At the back of his mind, Lambert had been hoping -- without any real belief that it would actually happen -- that he could take a look, figure out there wasn't anything wrong with the bird, and go on his merry way. Nothing that needs intervention, just checking that it's survived the fall, and that would be the end of that.
Of course, nothing is that simple. He ignores the stinkeye the bird is giving him and looks it over instead, frown deepening when he sees the angle its wing is splayed at, the way it's obviously stuck. He's no expert, but he's pretty sure if he turns and walks away now, it's not getting out of there on his own. For the moment, his attention's only focused on the crow stuck in the bush, trying to figure out the best way to extract it without poking an eye out. He's gotten his sisters out of scrapes like this before, but at least they're sentient and can understand words like hold still and I'm not going to hurt you.
First things first: he has no intention of getting pecked or scratched if it's feeling feisty. He slides his hoodie off, exposing arms still scabbed with fine scratches, and holds it up with both hands, spreading it out as he tries to shoulder his way deeper into the bush, holding the branches and twigs away from springing back.
"Easy," he murmurs, less for the bird's benefit than his own, because this? This feels pretty stupid. The sense of dread abates when he moves the hoodie closer, though, so that's something. "Just gonna get you out of here..." And at that point he'll attempt to use the cloth to bundle the bird up, an endeavor complicated by trying not to jostle that wing while he's at it.
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Of course, nothing is that simple. He ignores the stinkeye the bird is giving him and looks it over instead, frown deepening when he sees the angle its wing is splayed at, the way it's obviously stuck. He's no expert, but he's pretty sure if he turns and walks away now, it's not getting out of there on his own. For the moment, his attention's only focused on the crow stuck in the bush, trying to figure out the best way to extract it without poking an eye out. He's gotten his sisters out of scrapes like this before, but at least they're sentient and can understand words like hold still and I'm not going to hurt you.
First things first: he has no intention of getting pecked or scratched if it's feeling feisty. He slides his hoodie off, exposing arms still scabbed with fine scratches, and holds it up with both hands, spreading it out as he tries to shoulder his way deeper into the bush, holding the branches and twigs away from springing back.
"Easy," he murmurs, less for the bird's benefit than his own, because this? This feels pretty stupid. The sense of dread abates when he moves the hoodie closer, though, so that's something. "Just gonna get you out of here..." And at that point he'll attempt to use the cloth to bundle the bird up, an endeavor complicated by trying not to jostle that wing while he's at it.