For a second he's visibly startled by the outburst, although this time nothing floats at least. Then Lancelot's expression shutters once more to something forcibly blank, pressing down on a whirl of conflicting thoughts.

"Forgive me for saying so, Faolan, but you're in no state to being going anywhere. Come here --" and he steps forward to pick up the blanket Faolan has discarded, moves to drape it over his shoulders again. "Finish your breakfast. I doubt even I can save you from Sylvia's wrath if by chance you win the election and are caught tripping on your face the same day with a hangover."