Olaf has been alive long enough that he's not in a position to judge what people wear or do or say. He'll admit that it's a bit of a jolt from the past to see the woman in front of him (who reminds him of the schoolmarm, a bit, from when he had gone to school all those long, long years ago), but his smile is charming and winning and instant as soon as she starts talking his language.

"I'd heartily recommend anything strong," he advises. "Aqua vitae is a favourite of mine, but you should never rule out a good vodka," he says with a nod. "Let me create you something," he says excitedly, turning back to the drinks and closing his eyes for a moment to let the universe help guide his hand.

He splashes a bit of gin in a glass with a sour liqueur that colours the drink darkly before he adds a garnish of twisting purple flowers and just slightly, a hint of something sweet in it. He presents it with a delighted grin. "It's strong," he warns.