The gnomad returns from the washroom (in fact from the T&S in Whitby, but who knows that?) he carries his pack, and has ditched the banner with a strange device. Rummaging awhile he produces a silver bottle, "Ponche Cabalero...I remember this one, smells like cough medicine ought to...30 years since I got it in the Pyrenees...better check it first."

He dips a ladlefull of the mulled cider into the trusty tankard which only leaves his side to be lifted to his lips. Adding a brown syrupy goo from the bottle, he stirs it a while with his thumb, then sips, his eyebrows huddle together briefly, as the liquid slides down. "Not quite right yet, but promising."

He upends the bottle into the cider vat, and forages in the pack again, "All these bottles that seemed a good idea at the time...course the bloody Cointreau died in Bradford after a four hour trip that took fifteen, that would have been the right thing." he holds up a flat bottle marked Enzian-likor, but returns it to the pack, "Don't think that would help any, too bitter...Aha!!Lemon vodka, that's more like"

He repeats the ladle, add, stir, taste routine. This time the eyebrows are ready, and remain steady. "Smooth," say his lips, in a tone that would not convince a singularly deaf post, "Think I'll try the Aurochs chile before I continue the tasting, important to get it right after all."

He heads back towards the bar, where the flames are abating somewhat, "Ferret, eh? Where did that spring from? Weasily distinguished from a stoat of course, that would be stoatally different...Say, any of that Aurochs chile still going?"