Gregory sipped his shandy, and glanced around the tavern. It was crowded, and rather dingy--his father would have been furious to see the place in this condition, when you got down to it...
"Well?" said Mosca impatiently. "This is your land, Gentleman. How do things stand here? As you see it."
"I haven't been here for years, Mosca," whispered Gregory. "I'll need to get orientated before I can say anything for sure."
Mosca frowned and glared at his drink. "Well, hurry up and say something." He shuddered. "I am not enjoying myself here. Especially this... swill."
"Shandy is a great local tradition," said Gregory. "Like bonfire leaping on Ramiel's feast day."
"That sounds more enjoyable then drinking this," muttered Mosca. "And to make it absolutely clear, it sounds idiotic also."
Gregory gave a frustrated nod. "May I ask why you are even bothering to drink it then?"
"You ordered it!" hissed Mosca. Gregory raised a hand to silence him. "What, does this offend you...?"
Gregory pointed to the door, where two Prince's Men were entering. Mosca went silent, and tried to finish his drink, grimacing the whole time. Gregory kept his eyes on the Prince's Men, who sat down and slapped their hands on the counter.
Two drinks appeared before them with surprising speed. The Prince's Men took them, and showed no sign of paying.
As they guzzled them down, a whistling began, of a strange slow tune. One of them spat out his drink and wheeled around, livid. "All right!" he snapped. "What have we told you about that while we're here? Eh? What have we told you?"
There was no response from the room.
The man snarled at them. "We told you not to! Now--who was whistling, eh? Who was whistling?"
There was still no response.
"Sit down, Gibbel," said the man. "And finish your drink."
"That was interesting," whispered Gregory.
Mosca nodded. "What was that tune?"
Gregory frowned. "The Royal March of Tintagel."