Lambert (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whattaprick) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lostcarnival2018-01-17 07:00 pm
whattaprick) wrote in lostcarnival2018-01-17 07:00 pm
Entry tags:
you must think that i'm stupid, you must think that i'm a fool
Who: Nightrider Idiot and Acquisitioner Deadpan
When: D6, Early Afternoon
What: Wismuth's strange vibrancy amplifies emotions. Even emotions Lambert would prefer to pretend don't exist.
Warnings: Lambert, so. Crudeness and sexual references abound.
Childermass's report on the Starlight's warning was disheartening, and Acquisitioner ignoring him completely after their terse conversation on the radio is even worse. Still, if Childermass wants to sulk in the shadows, that's his own problem, and Lambert has no intention of apologizing for saying something that's true. If Childermass meant for it to be a secret, he should have made that clearer from the start.
Even then, Lambert would have disagreed. The potential of powerful enemies being dragged directly to their doorstep isn't a matter for discretion, like a third nipple or wart on the cock. It's a matter of security and lives -- particularly, of keeping them.
So no, Lambert decides. Childermass isn't getting an apology. And if the magician's company is something he finds himself looking for in quiet moments, glancing up expecting him to step from the shadows only to remember they aren't on speaking terms, it's not as though there isn't plenty else to occupy his time. They're not on vacation anymore, and that's a good thing.
He manages to convince himself of that right up until, of all things, he catches the smell of fried rice while he's walking down a street in Wismuth.
Lambert is dressed and glamoured to not stand out from the residents of the city. With his horns, t-shirts aren't really an option, so he wears the somewhat frumpy combination of a short-sleeved gray button up, faded blue jeans, and a red hoodie. He can't get away with wearing his sword around, much to his profound irritation, but the feather blade is tucked into his waistband if he needs it. He's not sure if he's imagining it, but the world feels brighter here, sharper in a way that makes it feel almost magical, even if he can't detect any trace of ambient magic around the place. He bought a pair of sunglasses to see if that might help. It doesn't.
It's while he's investigating that he finds the restaurant, tucked along a side street, and the memory hits him in vivid technicolor: sitting knee-to-knee in a room lit by strings of light, laughing over boxes of greasy food and awful drinks, and the taste of it lingering on their mouths. It feels like a kick to the chest and leaves him gasping, how powerfully he misses that simplicity, and his hands ache with how tightly he curls them. Who the hell gets nostalgic over food?
Apparently, Lambert does. He successfully puts it off for an hour, before he realizes he's been circling the same block and finally admits he isn't succeeding at anything except looking like an idiot. Before he can regret the impulse, he palms his radio and finds the channel he's looking for, pausing for a second before speaking.
"Hey. You want to get early dinner together?" He asks, hoping he manages to sound casual. "I found some Chinese."
When: D6, Early Afternoon
What: Wismuth's strange vibrancy amplifies emotions. Even emotions Lambert would prefer to pretend don't exist.
Warnings: Lambert, so. Crudeness and sexual references abound.
Childermass's report on the Starlight's warning was disheartening, and Acquisitioner ignoring him completely after their terse conversation on the radio is even worse. Still, if Childermass wants to sulk in the shadows, that's his own problem, and Lambert has no intention of apologizing for saying something that's true. If Childermass meant for it to be a secret, he should have made that clearer from the start.
Even then, Lambert would have disagreed. The potential of powerful enemies being dragged directly to their doorstep isn't a matter for discretion, like a third nipple or wart on the cock. It's a matter of security and lives -- particularly, of keeping them.
So no, Lambert decides. Childermass isn't getting an apology. And if the magician's company is something he finds himself looking for in quiet moments, glancing up expecting him to step from the shadows only to remember they aren't on speaking terms, it's not as though there isn't plenty else to occupy his time. They're not on vacation anymore, and that's a good thing.
He manages to convince himself of that right up until, of all things, he catches the smell of fried rice while he's walking down a street in Wismuth.
Lambert is dressed and glamoured to not stand out from the residents of the city. With his horns, t-shirts aren't really an option, so he wears the somewhat frumpy combination of a short-sleeved gray button up, faded blue jeans, and a red hoodie. He can't get away with wearing his sword around, much to his profound irritation, but the feather blade is tucked into his waistband if he needs it. He's not sure if he's imagining it, but the world feels brighter here, sharper in a way that makes it feel almost magical, even if he can't detect any trace of ambient magic around the place. He bought a pair of sunglasses to see if that might help. It doesn't.
It's while he's investigating that he finds the restaurant, tucked along a side street, and the memory hits him in vivid technicolor: sitting knee-to-knee in a room lit by strings of light, laughing over boxes of greasy food and awful drinks, and the taste of it lingering on their mouths. It feels like a kick to the chest and leaves him gasping, how powerfully he misses that simplicity, and his hands ache with how tightly he curls them. Who the hell gets nostalgic over food?
Apparently, Lambert does. He successfully puts it off for an hour, before he realizes he's been circling the same block and finally admits he isn't succeeding at anything except looking like an idiot. Before he can regret the impulse, he palms his radio and finds the channel he's looking for, pausing for a second before speaking.
"Hey. You want to get early dinner together?" He asks, hoping he manages to sound casual. "I found some Chinese."
no subject
"And I think I like you better with your mouth full," he says in complete and total seriousness (and fully aware how else Lambert, being as crass as he is, will take that). "It gives you less time to talk."
no subject
"Why don't you put something in it, then?" He does leer this time, licking his lips like a wolf running its tongue along its chops.
no subject
no subject
And then it's gone, and because he said he'd be paying, he flags the waitress down to get their check. It's cheap as he thought it would be, and it's been satisfying on a number of levels, more than just appetite.