Lambert makes a mild noise of discontent as he's prompted to wake up, cracking an eye open to glare balefully at Strange. It a threat that holds no water whatsover, though -- the way his tail is practically boneless, draped over one arm of the chair. If Strange is close enough, he'll make a half-hearted effort to swat at him (or reach for him like it's attempting to) before the witcher stifles a yawn and stretches.

"I was awake," he says, not at all convincingly -- then does a double take when he catches sight of his own hands, and Strange's. In his case, because he never got the chance to state a preference, the fae have used magic to file his claws down into blunt, oval shapes and painted them a smooth, metallic gold. When he looks at Strange, his hands are in a pretty similar state.

"What'd they do to us?" he asks, with an incredulous laugh. In the meantime, the small pools they were sticking their feet in have been covered and slippers provided for their bare feet (which were in an even sorrier state for Lambert) as they pad their way to their next destination.