[There truly is no proper way about this. Estinien feels himself growing more awkward by the second—a feeling he is a great stranger to, considering he is not generally effected by things of a social nature. Taking a long drink of ale, mindful of his horns, he lets Aymeric continue talking without interruption.

Before nearly dropping the bottle. Surely it's because of his grip, and not because of the idea of penetrating Aymeric. What else could it be?]

Aye. She merely made mention of committing the act, but not to the lengths of which counted towards my cure. I would rather do as little as possible, if 'tis all the same to you.

[His voice is even, and he seems fit to lay claim to what dignity still remains, but the entire nature of this, all of it, leaves him so far out of his element. It is as if he's a babbling babe once again, or the scrawny child who first picked up the spear and could no sooner hit a target than drop the lengthy weapon to the floor with deftless hands.

Again he finds himself sipping at the bottle of ale, if any would be an indicator of his nerves, this would be it.]