The look Hythlodaeus gives him is met with a more subtle look of his own. Emet-Selch leans forward until their foreheads nearly meet before he proceeds to chide his friend in a low voice. "I am only slowing down so that you may catch up. For unlike so many, I know of basic courtesy." Though he has not entirely been keeping track of the number of drinks between them. A stringent tally is hardly the point.

He pulls back and proceeds to polish off a glass before reaching for yet another. It seems he does so out of spite at this point.

"At least what is provided here is tolerable. I would not soon forget the poor excuse for drink on the outskirts of Ilsabard." He grumbles. "Wretched mud masquerading as bearable."