"I don't think she just wants to make people happy with the Carnival," Lambert answers, a touch of his typical cynicism creeping into his voice, but he's smirking as he finally finishes whatever it was he was fiddling with his bow and straightens up. He pauses, looking around and raising a hand -- almost as though he were summoned out of nowhere, a servant appears to calmly place a quiver refilled with arrows into Lambert's hand.

The witcher waits for the servant to melt back away into the shadows before he continues, putting the quiver on the ground and beginning to stick arrows into the ground, point-first, speaking as he goes.

"In Portland, she made it like Wyld Fae have a real bone to pick with the Courts. Arcadia sees them as something to order around." Satisfied with his arrangements, he gets into position and test the bow's draw, wood and string creaking as his strength bends it into position and he sights down the arrow he's nocking without actually loosing it.

"And now we're here. With someone who wants to be like them, but isn't exactly in a hurry to run to them either. What do you think of that?" Swish, thunk. The arrow snaps forward, burying itself cleanly into the target just outside the edge of the bullseye.