"Since I've nipped down to the village," was the cagey reply, a faint grin gracing Edmund's face. Confessions of prior lifetimes of benders with wine-gods were best left for another time. He would have been vaguely flattered and appalled all in the same breath to know the reason for that guardedness. As if he was the Blood type. He certainly wasn't fishing for any sort of Tart of his own, not even a taste.

And then - the conciliatory gesture, more than conciliatory, really; positively convivial. "Damn good of you, Buckwald," Edmund says approvingly, his eyes beginning to light up as the adventure of it all took shape in his mind. "Won't that be a lark? How do you propose we do it? It's the place itself that's the real appeal, you know. There's nowhere in this bloody dungeon to call your own."

The change in his mood at the prospect of some fun was remarkable. This was far better than his original idea. He shoulders his satchel more evenly across his torso and hip, so that he can comfortably lean close to hear the rest of the murmured plan. Any whisper of this and there'd be hell to pay. Nothing like a little lockpicking and larceny to bring a couple of fellows together as co-conspirators.