[No hiding from the birthday boy, it would seem. Or from a fellow Servant. He knows as soon as his steps come, and peers with interest at the door, nodding to him once he arrives. At such close proximity, they could kill each other. But with no reason to do so, that magical signature remains warm, welcoming, and friendly, perhaps more than ever.]

Lancer. Finally stepped away from the festivities, hm? What an insult to steal all that attention away from me, the rightful star.

[He's joking—this time. He gestures for the man to join him, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress. He thrums with energy to see Diarmuid, and all the more so at the prospect of alcohol. Some things never change.]

I'll allow it, in exchange for your gift. Come.