Faolan feels it. Lancelot's magic, or whatever it is. Reaching out, shifting around all the chairs, rustling the coats. Pushing at him. Like a hand shoved at his chest, his shoulders. And Faolan, not expecting it, stumbles backwards slightly. It's all he can do to keep a hold of the glass in his hand in his surprise, although he manages to spill it all over himself regardless of that fact. His heart stutters faster in his chest regardless, and the uncomfortable feeling grows.

He takes a step back, on purpose this time, and another, this time nearly tripping over a chair that hadn't been there mere moments earlier. "...I shouldn't be here," he says, after a long moment. He turns, disregarding the drink running its way down his arm and soaking into the fabric of his shirt, to put the glass down on the table behind him. "I shouldn't have come to you with this. I'm. Sorry." He turns back towards the door.