Faolan lets out a sigh at the mention of the election results, huddling further into the blanket as he does. He's under no illusions that he's going to win, but Lancelot's right -- he should at least make an appearance. To accept his loss with dignity and poise, no doubt. As much dignity and poise as he can muster at least, given how much he'd had to drink and how much of a fool he'd made of himself last night.

"...I'm sorry," he says, after a long moment. Holding the drink between his hands and staring down into it as he does. He doesn't specify why, or what for. He doesn't think he needs to. Lancelot knows everything that he's done wrong in the last day or so, after all.