Once he gets a firm grip on Strange's wrist, Lambert brings his cigarette to his lips, holding it there while he shoves Strange's sleeve up his arm. He pushes it as far as it can go, staring at the reflective scarring, ignoring the magician's squirming. The witcher may not be at full strength now, but the surge of adrenaline and fury -- not to mention the fact that Strange wasn't exactly physically fit to begin with -- make it easy to keep his hold on him while Lambert takes it in.
"You're so full of shit," he says, with a voice that is surprisingly flat and devoid of intonation. He can see it's been healed, sure enough, but he's seen marks like this before. Just rarely on anyone alive. Usually it's the sort of thing he sees on bodies, either left by bandits or monsters that were sentient enough to torment their prey.
"This was torture." With that pronouncement, and only then, will he let the magician go, to recoil on himself or retreat or whatever the fuck it is he wants to do. Anger roils under his skin, darkening his expression like a thundercloud, and he's never looked more like a monster than he does now -- smoke curling from his mouth, veins livid against greying skin. Lambert looks like he could break something -- like he wants to.
Instead, he's going to settle for sitting down, heavily, and grabbing the unopened bottle and wrenching it open. The cigarette gets put aside as he tips it to his lips to make a damn good effort at chugging half of it in one go. Yeah, someone else is going to have to come up with something meaningful to say here.
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"You're so full of shit," he says, with a voice that is surprisingly flat and devoid of intonation. He can see it's been healed, sure enough, but he's seen marks like this before. Just rarely on anyone alive. Usually it's the sort of thing he sees on bodies, either left by bandits or monsters that were sentient enough to torment their prey.
"This was torture." With that pronouncement, and only then, will he let the magician go, to recoil on himself or retreat or whatever the fuck it is he wants to do. Anger roils under his skin, darkening his expression like a thundercloud, and he's never looked more like a monster than he does now -- smoke curling from his mouth, veins livid against greying skin. Lambert looks like he could break something -- like he wants to.
Instead, he's going to settle for sitting down, heavily, and grabbing the unopened bottle and wrenching it open. The cigarette gets put aside as he tips it to his lips to make a damn good effort at chugging half of it in one go. Yeah, someone else is going to have to come up with something meaningful to say here.