As they fall to the ground together, Lambert's roar of fury is loud enough to rattle the windows above the courtyard -- or perhaps that's just the fury of the storm rolling overhead.
Right now, the fight is all there is. Reason doesn't enter into it, nor anything else that exists outside the clash of bones and scales, blue light and searing flame tearing chunks off the surrounding foliage and claws churning the ground beneath to mud. Lambert lands on the ground heavily, his weight and size both working for him and against him as the fight wears on -- when he can get ahold of Sans, he can bring that to bear and really tear into him, but the skeleton gets quicker hits than Lambert can with nimble paws and that damn tail, though he gives as good as he gets, using his half-petrified tail to smack the wolf across the courtyard and into walls whenever he gets in range.
The sole advantage of getting stung so often is that Sans is running out of clear scale area to stab, the patches of rock on Lambert's flanks and belly growing into thick clusters the barb finds less easy purchase on. But he's staggering, visibly in bad shape, and running out of time. How many minutes has it been? One? Twenty? He's already lost track. Either way, he can feel his limited reserve of magic burning out fast, the rocks making his limbs stiffer and making it harder to dodge the laser breath.
In a last, desperate move, he lunges forward, set on only one goal: trying to grab the back of Sans's neck in his sharp, heavy teeth. If he proves successful, the next thing he'll do is whip his head side to side violently, aiming for no less than to snap the damn thing's neck.
There was point to this, once, but the only thing on Lambert's mind right now is the need to kill.
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Right now, the fight is all there is. Reason doesn't enter into it, nor anything else that exists outside the clash of bones and scales, blue light and searing flame tearing chunks off the surrounding foliage and claws churning the ground beneath to mud. Lambert lands on the ground heavily, his weight and size both working for him and against him as the fight wears on -- when he can get ahold of Sans, he can bring that to bear and really tear into him, but the skeleton gets quicker hits than Lambert can with nimble paws and that damn tail, though he gives as good as he gets, using his half-petrified tail to smack the wolf across the courtyard and into walls whenever he gets in range.
The sole advantage of getting stung so often is that Sans is running out of clear scale area to stab, the patches of rock on Lambert's flanks and belly growing into thick clusters the barb finds less easy purchase on. But he's staggering, visibly in bad shape, and running out of time. How many minutes has it been? One? Twenty? He's already lost track. Either way, he can feel his limited reserve of magic burning out fast, the rocks making his limbs stiffer and making it harder to dodge the laser breath.
In a last, desperate move, he lunges forward, set on only one goal: trying to grab the back of Sans's neck in his sharp, heavy teeth. If he proves successful, the next thing he'll do is whip his head side to side violently, aiming for no less than to snap the damn thing's neck.
There was point to this, once, but the only thing on Lambert's mind right now is the need to kill.