[Lambert – Deck – Lifelike, Beautiful, Branded – A]
The Duskborn takes the offered card, looks down at it, and then puts it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Thank you, sir”, he says to Robert, inclining his head again for a moment as the man takes his leave. Yes, learning… Drawing a slow breath in Lambert turns his eyes over to Yuri and the new person, a woman who introduces herself as Ariyah.
“Good evening, Miss. Lambert Chastain, thinblood.” Always remember to tell them what you are, he had been taught. “The evening is certainly foggy, Miss, but you didn’t interrupt anything.” The Duskborn’s voice is a low, pleasant baritone, though in that moment it’s a little flat; as if sprinkling too much emotion there would be a bad thing. He looks reserved and cautious, too, eyes moving between Ariyah and Yuri. When Yuri turns his back at the two of them and stutters more, Lambert lowers his gaze to the planks and then to moves it to Ariyah, a politely apologetic look in the aquamarine depths. He really doesn’t know how to react to Yuri; would the situation be different, he might have tried to calm the frantic man down, but he can’t do that here, now.
“I must go and find my sire, Miss. I wish you a pleasant evening.”
He inclines his head again and then turns, walking away from the two, filling his lungs with air and trying to shake the discomfort that’s really setting into his insides. His eyes look for Silas, and he spots the Toreador talking with someone — a tall, strong-looking, handsome man — looking quite intensely engaged in whatever they were talking about. Lambert breathes out a small sigh of relief and then turns his head around to look for that one familiar person he wants to see in this sea of monsters.
And when he does spot him — and he does, regardless of the unusual clothes and the fact that his hair is pinned up — Lambert makes a not-so-subtle beeline over to the Toreador. He plants his hands on the railing and leans forward and over it a little, looking out to the water for a moment.. He really needs to fight against the urge to wrap his arm around his lover.
“Bonsoir, Varen”, he murmurs and turns his gaze down to the Toreador as the ship starts to move and make way out from the harbor. He has, again, that same wary and reserved mask on that he had when they had first met, although there’s an affection in his eyes that hadn’t been there all those nights ago. “Ça va?”