In the split second when Lambert recognizes his luck runs out, just before he's rammed into the ground, the words ring clear and sharp in his mind. It's a bitter memory that goes with the taste of salt and iron in his mouth, palms torn to shreds and throat raw from screaming. He knows what a killing intent feels like when it's directed at him, even if he can't twist around and look at the beast behind him, the scales on his neck prickling with anticipation even in the futility of his struggle.
Years of surviving out of spite, and now here he is, about to die to a monster's attack like countless, better witchers than he is have before him. Well, at least he's living up to their glorious legacy. Vesemir ought to be proud.
Lambert's bracing for the strike he knows is going to tear his head off his neck once it impacts -- but death doesn't come, the wolf holding back for some reason Lambert's too addled to register right now.
The sudden halt, however, makes him lose his grip on the last of his dragon form. Under Sans, the scales seem to ignite from within. Gold burns to black, smoke rising from his body as it turns into ash. The rain quickly soaks into it, leaving a dragon-shaped, soot-black imprint on the ground. It also means the body that was supporting the wolf's weight is gone, and it will land with a whumpf on the grass, an all too human form now between its paws.
Almost instantly, Lambert's curling into himself with pain. As it turns out, the dosage of manticore poison a human can take is significantly less than a dragon, who could have guessed? As the poison works its way through his system, petrifying flesh, the bites and non-tail inflicted scratches he's sustained bleed freely, mixing with water and mud.
The return of his form also means Lambert has the opportunity to regain some of his faculties -- including awareness of his surroundings. He should probably be paying attention to the reason Sans has stopped trying to kill him, but he remembers a small, shrieking form darting around them during the fight, somehow having managed to remain unscathed, since it turns out it's really hard to effectively get between two huge monsters trying to tear each other apart.
The witcher's fingers dig into the ground, and he brings his head up to give the Prince his best shit-eating grin, though it's a little ruined by the rock beginning to creep up his jaw from a lucky stab to the neck earlier.
"I know this looks bad," he starts, "But for the record, I'm still definitely prettier than you."
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In the split second when Lambert recognizes his luck runs out, just before he's rammed into the ground, the words ring clear and sharp in his mind. It's a bitter memory that goes with the taste of salt and iron in his mouth, palms torn to shreds and throat raw from screaming. He knows what a killing intent feels like when it's directed at him, even if he can't twist around and look at the beast behind him, the scales on his neck prickling with anticipation even in the futility of his struggle.
Years of surviving out of spite, and now here he is, about to die to a monster's attack like countless, better witchers than he is have before him. Well, at least he's living up to their glorious legacy. Vesemir ought to be proud.
Lambert's bracing for the strike he knows is going to tear his head off his neck once it impacts -- but death doesn't come, the wolf holding back for some reason Lambert's too addled to register right now.
The sudden halt, however, makes him lose his grip on the last of his dragon form. Under Sans, the scales seem to ignite from within. Gold burns to black, smoke rising from his body as it turns into ash. The rain quickly soaks into it, leaving a dragon-shaped, soot-black imprint on the ground. It also means the body that was supporting the wolf's weight is gone, and it will land with a whumpf on the grass, an all too human form now between its paws.
Almost instantly, Lambert's curling into himself with pain. As it turns out, the dosage of manticore poison a human can take is significantly less than a dragon, who could have guessed? As the poison works its way through his system, petrifying flesh, the bites and non-tail inflicted scratches he's sustained bleed freely, mixing with water and mud.
The return of his form also means Lambert has the opportunity to regain some of his faculties -- including awareness of his surroundings. He should probably be paying attention to the reason Sans has stopped trying to kill him, but he remembers a small, shrieking form darting around them during the fight, somehow having managed to remain unscathed, since it turns out it's really hard to effectively get between two huge monsters trying to tear each other apart.
The witcher's fingers dig into the ground, and he brings his head up to give the Prince his best shit-eating grin, though it's a little ruined by the rock beginning to creep up his jaw from a lucky stab to the neck earlier.
"I know this looks bad," he starts, "But for the record, I'm still definitely prettier than you."