There's something wrong with this situation, but somehow, it's impossible to think of what it is right now. Mostly, it's impossible to think of anything but the hunt at all. The griffin has a point, in a way: they're both injured, in need of a mount, and they need better weapons ... but he can't think beyond the idea of the hunt and what's in front of them, forgetting about the dimension he just pulled the pool noodle out for Hanamaru already.

The griffin doesn't smirk -- beaks, even fae ones, just aren't made for that -- but it's audible in his voice, as he spreads his wings. Another blast of air buffets them as the griffin launches skywards, though this one thankfully doesn't carry razor-sharp winds with it. It's still enough to keel Lambert over enough to force him to drop off on one knee, gritting his teeth as his newly-acquired gashes strain under the sudden pressure.

"Then you'd better keep up," the griffin taunts, hovering over them on currents of magic, "Or we might just decide to eat you, after all."