"Oh, go plough yourself!" Lambert exclaims, disgusted as he throws his hand of cards down on the table for the umpteenth time.
And to think things had started off so well, too. Childermass with his hair down also appears to be a Childermass that women flock to like bees to honey (or flies to vinegar, if Lambert's being ungracious-- which he is, right now) and a Childermass that knows more than few card games. For the last couple of days, their paths have crossed in and out as they partake of what the Celebration has to offer, not actively seeking each other out but falling in together for a few hours at a time before wandering apart again.
The supernaturally beautiful, entirely shirtless women lounging with them on the divans they've dragged together titter meanly as Lambert grumbles and gets to his feet, swaying slightly. Some of them are missing more clothing than others, shoes and the lacy bits of nothing that offer token modesty. But no one's missing more than Lambert, who's down to his medallion and the trousers hugging low on his hips, his shirt and shoes long ago surrendered to the vagaries of strip poker. If only he could blame the opposite of beginner's luck.
But it doesn't take him long to decide that nudity is the better part of valor, smirking at one of the women while he undoes his (laced) pants, hooks his fingers into the waistband, and tugs it off to reveal ... absolutely nothing underneath, which triggers another ripple of giggling and catcalls while he dramatically drops back onto the cushions.
this is going to be awful, just look away
And to think things had started off so well, too. Childermass with his hair down also appears to be a Childermass that women flock to like bees to honey (or flies to vinegar, if Lambert's being ungracious-- which he is, right now) and a Childermass that knows more than few card games. For the last couple of days, their paths have crossed in and out as they partake of what the Celebration has to offer, not actively seeking each other out but falling in together for a few hours at a time before wandering apart again.
The supernaturally beautiful, entirely shirtless women lounging with them on the divans they've dragged together titter meanly as Lambert grumbles and gets to his feet, swaying slightly. Some of them are missing more clothing than others, shoes and the lacy bits of nothing that offer token modesty. But no one's missing more than Lambert, who's down to his medallion and the trousers hugging low on his hips, his shirt and shoes long ago surrendered to the vagaries of strip poker. If only he could blame the opposite of beginner's luck.
But it doesn't take him long to decide that nudity is the better part of valor, smirking at one of the women while he undoes his (laced) pants, hooks his fingers into the waistband, and tugs it off to reveal ... absolutely nothing underneath, which triggers another ripple of giggling and catcalls while he dramatically drops back onto the cushions.