Lambert is stuck in a wall. Literally stuck in a wall.
Thanks to the fairly extensive amount of petrification he had going on before he ended up here, he's embedded in the stone more or less up to mid-thigh. One arm is trapped halfway in the wall, and he's turned facing towards it, severely limiting his range of movement. Unfortunately, it also doesn't mean he can see into the rest of the room. Tragically, the room can see plenty of him -- he's obviously lost his clothes at some point upstairs, but at least his tail and the rocks and all the mud he's plastered with keep that from being an immediate offender for delicate sensibilities. It's not enough to obscure the scratches and bites over his bare skin where Sans got his teeth and claws in, but that's the least of his problems right now...
"Damn," Lambert mutters out loud, to no one in particular. His voice is a harsh, scratchy mess -- surprisingly, it turns out, breathing fireball after fireball kind of fucks your throat up. "Pissing's going to be a bitch."
That's what you get when you have a fae for a captor, complete disregard for mortal bodily functions! Above all else, he's exhausted, but he can tell he isn't alone, so he's going to announce to the room in general:
"If no one needs me for anything, I'm taking a nap." Whatever's happening up there, he knows the Prince isn't happy about it, considering he hasn't returned to cackle smugly about his own cleverness. Mission accomplished, as far as Lambert's fucking concerned.
o ... t a i guess
Thanks to the fairly extensive amount of petrification he had going on before he ended up here, he's embedded in the stone more or less up to mid-thigh. One arm is trapped halfway in the wall, and he's turned facing towards it, severely limiting his range of movement. Unfortunately, it also doesn't mean he can see into the rest of the room. Tragically, the room can see plenty of him -- he's obviously lost his clothes at some point upstairs, but at least his tail and the rocks and all the mud he's plastered with keep that from being an immediate offender for delicate sensibilities. It's not enough to obscure the scratches and bites over his bare skin where Sans got his teeth and claws in, but that's the least of his problems right now...
"Damn," Lambert mutters out loud, to no one in particular. His voice is a harsh, scratchy mess -- surprisingly, it turns out, breathing fireball after fireball kind of fucks your throat up. "Pissing's going to be a bitch."
That's what you get when you have a fae for a captor, complete disregard for mortal bodily functions! Above all else, he's exhausted, but he can tell he isn't alone, so he's going to announce to the room in general:
"If no one needs me for anything, I'm taking a nap." Whatever's happening up there, he knows the Prince isn't happy about it, considering he hasn't returned to cackle smugly about his own cleverness. Mission accomplished, as far as Lambert's fucking concerned.