Lambert has a hard time gauging if the Count actually believes the crap coming out of his mouth or has just grown exceptionally good at delivering bullshit with a straight face, like an herbalist advertising love philters that are really made of sewer water. For all that the Count reminded them they'd take the responsibility for their master's actions, he's playing the part of loyal, unquestioning servant ... a little too well? Even Childermass doesn't manage that.

"Even a pixie is considered a member of the Court, aren't they?" Lambert grins at Frost, nastily. "Not like those terrible Wyld Fae. Hardly better than animals, right?" Sure Frost's eons older than he is, but as far as maturity level goes, he's pretty sure they on the same level.

"If this is supposed to be a judgement, at least let the Beast speak for herself." He slides his sword back into its sheathe with a thunk, and reaches into one of the pouches hooked onto his belt. There's a small, barely audible crunching sound as his fingers find the golden egg tucked away there ... and break it.