Lancelot watches Faolan wobble and catch himself, frowns as he tries to work out what is the easiest thing to eat he can give him and the least breakable plate.

"It's a very nice mug," he says patiently, opening the fridge and digging through, "and you should sit down before you fall down."

Maybe something... not too heavily seasoned. Just in case Faolan's stomach decides to be delicate, he'd rather not have it purge itself all over his kitchen.