#lambskel

Even while he was at work, Lambert’s mind kept drifting to Eskel. During one particularly laborious meeting, he ended up sketching a quick outline of Eskel’s face at the corner of his designs before he even realised what was happening. He scrunched it up, threw it in the bin, only to extract it for his portfolio before he left for the bar that night. It was a good likeness and—just shut the fuck up and stop judging him, alright?

Eskel was working that night, of course, and greeted Lambert with a wave of the hand. Lambert’s whiskey was on the bar before his arse found the stool, and he cleared his throat. “Hey, Eskel, I… uh. I think we started off on the wrong foot. I’m… what I said, that wasn’t… that wasn’t… cricket.”

There were those glittering eyes again. Glittering. Yeah, that was amusement. Lambert hid his scowl with a swig of whiskey and prodded the beer mat in front of him. His mac and cheese arrived within fifteen minutes, the bacon still sizzling on the surface, and he tried again. “This is weird for me, alright? Sal and I, we used to chat shit all night. He was a blockhead, but he was good company. He knew stuff, you know? Kind of stuff you only learn—” Lambert waved his hand vaguely at the door, “—out there.”

Eskel’s gaze dropped briefly, and Lambert was worried he’d managed to upset him, for real this time. When Eskel looked up, he tilted his head in apology. Lambert chewed on the inside of his cheek, which seemed to prompt a flash of inspiration. He leaned down from the stool, arse cheek balancing precariously on the edge, and yanked his notebook free. “How about writing? You can write, ye—? You know, forget I just asked that.” Lambert felt his ears warm, but Eskel didn’t seem to be offended. The same soft shine, the head tilt. He reached for the pencil that Lambert had placed beside the pad, and wrote two words, ‘Sounds good.’

Lambert grinned. “I’m… uh, Lambert. I shoulda introduced myself earlier, but… you already knew my dinner order, most interesting thing about me, really—the dinner part.”

Eskel looked thoughtful before he plucked up the pencil again and scratched a question. ‘What’re the drawings for?’

“Boring shit,” Lambert murmured, nudging the tightly bound scrolls with his toe. “I’m an architect. Residential. You know, houses, flats.” Of course, he fucking knew what residential meant. Lambert felt the heat under his collar again and took another fortifying sip of whiskey.

‘Can I see?’

“You want to see a bunch of angles and pencil scratches?”

‘Yes. Don’t have to if you’re shy.’

“I’m not fucking—all right, move the bowl—”

Lambert stooped down to snatch up the first scroll he came to and then hesitated… his passion project was a mere inch to the left. And that was the most impressive, wasn’t it? Eskel didn’t need to know that no business in their right mind would fund something so extravagant for the poorest in society. It was an easy flex. Lambert tugged the scroll free and unfurled it on the bar. He weighted the edges down with his bowl and half-drunk tumbler of whiskey and glanced up at Eskel for his reaction.

Usually, people puffed their cheeks out in confusion at the architectural scribbles and mumbled some vague comment of appreciation. But Eskel examined it for a long moment, head tilting to and fro. When he picked up the pencil, Lambert held his breath as if awaiting the verdict of a shareholder, and—

‘Reminds me of the KAEC.’

Lambert’s jaw metaphorically hit the bar. “You know about the KAEC?”

‘I’ve been there.’

The KAEC—or King Abdullah Economic City—was an architect’s paradise. A complete flop, of course. With a target population of two million by 2035, it was currently a ghost town of just seven thousand. But it was meant to be one of five sustainable mega cities built in Saudi Arabia, aimed at placing the country in the top ten investment destinations. It was the kind of sprawling vision that could manifest when money was no issue, with some of the most cutting-edge structural designs and engineering in the business. It had been Lambert’s dream to go and visit, but the company kept him busy, and he used his holiday to go look after the old man, you know. He’d get there, eventually… “Really?” Lambert croaked.

‘Yeah. About 10 years ago.’

“Why—? How—? What did it look like?”

‘Big.’

Eskel didn’t smile with his mouth, but the way his eyes shone like that, Lambert knew he was being grinned at. Lambert huffed and folded his arms across his chest, his own eyes narrowed.

Eskel wrote again, ‘Sorry. It was quite something—‘ he tore the page off to start another, ‘—I’ll bring some photos next shift’.

Lambert’s lips quirked in one corner. The first glimmer of a smile. “Sounds good. You know, I think I’ll treat myself to a dessert. One of those tall, chocolate-y fuckers that’ll give me early onset diabetes.”

‘One tall chocolate fucker coming up.’

"You meant it," Eskel said, his voice the rolling thunder from the dark cloud that were rapidly overtaking them both.

"It was a fucking joke you humourless bastard!" Lambert snapped, scrambling backwards and nearly tripping over a crooked bench. Before he could get any further Eskel raised one hand as fast as lightening. Lambert tensed, waiting for an Aard or Yrden, perhaps even an Axii. Instead Eskel cast Quen and a golden bubble popped into existence around him.

Lambert was stunned into silence at first. Quen was one of the first signs they learned as initiates, but the hardest to master. For one it often had to be anchored to you or something you were touching. Lambert could cast Quen around himself and anyone he physically touched. Stronger users, like Geralt, could make the Quen explode or apply it as a thin, nearly invisible veneer around them.

Eskel, it seemed, could project it. Lambert tried to push through the shield and found it immovable. He kicked it and swore as he stubbed his toe. Lambert tried to draw one of his swords but found the bubble was neither tall enough or wide enough to pull his blade from the scabbard. Casting Aard or Igni would backfire spectacularly. He wasn't that dumb.

"Just going to keep me here all night?" He yelled at Eskel, his form shimmering and golden outside the shield. "Real fucking mature, you rancid cock!". Lambert tried to ram his shoulder into the shield but it didn't so much as shudder with the impact. Lambert, however, felt a bit dazed.

"You can't keep this up forever!" Lambert yelled again.

"I don't have to," Eskel said, his expression was calm once more. He had his hand up and fingers displayed in a held Quen, pointing at Lambert. He wasn't just casting it he was maintaining it, using constant Chaos to feed the shield. It made it strong but it also meant even Eskel had to run out of energy sooner rather than later.

He looked awfully smug, though. At least from what Lambert could see. "You're a fucking coward! Afraid of a little brawl? Come on, it's not like either of us can get any uglier!"

Eskel snorted and shook his head, not rising to the bait.

Lambert took a deep breath, it was getting warm in the bubble. He felt like...like he wasn't getting enough oxygen... It hit him all at once. The bubble was impermeable. Completely. There was no fresh air coming in. "Oh you son of a bitch!" Lambert exploded and threw himself around in the bubble, gasping for breath as each inhale became less and less satisfying. Eskel wouldn't kill him but he sure knew how to make a man suffer for a slip of the tongue.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Lambert gasped, falling to his knees as the world rushed up to meet him. All at once fresh air, fresh cool air, flooded into his lungs with the next gasp. Lambert collapsed and rolled onto his back, heaving for each breath like he'd just run the Killer.

"Now was that so hard?" Eskel asked as he sat back down and picked up his hand of Gwent cards. "It's your turn, by the way?"

"Was that a little harsh?" Geralt asked dispassionately from the head of the table.

Lambert wheezed and crawled back up to sit across from Eskel, fervently avoiding his gaze from behind his own hand of cards.

"I don't know, Lambert, was it too harsh?" Eskel asked it with a tone that implied genuine concern, but his eyes betrayed him. He was laughing at him, the bastard.