The heavy scent of bourbon lingers in the air. Charles fiddles with his thumb, now and runs his fingers nervously through his dirty blonde hair. Camilla, fidgets with the hem of her dress, silently murmuring an ancient hymn. You sit in the passenger seat.Henry grips the wheel tightly. Behind you Francis drips the whiskey down, staining his white tunic. "We're really doing this aren't we?" He blurts out "A Bacchanal, may the gods have mercy on us-"