"Yeah, well. If someone asks you to try it, don't do it. No matter how pretty they are." Inelegantly, he scratches at his stomach. He's surprisingly slept a lot since he came here, but not in his room -- given the sleeping arrangements. Meditation seems impossible in a place like this, but crashing is perfectly doable. The drugs and alcohol are remarkably effective at numbing overly keen senses. If he wasn't a Witcher, though, they probably would have burned out by now.

Normally, if Childermass wouldn't tell him what's wrong of his own volition, Lambert would shrug and leave it alone. He's nobody's agony aunt, and he wouldn't have even halfway decent advice to offer them. Also, despite Vesemir thinking otherwise, he does know his own shortcomings, and listening sympathetically is one of them.

So he's just going to skip all the steps that would normally go into prying someone's problems out of them and skip right to the part where he's successfully convinced them to let their hair down.

"Relax and have a drink," he orders, waving a hand -- it takes a touch of concentration, but at least his muscle memory means he could do Axii blind and tied upside down.