If Emrys wasn't expecting much, then it could be said in all honesty that he would get what he expected. The drink of choice at the Bucket today seemed, in fact, to be less an ale and more an ale-based grog - a little bit of ale, at least an equal part water and sometimes (intentionally or otherwise) a little something else for flavor. It wasn't Caradoc's favorite but it was better than nothing and, moreover, visiting with such an unsavory lot kept the reasons behind his being a hermit squarely in mind. No worries about getting attached and wanting to hang about here. He wasn't enough of a people person to do this sort of thing on a regular basis and, really, most of the pub's patrons hardly even counted as people most days.
Doc had been there a while, sat at the end of the bar where he could sit with his back to a wall, tankard in hand as he watched the goings on with something not quite interest. His feet were propped up on the edge of the bar, crossed at the ankles and heels resting next to the head of a man who had, at some point, chosen a stool nearby as the place to pass out. The man in question was snoring and drooling all over his own arm, one hand limply curled about the handle of his own drink. It was by sheer force of will that Doc kept himself from nudging his unconscious companion onto the floor with his foot. No need to start another altercation. There had been enough of them this evening and raised voices, scraping chairs, slamming fists were constantly threatening the beginning of another mess to welcome a newcomer to the wonders of the The Rusty Bucket.