting the craftsmanship of the table (shoddy) and Ben is watching people try to smash each others’ faces in. He cheers every so often for the bloke with the wooden leg. Revolution is on nobody’s mind tonight.
The Prince gives up on the table. It’s wonky, and that’s how it’ll have to stay. He jams a couple of coasters under one of the legs and sets his tankard down roughly. It slides a bit, but stops short of careening merrily off the edge. Ben’s got the right idea, his ale hasn’t once left his hand.
He notices, after a while spent glaring at his beverage, that Ben is giving him a bit of a sideways glance. The fight’s finished, and Ben apparently isn’t interested in watching the pub landlord mop up the blood and splinters. There’s a stream of whimpering coming from the corner that everyone is doing their very best to ignore.
‘What?’ says the Prince.
‘When you go in, storm the castle, guns blazing and all that… What are you going to say?’