[ It was for the best that their young exorcist friend was not here to serve as judge for this battle; likely he would only become a victim of their antics. This left them to continue this fight freely, with their own rules, their way.

His gaze fixed on an expression which he mirrors: confidence, they both easily exude it. From that alone, he assumes she has some ploy in search of victory just as he has one of his own. It's not mere pride that drives him to take bigger gulps or more of the alcoholic beverage. He intends to win here, he has from the instance she threw down the gauntlet. ]

A gentleman for the lady verse-monger who accompanies me in song through the sea town's dark alleys.

[ Noting initial hesitation before she finally gives to drink, he knows he just has to press on. It's not hard. He knows how much to take, how much to drink. He has a better idea and by the end, he will have won. That he assures himself of as he takes the bottle being handed.

Pressing lips to its mouth he takes a big gulp. Soon swallows before it is set on the table. Already his face is flushed, the effects of alcohol physical, mostly, but there is a fog rolling in and with it sluggishness that he can only think sleep would wear away. ]

Masterful lyrics at the shore. The crash of waves, a new rhythm formed and what will the tide bring me back?

[ He waits for her answer, whether her turn at the bottle or some composition. ]