[The derision is practically dripping from the black-eyed man's tone, so withering that it shakes L's focus for the barest of seconds. He's thinking about the puzzle even as he cards his delicate, tapered fingers through hair that doesn't resemble his own overgrown mess at all. He's still careful not to snag, thorough about making sure that no square inch of scalp goes unscrubbed, a manual task while he considers the crates lining the walls and climbing toward the ceiling.

The all have labels, unrelated to their contents, and there's some anagram, some cipher, some secret here, not unlike his absurd methods for navigating the archives that Palamedes had found utterly ridiculous, while being unable to deny the effectiveness.

Sometimes, intuition just defies logic. It's a paradox for a person to be adept in both, but L inhabits a lot of paradoxes just be existing. When he's satisfied that the particles are washed out of God's hair, he withdraws a gentle and comforting touch that doesn't quite seem to fit someone so emotionally distant and at-odds with other humans.

A cipher, he decides, noticing a new way the boxes fit together and read in a way that makes sense to a mind either very shrewd and clever, or one that's quite mad, or maybe just a dash of both... but he can't help but turn back to Tisketkenchak-Folgraboto at his murmured words.]

You seem to take your covenants seriously, and I can respect that, but unless you caused that detonation, this one's not on you. You've broken nothing, forfeited nothing, and nullified... nothing.

[He thinks it might be a time he can pry for more information. Red wire, green wire. Should he risk it?

Who is he? Who has he become if he fails to nudge and prod just a little further than most people would? Dead, maybe, if he manages to wake a dragon, but if he fails to wake up from this dream within the next couple of days, he's that, anyway.]

I don't suppose you've failed before, in a situation like this one.