"Not a lot of men here that need cleaving, most of what we worry about is in the forest. As far as anyone can tell we're the only living settlement on this island." Key word being living. There are ruins, sure, but he hasn't been able to venture out to check them. Doesn't much want to either. Exploration is not his bag, he's done his stint in the wilds once or twice already, no thank you. As he talks Tony walks further from the hearth, kicking open a box with an assortment of ingots and billets tucked to one side- and pulls out a bottle of wine.

Always have some on hand in case of celebration.

Or failure.

The only cup he has on hand that isn't covered in soot or silt or sledge is a ceramic mug with a cracked off handle, but beggars, choosers. Wine uncorked and poured, he offers Dorian the mug filled halfway with rich red. "I've seen bigger but that wasn't normal so much as an accident of science."