[There's a dilation (and an initial narrowing) of pupils in widened eyes as that lounging victor listens to Fenris' recount— having expected a typical: on hands and knees, or from behind, or just maybe a scoffing confession comprised of 'oral, mostly.' To his own credit, like a well-played game of Wicked Grace, nothing else in his demeanor shows through. Not even when he shifts more onto his elbows than before, defly letting one leg slide over in front of the other; raised eyebrows doing the (in)decent work of conveying an appropriate dose of surprise for any typical conversation between comrades. Compatriots.

Companions that are presently sitting roughly five feet apart.]

And a great deal more, thank you very much. [Exhale squeezed comfortably tight between tongue and grinning teeth. Strewth, little fighter.] Especially from an elf claiming the company of his horse is all he's kept for a good long while.

[In recovery, he gestures towards whatever's left of that bottle they'd been sharing. Come here.] Tempted to pay you in sovereigns for the lovely night's sleep I'll no doubt find tonight.