"Uh-huh. And I'm a baron in Toussaint." While he can believe that it's within the Ringmaster's power to grant such a wish, he can't believe such a shabby-looking man has any interest in that kind of wealth, unless it's possibly to stop being shabby in the first place. It's entertaining enough to mentally picture Childermass standing stone-faced and grim at the bow of a ship hunting for pirate treasure, though, that Lambert doesn't seem particularly interested in pressing the point.

Instead, he pours himself another drink, knocking it back before he slouches back in his seat.

"Dealing with monsters," he affirms. The alcohol seems to have taken the edge off his manner, shoulders more relaxed as Witcher metabolism makes quick work of the stuff. He needs it: talking about being a Witcher in any capacity always pisses him off, so he might as well be drunk for it. "Vampires, drowners, specters, succubi ... and the rest of it." He waves a hand, dismissing it all.

"What were you before coming here?"