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"PLEASE ACCEPT THIS GIFT, COMMANDER."
Noah recognizes the bottle, either filled with vodka or rum, whichever they could scrounge up for the occasion. The bottle is like sea glass, a cork in the top, holding in the pungent scent of the burning liquid. "We drink this at special occasions, I believe this qualifies."
Marcus Kane seems genuine enough, but no precaution is too much, so Gustus takes the bottle instead. "Thank you, Marcus of the sky people." Lexa voices as the goblets are filled with the spirit, and Kane nods with a smile. Finally, it seems there can be peace between two people. It's awkward and like nails on a chalkboard to watch, but it's happening.
"You're welcome, Lexa—" Testing new waters, Kane attempts to speak the grounders language, a sign of respect, a step in the right direction towards partnership. His pronunciation is rough and its nearly wrong, but he gets it out. "—of Trikru. Just... don't drink too much of it."
The warning isn't malicious, Noah knows exactly what too much liquor does to someone without tolerance.
Lexa heeds, and turns to the young blonde that always seems to be front and center. "Clarke, let us drink together."
Everyones is balancing on eggshells, and they all know that. But it seems that enough of them are at least trying to relieve tension— make amends. Clarke nods, taking the goblet as Lexa hands it to her. "It would be my pleasure."
Gustus stops his commander. Worry filling his mind, his job coming into play. "Heda, allow me."
No one takes offense. It's a natural instinct. They are foreigner, aliens to these people. And things have been rather— shaky, recently. Noah can't blame any of them for taking precautions, especially since it won't matter. Kane wants this peace treaty. The last thing he wants is Lexa dead. "Today we celebrate out peace, tomorrow we plan our war. To those we've lost, to those we shall soon find."
Gustus retches, as if his throat is closing. Stumbling back, as if his insides are ablaze. The liquor falls out of cup as it falls out his hand, cup crashing on the stone floors.
Poisoned.
Bellamy's eyes widen in fright, head flying between Noah and Clarke, and while Noah doesn't touch her goblet, her distaste towards alcohol in general keeping her eyes on the decently clean water they have as well. But Clarke— she's seconds from sipping the liquor just as Gustus has. Bellamy lurches foreword, smacking the cup from her hand, the drink splashing out over the table.
