He lifts his hands defensively as she starts to lay into him, lowers them as she finally sighs and offers a wince of sympathy -- pushes the plate of dessert an inch closer to her in the hope it will soothe her.

"I've had worse on a Friday night," he assures her, and shrugs minutely. Redbright is off the table, she says, and that could mean... any number of things, really, from having people she doesn't like there to being kicked out or banned to... well, not being in a friendly faction. He opts to not ask (always easier that way) and instead takes a sip of his drink thoughtfully.

"You could ask someone else to go check its libraries for you," he suggests, "or... well, I suppose other than that it's trying google or going door to door with people you know."

And Lancelot suspects at least 80% of what google turned up would be useless, too. Just a hunch.