IC CONTACT for lostcarnival

[whattaprick]

✆CHANNEL FREQUENCY: 843.77425 (personal);
DESCRIPTION: Half the time he forgets this thing even exists, or how to turn it on and off.

✉MAIL BOX LOCATION: Next to trailer steps.
DESCRIPTION: The concept of a mailbox is rather foreign to Lambert, who's not exactly what you'd call big on personal correspondence. But there's a wooden crate you can probably drop shit into ???

BUG LAMBERT TO MAKE YOU SHIT: Given time and the right ingredients (which he'll usually ask people to provide) he can make potions (with potential side effects), oils, and bombs. You can bother him more about that in person.

Comments

[atouts]

She told me to use my best judgment.

[ That's what Childermass answers with after a moment to just watch Lambert struggling with his temper. A stark opposite of the magician, who's fallen back into his usual bored indifference in the face of his anger. If he wants an argument,
he'll find it one-sided. ]

And she told me because she knew it would be hidden and that we likely had to steal it. You learned everything I knew once I had something solid. [ Or someone, more like. Even without the bicorn, they would have had the rabbit. ] And considering one of your nightrunners pulled together an awful plan with that information, could be I should have been even pickier with who got to know.

[whattaprick]

And she still got to the Prince's tower before you did. [ Lambert snaps back. It is a one-sided argument, and he knows it, but he isn't so much interested in blaming Childermass for it as he is ... something. He doesn't know. Trying to put words around a feeling that's been nagging at him, something that's at the heart of this frustration. ]

If she had more time and better resources, she could have done more. You only get to say it was awful because it didn't work. Besides, if we're talking about awful plans, aren't you going to make fun of 'turning into a dragon to distract the Prince' too? [ His hands curl tighter on the mug, resisting the urge to smash it over something, like preferably Childermass's stupid head, and his lips press together tightly for a few minutes before he turns away, eyes shutting as he brings up a hand to rub at his forehead. ]

I trusted you, dammit. [ He says, tiredly. He's too worn out to keep up yelling at Childermass. ] Guess I should start being pickier too.

[atouts]

With no way to get in save for help from below.

[ The roof was a miserable plan. Yes, Scout would have done better had she known more or what he was going to do, but so much of what he did that day were all snap judgments, decisions made in a split second. Escaping, saving who he could, putting Lambert in danger, taking the risk to trust the butler, to disappear from the ball—

He won't say as much.

Wouldn't it just come off as complaining or bragging or trying to make up excuses? Though it's the last part that actually makes him frown, breaking through the bored look. It's like a thorn, an insult, that he isn't trustworthy, that Lambert is actually blaming him for his capture (or so he has to assume, from a comment like the dragon one). ]

Ah, but you're right. [ Only he agrees with Lambert, doesn't refute, and sets his mug of tea aside, untouched. He hasn't even had a chance to try it. ] You shouldn't trust a shady bastard. Now you know better.

[ And with that, he pushes away from the spot he'd been leaning. ]

If you require further help with anything, I suggest you ask Strange.

[ Then he's gone, two steps away and into the nearest shadow. ]

[whattaprick]

[ And he leaves before Lambert can even finish the thought: I wanted you to trust me, too.

He'll spend a few more minutes there in silence, watching the shadow Childermass has disappeared into, shoulders heaving and chest aching, before he picks up his mug and heads back to the workbench. He's not going to get any sleep for a while. He might as well take advantage of it. ]