Lambert (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whattaprick) wrote2020-02-08 03:36 pm
whattaprick) wrote2020-02-08 03:36 pm
IC CONTACT for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lostcarnival
DESCRIPTION: Half the time he forgets this thing even exists, or how to turn it on and off.
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.
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Hopefully Lambert's seen Foster's less... nightmarish new form around by now, though, or he's going to be in for a shock.
He's standing restlessly by the training dummies--pacing back and forth by them, then stopping, then cocking a back leg, and so on.
And it might be hard to tell, but he's holding a hefty tome in his furry bear paws.]
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Give it here. [ He snaps, testily. ] So does anyone else know you have this?
[ How he kept it on him through being trapped in a wall is beyond Lambert, but whatever. He ain't interested in that story. ]
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It doesn't matter how he feels.
He passes it over without a word, his feelings about this (or lack thereof, maybe) masked in all ways except the action of his tail.]
Taako.
[Taako is actually how the book got out of the manor.]
And.... Strange.
[Somewhere between reluctance and... smugness, actually.]
Sort of.
[He pauses.]
....anyway, Childermass was there at the time I took it. So was Lapis. And the nymph man.
[Is that sufficient, Lambert?]
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He plucks it from Foster's claws, turning it around in his hands, feeling for any tell tale him from his medallion that might tell him if this has magical properties. He glances around, frowns, and then steps towards one of the low benches, dismissing Foster with a wave of his hand, but not banishing him. ]
Sit tight. I'll have questions. [ He orders, already flicking through the pages. He's not going to be able to read something this dense, obviously, but he's looking at page headings and any illustrations, sections where there might be emphasis over others. Obviously, he also checks out the actual information on title and author, if there's any. All in all, he's doing a relatively thorough skimming, and unless Foster interrupts? He'll be doing that for the next ten or fifteen minutes. ]
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It's really no random tome, though--there's a reason Foster was inspired enough to swipe it, paranoia or not.
Of Many Worlds: the Legacy of the Source is the title, but it has no clear author. Its contents are printed in a tiny font on filament-fine pages; it's a pretty thorough dissertation about the realities of the multiverse and theories pertaining to the nature of something called 'The Source.' There's a fair bit about the fae and their courts, as well as demons and angels.
There are very few illustrations, if any.
Lambert doesn't get fifteen minutes with it, though. He doesn't even get ten. Foster can hardly manage a conversation that moves off a topic he cares about; standing and waiting while someone else reads a book is not within his capabilities.
Besides which, he's fairly certain that Lambert is keeping the book, which means he's just detritus. He shifts his weight impatiently only a minute or two into Lambert's perusal, sand crunching under his hooves.]
Are we done here?
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[ Lambert's answer is largely automatic. A couple of minutes isn't time enough to understand the contents of the book, which is surprisingly legible to him (he half expected it to be all runes and esoteric mumbo jumbo -- it's certainly the latter, but that he can read it at all is a surprise). It's also a surprise to him that the book is fairly free from marks of wear and tear; with claws like Foster's, one would expect it to show a little more signs of rough use. Even Lambert is having a hard time making sure his claws don't rip the pages.
Still, it's fairly evident Foster isn't going to leave him in peace if he doesn't at least acknowledge his presence, so-- ]
You've read the whole thing?
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I had plenty of time.
[It's mostly a reference to those weeks on the moon. But it's also not like his job keeps him terribly busy in his off hours, or like he has any friends, or hobbies besides providing research specimens for Herbert.]
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[ A hell of a lot more. Lambert looks up, his tail flicking behind him. ]
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[Foster gets the feeling he's being... tested, but he doesn't know what for, or why. He turns his head aside slightly, eyeing Lambert out of the corner of his vision.
His tail is also in motion, but he doesn't... answer.
Which might be an answer.]
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Answer the question.
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.... I know enough.
[Except once he's started, he can't hold it in, can't hold it together, and words start pouring out--as they often do, accompanied by increasing excitement rather than contempt.]
Every word, every truth contained in those pages, I know. I'd seen the signs, the clues before--the patterns, the reflections, the distorted echoes of what you'd call truth. With enough repetition, even a creature as stupid as I am can still learn.
I already told you--
The pillars are part of what it's about, not the other way around.
So why are you surprised?
Even I know meaning when I see it.
Its truth was already engraved in my purpose, writ into my blood. I could not forget what I read in it.
[....not yet, anyway.]
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All right. [ He says, apparently content taking that at face value, like he's willing to accept that Foster in fact knows what the fuck he's talking about. He doesn't, really, but it seems much easier than engaging any of what comes out of his mouth. Instead, he ops to go on to what he was going to ask anyway, namely-- ]
I don't care about it being writ into your blood. I care if you can write it down. [ The source, multiverses, how it's all connected-- Lambert doesn't care much about that big picture stuff. How it's supposed to help them, he hasn't the foggiest. But he'll continue anyway, shutting the book and turning it over in his hands-- ]
I want a summary of this book. A short one. What this Source is, and everything about the fae courts. [ He gives Foster a cool look. ] Think you can manage that?
[ He does, after all, have literal bear arms. ]
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Lambert is asking him to perform a service that would render Foster himself obsolete in this equation. Not that he wasn't already--Lambert has the book, after all. He's just--well. Accessory.
Still, that's pretty bold. If practical. So he's being eliminated entirely, is he?]]
I.... can do that.
[It comes out careful. Wary.]
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Unless you'd rather have Strange or Syrlya do it.
[ The only reason he's not foisting this job on Strange to start with is because Strange would probably find a way to make any summary longer. And poetic besides. But it's also practical -- if Foster's had so much time with the book already, it's faster to let him do it. ]
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[Useful, like he's a person--
But threatening to take that away--that short use, that pitiful scraping, that brief extension of his purpose--
He jerks his head up suddenly; his willingness challenged, any reluctance evaporates--replaced by fervor, desperation.]
Don't let Strange touch it!!
[Lambert is taking the book anyway, it doesn't matter what Foster knows or has; it's not about him. He has to help--he has to serve, or the consequences--the consequences, eventually Lambert will get it wrong, or Strange will do something, and it'll be on him--]
you know what helps... it helps to hit enter
Too bad he doesn't have time to get into that right now. They've got a probably-ill-fated rescue mission to attempt in less than twenty-four hours. So instead, he smirks, shoving the book back at Foster. ]
Then you'd better get to it. It's not going to summarize itself.
[ And he cocks his head, thinking. Foster hadn't seemed to react violently to Syrlya, so-- ]
Get Syrlya to look it over when you're finished. You said you've worked with him before, so that shouldn't be a problem, right?
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He takes it quickly, though--snatches it, really.
Syr. Right.
He doesn't say anything, just takes his book and canters off, sober-faced and apparently filled with a sense of purpose.]