"Funny, I thought it was polite not to poison someone I'm drinking with. Or is that different in England too?" Lambert grins, leaning against the table edge. He wasn't lying about the brew's potency; the latest glassful's left his eyes half-lidded and cheeks flushed. He is not, however, going to bother denying the charge of rudeness, something so blatantly true that to say otherwise would be plainly farcical.

As he continues to prove when he slides the bottle across the table. "If you want to start seeing visions and puke up blood tomorrow, be my guest." It won't kill him, but he'll probably wish he was dead. He remembers sneaking out alcohol from Vesemir's stash as a kid, before the first set of mutations, and he'd more or less survived. Probably burned a permanent hole in his liver, but he survived.

"It's usually used for alchemy, but you look like you can hold your drink."