Lambert isn't like to stop him, even when he catches on that the magician's moving forward, but that's only because his gaze is focused elsewhere -- beyond his father, as he shoulders his way into the hut, bellowing.
"Mila! Wake up, you lazy bitch--"
The boy -- Lambert, once, a long time ago -- flinches as Childermass advances, instinctively curling in on himself. As far as he can tell, the magician's no friend, and the man with the sword behind him? He can only assume the worst. But the drunken shouting, at least, galvanizes him into motion, scrambling to his feet and lunging forward to try and slow him down. He makes the mistake of grabbing for his father's injured arm, though, -- a mistake that's greeted with a roar of pain and another hard blow. This time, something breaks, even as a woman's soft voice grows audible from inside.
"Osric?" She's thin and pale as a ghost, a woman plain as the homespun clothes she wears and her dishwater-colored hair. She gasps when she gets a good look at him -- all the mud and blood, and immediately moves forward, hands already outstretched in supplication. "You're hurt!"
In the meantime, the boy clutches at his nose and crouches in the dirt, hissing softly. Lambert steps forward, but he moves slowly, in a daze. The library has a damn cruel sense of humor.
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"Mila! Wake up, you lazy bitch--"
The boy -- Lambert, once, a long time ago -- flinches as Childermass advances, instinctively curling in on himself. As far as he can tell, the magician's no friend, and the man with the sword behind him? He can only assume the worst. But the drunken shouting, at least, galvanizes him into motion, scrambling to his feet and lunging forward to try and slow him down. He makes the mistake of grabbing for his father's injured arm, though, -- a mistake that's greeted with a roar of pain and another hard blow. This time, something breaks, even as a woman's soft voice grows audible from inside.
"Osric?" She's thin and pale as a ghost, a woman plain as the homespun clothes she wears and her dishwater-colored hair. She gasps when she gets a good look at him -- all the mud and blood, and immediately moves forward, hands already outstretched in supplication. "You're hurt!"
In the meantime, the boy clutches at his nose and crouches in the dirt, hissing softly. Lambert steps forward, but he moves slowly, in a daze. The library has a damn cruel sense of humor.