#writer lambert

It’s been a few thousand years now since The Fall. No, no, that doesn’t sound right. Lambert lets the quill fall to the parchment, leaking ink blotting away their words. They’ve been trying to come up with a good name for the cataclysm of them killing the Bishops and, later, killing the cat who’s now their husband and stealing his power for their own. Lambert turns back to the bed in their chambers, a familiar lump tucked away under silk blankets. They’ve don’t need to even listen to know he’s purring, much as he tries to hide it. Three thousand years and he’s still shy about showing any affection, poor guy. Lambert goes back to writing, dipping the quill nib into their inkwell, the familiar scratching filling the room once more.