Tristan orders two more beers, and bobs his head gratefully to Sandsfern. "I'll meet you back here. If you are not here when I am back, I will wait." 

He carefully takes his beer out to a spot where no smoke from chimneys may be seen, no campfires and no sounds of people. Just the bugs, and the triumphant hooting of the owls that feast on them. 

[Talk to the other world: 2d6+1, 3, 2 +1 = 6]

But Tristan is rushed. He has not taken a moment to calm himself before asking. This is the height of rudeness. You come to talk [i]with[/i], not to [i]interrogate[/i]. He has not taken the time to calm himself before he asks, has not done his breathing with Robena and Sandsfern waiting for him.

Worst of all, he has come with blood in his thoughts. With so many having such firm convictions that Pellinore needs to be slain, and no evidence presented to him. A need for the world to show him its evidence. 

At the last moment, he realizes how grave this insult is. He has not even been careful to wash his hands.