At some point halfway through the evening, Lambert feigns a genteel burp, after which one of the dining tables at the edge of the room is now on fire. That's it. Just the whole table, on fire. The witcher squints at the table like it's done him a personal offense by being inherently flammable, then shrugs and looks away, addressing nobody in particular.

"It was a shitty tablecloth, anyway." And he raises his empty glass, still in hand. "Hey, can I get another drink?"