[ Sypha follows in his steps like a tipsy little caboose, doing neither of them any favors by dragging his center of gravity lower and taking her sweet time in righting herself. It's not all bad news; she's genuinely doing her best to control her giggling after being chastised, and is done strong-arming him now that she is firmly (?) back on her feet. The gesturing is unfortunately done straight in her direction, and she's too drunk to do anything but glance down at herself, mystified... until he starts talking.

Quite tragically, he'll miss the way her face screws up as those choice turns of phrase sear themselves permanently into the part of her memory often accessed by her nightmares. ]

You have a dark gift, Belmont. [ Really, she is so sorry she asked. ] And-- are you sure you want to go across the crock cater? [ She glances down on the sea of still-don't-really-look-like-dicks-to-her, completely unaware of her flub. ]

That does not look like a very soft landing to me. [ Boom, phrasing. ]