You worry that you'll expose yourself to ribbing if you don't at least attempt to make a debauched night out of it, as they are. [+Melancholy]
"Away so soon?" you say in mock offense as the barmaid tops off your companion's glass and heads away. You extend your glass to the serving-wench.
The hunter raises an eyebrow and gives you a smile as your glass, too, is filled to the top. "To your health."
Or lack thereof, you think, downing the flagon.
You take down the drink with nary a shudder. Your new companion marks your sturdiness with a look of satisfaction.
Your stomach rumbles. Pockets full of coin (which is still, for you, an unusual state of affairs), you decide to address it with a bit of indulgence. "For me, celebrating a magnificent victory against the Flenish wouldn't be complete without a few sticky buns. Will you partake?"
"On whose coin?"
"Mine, unless I can sneak your purse," you deadpan. With a snort, your companion assents.
Gustatory Delight Ensues